Dare to Love

by Penny Dixon

  ‘Call me please!’ I almost sound desperate.

  ‘If I say I will, I will.’

  She walk toward her friends, legs straight, head high, skirt swishing. I watch her and my hard on get stiffer.

  Josi

  I sleep for ten hours. Celia says she kept popping back to check if I was OK, that I hadn’t died of alcohol poisoning. Whether it was the unburdening or the long sleep or a combination of the two, I feel much calmer when I wake up. That old adage “a problem shared is a problem halved” seems to be working in this case. I feel lighter, like someone’s removed the heavy padding from around my internal organs, siphoned off some of the lead from my veins. My head feels clearer, like it’s had a power vacuum.

  ‘Fancy some more dancing tonight?’ she asks after we eat a very late lunch in one of the French style cafés in Holetown.

  ‘Where?’ I ask hesitantly. I don’t want to be anywhere near Oistens tonight, not after my display last night.

  ‘You don’t have to go if you don’t feel up to it,’ she reassures me quickly.

  ‘Where’re you thinking of going?’

  ‘Robina thinks you should see The Plantation.’

  ‘What kind of place is it?’

  ‘They play a lot of different kinds of music, something for every one, but tonight it’s old-skool night. There’ll be a lot of big people there.’

  ‘You mean a lot of old men like the ones last night outside Lexie’s.’

  ‘Well some,’ she laughs, ‘but not all. It’s a good mix of people, we usually have fun. But you don’t have to go if you don’t feel up to it after last night.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ I grown.

  ‘I mean last night after Oistens. Though I have to say you looking a lot more relaxed today. It was good to let it go.’

  ‘I feel a thousand times better. You know what?’ I suddenly make a decision. ‘I’ll come. But you have to promise me that if you see me getting wild and crazy you’ll punch me out cold. Don’t let me make a fool of myself like last night.’

  ‘You know you didn’t make a fool of yourself. From where I was standing you looked pretty good, gave them guys a run for their money.’

  ‘I notice you didn’t join me though.’

  ‘Couldn’t compete. You had the floor,’ she laughs.

  We stop by Sheraton Mall to find a pair of shoes to go with a little strapless number she intends to wear tonight, and I find a nice little black top to go with a skirt I’m planning to wear.

  Dress to dance, Celia says, so I do. Little grey skirt and the black top. Killer heels. I let my hair hang loose. Robina’s in white trousers and pink top. I envy her figure. Celia’s new gold shoes work well with the natty little strapless dress. Envy her figure too.

  The Plantation’s a huge cabaret club. All the white clothed tables at the front of the stage are taken even though it’s barely ten o’clock. Robina suggests we find a table before thinking about drinks. We try a few for views then settle on one second row in from the stage. I look around. There’s a bar to my right with a few stools, a couple of people are sitting at them, to the right of the bar is another high seating area. The tables are filling up fast.

  Couples are on the floor doing that old ballroom stuff, older looking people; forties, fifties, older. They’re even more adept than the ones at Oistens. I can’t take my eyes off one couple who glide across the floor like ghosts floating through a world of their own.

  Robina explains the bar system to me. ‘You buy raffle tickets with different monetary values. The drinks are priced in that way, and the food too.

  ‘Probably easier if you show me,’ I say, dragging my eyes away from the floating couple. Celia stays to guard our place while we go to get the drinks. Robina’s driving so she has a beer. Celia and I are on rum and coke.

  ‘Are they going to be playing this all night?’ I query, pulling in a mouthful through the straw. I love to watch it but after my experience at Oistens last night I’m a little apprehensive. I’m better freestyling. I haven’t learned how to let the man lead yet. Maybe I’ll never learn. Maybe that’s why I’ve never gone for lessons.

  ‘No, no,’ Robina reassures me. ‘They play this first then move into calypso, reggae, soul, a real mixture.’

  ‘Oh good.’

  I’m just settling to watch the professionals when someone appears behind me.

  ‘May I have this dance?’

