Smooth Moves
copyright © 1998.
Amy T. Goodloe
do not reproduce without permissionI can see her out of the corner of my eye, watching me dance. I like to stay in the center of the floor, with my eyes shut, but every once in a while I look around to make sure I know where Rick is, and that's when I see her. Even though this club is mostly queer, women don't normally pay attention to me here. They think I'm straight. It's the way I look.
Tonight I'm wearing what Rick calls my "gothic femme fatale." A black, low-cut body suit, a full-length black lace skirt, sheer black tights. An antique pearl choker with a black cameo and matching teardrop earrings. My hair is pulled back into a low twist, with a handful of long, curly bangs artfully draped across one eye. Rick does the bangs. I don't have enough patience for all the spritzing and scrunching, but he loves it. He'd do my makeup too, if I let him, but he tends to be a bit heavy-handed. It works on him, but my features are more delicate. We both go for the vampire look: white powder, black eyeliner, dark red lipstick. Except I hate the way lipstick feels, so sometimes I just drink cranberry vodkas all night.
I close my eyes and spin back to the center of the dance floor. I feel a hand on my arm, a small hand.
"I just wanted to tell you that I really like that perfume you're wearing," she says.
James, my upstairs neighbor, gave it to me for my birthday. Paris. This is the first time I've worn it.
"Thank you," I say to her, smiling. We're in the middle of the dance floor, so I keep moving.
She's five or six inches shorter than me, slender build, shoulder length brown hair, cute outfit. Cute face. She looks maybe 22, but it's hard to tell in the dark, smoky air of the club. I like that about this place. Rick and I are both 27, but no one would ever guess, so we don't offer. No one would ever guess that I'm a Ph.D. student in Religion either, but this isn't the sort of place one comes to discuss careers.
I know she's watching me now, so I dance for her.
~*~
The first time Rick brought me to the club, I was nervous and shy. I wore the sexiest thing I could find in my closet, which at the time was a pair of black shorts and a sleeveless white shirt. I stood in a dark corner of the small dance floor and moved my body slowly, awkwardly. In high school I'd been good at dancing, my best friend and I had even won a dance contest at a roller disco, and in college I always felt comfortable on the dance floor with the boyfriend of the month. But I was older now, working on my third graduate degree, and all that studying had made my limbs rigid.
By the third or fourth weekend at the club, I felt more relaxed. It sounds cliché, but I think I was getting in touch with my body in an important way. Sometimes Rick and James would find me in the corner and we'd do a little "dirty dancing" to the tune of a techno version of Madonna's "Erotica." There's nothing quite like bumping and grinding in the company of gay men, letting my body go where it wants to, without worrying about giving anyone the wrong idea. I felt totally safe I started to feel sexy. That's when I dragged the boys out with me on a shopping spree, for the kind of clothes I'd always wanted to wear but never had a suitable occasion.
The first time I showed up at the club in one of my new outfits, I knew that I'd been waiting for this all my life. Even the drag queen at the coat check didn't recognize me. "Goooooor-GEOUS!" she said, fingering my choker. "You GO girlfriend." I left Rick chatting with an ex-lover and made my way to the center of the dance floor. A few women moved along the outer edges, but for the most part the other dancers were all gay men.
I closed my eyes and paused, waiting for the music to move me. And then I danced, for what seemed like hours, until my bodysuit was drenched with sweat and my curly bangs fell damp across my cheek. As small and often crowded as the dance floor was, I never once bumped into anyone, and when I opened my eyes I saw why. The men had cleared a circle around me, and some of them were watching, smiling. "You are so graceful," one of them told me, as I danced my way off the floor.
Over the next couple of months, I spent every Friday and Saturday night at the club, refining my style. My mother had sent me a black satin bra from Victoria's Secret for my birthday, and one night I decided to pull off the sweat-soaked bodysuit and just dance in my bra, a ritual I then repeated each weekend. On Halloween, one of the drag queens came to the club dressed as me: in black tights, cut off jean shorts, purple velvet choker, and a black satin bra. She had even styled a blonde wig to resemble the way I wore my hair.
At first I think Rick was jealous. He is a beautiful dancer himself, always made up in a different, striking outfit, breaking the hearts of the other gothic boys with every airy gesture. But my transformation was largely brought on by his influence, and he seems to know that, to be proud even. Sometimes I can feel him watching me the edge of the dance floor, but if I catch his eye he turns away.
~*~
I open my eyes again and she is still looking at me, this cute woman who thinks I smell nice. She smiles and makes her way back out onto the dance floor, but stops just a few feet away from me. It's my turn to watch her dance. With her eyes closed, she looks almost like one of the Renoir women I have hanging in my living room. Full lips, pale cheeks, arms loose and fluid.
