Prelude to a Kiss, Tango's 30 Second Rule

There exists in tango, an unmentioned, but implicitly understood, 30 Second Rule. It is the quintessential litmus test of chemistry and compatibility that is rarely wrong and it is very simple. This is how it goes.

Someone asks you to dance. You say yes. You observe how he takes your hand or doesn’t. Does he lead you to the dance floor or walk somewhat ahead and you follow? He pauses and stands still and faces you. He opens his arms, offering his invitation to the foyer of the house that is him. He accepts your right hand as your palm slips against his. You gently let your hand float into his, like a feather seeking a unique cradle of fit. Your left hand reaches for his shoulder if his height is near yours or his bicep if he is somewhat taller. A unbreathed sigh settles you into the moment and then….

You wait.

The music starts and you notice if he starts to dance and lead you right away or does he stay still and listen for the music until it seeps into him. You see if he chooses the moment, the exact bar or beat, the precise, scuffed space on the dance floor, the aperture between the other couples, before taking that first step, and you, with him.

Is he a man that can wait for what he wants? Does he hear his own song or does he join the chorus of other men who move in unison like a collective tango fleet on that same first beat? Does he do what is expected or does he listen to his own voice?I prefer the men who hear their own down beat but it is so rare, on the dance floor as it is in life. The two of you are a ship; he is the captain and you are precious cargo or first mate but you have no way of knowing, until the first wind fills those sails, if he is able to navigate whatsoever. Until you know, you put more trust in the wind than in the man who shepherds it.

In a second and yet in slow motion, all of him is comes towards you in a sensation of new male person. You are close enough to observe the hair that tease at his collar bone if he has any, his shave or lack thereof, and his sideburns and texture of his skin. You see the base of his throat, his Adam’s apple and pulse of his breath and telltale tattoo of his heart that reveals him or his mood - no matter how impassive he seems. You preen, quietly – knowing it comes partly from the mandate ahead of him and partly from the very nearness of you. You breathe in gently and test the air between you, subtly inhaling or cologne or laundry soap, shirt starch or him. You delicately, imperceptively, test the scent to see if you can live with it for three minutes of the dance or longer than that. You access the scent and determine if he is someone to dance with or a man you could make love to. Not that you will but it is this primal thing we all do. You can hear his breath and wonder if he hears your own heart race as you try and still it and devote to the dance at hand. You are a tango woman and know how the game is played; like a tango geisha, you disclose nothing.

The dance begins before the first bar.

You sense male confidence battling with his own clamor. Some men tremble slightly, their hands are cold and clammy but you never register or transmit the knowledge. You never can really discern if they are nervous because of the challenge ahead or maybe it is indeed, as tango efforts not to be: personal.

Some men ignore the premise of letting the woman choose the proximity and choosing close versus open embrace. They draw you to them and your left hand loops around the nape of their neck or they hold you at arms' length – a nod to your prerogative as the follower to stay close or far, as you wish. It is all sublime. You feel him assessing and accepting the shape of your body, your breasts where they touch his chest in an intimacy that is undeclared as it is tacit. No one says a word. It is so profoundly cool and the fact that it is actually even a legal act still befuddles me.

Some men may smile politely without meeting your eyes. To do more is to commit and no one will commit more than this before the 30 Seconds Rule is passed. To smile dilutes the tension and the mystique. To smile and meet someone’s eyes is to make a pronouncement you cannot yet offer.


The dance begins. All bets are off; the equation is simply this: can he lead me? Can he take care of me? Can I trust this male human being to guide me on the floor, take me on a tango adventure and bring me back? Will he protect me from the other dancers, hard shoulders of men leading other women; dagger points of other women’s shoes that can piece my instep if he doesn’t lead well. Does he know what I like? Can he see what I can do? Is his style gentle or quick; does he fill in each bar of music with steps or is he confident enough to wait? Wait for the music, his mood and wait for me – to let me catch up or follow or attune myself. Does he dance with me and for me or for the other men to be impressed. Does he gloss over mistakes and chuckle gallant and low or titch his tongue in exasperation of me and himself. How present is this man? All this data is swirling and tabulating 10 seconds into the dance; you are barely out of the tango harbor.

You adjust your touch on his right hand side and move your hips to contour his, aligning the distance and discrepancies between height and body type. You catch a tiny piece of second wind. He is no longer just a man, or a stranger. Instead you have moved into his country and passed from visiting diplomat to native. He gave you a passport when he asked you to dance. And now you are patriots together, of a newly formed, tiny country of legs, arms, and steps.

The music plays on and you relax ever so slightly. You notice he can lead and you will be taken care of if you just do your part. Worry melts into the night vapors; you are in safe hands, if not yet tango’s promised land.

If he is nervous but a new dancer, you change roles. Instead of him guiding you, you guide him in leading you. You accept him, as is, as a man, certainly but as a new leader. To help bring balance to imbalance, you go somewhat limp, verging on acquiescent but maintaining a vestige of spine - so he can find the energy and force of direction that works for him without battling your energy. You determine, even that, even if he is a novice, if he has tango potential. If so, you give yourself over to his tutoring as he leads you. One day – a year, more years from now - he might be another contender and that is worthy of patience and respect. You respond to the potential that might be there and the tension eases but the dynamics stay.

20 seconds pass and you understand his moves. What was a surprise 20 seconds before is now a pace and a habit. He repeats a series of steps and what was experimental - a series of doled commands and responses, now takes on a finesse. You react well and completely and feel him relax as he sees you read him. He tries something else and you follow in a swathe that is fusion and autonomy all at once. Never a fumble until he introduces a turn you could not anticipate. You jockey again for position, like a restless filly, adjusting just that much more; maybe letting him closer or moving with familiarity to better ground. With newly set intention, the dance continues and an aura of deliberation coats each move. You no longer know where your perfume and his scent starts and stops; you no longer notice and difference in height and the line of his body is only the borderlines of your own. You close your eyes; the room falls away.

The 30 second mark nears. The consensus is not only can he guide you but you are also received.There is a fit. You feel his relief and pleasure behind that impassivity. It doesn’t count or have any meaning. You know that he knows you are a match for him. You've passed this strange test and now are in tango’s inner circle.

Such 30 second dances birth a set of two, three, more dances. You unconsciously file him in the back recesses of your Tango Partners A list. You have found someone to fall in love with for three dances or maybe more. With him, you can feel safely seduced.

Tango is the ultimate safe sex and consummate, mini romance. You can, if you care to, imagine, for as many bars of music as you need, he is The One. Or you can imagine the one you truly love and truly desire but is not in your life (they have left or not yet appeared), is instead there, partnering you. But always, underneath the tango foreplay is a frontier of a man you could perhaps fall in love with but won’t. It is enough you are finally in the dock of the bay of connection. This feeling lasts as long as the music plays; it is all you want and need. Because any other way is tango at the movies; and this is tango in real life.

The dance or dances end. He nods, less smile this time but his eyes meet yours instead. Tango hosannas. His slight bow and thanks is his way of saying, “Another time – we will dance again. Make no mistake. I will remember you.’ Like thieves sharing magic, it is all sotto voit and sotto emotion. So sweet it is a caress that makes your heart arch. There is no hurry. You will see him again and pray/hope/wish the magic repeats in another 30-second romance that teases your spirit and slakes your soul. And if he never returns or does and the magic is gone, there is always another tango boat on the way. You try not to notice who else he dances with and if he holds her quite the same way or shares precisely the same touch. Some things, within tango or outside it, are sacred. But perhaps in tango, we women become territorial she-cats even as we appear to be tripping the light fantastic and above such she/he matters of gravity.

And that is how you fall in love in 30 seconds.

Close Embrace, One Woman, Four Dances

I had a break thru! I graduated to another level last night. Close embrace class.

Many of the women who have danced tango in excess of 3 years, dance with their arms looped around the man's neck - the left hand looped around the nape and/or otherwise casually laminated (is that even possible?) to their partners. It is at once the posture of supplicant and tango geisha. If you can’t manage your arm around his neck (he could be too tall) you can opt to dance with your left hand/path of your arm hand on their bicep/across shoulder blades.