  I turn. He’s holding out his hand, even has a slight bow. My instinct is to say no. Last night’s still fresh in my head. I turn and look at Celia, she’s waving me on and mouthing, ‘go on.’

  I’m still hesitating. It’s all a bit sudden. I haven’t even settled in properly yet. Celia’s still waving me on. She can sense my panic, like a hedgehog in headlights.

  I take his hand and he leads me to the floor. He has working hands, large and coarse. He’s a couple of inches taller than me in my six inch heels. That makes him about five foot eleven. He leans forward so I can hear him above the music and tells me his name’s Grant. I tell him mine. He repeats it a couple of times to make sure he’s pronouncing it properly. I think it’s better to let him know I can’t do this kind of dance so he won’t be disappointed and I won’t feel small and inadequate. I don’t want to be dismissed again. He says something about not worrying and just following him. All I can see is that other man from last night.

  Then I think, sod it, Josi, you might never see this man again. In the grand scheme of things he will be three minutes of your life, stop stressing and do what he says, follow him. Relax and try to enjoy it. And I surprise myself. He’s easy to follow, guides me, accommodates my slips and hesitations, squeezes my hands reassuringly. I enjoy the dance and smile my thanks at him. At the end he’s still holding on to me. Looks like I wasn’t so bad if he wants another one.

  He’s a lot younger than the other people on the floor, with a broad open face; his large forehead goes way back to his shaved head. Half the men in Barbados have shaved heads. On those with beautifully shaped heads it’s a joy to view. Those with heads shaped like rugby balls, triangles and cornflakes boxes should keep their hair on, as should those with folds in the back of their heads that make them look like bulldogs from behind. Irony; black women spend so much time and money adding hair and black men shave theirs off.

  He’s got a football shaped head. Round and smooth. I can’t see into his eyes from this angle but they have a slight Chinese slope, evenly spaced above a surprisingly straight nose. But it’s his mouth that holds my attention. His lips are like a sliced plum with the flesh turned out. Plump and succulent. Kissing lips.

  Did he take lessons or is it just natural. I ask him, ‘Where did you learn to dance?’

  ‘My mother taught me.’ I’m surprised. No she’s not a dance teacher, just needed a dance partner to practice with and he was willing. Well it’s serving him well. Wish I’d had someone who wanted a dance partner back then.

  He slides his hand to my back as the next song starts. I place my hand on his shoulder and follow his lead. He’s not moving me all over the floor like the other man did. He’s taking small steps in a small space that I follow easily. He’s a good teacher. If I spent a bit more time with him I could become more confident. I feel comfortable with him and any residual tension is draining away.

  At the end of the second dance the house lights come on as the DJ announces the karaoke. He’s still holding me even though people are leaving the floor. This feels a little uncomfortable. I gently extricate my hand from his and suggest he comes and finds me later. He walks me back to my table. Celia nods her approval. ‘Go for it girl. The only way you going to learn.’

  ‘Would be less embarrassing to take lessons,’ I say.

  ‘I was watching you, he’s a good teacher.’

  ‘I told him so.’

  ‘Want another drink?’ Robina asks. I go with her to carry them. Celia wants fish cakes to eat during the karaoke. The three finali
sts are the cabaret; they’re not quite professional yet but fun to watch. The competition’s being judged somewhere else next week. This is one of their publicity gigs.

  There’s more ballroom after the cabaret. I look around for him, expecting him to return and claim me. When he doesn’t come, I begin to slide into self-flagellation about my inadequacies. A gentleman of about seventy asks Celia to dance, he returns her at the end of the dance and asks Robina for the next dance, then it’s my turn. I use the same line which he just brushes away. He too is a good teacher. There is something about Bajan gentlemen of a certain age. They are some of the most charming in the world. He returns me to my table and seats me with a bow. There’s no sign of Grant but I refuse to let any negative thoughts spoil my night. I have a whole night ahead of me, and I’ve come to dance. It is full of possibilities.

