The Driving Force - continued

        The story has multiple branches, layers, and even objectives.  It intertwines to form something cohesive, but only towards the end.  However, every one of these branches has a unique life of its own, which will hopefully entertain you as they still do me.  Again, because there are many aspects to it, I would like to apologize if some items seem incomprehensible, but something is bound to escape my memory.

The theme of the story is to explain how a specific series of events happened.  To spoil as little as I can, I will let you figure out exactly what event I speak of, but I have a feeling you will get it with no issues.  Streppy’s story conveniently fits into my narrative, but that was day 5; let’s start with day 1.

        To further explain myself, I will give you a little bit of background.  My intentions on this trip were far from pure, and I would like for you to hold on tight to the next few sentences and do not release them until they serve their purpose to the story.  You see, in past trips to Latin America I had conquered many battles, always hungry for the local taste.  By “the local taste” I mean exactly that; going to Puerto Rico and enjoying pasteles, going to Mexico and having tacos, going to Colombia and having bandeja paisa, going to Salvador and having pupusas.  I do not, by any means, feel this is accomplished by going to Cuba and having enchiladas, or going to Hawaii and having spaghetti. If you do not understand me up to this point, ask your buddy to explain, or shoot me an e-mail; I will be glad to explain it to your little-minded self.  Cheers!

        With this principle, I arrive to Southampton, confident as Casanova, telling my boys that we’d be going out that night for the local taste.  I didn’t know much about English women, but I did love the accent, and I wanted nothing more than to be a part of some girl’s nocturnal vocabulary, or to have my name mingling amidst private feminine thoughts.  In any case, I was as ready as a hungry wolf, so we got on the 1 o’clock train to London. 

        Twelve or more of us arrived together, and a few decided to disperse to do other things.  A few guys decided to come with me to do the normal touristy stuff; we visited the palaces, got on the three different tours, went to the Tower of London, the London Eye, took a ferry under the London bridge, rode the bull sculptures, had a few excellent ales during the whole experience, and did a whole bunch of other neat things worth remembering.  Speaking of the ales, once we reached that point where you become fearless, a few of us jumped over the Tower of London fence, and an Asian kid named Phan (or something like that) even made it to the side entrance, which is about half a block from the gate.  All silliness aside, night fell upon us, and the composition that makes up the word “we” takes on a new meaning which the guys were very familiar with; it means I will facilitate by either throwing you at a girl, throwing a girl at you, or conquer them for you, then portraying you as the right idea –that way I can move on to the part of the night that involves just me and a perfect stranger.  Sounds very giving, but… well, no buts; it is very giving.

        That night went quite well.  We were in the heart of Piccadilly Circus, where we ate and strolled down Soho for a while; delighted by the diverse scenery and partaking in anything that involved flirting with the opposite gender.  A little before 10 o’clock we entered a lounge with the perfect mood, where a few couples mingled and singles sat at the bar.  We added flavor to the ambiance, soon incorporating a few bystanders into our “American” conversation, which they were more than glad to join.  Not that the attitude towards America is hostile, but it ranges from strong to indifferent; I’ve always believed that as far as you carry a tolerant mentality on foreign turf, you’re safe and can hang with the worse.  After a few cocktails I decided the atmosphere wasn’t quite right, so I asked the bartender for a spot with Spanish music.  I seriously expected the answer to be something to the effect of, “Hairs on a bobbin, old bunt!” or some crazy British phrase, but instead he just pointed his finger to an imaginary general location and said, “Two blocks after Circus, in front of the park.”

        I can’t tell you how happy that made me because I am seriously unable to explain it.  Nothing rocked more at that moment than hearing about a Spanish club within a walking distance (not that I wouldn’t have gone to the opposite side of the city, if needed).  I practically grabbed everyone by the ear, including a girl Nate had been talking to, and rushed that way.  I normally do very well, regardless of the setting, but if there is a place where I have absolute immunity to the word “No”, it is at a Spanish club.  At the risk of sounding cocky, I need to explain that this is not a generalization, since I do pick my battles… but my battles are typically the highest striking beauties, subjectivity aside.  Am I allowed to use emoticons?  If I am, insert a smiley here.

