by Micheal Cohen

I can’t dance. There I said it. Two left feet would be a big step up for me. Three even. It’s a fact that I have injured more toes on the dance floor than any one man has a right to claim. I have actually ended relationships because certain females, who shall remain nameless (Stephanie, Maria and Allison), took my toe crushing, spastic dance attempts as some sign of inborn, deeply rooted hostility towards women. Whatever. My problem is not them, My problem is that for some reason unknown to me, I am seriously drawn to women who dance. The more they love to dance, the better they are at it, the more I become attracted to them. I’m talking seriously, borderline stalker, attracted to them.

You know that line from the song, “There’s something in the way she moves”? That’s a big part of it. Now wait one minute. I’m not talking about the girls at the nudie bar with the pole and the strobe lights and the drooling idiots hooting and hollering all over them, their lithe, sinewy bodies stretching and cavorting, sweet sweat rolling down their firm breasts. Well, I like them too, but the ones that really get me, the ones that make my thoughts race and my blood boil, are the ones at the dance clubs around town who really know how to move.

I try not to go, I really do. But I’m drawn there like a nipple to a tongue and I can’t help myself. My favorite is Danceland in a ritzy section of downtown. The crowd suits me. Mostly mid-thirties, nicely dressed wanna-gets. Oh, you don’t know what a wanna-get is? A wanna-get laid, a wanna-get noticed, a wanna-get hooked up and the dreaded wanna-get married. You just gotta be careful, stay on your toes so to speak.

So it’s Saturday night at Danceland and I’m there, of course. Having a drink, milling around, saying hi to the regulars and familiars and the other wanna-gets, when all of a sudden I see HER. I don’t use caps often but in HER case SHE deserved them right from the get go. I found out later HER name was Emily. Ok. The name alone was enough to stop using the caps, but I was mesmerized watching her dance in the middle of the floor, so much so I couldn’t even hear the music. She wore a black dress with a slit up the side almost all the way to her panties, with those ties near the top that suggested just a hint of naughty. The front of it came low enough so when she moved in just the right way, her large breasts almost fell right out. When she turned away from me, her perfectly rounded ass moved like an invitation to the gates of heaven. And yet, with all that, I was most taken with her feet. I stood there for I don’t even know how long, with a gulp of drink sitting in my mouth, watching her feet move, touching the floor, twisting to the right, moving back a step and then, gasp!, twirling. I swear I thought she was dancing about an inch or so above the floor and just for me!

The music stopped and I thought, “Damn! The music stopped!” But Emily, MY Emily, started walking towards me. I tried to swallow the drink that was still in my mouth so that maybe I could speak to her but I couldn’t. I stood there, watching her get closer and closer, trying to swallow that damn drink, but my throat and my mouth and my brain were all working independently of each other and the best I could do was clamp my lips tightly shut and hope I didn’t choke. My throat was just relaxing enough to let a trickle of warm, stale cocktail slide downwards when she got closer and I smelled her. I smelled her! I smelled her and my throat locked up tight like a fist! It was a mix of her perfume and her sweat and it was the sweetest thing I had ever smelled in my life. She stopped right next to me, glistening with sweat, her long, curly hair wet, like from a shower, and she raised her arms. I know she was fixing her hair but for me it was a sign. A sign that she wanted me to smell her even more. And as I stared into her clean armpits, dripping with sweat, that sweet, wonderful smell increasing with each second she stood there, I inhaled deeply and thought I was going to faint.

“You ok?” Emily said to me.

My mind reeled. What to do? What to say? I had a mouth full of stale cocktail, my thoughts were far away in some sweaty, sexual foot fantasy, and my throat was locked shut. What??!! I nodded my head signaling to her that I was ok when in fact I wasn’t. I did, however, do my best to make sure that I gave her a good nod. A nod with character and some style. And the minute she turned to walk away I managed to spit that awful, stale puddle in my mouth back into the glass I was holding.

I followed her over to her table muttering to myself as I walked. Well, actually, it probably looked like muttering if somebody was watching me but actually, I was practicing. Practicing talking that is. Rehearsing, if you will. I was determined to ask Emily to dance and I wanted to make sure I could actually speak. I got closer and her smell hit me again but I fought off its heady, intoxicating effect and boldly marched up next to her.

“I, I wanted to thank you,” I said.