I usually do the latter for it is less intimate and it is easier to follow his lead that way. It is a good compromise if the height differential is significant and it also gives me a buffer zone to play with – do I like him/can he lead? But the reality is, close embrace, no matter how you do it, it takes confidence and finesse and generally more of each than I have. But last night I decided - ok, I am moving up a notch into Tango Intimacy. I will be one of the women who are innately cool and behave in the je-ne-sais quoi tango savvy way. And I did it! I scaled Tango Everest! Well, not yet at its peak but I would say, I now have now made contact with the upper camp.

Close Embrace is more sublime in three distinct ways.

For one, it is how tango is meant to be danced. Ask any Argentinean. It is more challenging to dance and follow - more sexy, i.e. more confidant (because it is more challenge for me, trust me). I managed - but it will take some getting used to. But it looks nicer too - for some dances- less stilted.

Two – when a stranger offers you close embrace stance it has three additional meanings. It means: it means, he accepts you (choose a level: as a woman, human being, dancer, stranger), he likes women and physical closeness, and three – it means he can indeed dance and chew gum at the same time. Unless of course, the man is Argentinean in which case Close Embrace just means he is Argentinean.

Three – the other women (and men) who don’t dance close embrace (yet or ever) and those that do, ‘tango check’ you out as you dance this way. Close Embrace is the sign of the tango dancer who gets tango in the way we all want to get tango, sex, love and life. It is the passport of tango arrival.


Chapter Close Embrace Class
Partner: Benoit?


When you begin tango, you are taught to use the default or ‘open’ position of the dance stance – what I call a more ballroom look and position. You hold the man’s bicep with your left hand; you allow him to clasp your right hand and that is held outward, mid way between the torsos of the woman and her partner. Ballroom people talk a lot about this in ballroom dance class: “ You are creating a frame for the woman.’ It is Oh So Lovely. It is sedate and classic and in its way, graceful as can be. If you go to the milongas, soirees of Argentinean tango you will see this open position but you will also see another style of stance. It is called close embrace. Here, in Montreal where the tango’s second language is French it is called Style Rapproachment.

Close Embrace, otherwise known How Real Tango People Dance Tango, is enviable. The men and women you see who do this so effortless while you are just beginning to fumble not too badly, are creatures from another regime. Another planet. They glide; they are one sinuous whip end that hugs the bandeleon melody line, licking steps to music and lapping up the floor. This is what anyone who ever saw a tango poster for a film or class longs to be. This is tango. It is its reputation and its reality. It is what we all long to be. How to dance like that! How to be so…so absolutely silken with another human being and wholly at ease in your body and sensuality! How to share like that, in public and rather than look like some campy version of Seduction Con Mobile to appear instead, as the soul’s destination on earth.


When I arrived at class a Tango 2 Introduction class was just finishing. As this class left the floor - the tango neophytes collided briefly as our more 'mature flight of tangueros' replaced them on the dance floor. It was like a whole new breed of tango birds came to roost and dominate the floor with their special energy.
Tango...knowingness.

I never felt an energy level like that. Partly it was because it IS about close dancing - and that is exciting, sexy, romantic - and 'looks' finally - like tango - not ballroom tango.

Each couple on the floor was given a balloon to put between them. The object of the exercise was to dance, pressing towards each other, keeping the balloon between you both, without it slipping which of course, it threatened to do each time I but strayed from the lead of my partner. Similarly, when his lead faltered, the balloon teetered for a second. The balloon, ‘our baby’, was the visual, physical contact and insurance that close embrace was happening at all times. How nice, given the proximity to a new man, to have the balloon to pre-occupy myself with.

My partner - (Benoit? Olivier? Not sure) was classic magazine handsome: maybe 6 ', smooth skin, straight dark brown, conservative haircut, not unlike a better looking pilot for a small, unknown neutral, European country, say, like a mini-Switzerland. Despite his height, we managed - when FINALLY we were all allowed one closed dance – minus the balloon ...to dance pretty well.

He was so handsome I almost faltered for a moment but noticed (drat!) his scent was off. Not sweaty nor bad but just off? He was so incredibly attractive and gallant in that unique, riveting, French Canadian gorgeous way. Come to Montreal – you will see what I mean. If the women are pretty; our men are more than at the level. But I got that Eau de Rectory scent, otherwise known as my Thornbirds fatal attraction so I feigned total indifference (which of course, only inflames such men for they are riveted to Eau de Distance).

The balloon almost slipped again and he said, “Mademoiselle, you are not pressed quite close enough to me. Tiens- see – the balloon is falling’. I could not tell if he was admonishing me or asking me to volunteer more intimacy. Perversely, it was appealing either way. I felt my cheeks flame and chided myself for forgetting my perch as a tango girl. And then that odd scent brought me back to earth? What IS that? Why could I not place it nor be drawn? Not bad, not good but hard to categorize? I think it is nervousness or asexual guy scent. I don’t know. But I should find a name for it because it comes up every 30 tango partners or dances. Give or take. You don’t get as close to these men in first or second dates to sense such things but in tango – the proximity cuts to the chase and you know what you know about such a partner as a man.

At the partner switch, I got Hugh (pronounced Hoog, in French) who I know slightly. A lithe, wiry fellow who wears ribbed grey/black sweaters even in the peak of heat of July, he danced well and simply said, merci mademoiselle, pour la danse. Hugh was fine but mostly I only recall the scratchy sweater and uncomfortable heat that comes when you dance tango dressed like Jean Claude Killy.

Close Embrace has a way of making you forget where you are. You lose your moorings. I had to pinch myself last night - I kept thinking ...yes yes yes! I am dancing again. I am at tango. I have a nice partner, I got an entrance pass to this special prom and I am still young enough to do this, to move, to flow and connect. Life goes on. Tango continues and there are men like Bruno (I think that is his name -maybe Bernard or Benoit - will have to ask someone else ), odd scent notwithstanding, to be experienced.

The code is to find a place/stance that suits both - you figure it out – How you hold the man (across shoulders, at bicep or lower or in-between) - how he holds you - across lower waist or higher waist. You see right away – what they are like and you adjust. FEW men (only Marco, Domenic, and the older fellow, Paul) embrace me close. BUT I also am not offering myself to the others (I know the rest less, and am shy, not as comfortable - barely with Joe who I quite dislike). When I say ‘offering’, btw - the woman can get closer, with each dance to the man, if she feels more comfortable, or they both do (and depends on the music too, and steps the man does, and how crowded the floor is) - and it is a subtle 'settling' in. Bruno asked me if I usually dance close. I was surprised - (he is soft spoken) and turned beet red. I said -no, not usually.

Why not, he asked.

I said - well, usually it is the man's call, for one. (not really but that was what I said)

Two - most men do not feel that confident and at practices - people are more
informal - dance less close so as to focus on steps and

Three - shy.

There was a lot of tension in the class - for it is special sexy, romantic – all of it. The men seemed nervous to touch us or do the wrong thing even as theirs was a low-grade craving to dance that way – nay, have a teacher insist we do. You must touch. You must laminate yourself to your partner. This IS close embrace class after all. So there was this incredibly delicious perversity of things going on where Shy Meets Sensual. Let the fumbling begin.

Tango is such a communication - It is sort of like romance/friendship/sympatico/support/sex/solace/and soul exchange - all in one. It is almost (and I know you will think I am daft/dramatic but....) like you get to a pinnacle, with both the male and female souls in union -and it crosses over from that to something quite divine yet human. It is like saying, yes, I accept you as a man AND as a person and I hear you as a human being and see you as a soul.
To music.

I thought - as this man was leading me (plus I danced - as we all did - with
about four other partners alternately), wow - if you have to suffer the ups and downs of real dating on the Outside, then how lucky/nice it is to have someone handsome, who smells so good, and has notably wiry biceps to catch you at tango. What tango girls know is that a wonderful embrace in male arms is just four beats away. It keeps us intact. It is our best kept secret

Close Embrace 2
Partner: Nicolas

My usual partner, Nicolas dances ok - but is tense by default and we putter through adequately enough. But he does the same step over and over and over until we get it better and he titches and twitches something awful. Indeed, he started the evening by telling me what a perfectionist his dad was! And how he hated that! Really? I wanted to ask? Perfectionist? You found that difficult? How so, pray tell? !!!! And he also told me how hard that was for him. And yet, alas, poor Nicolas does not compliment nor give compliments. He smiled a bit more tonight but mostly - his smiles are widest when he is swirling around the dance floor with Mariana, the rather assertive bisexual woman who is stalking him much to his delight. I think we have respect between us, Nick and I, but there is no chemistry. At all. In. Any. Way. I suppose I do not trust him all that much in that he is hard on himself and therefore he is hard on those around him. So my trust only goes as far as his acceptance of himself which is limited. I also reserve trust because Milena flits from man to man and also already has a girlfriend (!) and yet Nicolas is so beguiled - he never sees her flitting and my constancy which some men would honor, for Nick –flitter that he is – he wants to be swatted away over and over. This for him, feels right and is enough intimacy. Emotional rapproachment and c’est essaie.

