Kiss the Boys—or Not

Okay, I know I said I want all the boys to kiss me. But really, I only meant some of the boys. Or maybe it is the whole falling in love thing. Them, not me. What is up with that? On the dance floor last night, one decided to lick my neck in the middle of a dance. Talk about an uncomfortable embrace. He had his head all craned around trying to nibble and I’m trying not to get neck cramps.

Then the next guy (or should I say first as he declared his undying love before my ass even hit the chair) bought me coffee, then wanted to kiss me on the dance floor. Hey—that whole coffee thing doesn’t mean the same when purchased at a milonga does it…

So I’ve changed my criteria. Only the hotties my age are allowed to kiss me. Like the guy with the hat.

The milonga last night was the best yet. The venue is fairly new, only a little over a year old. And huge. There are three separate areas to dance, tables so far away from the dance floor that you couldn’t use cabaceo from the back tables if you tried. It turned out it didn’t make much difference. Where I sat, the guys streamed back and forth from the dance floor to… I don’t know somewhere. All I had to do was watch them as they came past. I didn’t get there until three hours after the milonga started for reason I’d rather not go explain, but it didn’t really make much difference. One of the fellows told me the he’ll be at Gricel tonight. Might have to check that out.

I wonder if the guy with the hat will be there