I keep moving, dancing a little closer to her. She opens her eyes and leans up to my ear.
"That's such a lovely skirt," she says. "But you shouldn't have worn anything under it."
Her remark puzzles me. The only thing I'm wearing under the lacy skirt is a pair of sheer black tights, but without those the whole outfit would look unfinished. Then it occurs to me that this is a come-on. She's trying to tell me that she would like to see me naked. Or at least I think that's what she means.
"Can I buy you a drink?" I ask her, as we move off the floor, my hand hovering just inches away from her small, bare back.
She holds up her right arm and it takes me a minute to realize what the orange armband means. She's underage. "That's OK," I tell her. "What do you want? I'll get it for you."
"Gin and tonic," she says.
I started the evening with beer so I order myself another one, although I wish I had been drinking something a little more elegant. She's found us a table in the corner, and I sit down next to her, our chairs just inches apart.
"So what's your name?" I ask her.
"Melody. And you?"
"Evelyn."
"Hi Evelyn," she says, holding out her hand. I give it a light squeeze.
"So what do you do?" I ask her. I feel suddenly awkward, like a boy on his first date. I've never picked up anyone in a bar before, let alone another woman.
"I'm in nursing school," Melody says. And of course I remember: most of the people who come to this club are college-aged, or maybe younger. I'm glad she didn't roll her eyes at me as if to say, "I take classes; duh."
"And you?"
I take a long sip of my beer and look back over the dance floor, delaying my response. I see Rick dancing next to the tall, muscular redhead he's been courting for weeks, pretending not to notice him. How can I tell this cute woman, who wants to see me naked, that I'm a doctoral student in Religious Studies? That my field is medieval spirituality? It all seems so remote to me right now, those middle English texts with their funny spelling and odd characters. I wrote my master's thesis on a thirteenth century devotional text called The Cloud of Unknowing, and the title comes to me now as an apt description of this scene.
"I'm a grad student," I finally tell her, and leave it at that.
"You are very sexy," she says, surprising me. I've been sitting with my legs stretched out under the table, but I squirm a bit in my seat. The lace skirt has a slit up the right side, and it falls open as I cross my right leg slowly over the left. I look down just in time to see her hand slide from my knee up my thigh, moving easily across the sheer, black stocking.
I hear the sound of water and glass smashing into concrete to my right, and realize that I've just dropped my beer.
"Oh," I say. "Thank you."
~*~
The next day Rick wakes me up by letting his dog, Uma, into my room, and the big German Shepherd bounds onto my bed, licking my face.
"And did we have a romantic encounter last night, Evie dearest?" he says.
I glance at the crumpled little beer bottle label on my bedside table, with Melody's number scribbled on the back.
"Mm hmm," I say. "We're going out Sunday night."
"Ah. Well then, it seems a little shopping spree is in order, don't you think? Get up, get up, and let's get to it!" Rick says, dragging Uma out by her collar.
We collect James from upstairs and the three of us walk up the street for our ritual Saturday morning breakfast, and then we hit the vintage clothing shops.
~*~
I only have two hours before I'm supposed to meet Melody at the club she suggested, but I can't decide what to wear. I keep going back and forth between the green satin mini-dress Rick picked out, and the knee length burgundy swing jacket I found, made of a rich, silky lace. I'm thinking of wearing it over a pair of tight velvet "hotpants" and a matching velvet bra, both a darker burgundy than the cloak. With sheer black tights, of course. After Rick fixes my hair and I put on my makeup, I realize the decision has already been made for me: the mini-dress has no zipper, and pulling it over my head now would mess everything up.
I arrive at the club a few minutes late. It was farther away than I had anticipated, and the parking lot was crowded. I've heard about this place, about the popularity of their 18 and over nights, but still I'm surprised by all the people, so different from the little smoky goth club I've come to think of as mine. I find Melody sitting alone on one of the soft, paisley benches, swinging her legs in time with the music.
"Hey!" she says, her face brightening as she recognizes me in the crowd. "I'm so glad you're here!"
We walk up to the bar and I order two shots of tequila, Melody's idea. She keeps her right arm, the one with the big neon yellow "underage" band, tucked under mine, and the bartender hands us our drinks. For a moment I feel guilty. She could probably lose her job for serving alcohol to a minor, but I'm the one who ordered and paid for the drinks, and where drinks go after they leave her hands isn't really under her control.
After a couple of shots each, we move out onto the crowded dance floor, and waste no time getting acquainted. I put my hands around Melody's waist and draw her closer to me, pushing my left leg between hers. She rocks back and forth on my thigh as she dances, brushing her hands lightly up and down my bare sides. Despite its sheer material, the lace jacket becomes unbearably warm and I lay it to the side, next to Melody's old-fashioned little mother-of-pearl handbag. I reach up under her dark blue silk shirt and tease her nipples, and she grips my thigh harder. We pause only to kiss, full minutes at a time.