“For what?” she said. Her voice was clear and sweet and sounded like she wanted to talk some more.

“For showing some concern before, for asking if I was ok. But mostly for dancing up a storm out there on the floor.” Was that me talking? Did I say those cool things? What was it about this woman that mesmerized me but also made me feel like a confident, smooth talking kinda guy?

“Well, aren’t you the charmer,” she said without even a hint of sarcasm.

“Would you, ah, like to dance?” Oh no! What had I done? Here I am taken with this woman, Emily, and now I’m about to ruin everything by making a total fool out of myself on the dance floor. Damn!

“Sure.” she said. And as she stood to walk to the dance floor, I was seized with a mix of fear and desire that at first threatened to mesmerize me again but ended up pushing me out there, with her, onto the dance floor.

The music started and she started swaying along with it and before I noticed I was swaying along with her too.

“I’m not a very good dancer.” I said, hoping to cover my tracks at least for a little while.

“You’re doing fine.” she replied. And then she grabbed my hands, wiggled her hips, moved her feet and lo and behold we were dancing! We were dancing and I wasn’t making a fool of myself and more importantly I hadn’t crushed her feet. Those feet! In my amazement over dancing, I had forgotten all about them. I glanced down, past her heaving breasts, beyond her gyrating hips to her feet, moving back and forth on the floor. Her feet, in those black patent leather shoes with those pointy toes, sheathed in black net stockings, moving, twisting. I inhaled deeply again, fully aware of the sexual desire rising in my body. I wanted to dance naked with her in the moonlight! I wanted…

“Owwww!” she screamed.

Oh God! I did it again. I crushed her toe. Damn! I was so lost in my reverie I crushed her toe. I helped her over to the nearest chair and we sat down.

“Ow. It hurts.” she moaned.

“I’m so sorry. Let me see…” I grabbed her foot and started removing her shoe. Instead of objecting, or slapping my face and screaming she was actually helping me. I couldn’t believe my luck as I slid her shoe off and started gently massaging her toes. I wanted to start there, work my way up her legs to her pussy and higher to her breasts, but I stayed there, rubbing her foot, smelling her essence, the sweat, the perfume. I glanced up her dress. She wasn’t wearing any panties! It took every ounce of strength I could muster to restrain myself from leaping, headfirst between her thighs. But I kept rubbing her injured foot, tenderly, hoping to repair the damage I’d done.

“Ummmmmm. That feels great,” she said. “You’ve really got the touch. Want to do the other one?”

Did I want the other one? I wanted all of them! Everything! If she had twenty feet I wanted them all. I wanted to touch them, lick her toes, bite gently into her flesh. I wanted to run my tongue up and down her ankles until she screamed with pleasure. And then I wanted to lick my way up her legs, her thighs and part her pubic hair with my tongue. I would suck her into my mouth, tasting her, smelling her, rubbing her juices all over my face. And then I would climb up, sucking her nipples on my way to her pretty face. Kissing her with my mouth and her juices while I entered her, slowly, until I was deep inside of her. And then we would move to the slow music, her hips swaying while I pulled my cock out of her and then slowly worked it back in. We would stay like that, moving slowly for a while and then we would move to a new beat, a faster salsa thing until we climaxed, together, moaning and breathing heavily. But we were in Danceland so I grabbed her other foot, slowly removed her shoe and tried to calm myself down.

“You know, you give the best foot massage I’ve ever had.”

“Thanks. I, uh, like it”, was all I could reply. I was out of my sexual fantasy and back into reality but my cock was still dancing in my pants. If I could only figure out what to say, maybe, just maybe I could get to see her again, maybe I could turn that dream into a reality. And right then she leaned over to me and whispered into my ear. “I don’t usually do this, but would you like to come over to my place and let me return the favor?”

I was mesmerized again. Couldn’t speak. Not a word. But that woman, Emily, swept me away, took me back to her place and before I knew it I was doing everything I had been dreaming about earlier. And all because I crushed her toes on the dance floor. Sometimes, I guess, life’s not about correcting your faults or improving your shortcomings, but making them work for you. Now, when Emily and I go dancing, she insists that I step on her toes and right there in the dance hall, massage her feet. This drives us both crazy with desire and we go home and dance naked in the moonlight together until dawn.

Originally posted 2013-06-13 04:15:44.