Want to Dance

Woke up this morning, dancing. The I-Pod kicked in around 8 and there was Journey belting out, Worlds Apart. Threw off the blankets and jumped into the living room and spent a half hour dancing through the house. Doing the thing I love, almost as much as being in bed, with an attentive lover, began remembrances of  nights spent dancing around the planet.

The I-Beam in SF was a fine dancing ground for doing whatever you felt like, in whatever form you chose, as music blared, lights voluted, whirled and helixed across ceilings and walls, and those too cool to dance, drank, smoked weed, tripped on whatever psychedelic happened to walk in the door, wandered around the sidelines, checking out the bodies writhing and moving to the sounds.

Many a night, around 10pm, I would head out of North Beach, to venture into the Haight, to meet friends who had found a place to dance the nights away. There was always someone willing to turn around and grab a new partner and the stage show, which included dancers who needed some exposure and didn't care who was watching, some good, some lacking that connection to all their body parts, and still willing to just get up there and dance because that is what moved them.

Friends who came to town from all around the world would eventually end up at the I-Beam, during their visits. A few did not want to go because they thought it was not cool enough, however, they eventually got into the energy within minutes of walking in the door. It was a huge place. Not as big as Studio 54, since it did not have the balconies, as did 54, plus 54 was about as mesmerizing one could find in New York, then. Everyone ended up there after 11pm, when I was staying in one of my favorite places on the planet.

I love to dance. I find that men who love to dance are men who also know their way around a woman's body, in a way, that men who don't dance, with passionate rhythm, freeze , at some point, in the explorations and touches which makes a woman want to dance on a bed.

Yes, it is a gross generalization, and I apologize to those men who were not dancers, yet entertained me, on those warm San Francisco nights. But, a man who dances is always a man who knows where to put hands, entwine his legs,  and savor the movements of  his lover's gambols and frolics across their cavorting, mindless, moon-framed tastings of one another.

I want to go dancing with a man who wants to know my body. A man who has that intense desire in his eyes, as he follows me across a floor and understands that sometimes, not to touch me, moves me closer to him, like a panther, stealthy, drawing closer, slowly to its prey, and when I am there, drawn by his swaths of sweat and laconic smiles, he knows the place and moment to touch me.

Is there a dance place in San Francisco, now, that has an energy which draws people away from walls, and their illusions of wanting to touch someone, onto the dance floor? I hope so, as I want to go dancing again while I am there over Thanksgiving. The people I am staying with don't go to those places, anymore. Maybe somewhere in the Mission, for a little salsa, or SOMA. I lived in South America and spent many a night in clubs in Mar del Plata, Lima, Quito and Rio. 2 years of my life learning the beats of hot, South American rhythms with a boyfriend named Luis.

Rock, tango, rumba, jazz, blues, country and Ride Sally Ride pulsed through those speakers, and voices, in those places, I danced at around the planet. One night in Madras, India, some friends took me to this jazz-rock club that was packed with about a two thousand people, and it was hot and sweaty, with beer bottles and filled scotch glasses lined 10 deep, across the 30 bars, scattered through the industrial, 4 story building, with Mercedes and scooters double parked, for blocks around. We danced until 4am and the next day, I was smiling, while napping on a flight to Bangalore. That is a dancing-girl's 4 star night, for sure.

One night in Rio, I was invited to head up into the hills, for a birthday party, for the aunt of the maid who cleaned my room for 5 weeks.

One morning she came into my room, and I was standing on the balcony, with my headphones and bathing suit on, dancing to Black Magic Woman. I don't know how long she watched me, but at one point, I turned and she was smiling. She pointed to my headphones and I re-played it for her, and within seconds she was laughing and moving around the room, dancing, too.

That weekend, she and her brother came to the hotel, and drove me up the steep, Rio hillside to their aunt's home.Until dawn, we ate, danced, drank Cuba Libres (rum and coke), as I tangoed and tangled with bodies who loved to dance. Tired, about 40 of us headed to the beach to eat breakfast and swim, then, lay under umbrellas, satiated, as the sun's warmth flooded our bodies, and someone started playing the guitar and lulled me with the songs of women, love, passion and long, lonely nights.

Dancing slow with a dark-haired man, that night, I felt the passion as heat rose from his hands and our bodies touching, as his hands slowly moved across my back and hips. Something about dancing slow, that moves two people into a sensual, erotic moment, that even as strangers, melt the barriers and a sexual desire ignites for a few minutes. Everyone knows it, we just don't talk about it much.

Feeling Alright and Joe Cocker is starting to wail in the living room right now, and I think I need to get in there with him and do some of that Calypso, Hawaiian hip movement thing that seems to work so well, as my hips and shoulders start moving while typing.

So, if you know a good place to dance in SF, over Thanksgiving, let me know the place, date and time. I'll be the one in dancing shoes, tight, black pants and a smile. Really, if you know a place, send me an email at danise@gmail.com. We don't have to meet; but I want to dance.