  The music changes to calypso and we’re on the floor, like flies to cow dung. We’re not the only ones ready to “wine and go down”. The floor fills up quickly. A man in a stripe shirt and dark trousers dances in front of me, two others do the same in front of Robina and Celia. I’m a little nostalgic for the formal ‘May I have this dance?’ but I’m more familiar with this. The second song is a twist and I’m challenging this man to go low. He can’t quite make it. We laugh with him, laugh at him. We’re on the third dance when Grant appears and dances next to me. I smile at him but continue with Mr stripy shirt who’s trying hard to keep up. He’s obviously used to a more sedate pace.

  I’m very conscious of Grant, I feel his presence, his energy, catch a whiff of his aftershave. As Mr stripy shirt heads for a drink and probably a rest, Grant offers me his hand. His eyes smile at me. I want to say ‘Welcome back’ but I just smile and step to him.

  He’s got earthy moves, dances with all of his body, arms, chest, hips, legs, feet. He’s flexible. He steps forward and pulls me gently to him when a slow tune comes on. He’s like a cat that’s caught a mouse. Plays with it, pulls it in, pushes it away, hold its head back and looks at it. Takes charge, watches it all the time.

  He’s slow, deliberate, subtle. I feel every muscle as he steps, turns, spins. We’re a big jigsaw, our bodies fit as if sculpted, moulded, filed and shaped to form one piece. He makes half of a figure of eight with his hip I make the other half. He starts a circle, I finish it. We compose a symphony of straight lines, curves, waves, lines that go side to side and up and down. We’re three dances in when he lets me feel the full authority of his erection.

  He tries to talk, but I don’t want to waste time answering those getting to know you questions, when I’m finding out all I need to know about him from what’s happening between us. My skin’s hot and wet. Every bit of me is hot and wet; the inside of my thighs, my legs, my toes. Little rivulets run down my back, down the crack of my buttock, down the centre of my breasts, my belly; onto his hardness sliding across my front. It feels like there’s just me and him on the floor. The other people cease to exist. There’s me and him and the pulsing music that goes straight to the very core of me, penetrating my organs, stirring up enzymes, hormones that have been dormant for too long. His skin’s touching mine, his hand on my back, on my shoulder, playing with my hair. His thrusting hips subtle, intense, insistent. We make more love on that dance floor than I’ve had in months.

  The house light comes up. We’re surrounded by other damp bodies, other dancers for whom we probably disappeared. Celia and Robina have said goodbye to their dancing partners and are waiting for me.

  ‘Can I see you again?’ he asks.

  My body says ‘Yes’, my common sense says ‘This isn’t something you want to get into.’ I’m trying to decide which one to listen to.

  ‘Do you have a phone number here?’ he asks when I don’t reply.

  ‘Give me yours.’ I say to buy myself some time and come to my senses, because God knows they took leave of absence during that dance.

  Neither of us have pen or paper. I’m willing to take it as a sign that it’s time to walk away. Put him in a drawer labelled “Great Dancer” and forget him. But he pulls out a business card. He’s a little hesitant about handing it over. Maybe he thinks I’ll pester him at work, maybe he doesn’t like handing the responsibility of phoning over to me. Thinks I’ll file his number with all the others I’ve collected from men eager to ‘get to know me a little better’ before my vacation ends. Men on the beach, at the kiosks, the fish market, the water coconut stand, the supermarket. Young men in their twenties, old men in their seventies and every age in between. Men who are attracted to the accent and the promise of something different. It’s easier, more expedient to accept the number even when I know there’s not a snowball in hell’s chance I’m going to phone it. I drop the card in my bag and click it shut.

  Celia and Robina are waiting for me.

  ‘When you going to call?’ he wants to know.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Call me please!’ There’s a touch of desperation in his voice. I want to say something to reassure him, make him sound less anxious.

  ‘If I say I will, I will.’

  I turn and walk toward Celia and Robina.

  I sit in the back of the car on the way home and take the teasing from them about the significance of the ‘Wok Up Pon It’ song, the lyrics of which include She coming from England, without any husband. She coming to my land, looking for a real man. I tell she wuk up pon it, wuk up pon it.