I never feel that for him, "I" am a good thing. It is more like we are both struggling through - like the two beggars reminiscent of that hapless pair on the Tarot card (a couple outside a Church window). We battle with each other. There is respect without liking - movement without flow. I balk and resist him and resent each moment I am in his arms. I just do. And I am ashamed for my smallness of spirit but it is what it is.

Nicolas has some humor though and in my heart of hearts - I think he is rather lonely and now - missing his father a whole lot who passed away two weeks ago. Oddly, Nicolas is a psychologist but I suspect, like many people who listen to others, conversely, has no one to talk to about what grieves him ...which is missing a father he loves and was hard on him. I can feel all this in each step we take and wherein it seems to be about the dance and it seems to be about missing the mechanics but it is really Nicolas' tears, marked in four/four timing and suspended inside him, by the opportune imperfection I may offer as a follower. It gives him something to hold on to. I mean, even in tango, some guys are unwilling to risk much.

But in the end, it is still difficult. Nicolas and I:oil and water. Flowers trying to grow through cement. I am poetry; he is grammar. I am music and he is corrected formed notes. It doesn’t make music. And it is that much tango time ...wasted, never to be gotten back.


Close Embrace 3
Partner: Peter
Last night, as my first partner, I got Peter again – who is always pleasant and is a lithe Chinese man with a ton of grace and quiet elegance. We are different sorts of lotus flowers but we get along. This is due in no small part to his polite Asian ways and my similarly polite Canadian ones, all things being politically incorrect. Peter always starts the first dance with me by holding me delicately and civilly which is sort of the style of embrace I anticipate he will opt for. But then, almost as if he has a second thought, he brings me in, tucked snugly against him and re-starts the dance that way. I don’t know what makes him do that nor do I say anything when he does, and oddly, as different as we are in every way (gender, culture, body build, essence and personality), I feel at ease, dancing with him that way, and mildly note a scent of sea salt he seems to emanate. A dry, grassy scent that lightly engulfs me when he takes me in his arms. And sligh slight scent of salt and soy.

I am surprised that for a shy and properly distant man who I don’t really know (as well as the other male dancers) that he is bold or comfortable enough to do this. But at the end of the night - in the hallway/near where the coats are, he said many interesting things to me as we changed from dance shoes to street shoes and got ready to go home. Among the things he said to me was:

‘I see with you, or rather, I sense you prefer to dance close. I do not dance that way with the other women. It is not even my style. But I sense you prefer it and you relax more that way so I hold you that way when we dance so that you are at ease and happy"

I was so surprised because he is so quiet/demure and so unlike a man that dances close - I am always surprised HE tucks me in closer - I always think - 'Who would figure him for a ‘close embrace’ guy?"

But he thinks it is me! I don't even think I move towards him. I merely get pliant when he subtly moves closer and then there we are - fused and moving like two reeds.
He is so gentle that if I breathe fully in or out- I upset our balance. But I like the stillness and quiet. He gentles me and reminds me how light I can be and how much strength - there is in that lightness.

He is not the best dancer but he is wonderfully sensitive and easy going (he is focused and wants to do things right but doesn't titch and sigh and rant each time he or we make an error as many guys do). I love how he thought "I" prefer to dance closer and am more relaxed and he was doing something 'for me' - by way of making my dance time with him better. I thought that was really lovely. It was charming and sweet and it goes to show you, we never know about people even as they are wearing us like a second skin.

In fact, I never would have suspected that he had any sort of thoughts about anything. I rather thought he was what still waters ought to be: still. His usual partner is a butch looking lady- nice but masculine and I unconsciously figured he was happy with her so he would not respond to me because his default partner is circa KD Lang whereas I am Holly Golightly. Which goes to show you: you never know where you next Best Tango Ever is going to occur. Or who will deliver it.

Close Embrace 4
Last Waltz
Tango Partner: Caesar
And then there was.......'Mr Heat': Caesar.

The physical: 510”, long, shiny, black hair like Zorro, lean but broad shouldered, impassive expression, little eye contact. But this man/tango partner is uncanny - this fellow dances like a lion stalking prey - he is both a great dancer technically and is so suave and romantic and musical - it is like a voyage to another land. I would have to say - of ALL the men of tango in all years - he wins. He reaches all the right notes save one. I start thinking baby names when I dance with Caesar.
Yes…..steam heat.

No matter what he doles out to me in steps, complications, turns, different pacings, dramatic pauses or sweeps, subtle nuances, everything but overhead lifts.....I respond without a single falter. I am amazed he is not impressed . I suppose me being impressed with me is enough. But more than anything - the MINUTE the music ends - he releases me like one releases a spring lock - and it is as if nothing transpassed!

Someone told me that men reveal themselves and then feel vulnerable and have to regroup by being chilly. Is this the same thing then, but tango style? I was crestfallen the first time this happened- it was reminiscent the guys who turn away and face the wall after love-making as if nothing had happened. How do they DO that? Chill dominates where heat so recently reigned supreme. But I know it for what it is or how it is and I decided the price of admission to dancing with Caesar and experiencing the zing factor, in all ways – was worth that cast off move he also has mastered. I got used to stilling my heart and breath after each dance and cooling disentangling myself, brushing my skirt for imaginary lint, and checking the back of my shoulder as if to discover a bird perched there and otherwise looking bland and untouched. I too, could feign indifference after tango intimacy. If I was nothing, and it was nothing, than I too, could do that dance well as well. I got faster at leaving his embrace before the song quite ended and adept at seeming just a tad more indifferent than him. Indeed, two could play this game and I have not danced tango for near a decade to be bested by some mec, however well he leads. However great he smells. My reward, one night, was seeing him check me afterwards slightly to see if I registered any feeling. Ah, who’s zooming who now?

At any rate, I got adjusted to this and now, on the occasions, I wind up with him in class when they do a partner exchange I play the same game. Sotto sang…..quiet blood, so to speak. The she-cat can be equally cool. With Peter, I am sweet and demure. With Nicolas, I am Eliza Doolittle in Act 2 (feigning Eliza, I should say ). After dancing with Nicolas, I feel like handing him my resume. But with Caesar, I am the least recognizable to others and yet the most 'me' I ever get to be. I am the me no one would recognize (kids, friends, gentleman callers) and the me I know and like best. I am stronger, more distilled – warrior girl with warrior equal.

This fellow stretches and leads and stalks. I follow and elude and come back and seduce and acquiesce. I like the pulse of it.

At any rate, then, when the music starts again - he sweeps me back and our conspiracy of uneasy, perverse intimacy that only exists by virtue of the fact that we share it between us and not the outside world. It is that interchange and upchucking of mutual resumes. The same old game, in a new go-round. And again, it is like a voyage ..in each and every tango we dance together – we travel to another part of uncharted Us. He dances the way I want to dance - in ALL ways.. I have a hunch he is unmoved and dances this way with everyone. Is that possible? Has he learned to be the ultimate elusive lover on the dance floor as many men have learned to be off the dance floor? Can that transfer? Ah yes, it does and therein lies the bait. But I would be surprised if everyone can keep up quite as well as I did and for that, I congratulate myself. Caesar also takes risks - like...changes pace, or accents a movement, or simply does bold, dramatic things no one ever taught in any class .....and I like his confidence in that regard.

Much is made about women who like sensitive men and I do myself, but a man who likes being a man, unapologetically so, is an elixir for the woman who like being woman. As poised as the men of tango are, Caesar has the added edge. But again - when the music stops - it as though nothing happened. I too, begin to wonder if anything has! But then, my cheeks are flushed, my pulse is racing, and my mind swirls with the bottom line notion that I have finally, wonderfully, tripped the light fantastic: the very reason we sign up for tango in the first place; the reason we try Life itself over and over again – hoping to find bliss in the ruins, like salmon seeking that Paradise in that distant stream we are hell bent to get back to.

