The Tanguera and the Wolf

I saw the wolf last night at the milonga. He shows up every now and then, a man who doesn’t dance tango on the arm of a delightful tanguera. He’s there for her. He’s usually good looking and exudes machismo. He’s been a tall carpenter, a race car driver and a rock climber; whatever his profession, he wears it on his sleeve and it makes him appear very formidable; he’s got that something that women are attracted to; he's a leader of men, capable in a fight and he's got thick, strong thighs that can carry a heavy load.

His hunger was strong, I could tell because I know the feeling. There was something that he craved with a passion but he could not get it unless it was given to him. The object of his desire was sweet like honey but satisfying and sustaining like a tenderloin: a sweet meat.

Whatever it was, he was desperate for it; he was so fraught that he was willing to go to the milonga and sit there while his girlfriend danced with all the other men except him. This was painful but he knew he needed to endure it if he was going to be fed.

I know what you’re thinking: the thing he longed for is sex. Maybe you’re right but not necessarily. I can say with certainty that the thing he longed for was a woman’s to give. It might have been sex but it might also be the simple pleasure of her company when she is in a good mood. It could be food or any of a myriad of treats that only a woman can give to a man. It could be something as simple as a smile or as complex as tantric copulation. Like tango, this is not something he could do by himself. All he knows is that, until she gives it to him, he is incomplete and being unfinished is something that will drive him crazy. It is how men are.

He was on the verge of tears. That’s important to the tangueras who bring these men to the milonga. They feed on this hunger and it is not satisfying unless it is very real. It’s kind of like a compliment: it has to be an honest acknowledgement of an appealing personal trait; if it is real then it is flattering, if it is contrived then it is an insult. His state must be verified in order for it to satisfy her need.

I could see the agony in his eyes as she moved around the room in the arms of all the men who could dance tango. He was in pain but he was also drooling.

These tangueras are always on a journey of discovery. They are perfectionists. I have to wonder what they are thinking. Are they curious? Are they looking for answers to questions in their own lives, trying to heal a wound that can't be healed? Whatever they're thinking, I can say from watching them that they are good at continuing the play until they decide it is the appropriate time for the curtain to fall.

The performance does not end when the crowd is not there. The last scene is acted out in private. No one knows how it really ends except him and her. That’s how it has to be. This is real life. It is like tango where the outcome is never certain and the only thing that can be taken for granted is that the music has to end sooner or later.

           Why women do what they do is difficult for a man to understand but that should not be the goal. For an thorough discussion of this topic, check out my latest book on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Beginners-Guide-Women-perri-iezzoni/dp/1512200212/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1431805915&sr=1-4&keywords=a+beginner%27s+guide+to+women