His face was in my crotch. My crotch, poppets! Crotch. Mine. Face. His.
See, what happened was this...
This is my father's super-busy season at work. Christmas parties and seasonal gatherings galore, all there waiting to be catered by him. My mother's Christmas party was last night, and instead of getting my father all stressed out trying to rush home after 16 hours of work so that he could put on a suit and mingle with people he doesn't know very well, she asked me to go with her instead. Because, you know, I mingle well.
So there we were, mother and daughter, all gussied up, (I looked hot.) (But you knew that.) having a fake grand old time. It was my mother's work Christmas party, poppets. No matter how much fun I'm able to have, it's still a room full of financial advisors that I don't know, and it's still only going to shine in my memory with nothing but the patina of gold plating. Y'know?
Anyway, that's not the point. But I'm getting to it.
So, it turns out that, for whatever reason, my mother's assistant's husband couldn't come either, so she brought her son instead. Lovely boy; total hottie, all of... 22, maybe? And they are of South American descent. And he? Teaches salsa. SALSA, people! The boy can dance!
Now, y'all are familiar with the fact that I directed a whole lot of what I should have been saving for future psychiatric sessions, into the Arthur Murray School of Teaching Me How To Look Talented On A Dance Floor. And while I have a modicum of confidence and skill on said floor, I'm no Ginger Rodgers. I mean, I'd say I was better than average, but I need a strong lead. Now, Hot Tamale Boy? He was a strong lead. However, he is of the I Was Born In South America and Rhythm Flows Through My Veins And I Go To Clubs With Names Like Babaluu On A Regular Basis persuasion of real dancer. I, on the other hand, am of the White Girl With Too Much Money To Spend on Dance Lessons persuasion of fake dancer. Are we getting the difference here, poppets? Are we understanding how much I suck?
Don't get me wrong. I held my own, because I can follow a lead, but it's nowhere near what I could have done if, say, I wasn't wearing four inch heels, and I had danced with him at least once before, and it wasn't the very first dance of the evening, and I was a different person. Oh, we still cleared the floor and had a rapt audience, and got some whoops and hollers, but... you know... I'm my own worst critic. Well, no, not even. My mother gets that title.
But before all the tiny stumbles and panic-stricken thoughts that I was going to fall down, Hot Tamale Boy decides that this is not a social dance, but is, in fact, a performance. So, we get out onto the dance floor, and he does this quicker-than-lightening spin, shimmies down my body, falls to his knees and pushes his face into my crotch!
And I thought I loved an audience!
Again, I followed along, and put on that I Am A Hot Latin Mama look that Salma Hayek probably gets just before she jumps on top of Edward Norton, (Is she still jumping on top of Edward Norton, by the way? I heard they broke up.) and played along with his act.
In front of my mother. In front of his mother. In front of 60 people of whose acquaintance I made approximately 90 minutes before.
God help me. It is truly amazing what I can get away with, sometimes.
Happy Friday, my darlings. Have a naughty evening, won't you?
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