        We found it with no problem.  We went through a small door with a black corridor, dark enough to make your blood pump harder in anticipation.  After descending a flight of spiral stairs, the room opened to our right.  A strip of tables surrounded an immense, dim dance floor.  The bar exploded in an arrangement of colored lights before the dance floor, with two or three souls sitting on the stools, and of course, gazing at the dancers.  I noticed these details way later; the dancers were girls, of all colors and types of beauty, of all heights and apparently competing in couture.  I elbowed everyone I could reach in silent excitement, then did that slow, confident walk that guys like me are so known for.  Even if we don’t get noticed, it builds up enough atmosphere to glow for the rest of the night.  I saw her, then I saw another one, then another one… but as long as I see her, the rest become but a visual stimulant for the rest of the night.  Who is she?  Well, it could be anyone -think back on an exceptional story of your own and you’ll know who she is.

        I sat by her with two of the guys.  She sat facing away from the dance floor, smile from ear to ear, focused on her friend, who danced to the tunes of an old Salsa song the best way a British girl could, integrating jokes and what sounded like stories about some other girl.  The guys and I joked about the day, talked about the London Tower incident, and eventually got the type of innocent attention that leads to the construction of an empire in a single day.  I naturally ordered two drinks to her table, and soon they were talking to us, asking us about America and joking about our politics.  I smiled a lot and only spoke powerful sentences, until I had her looking at me at three out of each five-minute elapsing segment.  Her friend asked Joe to dance, but there was no one moving the kid from the table, who has never even done the Chicken Dance.  She fired gentle insults at him for a while, which seals an unspoken deal between a man and a woman, until he points at me and says he thinks I can dance.

        This is the moment I had been waiting for.  She asked me if I danced, and I, of course, told her, “A little.  Care to teach me?”  She nodded, almost honored at the request.  I smiled really wide inside, as wide as I always do, unable to bring the gesture to the surface for one main reason: it is physically impossible to smile that wide.  To explain a bit, I had taught Salsa for two years at that time.  Being born in Cuba, I had no choice but to learn and be good at it early.  To some Cuban parents, dancing is as important as getting good grades in school. 

        I won’t explain the dance, but it was a complete success.  Leading her slender, tall body was easy.  She looked incredibly sexy gliding through the dance floor, loving the strength that comes from a man leading a Salsa dance.  Her waist made me addicted instantly, and kept my hands attached to them for most of the night.  Her smile told me she would not hold back, and also the way her body leaned into mine, not worried about any type of contact.  Her silk dress added to the quality of the dancing, since it would flow graciously with every turn; she enjoyed it tremendously, and would constantly attempt to turn herself just to see it happen.  I would grab her firmly, bring her to whichever stance I liked, and would turn her a few more times.  We talked, drank, and laughed on the dance floor… now that I think about it I think the whole night occurred there.  By the time we got back to the table, Joe and the girl had a very recognizable grin –that grin that best friends give you whenever they think you are about to do the same thing they are going to do.

        I had her full focus now, inclusive as an open journal, but in a beautifully mature way.  I think her British accent launched me places often too daring, but the flow of events expanded the comfort zone to a bendable limit, where anything I’d say would be completely acceptable as long as I followed up with a charismatic statement, a smile, and a casual touch of the hand, arm, shoulder, or waist.  I can honestly say I don’t remember many “dialogues” in my life, but I perfectly remember where this one went.  At some point, the perfect figure of dark hair and intoxicating blue eyes drove me to boldness, a point I reach under different kinds of wonderful pressure.  I love the subject of “beauty”, both what is aesthetically pleasing and what is challenging to the mind, and while on the subject of how she picked her dress, I had a few things to say.  Here is what I can recall, and of course, it wasn’t as picturesque.  Rest assured I did not stutter, but I’m positive a few crutch words did come out:



        “You see …silk just doesn’t work that great, but it looks great when Victoria Secret says so.  Silk sheets do give the bedroom its best look, especially if deep red or pure blue, but they also launch you places –places you didn’t intend to visit at that particular time. 