After what seems like an eternity on the dance floor, we disengage and move to the paisley benches for a rest.
"Is there somewhere we can go?" Melody asks.
For a moment I am confused by her question. Would she prefer to go to another club? Then I remember that she still lives with her mother. She wants to know if there's somewhere we can go to be alone. I blush, because for the first time it has occurred to me that I'm about to have sex with someone who is almost ten years younger than me. Melody is 18.
She follows me back to my house, her car riding my bumper as though it were attached. I turn on the living room lights and take her coat and handbag, laying them across the arm of the sofa. The dogs all come bounding up to us, licking and sniffing and wagging their tails.
"The Beagle is Harry and the mutt is LP," I tell Melody, who seems utterly uninterested.. "They're my dogs, and the Shepherd is Rick's dog, Uma."
"So you live with a guy?" she says, looking around the room. My father's wife likes to redecorate every few years and she sends me her outcasts, and luckily she has excellent taste. To Melody, I realize, the house must seem very Grown Up.
"Yes, with Rick. You probably know him. The guy who dances on the stage sometimes at the club? The one who painted neon glitter all over his body last Halloween and went as Tinkerbell?"
Melody nods, and moves towards the kitchen. I can't tell if the nod means she knows Rick, but she seems to have other things on her mind. She turns on the kitchen light.
"Where's your bedroom?" she asks.
"Right around this corner. Would you like to see it?" I reply, moving towards that silky blue shirt.
"I'll need a hair scrunchy and a glass of water," she says.
~*~
In my room I find myself suddenly shy, awkward, and terribly nervous. I sit on the edge of my bed, as Melody twists her hair up into the black scrunchy I brought her. She sits down next to me, and in the next moment I'm flat on my back and she's above me, kissing my neck. She moves quickly, unsnapping my velvet bra with one hand while the other caresses my breasts. She lifts the bra off my shoulders and tosses it off the bed, then leans down to take my right breast into her mouth, while she unzips my pants. I try to unbutton her shirt but she stops me, and lifts the whole thing off of her head, unbuttoned. Her breasts are small and firm, but she moves too quickly for me to touch them. She pulls my pants and stockings down over my hips in one smooth motion, and I find myself lying naked on my bed, with a girl I barely know between my legs, licking me eagerly.
The first time I had sex with a woman couldn't have been more different. My roommate in college, Lee Anne, had crawled into bed with me one night during a particularly loud thunderstorm, and one thing led to another until we were gently stroking and hugging each other under flannel nightgowns for the next three months. I am definitely ready for something a little more exciting, but Melody's rapid descent between my legs isn't exactly what I had in mind.
Not surprisingly, I can't relax enough to come. I can't even really enjoy the feel of her tongue, though it is firm and swift and expertly placed. I reach down between my legs and cup her chin, hoping to raise her head, but instead she shoves two fingers inside me.
"That's enough," I say, pulling her chin up more firmly.
She looks up at me, her eyes wide with surprise.
"What, you don't like that?" she asks.
"It's not that," I say, pulling her up along side me. "It's just, you know, maybe a little too fast for me." I brush the back of my hand along her bare side and her nipples harden. I lean over and to touch one with my tongue but she sits up.
"Oh shit," she says, looking at her watch. "My curfew is in ten minutes."
She puts her shirt on quickly and takes a sip of the water I put by the bed. I slip into the burgundy lace jacket, now cold and damp and smelling of smoke from the club, and walk her to the door.
"Call me," she says, leaning back through the door for one final kiss.
~*~
I feel unsure about the evening, so I wait a week to call Melody. Rick is delighted that I've found a lover in Syracuse. He has said more than once that he wishes he could be a woman for me, but I'm not sure whether he means that he is attracted to me, or just that he wants me to be happy. He especially likes the idea that Melody and I might be in my room at the same time he's in his with his latest lover.
"You know, you and I have such a special energy, I bet we'll even orgasm at the same time," Rick says, clearly thrilled by the idea.
I love Rick dearly, but there are limits to our connection.
When I call Melody's number, her mother tells me she's not at home, and gives me the number of the friend whose house she's visiting.
"Hello?" she says warily.
"Hey, it's Evelyn."
"Oh I'm so glad you called!" she says. We chat briefly, telling each other what we've been up to, and then Melody takes the phone into a room so we can talk more privately. It turns out she has a boyfriend, it's his house she's at right now, but she wants to see me too. He's fine with it, because he sees other men. I realize that I know who her boyfriend is. He's the beautiful redhead that Rick's been mad about for weeks. Rick's going to love this.
"OK," I say. "What about this Friday night?
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