Maybe it was ordinary dancing with exceptional connection. Who knows?

In the end, I don't mind the lack of validation from Caesar; the incredible close embrace dance is reward and validation enough. How can I put it? Tango with benefits. It is like being a violin and finally - the right musician picks you up, plays you as you like to be played and instinctively chooses your own favorite melody in your own favorite key. It would be nice if the musician could also pat you at the end and say, nice job, violin but then, you can't have everything. Such is sex sometimes, and such….is tango.

I was thinking too over the overall rivalry of close embrace for most tangos (not fast ones) versus the grace of open position. It is like kneading bread with bare hands vs. wearing rubber gloves. But I think that feeling of acceptance means alot to me in close embrace. Who wouldn't want that ticket to ride? Although, you pay for your ticket and at that proximity, the man can feel everything: fluttery heart, racing breath, warmth of your perfume as the upped heat releases more fragrance, tension or lack of tension in the body as you follow or flow. Nothing is hidden so you better be up for scrutiny.

So then...let me just say that I think that listening may very well be the new era of true eroticism in the 21st century. That listening, as provided by del tango, is in turn, what makes tango so erotic – even…and now this is wholly strange….even when you are dancing tango, alone at night, in the street, on the way to your car after a night of tango wherein no listened and you left early. Because with or without someone listening, there is attunement.

In the end, when it comes to close embrace style of tango, and all things being equal, it goes to show you how many men or styles of men - can reach you and appeal to your soul and senses. But, pressed for a final nod - which tango knight wins you? Ah......the body is but a front man for the heart knows in a heartbeat that it is more than dance steps, masculine strangers, and a crooning tango melody to bring about the sort of surrender for that thing – that act - which, let's face it - tango is a precursor to. Some days. Some men.

But mostly the good news and bad news is, and I hate to say it -but it is just a dance.

Tango Girl, Off Season, Ballroom Dance Ringer

Every once in awhile, I begin to look beyond the tango window into the glossy showcase that is ballroom dance. I am just like anyone else: I see the shows, the competitions and flowing dresses. And without telling anyone where I am off to or why I am doing, I sneak off to indulge my summer past-time which is a totally secret pleasure: finding a free ballroom dance class to try out.

Most places offer the 30 minute free lesson before they lock you in a room and try and get you to sign up for years and thousands of dollars of dance lessons. Arthur Murray is notorious for this but I found a promising place between uptown and downdown while driving. Seeing the huge sign (think Miss Mitzi’s in Shall We Dance?) a few weeks ago I thought – it’s a sign. Well, it was indeed a real sign meaning – time to try ballroom again and walk on the not-so-wild side of the dance floor.

So I went.

So, I filled out the copious charts and forms they gave me which are just a little less long and complicated than the ones at any new dentist. Then they marked me as a 'beginner' (blithely ignoring my 10 years of tango and 25 years of modern, jazz and ballet). Based on what I filled out, which I am I guess, in ballroom, a novice, I was assigned to Ballroom One –or something called Bronze level.

“How competitive do you want to go?” asked the instructor? ”How many hours of week are you willing to sacrifice to rehearse? Are you aware ballroom requires serious commitment?”

I don’t know. I didn’t know but I got a sense that the ballroom dance was like dancing for an upcoming Olympics, organized by the Mob. Once in, you never get out. And it's about numbers, records, and podiums.

Sooo....

I got the requisite rumba, some waltz (I even got to do that arch wherein you lean back and pose - it is at once graceful and surreal -very look-at-me-I'm-dancing"). Then - in the remaining seven minutes of the precious free 30-Minute Trial, the teacher decided to teach me tango, but ballroom style. He said, you probably won't be able to follow my lead but just try and keep up. I felt my tango engine purr and growl - but of course, only I could hear it. I smiled and said with a slightly shoulder shrug that spoilers have down pat: I will try my best but please go easy on me.

Anyway, that's when I got to fly and delighted to see Mr. Arthur Murray/Lawrence Welk eat a bit of dance floor dust.

For those are the pay-off moments on the dance floor I get to do each summer in this playing-hooky-from-tango thing I do before they realize - I am a bit of a ringer and before I get locked in that room and pressed to sign up for dance classes until 2030.This is always tricky (it is $500 for 6 lessons, 6 practices - no real classes- just drop in)for they simply keep you in the room, talking and insisting, until you wonder if the door is locked from the inside out. You can, as it turns out, for all their hype, just get up and leave.

But 7 minutes of great tango (oh hell, seven minutes of even bad tango, like bad sex, is worth the price of admission). Thing is, I think I have run out of places doing the 30 Minutes Free Trial. I am going to have to commit one day.
Just.
Not.
Yet.
Because I found one other place that doesn't know me.


Ballroom Class 2
Where Cool Russian Meets Hot Latin
Ballroom dance lesson today was ok. Fine. The man was late – a tall Russian fellow, called Anatol, sporting so much Armani I near choked. Actually he was so tall that my main focus was in avoiding this belt buckle which was at eye-level of my below belt level. You get the inequity I am sure. I cursed that I didn’t wear the 4 inch heels.

He was patronizing – as many of them are. I mean, there is phony Latin charm I suppose but I will take that over the strange slime of ballroom cruiser. Why are ballroom dance teachers like this? Somehow sleezier? Or is it that I’ve become accustomed to the marginality of tango men and that to me is something I can at least relate to?

You can dance like Fred Astaire's daughter and they will still presume you know nothing and teach you like you have not a clue. I don't mind though. I rather like being incognito – therein lies my power. Anatol stepped on my toes and vice versa and made a big deal of it all. Alright already. We stepped on each other’s toes. Get over it.

There was one other couple dancing, with a female teacher teaching them and the studio owner was around...and me and Anatol. Oddly, they did waltz when I was doing waltz (music was on) and then we 'all' switched to ballroom tango ( I was wondering how the music would be for two sets of dancers, different music/one large room?).

By contrast, ballroom tango is almost funny. It seems to me like a cariacture of tango - It has none of the slink of Argentinean tango and the foot position is different. You lead with heel in ballroom. In Argentinean tango, you never see the underside of your shoe! Also, in ballroom, you throw this demure, aloof stare over the right shoulder of the male lead. It is funny almost ..to do it - Like in a movie ..I LOVED waltzing, however, to Moon River and The SweetHeart Tree - like being in an Audrey Hepburn movie. Anatol notwithstanding. The bottom line is - regardless of his lead and expertise- a ballroom teacher (male) has nothing on a female, 9 yrs plus Argentinean female dancer. It is, in terms of dance confidence, no contest ;-). And in the end, ballroom is form over content whereas Argentinean tango is content over form – over everything. To put it more succinctly, ballroom is lifestyle set to music; tango is life; tango IS music.

Maybe my displeasure was also because Anatol, who seems to be a poseur in every respect, cutting poses and ‘looks’ for the mirror and his own regard, and every other ballroom teacher I ever had seems to think he knew it all and because, as many people, doesn't LISTEN. And that in dance, more so than it is in life, is unforgivable

I can certainly see why tango people try ballroom and ballroom people avoid tango.

Tango people want to dance - and love tango but want to try other dances.

Conversely, ballroom people are all about ballroom and seem to have an innate bias against other dances – especially Argentinean tango. (Whereas swing dancers, salsa people - don't even waste their time thinking about other dance venues). I think part of what ballroom people protest in tango IS about the slink factor. Ballroom folks paint tango as 'dark' or weird or not playing by the dance rules. It is so true that ballroom is about all things mainstream and staunch traditions - certainly not about the rebel factor nor does it sport the same, overt, unapologetic sensuality that tango does. So the two camps are naturally squared off against each other. BUT the grace of it - ah...that was nice. Princess city. Float me on a cloud, rent Sabrina (original version), make me a julep and start a bubble bath and register me at the debutante ball for next week.

What can I say? I'm ambivalent - at least...in summer. I go slumming at Arthur Murrays or Miss Dance and my head gets a bit turned. I love the black stretch Spanish lace clingy tango dress I have but there's something about a crinoline and a tiered silk and satin frock.

