That Night in NODA

Pinned against the silvery lavender

of his car, my knees wobbled as he leaned into me, doing a slanty push-up in reverse. The weight of his body, thicker and heavier now.

His brow furrowed, his face grew serious and dark, eyes wide, as it always did when he kissed me. His breath was on my face, and I lowered my head. One hand came to my chin, and he gently pressed up. His lips torturously close and lingering. But, I had to meet him; mutualism was required.

As he pulled back to gaze at my face, his brow furrowed again. He tapped two fingers against my temple. "Tell me," he probed.

I smiled. The wind kicked up a little swirl between us and his scent flooded my nose, penetrating my nasal cavity, mouth, throat. It was my turn for agony, sweet and savory.

We walked hand-in-hand toward the old converted warehouse behind the main strip. It was dark and ill-lit. A few guys sat talking and smoking on the neglected docking station; they noticed us and gave him the up-nod as we passed.

The muted rhythm of the music urged us closer, and I started skipping in anticipation. The doorman looked me up and down. But when he recognized my companion, we were let in at no charge. "My man," he said. He looked at me again with different eyes and nodded his approval of me as the plus-one, suddenly seeing the appeal.

A huge ring of people thronged around mats on the hard concrete floor. I bounced to try to get a look as we moved closer to the dense crowd watching the dancers. He held my hand so tight I thought my fingers would turn blue. He weaved through the first layer of sweaty bodies, and I got stuck. So, he put me in front of him and pushed his hands on either side of me to make room.

We made it just behind the front line, but nobody else would budge. I strained to see. The inner ring was tall gangly b-boys, sweat dripping and t-shirts tied at the waist. He pushed on my shoulders, putting me in a squatting position in front of him, and there it was: the sweet spot. I could see everything; he had given me the sweet spot. My head rested against his hips, his hands on my shoulders, I watched. Once in a while I would lean back and give him the look: did you see that killer move? Or, skills but no style, right? Each time he nodded his approval.

When round two ended, the crowd dispersed into smaller circles for chatting, practicing, or just dancing. "So, what did you think?" he tested me.

"Not much popping and locking for a pop-n-lock tournament," I replied. He nodded.

"Now," he looked at me unforgivingly and squeezed my hips so hard I almost yelped, "let’s get you to your bed.”