We danced all night at a club in Harlem. He was 24, and I was a lot older than that, but our mutual goal was uninhibited wildness and fun.
Red Rooster had a diverse group of people, all ages, grinding to Eminem, Tupac, Run DMC, and Flo Rider. Most of us were all on the same page about dancing in the semi-lit basement of a restaurant in Manhattan. Some, though, sat in booths around the dance floor, like the older couple -- a tall black man with sunglasses, long trench coat, and bluesy body language accompanied by a just-as-tall, distinguished blond female -- who might have lived on Park Avenue and wandered every so often into Harlem. Cool young black men with beers in hand sought winks, daring stares, or dance floor twizzles from the opposite sex. A happy trio of middle-aged females bumped butts and laughed with open mouths and shiny white teeth.
It wasn’t quite the mood and ambiance of a night I danced Hip Hop in a club in Miami Beach fifteen years back. A night of no personal space in a dance so close and tight it time-lapsed us all to what seemed an ancient ritual and frenzied worship/cave/love dance to the Sumerian goddess Inanna -- and all this while ocean breezes wafted in from the opened Bahama shutter windows of a club on the sands of the beach.
That night we all moved in the slow motion of souls in heat, beyond the beat, and beyond the hours, pushing and pulsing into each other's arms, legs, hands, breasts, groin, and buttocks until arriving at a single meditation on sensual, beautiful bodies in constant, raw motion and tattooing that motion to timelessness. Spoiled by an instant of perfect pleasure, I imagined hundreds of similar experiences -- but never again, at least not in the same way, with the smell of salt, sweat, perfume, cologne, ocean breezes, and a possessed allegiance to the dance
This time in NYC, my date Alvin was all slick charm and smooth moves, handling my assets, with his palms, fingers, and the subtle weight of his tall, lean body. Digging my fingers into his scalp and the outline of his crispy, tight curls, I acted the vixen, hexing him with the spell of my fun, sexy moves
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My style isn’t usually "promiscuous dancer on first date," but that night all bets were off, and I followed Alvin for more than six hours because he was the man or at least one day he would be a great one with dreams of putting books for young boys in every barber shop in Harlem and pursuing a masters in communication at Columbia University.
He was sweet. Bought me two beers and paid my cover charge. Up until that night, I had refused all his invitations for a date, but he insisted and I had nothing to do that evening. We met online, and he told me funny stories about being a country boy from Arkansas now in awe of a city with so many beautiful women. He also said he liked older women, not that I really cared. I usually judge my men by their ability to pursue and charm while doing it, regardless of their age. Most surprisingly, Alvin left me with a parting gift and epiphany, on this our one and only date.
Now that I'm in my forties, I was confused about how to define youth. What did it mean at my age? How did it translate to my life? Did society's unspoken rules about appropriate and non-appropriate age behavior apply to me? I'm not one who lives by rules, but I've been in a transitional stage lately, leaving certain things behind and moving into the unknown. After divorcing and raising my children, I wrestled with finding a new sense of self, freedom, and independence, all while honoring the past, living in the present, and welcoming the future.
Alvin's youth, soft skin, shyness, and inexperience astonished me. Not so long ago, I was in his shoes with similar dreams, worries, anxieties. Then, I sought the obvious, as if complexity, subtlety, and destiny were unimportant. My mindset was to conquer all and move on to the next best thing--pronto. But that stage was behind me: the stage of never being satisfied with any one thing and looking for something better around the next corner.
I had earned degrees in college, pursued several careers in teaching, traveled, and had great relationships. I'd also been married, divorced, and raised two kids on my own. I lived through it all and learned something about myself in the process. Mostly, I was not interested in being 20 again; that stage was over, especially my misunderstanding that life's great moments were to be chased down, experienced, hammered out, and processed in five minutes. I was freer now and more at peace, and after six hours of dancing Hip Hop in Harlem, I said goodbye to youth and hello to youthfulness. Read my exciting memoir, "The Continent of Ruby," available at: https://www.amazon.com/Continent-Ruby-Memoir-Because-sometimes-ebook/dp/B00TT5DDWO?ie=UTF8&*Version*=1&*entries*=0
Picture credit: Miguel Covarrubas "Negro Dances" (1927)
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