Next ballroom class is in a week’s time. I was considering not going but the other day I saw a pair of gold sequin dance shoes at a vintage shop with a 3 inch Copa heels. I think they are a size 7 and apparently they were inspired by a Ginger Rodgers number, or so the store owner informed me. I think those are just the shoes for that Continental Fever Night, a social dance evening the ballroom school is holding as their summer fling. It's rumored to be quite the soiree. Maybe Anatol will be there. Besides which - my favorite tango partners are all out of town on vacation.

Gold Sequin shoes witha Copa heel? More Moon River?

I know what you're thinking.

Whore.

Hey - I'm a tango girl. Comes with the territory.

On the Subject of Men Who Don't Dance Tango

When The Party’s Over


Would you like to learn to sing?
Would you like to sing my song?
Would you like to learn to love me best of all?
Anyone can learn the words
And the melody's so plain
This is my song to bring you back again
I'll teach you how to sing and dance
With a song and dance routine
And when the party's over
You can fall in love with me
Would you like to learn to tango?
Do you dance the light fandango?
Teach you how before we're done
Anyone can make it two
Any two can turn to one
And the melody's lost before the song's begun

From When the Party’s Over
Words and Music Janis Ian





Two women talking, in the hallway, outside the dance hall of a tango studio.

First Woman:
Hola – Long time, no see. You haven’t been here in awhile.

Second Woman
I met someone.

First Woman
Serious?

Second Woman
I think so. It’s been a few months. It’s going well.

First Woman
Does he tango?

Second Woman
(Cautiously) No.

First Woman
Is he interested in trying?

Second Woman
He says he might try it.

First Woman (Grimaces sympathetically)
I understand. I really hope it works out.

Second Woman (slightly despondent)
Me too. He’s really special but I can’t give up tango.

First Woman
Well, of course not. It is understood. Who could? Who does?



On the Subject of Men Who Don’t Dance Tango



Of course, the men you are dating are cool on the subject of tango.

They twitch and fidget the minute you mention you do tango. You ‘do’ tango - heavens – even saying it like that makes me curdle inside. How inadequate. But that is how you say it to the civilian world. No one ‘does’ tango of course; it is not like ceramics or Pilates. It is - it becomes - your life. It is soul reaching and altering and yet somewhat ill advisedly but understandably, it is the first thing you share when you dating.

”I do tango’ .

Yes, I’m sure. Quite.

Well, of course the man you are dating is likely to be more than disinterested unless he was considering tango himself anyway – which means he has Tango Soul Potential, and at the very least, that self-discovery thing going for him. But more often than not they will say, ‘I have two left feet’ or is that like Arthur Murray or in the movies? Or I hate dancing or isn’t that for sissies or phony Latin lovers? They mimic a dramatic, exaggerated tango dip and chuckle. You try to chuckle back casually but your heart goes crestfallen as hearts can do. Mostly, they seemed bored and tune out for a minute when you mention it. You could have mentioned your once-weekly yoga or Tupperware session with the girls for all the response you get. Well honestly, what man wants to hear that a new woman he is dating is not-so-terribly physically exclusive? Moreover, not exclusive because, in fact, she is dancing some of her nights away, and away from him specifically and in the arms of not one, but possibly – and more significantly, many strange men! I mean, there it is. What can be clearer?

I am sure more than one has thought ‘Why does she need tango? She has me now”. Right off the bat they are competing against the ultimate rival lover: the unknown, sometimes yet undanced-with, tango dancer. The ultimate, other man. Tango is not like any other pursuit and you can pretend until the cows come home and dance tango themselves that it is ‘only dancing’ and not romance but it is a human collision and the possibility of something happening or at least, your soul waking up is always there. Seasoned tango dancers are a bit more immune than that of course, otherwise you would fall in fall with each new dance, each new partner but the fact is, you are in the embrace of someone else, laminated against them, bound by the contract of the melody and rhythm of the music, and for those 3 minutes at least, you are unfaithful to someone or faithful to tango. Tango is not chess or fly fishing; it is ignitable, unspoken, undeclared things which is why it is so addictive. To give up tango in service to having a relationship outside it is like hacking off your soul to make it fit shoes that almost fit. So, if your new romance is not in tango and does not want to learn, you learn, instead, to compartmentalize, or hone that ability. Not so hard to do when you go from partner to partner in the course of a milonga anyway.

You know, if a man I cared for tangoed and I didn’t, frankly, I would be unnerved too. But I would quickly learn to tango – maybe not even tell him. Find a class and learn on the sly. Surprise him and perhaps keep him near and move things into the next level of what-we-can-explore-and-do-together’. Otherwise I too, would imagine he’d be falling in love every other dance and come to me, wafting stale l’Air de Temps. Chanel #19 or worse – that simple, natural scent of another.

One woman I once spoke with - a tall blond Russian math student confessed, “I sneak out to tango. I tell my boyfriend I am having a drink with my girlfriends. He does not dance; he cannot see why I must and so I lie. I left him home hours ago, fast asleep on the couch, watch some reality show, and before I return, I will change my shoes so he doesn’t ask. I hate lying but I cannot give up tango’.

Now – this is ridiculous because up until recently, I have never been remotely attracted to anyone I have met at tango. It is the code. Like French prostitutes who don’t kiss, you don’t fall in love with each tango partner you have. It’s not done and not cool and if it does happen, it is rare and special if and only then.

But you tell a man you dance tango so he has an idea of what is important to you and how that delicate nuance of music, rhythm, mood, and partner so captures you. You make the mistake of thinking you do not appear clingy or without a life and interests and a worth in other venues, however platonic. You want him to know about you and tango and that is your passion so he will know you. But it has the opposite effect.

Many men greet the news so frostily, it is almost as if you haven’t said anything, that inside, a part of you shrivels and you wonder – if you do fall in love with this ‘him’ – this real ‘him’ -the rival of all the tango partners past, present and future, if you will have to give not only them up, but tango itself– which, not unlike the marriage deal – is like giving up your own country and living forever as an ex-patriot in a land that does not even recognize the Republic of Tango.

Well, what do you want them to say? That they love the idea of you dancing with other men? All the time all they are thinking is how do you even do that without touching the other man – without your breasts grazing some other man’s chest? Depending on the woman (such as me, for example) the clearance factor might be rather nil and you are grazing no matter how you stand, close embrace or not.

Yes, I am sure most men who don’t dance tango listen to you confess you do and smile benignly but all the time they are thinking of how difficult it might be to keep your interest – She does tango. She might leave. Hard to hold. Hell, who needs this?

When so much about maleness is about power, the idea that here is a woman already roaming in a whole other garden of male prowess, it is entirely possible that a non-tango man, might feel threatened which he cannot admit so he might just as well let go. A sman with spine who is into you will fight the good fight but this might be a battle beyond. On the other hand, if he leaves, little does he know, umpteen pairs of male arms are there to catch you anyway.

A simple truth: A man that can lead; a man that can dance – he is more likely to keep his woman - if only as a tango partner. That woman knows she is taken care of. She is not controlled, dominated or even led. She is guided by male confidence and a man who receives her in an elemental way that has been the way it has been ever since we all left Eden. Why doesn’t everyone get this? If people only read Genesis and came to tango, the self-help book section would never exist. Women wouldn’t even give “He’s Just Not Into You’ the time of day since somewhere, there is a man who leads her like a swam onto the dance floor and opens her like a fan in three bars of music. How’s your pulse? Still ticking?

A man that knows how to dance, he has something over all the other men. He is macho in a way that is primal and as old as time. He likes being a man, he has music in his soul and his limbs and his heart. This beats anything Hallmark and Victoria’s Secret could ever dream up.

You think they call romance ‘the dance’ for nothing? Really. Think about it. I mean, where do you think they got that? One step forward. One step back. Resolution in that embrace, denunciation, articulation, chase, pause, capture……repeat. The dance, (what do they say about it “Tango is a horizontal wish expressed vertically?) done well, puts foreplay to shame. Everyone does it differently. You see it on the dance floor –unfolding, never ending, mini seductions. It lives from bar to bar, twisted, syncopated, quarter note-to-quarter note: it is achingly endless. It is the most pure of legal, mood altering narcotics I know.

