On the evening of Day 10 of my NYC full-time en femme adventure, I had dinner out on Restaurant Row with my wife and one of our girlfriends, then my darling wife suggested we three go together to an evening tango class nearby in the newly-trendy Midtown-west neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen. She's wearing a tight dress with emphasis on cleavage, I'm in black skinny jeans with a new red-and-black top she brought back from Florida, and our GG girlfriend is elegant as always in grey and black under her mane of silver hair. Need I mention that we are all in our 60s?
The small studio is up two long flights of stairs. It is icy cold outside and sweltering hot inside, we are all dressed in layers and I am so hot my wig drips sweat. The beginner hour has maybe 12 students with a lovely petite teacher, an Argentine woman with charming English and long, flowing red-brown hair. Some of the students arrived as couples some are singles, a roughly even mix of men and women, with newcomers joining throughout.
We switch partners often as she leads us through the basic steps and moves. By the end of the hour we had all practice-danced with everyone in the room, men and women. I took the female follower role with everyone, being led instead of leading. And everyone went with it.
Oh, there were plenty of awkward moments of rubber soles and stumbling on the wrong foot, but a lovely gentleman named Lloyd was especially helpful, and there was a perfect moment when the teacher herself danced with me and demonstrated how to lead and how to be led. It is tango after all, the follower mostly dances backwards, takes a certain amount of trust.
It was divine, truly divine. I am utterly complete.