  ‘You were certainly living the song girl. Looked like you were having fun,’ Celia says from the back seat. I laugh out loud but inside realise that I didn’t think of Richard once while I was with Grant.

  I need a shower after all that perspiring, but his smell’s still in my pores, his aftershave on my face, the muskiness of his sweat on my arms, shoulders, back; everywhere we touched. I lay in bed looking at his card. I turn the light off and try to get to sleep but the feelings he’s awakened won’t go away. I’m as taut as a cheese wire with sexual desire. I slide my hand down to my vagina, just thinking about him is making me wet. I find my clitoris and in a moment let go of the pressure.

  Josi

  The next day, Celia and I go for Mother’s Day lunch in a charming beach side café on Brandon’s Beach. Adorned with banners and garlands of balloons, we’re made to feel special. Stuffed from the extensive buffet, we head back home for a snooze. It’s our day. Nothing to do but relax and pamper ourselves. This is so different to the other Mother’s Days I had two months earlier in England. A meal with the boys and Richard, a brave face for their sakes. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them how bad things are between me and Richard, couldn’t tell them my dream had turned sour so quickly. But we’re close, I know they sensed something wasn’t right. It was in the way they hugged me, the protective arm Chet left around my shoulder, Lowell’s silent hand on my arm at the table, Lewis’ silent scrutiny of my face throughout the meal.

  Around five o’clock I tell Celia I’m going to watch the beach volleyball. There’s some work preparation she wants to do for tomorrow so I head down by myself. I take Grant’s card out of my pocket and look at it for the tenth time today, trying to decide whether to phone. An engineer, practical, good with his hands. I usually go for academics or artists.

  His card’s a strong bold green. Don’t know why I’m pleased it’s not red. Why should it matter to me? Maybe he’s only available weekdays on this number but he did stress ‘ring me anytime.’ ‘What harm can it do to meet and have a chat?’ my deceptive head asks. My shrewd head answers, ‘He almost made you come on a dance floor.’ My rational head says, ‘You have enough trouble on your plate.’ My deceptive head argues, ‘Making a call don’t commit you to anything.’

  There’s a line in a Bob Dylan song that says, ‘People don’t always do what they know is right, they do what is most convenient and then they repent.’

  He answers after one ring.

  ‘Hi, it’s Josi. Do you remember me? We met last night.’

  ‘Yes, I reme
mber. Where are you now?’ He sounds very businesslike.

  ‘Is this a good time to talk?’ I know trades people work all kinds of unsociable hours.

  ‘Yes, it just would be better to do it in person. Where are you?’

  ‘On my way to the beach.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Miami – oh, some people call it Enterprise. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes I know it. How long will it take you to get there?’

  ‘About ten minutes, I’m walking.’

  ‘I’ll come now.’

  ‘There’s no rush, I’m going to watch the volleyball.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  I played volley ball at school and university. I still love to watch the speed and agility of a good game. I’m totally absorbed in the game, making the serves, feeling the blocks, raising high above the ball to make the slams.

  ‘You like volleyball?’

  ‘Oh God, you made me jump.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He slides onto the picnic table next to me.

  For a moment I lose awareness of the game. He’s wearing jeans, a grey zipped up hooded top and leather sandals. He’s more solid than my memory of him.

  His arm and thigh are touching mine. I feel underdressed next to him in my short denim skirt and red vest. We watch the game in silence for a while but I’m finding it hard to concentrate.

  Keeping his eyes on the game he says almost inaudibly, ‘I thought you weren’t going to phone.’

  I’m not sure if he’s just voicing his thoughts. It’s not a question, doesn’t need an answer.

  ‘I would have been so disappointed.’

  I want to say something but I don’t trust my voice. He’s stirring up all those feelings from last night and I can’t blame it on the rum and coke or the charged energy of the club. What would he say if I told him I slept with his smell, thought about him all day, whispered his name as I climaxed last night?

  He strokes my arm, the one next to his. Small furtive strokes. He could just as well be strumming a double base inside me. Each touch a note vibrating from by stomach to my fingers, toes, tip of my nose, top of my head.