Off the dance floor, the dance is called, and is, the Game. The Game is what you do when you are not sure of where you want to be and whom you want to be with. The game lets you buy time. The dance is what you do when you are pretty sure you want to be there but you are pretending – eking it out as it were – so that you can savor every beat, every touch, every motion that is a motion away.

Which brings me to the ultimate, unvoiced dream: how would it be to dance tango with a man you did want, could love, could be with?

I always say ‘you don’t meet anyone at tango’ because for years I have seen the same men and women line the tango floor, sipping their solitary glass of wine or Perriers (tango people are not big drinkers), and dancing with who they know or occasionally a new person but I do not see much romance happening. Chances are, it happens outside tango –you take on new person in your life; it may last and you necessarily drop out of tango for two reasons. If tango was not about your soul then anyone who holds you is distraction enough. Or, they simply do not care for you going off on a Friday or Saturday night while you do tango or care to watch you dance with other men so you stop tango in order to not lose what you think (hope or dread) might replace tango.


The good part about romances that do not work out is that there is still, and always tango, and someone to catch you. But if you lose tango? Well, that outside thing better figure in the soul mate column – because that is some sacrifice.

So, how would it be to find someone at tango? How would it be to be held by a man you were attracted to – mind, body, spirit – to dance with him? How would it be to dance with someone you could see caring for, making love to, and even being with outside in the real world, beyond tango? See? The reverse scenario?

Could a tango union retain it’s magic outside of tango? If there is only the dance – but somehow you soul, spirit and mind is not reached – could tango ever be enough?

Well, if I find out, and I intend to someday, I will tell you. Actually, someday soon….I would think…….for tango, always a blood sport….is heating up.

I Am A Tango Dancer

I am a writer, a master baker, a maker of perfume, a mother of sons but before these things, perhaps the most integral sinew that is laced through those other roles, I am a tango dancer.

I have never been to Argentina. I am not Latin in this or any other lifetime that I can recall. I speak English, and French and understand Italian but I do not know anything in Spanish other than the word hola but in tango, I speak the language. Not only do I speak the language, but I am intimately conversant with tango’s slang and its metaphors; its dialect and its every sub dialect – each and every nuance and turn of phrase in each and every turn of hips. My lips never move but my body speaks tango which is essentially voiced and articulated in strings of tumbling expression, lavished by the language of limbs, articulated and nuanced with the music, and all puppeteered by the soul.

A tango dancer is a unique being that crosses time, history, culture, age, gender, music, and god. I am what they term a tanquero - a willing hostage who has, on her tango journey, morphed into something native, a supplicant to tango’s rhythm, and a student of its many lessons.

In tango’s embrace, you become unrecognizable to those who know you best and yet most present, most real, most recognizable to yourself. It is not about the dance itself; it is barely about romance. It is everything and anything to do with connection and intimacy of the spirit.

Tango has a very simply contract. It asks you to dance and you say yes and then you surrender. That is all and that is everything. This surrender is not evidenced by a laying down of weaponry or turning over of terrain or territory but in a relinquishment of another order. Tango takes no prisoners but once you dance it – you never can return to who and what you were. You might leave the dance floor and even neglect tango for a time, but it it stays with you in cellular persistance and pulses in your blood. It makes you proud and strong but make no mistake: it owns you.

I am a tango dancer. My legs twitch like an impatient horse when I yearn to dance. Left to wait at an elevator door, a bank or movie lineup my legs will do ouchos by default, flexing in memory and habit. Alone on a street at night or in the park by the fountains in the mid day where all or anyone can see, tango has a way and its will and so I dance, unharnessed, uncaring, seemingly unpartnered but I will dance.

I am a tango dancer, nothing more, nothing less than a courtesan to passion’s footwork and the draw of a God who is only as sensual as she is divine. Whatever else I look like, wherever else I am born from, whatever else I do and speak and am – I am tango to the bone.

Tango is etched and in a rare ink in an indelible bar code only other tango souls can see. We see each other sometimes, in a crowd, a café, passing in the street and we smile but we say nothing. We nod and eyes quietly salute. We have no need to neither talk outside tango nor ask what our lives outside that life, is like. It is a given we exist in moments and touches and that space between the bars of music where there is no sound, only salvation.

Tango is the lullaby that croons me to sleep; it is the bird song that wakes me if I sleep too long. It makes me come alive when I tell life I have lost my passion simply in insisting I dance and stay the course until I find my passion again. So I dance; first - to appease the tango spirits and ultimately, to rescue myself. Both tango and I are quenched as we glide onto the floor, sighing in our reunion, proxied by the arms of another human being in a similar engagement. It's just how's its done.

Shhhh….Do you hear that sound? That flick and slither? That is a hiss of a gypsy whip; It is tango’s kiss. Like a tongue seeking truth, tango sabotages the senses and ambushes the heart. It is not a pastime. It is not like fox trot, rumba, flashy salsa or elegant waltz. Ballroom dance is form over content; tango is content beyond form. It is in every breath you intake and spill out onto the floor in four/four time.

It
is .......
every breath you take and every breath you take again until you are back and in the dance, caught, flung, fused, flung and swept to a place where you are lost and found and reborn. And then the dance begins again. Forever tango....

Shall We Dance? A Book on Tango is Born.....

Tango Lessons


Voulez Vous Danzez Avec Moi?


Do you know how to tango?
C’est facile -
You place your hand
Softly on my back
And it's
Step, glide, glide...
If you will lead
I will follow
And gently bring you back
Dance is just
A matter of trust
A simple exercise
In parry and thrust.
Can you tango -
Will you tango with me?

From Tango Confidential 2007
© Marcy Goldman


Tango Confidential looks like a blog but it is the architecture for a print book that is already in the midst of its creation. In essence, this blog is really a staging area for me as author but it exists for those who need just a touch of art and layout to imagine the tango book that has long existed in my mind’s eye.

Tango Confidential is a series of essays and personal memoirs from my life on the dance floor. Each chapter exists on its own but taken as a collection, it a series of tango snapshops that focus and broaden, as the pace of tango itself changes.

If you have always dreamed of tango but were too cautious to go, this is your opportunity to explore it from the safety of your day-to-day life. If you are drawn to romance and wonder where passion lives, then that too, you will find it here, in the shape of the tango twilight place that few but true tangueros are privvy to. But I warn you. What you will encounter here, in the words and between the lines, will have you smitten; even more so, beguiled. Your toes will begin tapping; your heart will start a quiet drumming and your senses will reel in a not-so-subtle impatience to be out there – in tango. It is impossible to read about tango and not want to experience it...and so you shall.

Tango is worldwide; there is always place to tango somewhere, 24-7, in some time zone – in tango classes, in tango soirees and dance halls, outdoor milongas, and as I do, on the streets where you live – spotlighted by a full moon and glow of the stars. Those are the times you don’t even need a partner and you never miss a step.

I have danced every step and nuance of the words that unfold here. Yet for all that, for all the pairs scuffed tango shoes, black stockings, and perfume del tango that make up the mileage of my experience, this is only a taste of tango. Doubtless such a morsel will leave you hungry. There is no cure for that hunger but there is a temporary tonic each time you dance. It soothes the soul and such dances are solace for the sensualist. But dances end. The hours between them pass, days stack up and then you think, it is time to get back to tango. And so you can - for I am your emissary between the winged world of tango and the other world we live in by default - that world without the wings.

Welcome to this special demi-monde that starts after dark and struts its stuff long after most of the world has gone to sleep. What did Rumi say? Don't go back to sleep. Come with me instead. Come to tango. It begins now and with one simple phrase that is the same, no matter what the language. It is simply and always:

Shall we dance?

And the answer is simply and always:

Yes.

On the Subject of Men Who Don't Dance Tango

When The Party’s Over
Words and lyrics, Janis Ian

Would you like to learn to sing?
Would you like to sing my song?
Would you like to learn to love me best of all?
Anyone can learn the wordsAnd the melody's so plain
This is my song to bring you back again
I'll teach you how to sing and dance
With a song and dance routine
And when the party's over
You can fall in love with me
Would you like to learn to tango?
Do you dance the light fandango?
Teach you how before we're done
Anyone can make it two
Any two can turn to one
And the melody's lost before the song's begun


Two women talking, in the hallway, outside the dance hall of a tango studio.