Sex and silk sheets, for instance, have very little to do with each other.  Instead of randomly moving on to a different topic, though, I will explain the correlation: silk is soft and slippery, thus your body slides right off the edge if even the slightest momentum is applied; convenient for when you want to travel across the room fairly fast, but an annoyance if you have no desire for shortcuts.  When those that insist on using these sheets have altered the laws of physics enough to stay balanced in bed, an additional person on top would simply bring confusion.  Why?  Well, before a punch hurts it must have momentum, and such starts with a simple flexion of a closed fist only a few inches away from your shoulder, extending until it has gained the desired efficacy.  With silk, momentum never happens, since every attempt to move launches you a few inches in any direction.  The results?  A very nice looking room full of unhappy people.  As a long term repercussion, there is a rumor going over the city, until many years later you meet a beautiful stranger at a bar in New Guinea, and upon introducing yourself, you learn that you’re a local myth: the guy who had silk sheets but couldn’t give a woman an orgasm.  Unlikely?

        Now, mix it with cotton and you have something else.  I am not exactly sure what the percentage breakdown is, but it is certainly enough to eliminate each other’s flaws.  While I would really enjoy entertaining myself with random situational remarks about cotton, I won’t take the chance of boring you.  The tough, all-purpose goodness of cotton entwines with the purely embellishing texture of silk to create the ultimate feeling of comfort, freshness, and beauty.  Do you see where I’m going here?  You have the physique of the strictly beautiful silk, a beauty that otherwise would have no other purpose than to astonish with contours and lipstick, soft skin and a sexy glides.  By itself it could run the risk of misunderstatement.  Not that you struck me as a girl with hidden brains and complete unwillingness to share them, but I am certainly pleased to see your willingness to not seem that way.  And please, don’t get me wrong; while I would love you on my bed, that was a just an addition to the rant.  You can say it’s almost meaningless.  I like your mix.”



        The interest was already there, or I wouldn’t have been as daring as to group up random analogies to strike the sort of attention I’ve always been fond of obtaining.  I have to admit, for the sake of my own credibility, that this was one of the worse topics I have ever come up with; however, past a certain point, the odds favor you.  She looked at me for what felt like a glorious hour; I could feel my fingers surrounding her brain, slowly crawling around it to cage it shut.  The turmoil of surprise, confusion, and curiosity reflected very well in her eyes, which complimented the calm smirk that typically doesn't let me down in these situations.  It never mattered how uncertain, nervous, or “out of my league” I was; that smirk got me out of almost everything.

        Almost everything.  In contrast to this story, the smirk, the mind-bending, and the usage of sexy, exclusive words have backfired before.  Time for an interlude, don’t you think?



        I was enjoying a nice House beat at a club in Spain once, next to a particularly distinctive looking blonde at the bar.  After a wink and basic small talk, she proceeded to focus all her attention on me, but on a very playful, experienced way.  I couldn’t see past her smile because of beauty reasons, but I had to maintain composure if I wanted to see the same smile in my hotel balcony.  By demystifying the beauty I finally broke the spell –that spell that grabs a hold of your tongue and twists it to say Bill Cosbyish things.  Entering her bubble, I let out a good five-minute spill on why I am a good candidate to see her likely delicate tan-lines, all while facing a gentle, candid smile, oddly paired with a petrifying condescending look in her eyes.  Right before the closing statement (whichever one that happened to be, since they all come as natural as any of the other crap that escapes my thoughts), she gets even closer, does that thing with the eyes that only females can do, and says firmly: “Shut up.  Why are you trying so hard?  Quit the game, I’m leaving with you, so why not just have a good time?”  I dropped every bit of worry I had in my life, I closed my eyes, smiled for a long time, and admitted defeat.  This girl was a pro!

        Now, Deborah, the dancing beauty, didn’t have the same skills as my pro.  She didn’t say much more than the usual remark of acknowledgement and modesty, but dragged me to the dance floor once more.



         And… this shall be continued in part III!