Just dance….

Who's the hottie on the left?

So last week, my Beloved had a gig in Naples and I went with him. He’s playing in a new band that plays some pretty nice clubs — classy atmosphere, sexy people, expensive drinks. Top-40 dance music is the name of the game so the set list includes everything from  Abba to Usher. The 28-year old lead singer/leader is an extremely talented vocalist — blond, gorgeous, hot. She also has a uber-sexy and talented male vocalist to cover the men’s parts and add variety — 6’4″, mocha color skin, dazzling smile, hawt. The band itself is made up of amazing musicians with a distinctly latin flair on bass, drums, and keyboards. And of course, Mike, my Beloved, on lead guitar playing the lead licks from Santana and Guns N Roses like the rock star he is.   

Pulsating rhythms, low lights, liquid libations flowed through the crowd;  ladies’  in low-cut, tight, boob revealing  club clothes gyrate on the floor with look-at-me moves; stylish men smelling of good cologne and hot sweat, with a few moves of their own, obliged the ladies. 

And where was I? In the middle of it all, shakin’ it on the dance floor — wearing my tight “little black dress” that Mike picked out the previous Sunday, “fuck me” high heels, bare legs, bare shoulders. As the bass became louder my legs bent at just the right angle so my thighs (as well as my tattoo) and calves looked their best; in my case “best” looks like I could break a man in half with them. mimicking the singer’s sexy lyrics I undulated my body, ground my hips, raised my arms high over my head so my small but firm breasts were prominently displayed.   

“Absolutely Stasha! You should enjoy your body and your ability. You’re young (at 43) and there’s nothing like the feeling of enjoying yourself to music. Your husband’s on stage and you should totally rock the vibe. It is, after all, just dancing, right?” 

Three wives and two guys -- yours truly took the photo.

 Um, no. You see, I wasn’t out there as “Mike’s wife,” neutered, stripped of my own sexuality and pretending like I wouldn’t know what to do with a penis if I saw one. Oh, no. I was Stasha, the real person, the grown-up person who wanted to feel real sex and lust and desire. I knew exactly what I was doing as I swung my ass towards the fellow I dubbed “the big guy” (I know, real creative, right?) or “the salt & pepper one.” The ladies charms weren’t off-limits either. I loved the feeling when they sauntered up close behind me, put a hand on my hips and we swayed back and forth in unison. This wasn’t chaste. It was sex.  And I loved it. 

Are you shocked? 

If you are, that’s fine with me. I’m well aware that I was breaking pretty much every rule of proper behavior along the clearly established “what women do” lines. You see, here’s the thing: I recently realized that, contrary to the teachings of the church and generally accepted moral “authorities” I didn’t lose my sexual interest in people when I got married. 

Now I made a deal, a deal with one person, my Beloved. But the rest of you – society, church folk, family, friends, clients, co-workers, whatever — can all piss off. 

I’m sorry. Was that harsh?  I don’t mean to be, but I’ve been bottled up for too long. I’ve discovered, on my dogged pursuit, that one of the biggest things that interferes with my happiness is other people’s judgements of my behavior. Let’s take the sexy dancing, shall we? 

Before I got married, I was fairly prudish conservative overall but I certainly enjoyed the boys as much as my conscious would allow. I enjoyed the deep stare, the challenging flirting, the “is that all ya got?” banter with my male cohorts. I didn’t get to enjoy dancing or sex much (for a lot of fucked up reasons that perhaps I’ll post about another time) but I thoroughly enjoyed the part of me that could connect with others via that playful, sensual, and yes, sexual part of my brain. 

But the day I got married, the game was over. Of course, being married to the sexiest, coolest guy in the world is a great help with that, I didn’t really miss it for a while, but eventually, I started to realize that I’d cut out my gonads with a diamond ring. I made this realization, in fact, the day I realized that I HADN’T done that to Mike. I like watching him flirt, I love to see the ladies laugh at his jokes, toss their hair, and give him “neck.” If they communicate to him in any way, at all, that they think he’s sexy, smart, and cute, I’m thrilled. I never expected him to NOT be responsive to beautiful women nor to not enjoy their attention, I just expect him to honor our deal. 

We have a saying, he and I, “I don’t care who pumps the tires as long as I’m the one riding the bicycle.” It works for us. 

Or at least, it was working for him. 

I was still holding back and oddly, at one time he was expecting me to as well. “What would people think?” he’d say. “You have to be careful people don’t get the ‘wrong’ idea” he’d add. “What if these people you dance with think they have a chance with you?” he’d fret. 

1) I don’t care; 2) I won’t be responsible for what other people think; and 3) then they’ll have to learn to live with disappointment. 

Problem solved; moving on. 

That’s the thing, you see. I really don’t care what other people think, they don’t get a say in how I live my life, how Mike lives his, or how we live ours. At the end of the road if “they” chose to spend their time on this earth on the sidelines and they are proud of their restraint then I’ll be happy for them. They lived the life they wanted to live and hopefully experienced it the way they wanted to. But I have to experience mine the way I want. And the only person who has any say at all was on the stage. And even then, he has a say, but he does not get to decide if I get to be myself, only if who I am is worth spending his life with. 

Me and the other wives; some seriously hot gals there.

 I wasn’t just “happy” on that dance floor, I was joyous. I felt integrated, like all of me was present. I felt like I formed a series of short but fun connections with like-minded (or at least close enough for the moment) people — men and women alike. I loved looking up to the stage, and seeing my Beloved doing what he loves best, interacting with the other musicians, feeding off the energy of the crowd. I loved telling everyone I was the lead guitar-player’s wife; waving to him, twirling around so he could see his girl, together for 15 years, in the sexy sheath he picked out. 

When the gentlemen came over and wordlessly offered their hands to usher me on to the floor, I loved it. 

When the ladies formed the “girl circle” and laughed and smiled and tried to outdo each other with athleticism combined with ‘”what if” sex appeal, I loved that too. 

When my thigh or my arm or my breast came in contact with another person’s skin or clothes, knowing that underneath the fabric was a flesh and blood person who for five minutes, maybe ten, thought I was hawt, wow, do I ever love that. 

When I looked into their eyes and could once again see the shared challenge and curiosity of “I wonder what she/he’d be like?” Well, send me to hell if you must, but I fuckin’ love that. 

And when the night was over and I was collapsed on the couch, finishing my last drink (Ginger Ale by now), holding my Mike’s guitars while the same strangers I’d been dancing with smiled and waved thanks at him for filling their night with rhythm and music, well, do I have to tell you how much I love that? 

And when at last my Beloved takes me by the hand, proudly pats me on the ass, and we walk to our minivan to head back to the hotel so I can rest my exhausted body on his and snuggle up next to his heat and he can stroke my hair and murmur “it looked like you were having a great time” I can whisper, “Oh yeah, baby. I just love to dance.”