First Woman
Hola – Long time, no see. You haven’t been here in awhile.

Second Woman
I met someone.

First Woman
Serious?

Second Woman
I think so. It’s been a few months. It’s going well.

First Woman
Does he tango?

Second Woman
(Cautiously) No.

First Woman
Is he interested in trying?

Second Woman
He says he might try it.

First Woman (Grimaces sympathetically)
I understand. I really hope it works out.

Second Woman (slightly despondent)
Me too. He’s really special but I can’t give up tango.

First Woman
Well, of course not. Who could? Who does?


Of course, the men you are dating are cool on the subject of tango.

They twitch and fidget the minute you mention you do tango. You ‘do’ tango - heavens – even saying it like that makes me curdle inside. How inadequate. But that is how you say it to the civilian world. No one ‘does’ tango of course; it is not like ceramics or Pilates. It is - it becomes - your life. It is soul reaching and altering and yet somewhat ill advisedly but understandably, it is the first thing you share when you dating.
”I do tango’ . Yes, I’m sure. Quite.

Well, of course the man you are dating is likely to be more than disinterested unless he was considering tango himself anyway – which means he has Tango Soul Potential, and at the very least, that self-discovery thing going for him. But more often than not they will say, ‘I have two left feet’ or is that like Arthur Murray or in the movies? Or I hate dancing or isn’t that for sissies or phony Latin lovers? They mimic a dramatic, exaggerated tango dip and chuckle. You try to chuckle back casually but your heart goes crestfallen as hearts can do. Mostly, they seemed bored and tune out for a minute when you mention it. You could have mentioned your once-weekly yoga or Tupperware session with the girls for all the response you get. Well honestly, what man wants to hear that a new woman he is dating is not-so-terribly physically exclusive? Moreover, not exclusive because, in fact, she is dancing some of her nights away, and away from him specifically and in the arms of not one, but possibly – and more significantly, many strange men! I mean, there it is. What can be clearer?

I am sure more than one has thought ‘Why does she need tango? She has me now”. Right off the bat they are competing against the ultimate rival lover: the unknown, sometimes yet undanced-with, tango dancer. The ultimate, other man. Tango is not like any other pursuit and you can pretend until the cows come home and dance tango themselves that it is ‘only dancing’ and not romance but it is a human collision and the possibility of something happening or at least, your soul waking up is always there.

Seasoned tango dancers are a bit more immune than that of course, otherwise you would fall in love with someone new, with each new dance. The unspoken fact is, you are in the embrace of someone else, laminated against them, bound by the contract of the melody and rhythm of the music, and for those 3 minutes at least, you are at once being faithful to tango but unfaithful to someone else (lover or previous tango partner). Let's be frank - tango is not chess or fly fishing; it is ignitable, unspoken, undeclared essential things which is why it is so addictive. To give up tango in service to having a relationship outside it is like hacking off your soul to make it fit shoes that almost fit. So, if your new romance is not in tango and does not want to learn, you learn, instead, to compartmentalize, or hone that ability. Not so hard to do when you go from partner to partner in the course of a milonga anyway.

You know, if a man I cared for was into tango and I was not - frankly, I would be unnerved too. But I would quickly learn to tango – maybe not even tell him. Find a class and learn on the sly. Surprise him and perhaps keep him near and move things into the next level of what-we-can-explore-and-do-together’. Otherwise I too, would imagine he’d be falling in love every other dance and come to me, wafting stale l’Air de Temps. Chanel #19 or worse – that simple, natural scent of another.

One woman I once spoke with - a tall blond Russian math student confessed, “I sneak out to tango. I tell my boyfriend I am having a drink with my girlfriends. He does not dance; he cannot see why I must and so I lie. I left him home hours ago, fast asleep on the couch, watching some reality show. Before I return, I will change my shoes and spash water on my face and neck (to wash off the scent of the aftershave of the other men). This way, he doesn’t ask - he notices nothing. I hate lying but I cannot give up tango’.

But you tell a man you dance tango so he has an idea of what is important to you and how that delicate nuance of music, rhythm, mood, and partner so captures you. You make the mistake of thinking you do not appear clingy or without a life and interests and a worth in other venues, however platonic. You want him to know about you and tango and that is your passion so he will know you. But it has the opposite effect.

Many men greet the news so frostily, it is almost as if you haven’t said anything, that inside, a part of you shrivels and you wonder – if you do fall in love with this ‘him’ – this real ‘him’ -the rival of all the tango partners past, present and future, if you will have to give not only them up, but tango itself– which, not unlike the marriage deal – is like giving up your own country and living forever as an ex-patriot in a land that does not even recognize the Republic of Tango. Well, what do you want them to say? That they love the idea of you dancing with other men? All the time all they are thinking is how do you even do that without touching the other man – without your breasts grazing some other man’s chest? Depending on the woman (such as me, for example) the clearance factor might be rather nil and you are grazing no matter how you stand, close embrace or not.

Yes, I am sure most men who don’t dance tango listen to you confess you do and smile benignly but all the time they are thinking of how difficult it might be to keep your interest – She does tango. She might leave. Hard to hold. Hell, who needs this? When so much about maleness is about power, the idea that here is a woman already roaming in a whole other garden of male prowess, it is entirely possible that a non-tango man, might feel threatened which he cannot admit so he might just as well let go. A sman with spine who is into you will fight the good fight but this might be a battle beyond. On the other hand, if he leaves, little does he know, umpteen pairs of male arms are there to catch you anyway.

A simple truth: A man that can lead; a man that can dance – he is more likely to keep his woman - if only as a tango partner. That woman knows she is taken care of. She is not controlled, dominated or even led. She is guided by male confidence and a man who receives her in an elemental way that has been the way it has been ever since we all left Eden. Why doesn’t everyone get this? If people only read Genesis and came to tango, the self-help book section would never exist. Women wouldn’t even give “He’s Just Not Into You’ the time of day since somewhere, there is a man who leads her like a swam onto the dance floor and opens her like a fan in three bars of music. How’s your pulse? Still ticking?

A man that knows how to dance, he has something over all the other men. He is macho in a way that is primal and as old as time. He likes being a man, he has music in his soul and his limbs and his heart. This beats anything Hallmark and Victoria’s Secret could ever dream up. The funny thing is, a man that is unattractive to me will get my attention as a man, if he leads me well as a dancer. I reaccess. But a man who has my attention already, if he cannot leave, something in me, alas, wilts. Much like sharing a sense of humour or enjoying the same foods, there is a intimacy there that is a precursor of other things. I don't suppose it is a deal breaker but it is a truth I have not yet been able to ignore. The bigger truth is the latter one however wherein a man that is unexceptional becomes notable - for the connection he can offer me on the dance floor. Tango with benefits, someone once called it.

You think they call romance ‘the dance’ for nothing? Really. Think about it. I mean, where do you think they got that? One step forward. One step back. Resolution in that embrace, denunciation, articulation, chase, pause, capture……repeat. The dance, (what do they say about it “Tango is a horizontal wish expressed vertically?) done well, puts foreplay to shame. Everyone does it differently. You see it on the dance floor –unfolding, never ending, mini seductions. It lives from bar to bar, twisted, syncopated, quarter note-to-quarter note: it is achingly endless. It is the most pure of legal, mood altering narcotics I know.

Off the dance floor, the dance is called, and is, the Game. The Game is what you do when you are not sure of where you want to be and whom you want to be with. The game lets you buy time. The dance is what you do when you are pretty sure you want to be there but you are pretending – eking it out as it were – so that you can savor every beat, every touch, every motion that is a motion away.

Which brings me to the ultimate, unvoiced dream: how would it be to dance tango with a man you did want, could love, could be with? Now – this is ridiculous because up until recently, I have never been remotely attracted to anyone I have met at tango. It is the code. Like French prostitutes who don’t kiss, you don’t fall in love with each tango partner you have. It’s not done and not cool and if it does happen, it is rare and special if and only then.

I always say ‘you don’t meet anyone at tango’ because for years I have seen the same men and women line the tango floor, sipping their solitary glass of wine or Perriers (tango people are hardly big drinkers), and dancing with who they know or occasionally a new person but I do not see much romance happening.

