‘And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.’
– Friedrich Nietzsche
His hands enclose mine; he’s got me. He’s got me in his hands.
We are standing too close together. It’s a closeness that could be smothering; I can feel him breathing. We are so locked together that it’s impossible to move without him knowing. Each arc of my arm, each turn of my body or slide of my leg is tangled around him in an intricate pattern that has been choreographed and signalled well ahead of time to allow us to spin in complex circles around each other, twisting and turning but never (rarely) colliding. We have to be coordinated, but I don’t know the moves. I have to trust him to lead, I have to allow him to control me. It’s daunting and exhilarating. I hand myself over to him.
When moving like this, I don’t feel in control alone. I like to spin out wildly, allowing centrifugal forces to whip me around and throw my skirts out wide. I like to teeter on the edge of my balance, feeling my centre of gravity pull me downwards or outwards, knowing that I could crash out at any minute, except that that’s when he pulls me back to the middle, back into him and balanced again for the next move. I can lose control and still be safe. I can be wild and free, and still not fall.
And I can watch him move. Focussing on his hands around mine, fingers twisting as our palms slide across each other. The flowing actions of his limbs, arms outstretched and strong legs stepping forward. Hips dipping to the beat, thighs and arse tightening with each stride, chest forward; I can watch him move forever.
Moving close, stepping apart; bodies touching and clinging to each other before falling apart. It’s not necessarily sexual but it could be. It could be. And that’s the key. We’re just dancing after all but, wow…
I mean, just watch this and tell me it’s not the hottest thing you’ve ever seen!