Santero

Dance Sensual Brazil
I arrived at Fulton and Masonic about 12:30 am.
I called Kimani and asked him where I needed to go and then I found the club.

A dollar cover.

The house vibe is really nice walking into the club. And after hearing O's accounts of Phoenix, I am looking at San Francisco with new appreciation. How beautiful is it for so many different faces and fashions to coexist and undulate on the dance floor.

The front room was full and I saw Kimani straight away heading toward the end of the bar and greeting some friends. Kimani is one of the most beautiful men I have ever met. I liken him to Tutenkamen. He's deeply spiritual, ridiculously intelligent, a serious dj, and quite the mystery.

He sent out an email about this Monday gathering and I figured why not? How long has it been since I had been dancing?

He told me to go to the back room, and I so I went.

I walked through a cloud of sweat. The dj was up front switching from turntable to turntable. He was working in vinyl.
People were almost packed, but had just enough dance room to raise their hands in praise and move to the time of this composers grooves. The room was nondescript. The floor was poured concrete with some divots where thousands of feet have pounded their rhythm into the ground.

Mr. Man on the 1s and 2s had his quirky glasses on, a wildly printed shirt, had a beautiful head of hair...shortish fro and full beard and moustache combination. I watched carefully, felt his music. Something with a conga came on.

I slid my shoes off and began summoning my spirit of dance.

Slowly, at first, but then my swaying became stomps and I gestured into the air with my arms and hands. My eyes closed and I heard something yelled above the music. At first I ignored it, but then I tuned in when the yells became more frequent.

I had a partner in dance. As I danced the voice of the music...beckoning the drum...the voice spoke and choreographed me. I opened my eyes and saw that it was a gentleman holding a Corona. He was young, long, and speaking a language that invoked magic.

It sounded like the chants I have heard in traditional music from Puerto Rico. He sounded as if he was invoking the gods. I heard orishas mentioned. Oshun? Did this man know of the Yoruba deities honored on my island? Oh my god...

I continued to dance, my eyes closed and listened to his chanting. I wondered if I was falling under his chants. His hands gestured around me, weaving where I hadn't stepped.

My mind filled with his chants and the music. My body contorted forward and gestured to cultivate the air before me. I made gestures of planting and harvesting. He chanted and began to dance with me. I began to lose myself in his voice and the music and my movements.

This was incredible.

My t-shirt and orange corduroys were my sacred clothes. And this priest directed me in my dance. He put down his beer and I saw a man with a chiseled face, black t-shirt. And he could dance. And when I heard him speak it was Portuguese. And when I saw him move, I saw a fellow countryman.

Dios mio. Brazilenos are incredibly sexy. Quien sabia yo?

We began moving together, weaving our dance. Unspoken, yet understood.

There was a slight pause in the music and he removed his socks and shoes and we both danced, weaving a space for ancestors in our bare feet. The music slowed and we both swayed. He gently placed his feet atop mine and teased my feet with his toes and I could not believe this was happening.

My feet were planted and he leaned me back, making sure to catch me as my back arched completely backward. I couldn't help but laugh and enjoy my playmate and his sensual lead. My feet were trapped, but not really. And we switched so that my feet were atop his. Our cheeks touched. His face was warm.

We separated our feet and I felt giddy. I continued to dance. He drew me close to him and began blowing on me...relieving me from the sweat forming on my face and arms. He firmly turned me, knelt down and danced with me on his knees.

All without exchanging words.

We finally attempted a conversation...I felt nervous in my Spanish, especially since he spoke Spanish, Portuguese, German, and some English.

Maurice? Born in Corvallis, Oregon but raised in Brazil - Puerto Alegre. He pointed out we were both from "Puertos". He lifted his t-shirt just a bit and pointed out his beauty marks. He proclaimed his Brazilian heritage and said these spots were signs of his African ancestry.

I was taken by the passion by which he exclaimed and claimed himself.

I have heard of these Brazilians. I have even seen them. But I have never been wooed by the men of this country.

Oh my god. I was trembling. He kissed my hand and teasingly brushed his cheek against mine. Our torsos hovered over one another, but they maintained the subtlest distance between. Our hips also framed one another, but there was never a touch.
This is the balance of sensuality and propriety that I adore from my latin culture.

We play respectfully. It's flirtation. It's sensual.

The security gent came round and said we had to put our shoes on.

I was disappointed. But we complied.

I knelt down and got his shoes for him. I placed his right foot on my thigh and placed his right foot in my hands, preparing the sock to receive his foot. He pressed his foot down into my thigh in a way that pressed he was there and acknowledged my gesture, but not in a dominant way. I found the sole of his foot ridiculously smooth as I caressed his foot before placing it back in the sock.

I took care not to look into his eyes and focused solely on the task at hand. I wanted to study the feet that had restrained mine to the dance floor and began this rouse.

I raised his left foot and performed the same ritual with it. He did not press down this time, but he took his left hand and stroked my cheek, raising my face to meet his gaze.

He asked me what I wanted of him.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

I stood and sat down on a stool and I attempted to glean information from him about his family, his work status. We made some computer jokes, but I basically struggled trying to translate my questions into a language he would understand. And I felt ignorant not to understand the Portuguese.

His eyes were piercing to look at. I felt he was examining everything about me and I shied away from the gaze. It wasn't disrepectful, it was more studious. And I did not know how to take it.

Maurice, 29, with the chiseled face, strong arms, and deep eyes. He exuded passion. He conjured the orishas and we danced.
We danced, despite our inability to communicate with words.

I felt beautiful, powerful. I also felt shy and probed. His subtle touches as we danced and while we chatted were enough to make me blush. He asked me for a massage and out of awkwardness I said yes. He made the knots on my shoulders disappear. His hands were firm and strong and I didn't know what to do, save for sit and receive (two things that are not my strong points).

Dancing NEEDS to be like this for me...this is what I wish. He asked me what I wished...and I said more dancing like this.