Chances are, it happens outside tango –you take on new person in your life; it may last and you necessarily drop out of tango for two reasons. If tango was not about your soul then anyone who holds you is distraction enough. Or, they simply do not care for you going off on a Friday or Saturday night while you do tango or care to watch you dance with other men so you stop tango in order to not lose what you think (hope or dread) might replace tango.

The good part about romances that do not work out is that there is still, and always tango, and someone to catch you. But if you lose tango? Well, that outside thing better figure in the soul mate column – because that is some sacrifice.

So, how would it be to find someone at tango? How would it be to be held by a man you were attracted to – mind, body, spirit – to dance with him? How would it be to dance with someone you could see caring for, making love to, and even being with outside in the real world, beyond tango? See? The reverse scenario?

Could a tango union retain it’s magic outside of tango? If there is only the dance – but somehow you soul, spirit and mind is not reached – could tango ever be enough? Well, if I find out, and I intend to someday, I will tell you. Actually, someday soon….I would think, or so it seems to be, for tango, always a blood sport….is certainly heating up. I will keep you posted from the front lines.


From Tango Confidential © Marcy Goldman 2007

Blind Man, Dancing Tango

From Scent of a Woman, Al Pacino

So, Donna,
Do you tango?

No. I wanted to learn once, but --

But ?

But Michael……Michael didn't want to.

Michael, the one you're waiting for?

Yes, Michael thinks the tango's hysterical.

Well, I think Michael's hysterical. Don’t pay any attention to him.
(She laughs)

What a beautiful laugh.

Thank you, Frank.

Would you like to learn to tango, Donna ?

Right now ?

I'm offering you my services..free of charge. What do you say?
What do you say ?

Ah...I think I’d be a little afraid.

Of what ?

Afraid of making a mistake.

There are no mistakes in the tango, not like life.
It's simple. That's what makes the tango so great.
If you make a mistake, get all tangled up, just tango on.
Why don't you try ? Will you try it?

All right. I'll give it a try.



I used to see him every once in awhile and not yet notice him but simply because over time spent on the tango dance floor, you get to know the usual suspects. People, even odd people, marginal people which is to some extent, everyone at tango, fade into the wood of the floor. Alternatively they become tango wallpaper, surrounding until you only really notice if someone points someone else out, and then that part of the wallpaper becomes an impression who, when added to the memory of a sensational trio of dances, becomes a person. The best you can do is usually say, “Ah yes, him….the guy with the earring or her, the one with the red and black patent shoes and him, the blind guy”.

The Blind Guy was actually called Michael. He blended in so well I scarcely noticed he was blind until one day I saw him arrive at tango class by cab with his dog, a black Labrador, ever by his side. A tango dancer with a black Lab is an image one remembers. Arriving by cab is another one. Tango people all seem to walk or stroll to tango. Those who live further away bike or take the metro. I am on the short list of people that drive a Toyota and drive not from some trendy place in another part of town but simply the suburbs where the only tango is continental tango given at the strip mall’s Arthur Murray outlet.

When I began noticing Michael, other tango students, noticing me notice, would whisper to me, as he carefully made his way into the room at a soiree or some other tango event, ‘Michael, you know, is quite blind but he has been coming to tango for many years. He usually takes a cab but sometimes, Micheline or Carlos brings him or takes him home at times. The dog is adorable and so patient’.

I admit to being more than a bit curious about Michael, having grown up and shared my room, as a kid, with my grandmother who was also blind. As a sighted person, you get attuned, without being aware of it, in being around blind people. While it is true that they cannot see, you, for virtue of having been so much a part of their eyeless sphere, move in your own altered state ever after – well, at least, concerning the blind.

At any rate, one day, one class, Michael turned up in my tango class. Tango 3.
Everyone greeted him with hugs and two-cheeked kisses, as most knew him and he certainly was acquainted with all of them. Moreover, he seemed popular. His dog, Austin, lay obediently at one of the café tables his master installed him at, and gave a dog’s sigh, as he anticipated two hours of tango music. How patient he seemed! Dog and master, both entirely in black….how appropriately, how utterly tango. But it was dance time and this was a working dog, having his break. It was his master’s turn to take the floor. Austin yawned and settled in.

At the switch partner time, I was matched with Michael, finally. He introduced himself to me and I found his first language was English, rather than French, which made things, at least for me, easier. “How do you do?” he said, I am Michael. The music started and we were off. Bon voyage, as we say in tango.

Michael moved in a very studied, deliberate way. He held me closer than the other men, and his cues, as far as the movement of other dancers went, was different. He never, ever, once collided with another couple nor bumped me into someone else. Other dancers do; it happens - but Michael had a sixth sense about that. I began to trust him more, knowing we would be ok. Sometimes, I caught him smile as we executed one step or another without a mishap. We tried more and had more success. “Are you a dancer?” he asked. “I mean, do you dance aside from tango? I can feel it in how you carry yourself ” I was pleased he noticed and said, yes, I am a dancer.

The instructor stopped the class to offer more counsel. Michael rested his hand on one of my shoulders. I learned he preferred to always keep physical contact with his partners, whether they were dancing at the moment or not.

I got used to Michael’s way of leading. I never moved away from him, if we had been dancing, and there was always some part of our bodies that touched the other. Anywhere else with anyone else, Anyone else, anywhere else, that could be perceived as a pass but at dance, especially tango, it is not. Certainly with Michael it was as natural as breathing. One day I was standing near him but not too close as I was not his partner. But he turned and said “Marcy, is that you?” I said yes, and kissed him hello on both cheeks, oddly, mildly ashamed I had not made my presence known and greeted him earlier on. “How did you know?” I asked him.

“Oh, that is easy. Your scent. You always smell like lilacs or lily of the valley or you have one other scent – something with jasmine and roses. It is easy to know you” he smiled, ‘even when you are steps away. I could pick you out like a flower on the dance floor, he chuckled.

Ah, I thought, this is territory I know: a man flirting. I smiled. He felt rather than saw my smile and gave me one in return. Sometimes I stumbled and Michael would subtly guide me and it was an inverse – blind-man-leading-sighted-woman.

When I mention Michael once in awhile to other people, they say, ah ha, just like that scene in Scent of a Woman. I want to say no – that is movies; that is Hollywood tango. At any rate, if that is an image that makes Michael real to them and inspires them to dance, that is ok. Truth is, I like Al Pacino fine but he is an actor. I bet he does not even dance, let alone tango, since he made that movie and he pretended, consummate actor that he is, to be blind. I bet he misses the dance just a bit more than all of us who mention the scene. How could he not?

I saw Michael some other times after that session and occasionally I see him at tango evenings and other tango schools. I dance with a lot of men and have many other partners as we all do. When a partner of mine has a hard time or the dance floor is particularly traffic-filled, and we bump and collide with other couples, I fob it off. That is how it is handled by any of us – it happens. But inside I muse, in the kindest of ways, ‘Michael was blind and yet he guided me perfectly.“ He trusted that other dancers would not crash into him; he trusted his own dancing. He led me without faltering, out from his own inner, uniquely lit world into a dark one. Michael trusted it would just be alright. It was. And we were.

At the end of the evening, other tango dancers would bring Michael a glass of water and a bowl of water for his dog. Hugs goodbye and a pat for Austin and Michael, accompanied by another student dancer, would leave. I wondered how he got home until I saw one of the other dancers that knew him well hail a cab for him outside. He got in and I assume, went home. I liked seeing the other tango dance transform from tanquero into helpmate. It showed me another dimension of them as well - the humanity part.

I always remember how I liked dancing with Michael. He reminded me of that closeness of spirit I shared with my grandmother. You forget, you know – but it is a bond you have you do not know you have until you encounter another blind person. But the other thing about dancing with a blind man is another lesson entirely. The thing is, and I should know this having lived with a blind person, but more so, for having danced with one: some people just have this inner compass that guides them. You worry for them but they are, in fact, just fine. In the end, you do not always have to see to lead. You just have to know what you are about. You do not have to see to know where you are going.

Tango, much like life, is about a hunch about direction. You give it a shot. Then you put one step in front of the other. From a distance, it looks like dancing.
From a greater distance, it looks like a straight line. Take it one step further and it almost looks though you know where you are going. If two people do this together, in harmony – well, that is a sight to see. A blind man could tell you how incredible that is.