Dream of the Latin Lover

My mates and I had an easy night out on a recent Saturday, absorbing some light jazz from the live band at Bangkok Jazz. I noticed one of my friends and her cousin looking a little restless after an hour or so, with my friend finally muttering to me, “I wanna go dancing…” My other friend Ash and I were quite content where we were, but to try and appease everyone’s appetite, we moved on to Qba at The Westin just a stone’s throw away. The music was good corny fun (Dr. Alban, anybody?) and the resident band – featuring its own Las Ketchup clones with garish costumes and synchronized dance routines - played upbeat Latin music. Professional rump-shakers paired up and twirled and gyrated to various salsa, cha cha and mambo numbers. My friends and I sat back to devour the visual feast and dream of the day that our plans to take Latin dance classes would finally materialize.

An unassuming little character then stepped onto the dancefloor. Dressed in an oversized white shirt and baggy jeans, he looked like a disillusioned hip-hopper. I observed his offer to dance with an equally pint-sized lady and the moment he placed one hand in hers and the other on her prominent hip, I was spellbound. He danced like his life depended on it. The sharp glint of his eyes, his sprightly steps, his swiveling hips, his tight, passionate embrace – every movement was a detailed masterpiece framed behind a thin veil of cigar smoke. My friends gaped and hooted at the distinct sensuality of it all, and I was reminded of what it felt like to swoon for a non-medical cause.

As he took breaks to chat with his friends, send text messages on his mobile and grab a glass of water from the bar, I eyed him like a passive predator. I didn’t care if he couldn’t speak English, if he was married with 3 kids, if he was an armed and dangerous Cuban druglord. I wanted to… needed to… absolutely DIED to… talk to him.

My friends noticed my trance and they egged me on to approach, but my legs denied me of any productive movement. As the night was coming to a close, he left the bar and hopped up a flight of nearby stairs. I watched him do so longingly, and after figuring that whining wouldn’t help much, I shook some life back into my legs and told my friends I was leaving for a while.

“Where are you going?” They asked.

“To follow my heart!” I valiantly declared. Fists clenched Superman-style, I ran across the dancefloor and faintly heard my friends chanting out my name as I bounded up the stairs.

I reached the next floor, which led me to an empty restaurant. I looked around and not having the slightest idea where I was headed to, I walked down a corridor which thankfully opened to the hotel lobby.

And he was there.

Sitting on a sofa, chatting to a male companion.

Out of shyness I was about to turn around and retreat but his head turned in my direction. He gave me an inquisitive look. Crap. I’m such a retard.

I held my breath and walked over to him.

“Excuse me, but I was watching you dance just now, and… I think you're really, REALLY good…”

“Oh, thank you, but I’m not really. Come, have a seat!”

Trying to hide an explosion of innards, I sat next to him and heaped more praises on his physical prowess. It turned out that he was a local dude who only picked up his moves from dance videos just six months before and had already won a few Latin Dancesport Championships. And to make things even sweeter, he taught Latin dance classes in Ampang on Thursday nights at an affordable price. His humility tickled me in all the right places. This dude was whack. And his friend was, too.

My friends managed to find us and we ended up chatting together for a little while more before leaving. As my friends helped find my jellified footing on the sidewalk to get to Ash’s car, Ash said “I think he and the other guy are… y’know.”

I shouted at him in love-drunken defense.

“WOMAN! Your gay-dar needs serious fine tuning! It was quite obvious!” My other friends agreed.

I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I got a text from him the next day asking me to join him at Qbar the following Thursday. I wasn’t able to make it. But at least he sent me a text. A text. To ME. Which meant that he now knew of my existence. And I couldn’t possibly ask for more.