Personal Yummy #28
Restless and overtired, I decided to go to the bachata event at Cache one steamy Friday night in July. I had asked my good friend Sally if she wanted to join me, but she was going away to a campground upstate with her kids and their cousins (a yearly occurrence), so she declined.
I had never been to Cache before, so I felt a bit uneasy about going by myself—but, on the other hand, What the hell? I had gone salsa dancing alone countless times in the past, especially when I had first moved to the city, and before I had gotten a full-time job.
In any case, when I got to the address I had written down, I was confused for a moment. In fact, if you were just walking by, you would never know that a club was present there. The façade was so nondescript…basically just a gray wall. The only indication that something was occurring within was the full-bodied Latin guy sitting in a white plastic chair in front of a hidden door.
Two young women in sexy dresses and heels went in together before me. Then the guy checked my ID and took a glance inside my bag and said, “There are no bottles of liquid of any kind in there, right?” Of course, honest me, I told him I had a bottle of water. “I can’t even take this water in with me?” I asked as he shook his head. “Nah…you have to drink it before you go in, or toss it.” So I took a few gulps of it and then threw it in the big garbage pail next to his cheap chair.
After he opened the door for me, I went down quite a few dingy steps, turned the corner to my left, and there it was: the underground club of Cache. Dark. Low ceilings. Concrete floor. Moving bodies. A pretty, not-too-large bar with tiny lights accentuating the various colored bottles of liquor. This bar was to the right as you walked in, discreetly lining the wall—in the perfect location—out of the way but accessible at the same time.
In the area by the bar, there were a couple of leather-type couches perpendicular to each other—a square, glass table in front of them. I immediately recognized the good-looking, very-much-in-shape black man who was sitting there casually drinking a beer, dressed in a suit (apparently he had just come from work), his big, soft eyes rather sad and complacent, but hopeful. I had seen him out dancing several times over the years, and I particularly remembered him from SOB’s, the club on Varick. A couple of other people were sitting there as well, so I went to an out-of-the-way corner behind the couches and stood there and took off my street shoes and slipped on my Latin dance shoes as I watched the action taking place on the dance floor.
The man got up to dance, as well as a few others, so I took the opportunity to sit down and finish putting on my shoes, struggling to fasten them correctly, as usual. I had hidden my bag in what seemed to be a safe spot behind the one couch. There was probably some place to check my bag, but I didn’t think that tonight it was necessary to do so. Of course I was taking a chance, but in all the years I’ve been going out dancing, whether in Pittsburgh, Boston, or New York, I’ve never had anything stolen.
I looked around, thinking that I was the only woman at that point who was there alone, and that I was probably a bit older than a lot of the people there (although I’ve been told many times that I look much younger than I am), but then I glanced to my left and there was a woman standing near the bar who was definitely older than I was. Actually, I had seen her out before too. She was standing there eagerly looking at the dance floor, and particularly at the man I knew, a pleasant look on her face. I think I recalled them dancing together before at other clubs. Who knows? Maybe they had even gotten involved at one point, or more than one point. She looked to be in her early fifties, was not really overweight but kind of stocky, had shoulder-length blonde hair, and was wearing a short-sleeved top and a flowy skirt. I couldn’t stop myself from thinking that she didn’t really belong here, but then, at the same time, I thought it was utterly cool that she was here, that she was being brave and adventurous.
Eventually the man came back to sit down, and I realized that I was sitting in his seat, directly in front of his beer, so I moved to the edge of the couch. We sat there together for a while, listening to the beautiful, sensual bachatas, that heightened energy in the air. And then he asked me to dance.
It was just what I was looking for. He’s a smooth, rhythmic, unassuming dancer. He held me close against him, the sides of our faces touching.
It was intimate and illicit, yet somehow so innocent.
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