Page 10 of One Hotlanta Night
Velvet ropes cordon off the sidewalk for what will probably be a long line later, but thankfully I’m early enough to avoid a crowd. Figure I’ll need time to get a few shots in me before I attempt salsa or whatever it is I’ll be doing tonight.
Only a few people stand ahead of me as I join the line. Eyeing the chic skin-tight outfits of the girls, I nervously tug at my pants, the material suddenly itchy under my fingertips.
I’m no stranger to going out to clubs solo. Started doing it as soon as I hit eighteen, no alcohol required. Turning twenty-oneand being able to drink legally was a bonus, but I’m careful with it.
One drink too many can mean the difference between feeling pleasantly sore in the morning—or having a massive fibro flare up.
But tonight I’m determined to leave all my cares at the door and dance the night away.
Despite the repeated viewings ofDirty Dancingthat ended with the tape jammed in the VCR, I don’t really know what to expect tonight. Will it be flawless technique or looser freestyle? Taking in the glossy-haired beauties in front of me balancing on impossibly tall stilettos, something tells me this isn’t going to be like the ballroom competitions on cable.
A shiver runs through me, but it’s excitement, not trepidation. Maybe Claire was right; something new might be just what I need.
I wish she was here with me. She’d be telling me jokes or making funny faces to distract me from how out of place I feel. My regular spots are much more casual, and my usual confidence is faltering. If only she knew how out of my comfort zone I am. She’d either be proud of me or whisk me back home. Or to the Masquerade, where there isn’t a dress code.
Earlier today, Raelynn spiked a fever out of the blue and complained about her throat hurting, so we’re guessing it’s strep. Thankfully, her sugar is doing okay. Claire’s testing her every hour. Her poor fingertips.
I told Claire I’d rather stay and watchAladdinfor the hundredth time with them as we try to keep the little tyke comfortable. Sick toddlers are one thing, and adding diabetes into the mix can be brutal. Instead, she insisted on getting me all dolled up and pushed me out the door, citing the free dance lessons L’Aventura was giving as part of their grand opening. And she knows that 1.) I can’t resist a deal, and 2.) I candefinitely handle going out by myself. She’s right on both fronts, and so I’d gotten primped and pampered to go out.
But right now, I don’t feel nearly polished enough.
Tugging on the straps of the silver shoes I’d gotten from Payless only the night before, I’m glad I chose kitten heels for my debut to Latin dancing. They’re lower than what I usually wear, but still cute. Don’t want to end up tripping over my own feet.
As I move up in line, I pull my ID and cash out of the bra that gives barely-there support underneath my halter top. That’s new too; a shiny silver and black number with a snakeskin pattern picked up for a steal from Cache. Not my normal look, but I’m going for sophisticated-on-a-budget.
Already damp with the Atlanta heat, I’m glad I opted for skinny black pants; at least I don’t have to worry about my ass hanging out if I go “low, low, low.” Whether the cropped style is a good idea or not remains to be seen; they’re tight enough to showcase my curves, but not as restrictive as my faux leather ones.
Only a true glutton for BDSM-level punishment would suffer wearing leather in July in Georgia. That would not be me, please and thank you,sir.
“Ten dollars,” the bouncer tells me, white t-shirt sticking to his chest and a gold chain seemingly radiating heat from the concrete.
Damn, I think to myself. This place better be good… usually it’s only a five-dollar cover charge.The price of new adventures and zero entanglements, I tell myself as I step inside and through weighted black curtains separating the second set of doors from the dance floor.
As I push the heavy fabric aside, the atmosphere greets me with a warm and welcoming embrace I didn't know I needed.
I halt just inside, allowing my eyes to adjust to the multicolored lights brightening the ceiling. A rich yellow hazesurrounds the large open space, wisps of smoke pluming up from tiki torches and the firelight reflecting off the mirrored wall. Glass shelves are packed with more bottles of tequila than I’ve ever seen outside of a liquor store. All shapes and sizes, with colors ranging from deep dark amber (yum) to totally clear (yuck). I guess they meant it when they said it was a tequila bar.
The dance floor is only halfway full, people milling about with drinks in hand and others plastered close to their partners’ bodies.
What I quickly realize—with a gulp—is that they all look far more polished than my discount ensemble. Even my lipgloss feels cheap.
Women with beautiful hourglass figures and barely-there dresses mingle with men dressed in casual elegance. Surprisingly, it’s not all young twenty-somethings like most club scenes; instead I notice an age range from those who look barely legal to vote to spry seniors. Cross-generational. It’s an unexpected and welcome change.
As I look closer, I see that the women wear their curves and years confidently. Whether stick thin or curvy from head to toe, these ladies sport the same style of dress and it looks amazing on all of them. Most places I’ve been, girls tend to cover up anything that’s not deemedVogue-cover-worthy. The bold confidence in how these women hold themselves is refreshing.
The other thing that floors me is that all these people are undeniably glamorous and sexy. Salon-worthy hair, flawless makeup, and clothing that fits like a second skin. Red lipstick must be the color of the day because most are wearing it in various shades. Even the older ladies are impeccable. Their beautiful fingers drape elegantly along their partners’ shoulders, their jewelry and glossy manicures on display.
I don’t think I could pull off looking that good even on my wedding day.
Seeing all these beautiful people that look like they just stepped off the pages ofVoguedefinitely has me feeling out of my depth. But I’m here to break out of my comfort zone, right?
Right, I tell myself as I straighten my shoulders and make my way to a corner where it looks like some people possibly as awkward as me are trying out beginner steps.
A couple dressed head to toe in sinfully sophisticated black is demonstrating simple footwork, and even I can detect the base rhythm under the complex beats. Women line up on one side and men face opposite them. I sidle up to the tail end of the women’s line and focus on the pair teaching.
The man and woman demonstrate how to hold your dance partner, then step forward and back, alternating in English and Spanish. “And one and two!” It takes a minute to realize that the forward step is on the two-count, and I hear someone murmur something about New York style. Don’t know what that means, but they’re probably not talking about pizza.
Straining my ears as if that will help me understand the lilting syllables better, I try to catch the parts I can and copy the way they place their feet.Should’ve gone with five years of Spanish instead of French.
