Colours and magic and Eastern music. We're in a gymnasium, sitting in the front row. I'm to your right. To your left is someone else, a stranger. We've come here on a Tuesday afternoon because there's a belly dancing competition. I didn't want to go, but you convinced me. I was amazed at your enthusiasm; I didn't know you liked belly dancing. As we sit and wait for the first performance to start, you tell me about how, when you were younger, your friend invited you to her competition and you fell in love with the dance. It's erotic, you say. And sensual, you say. And, you say, the women are like the ones you like. Before I can ask what that means, the first lady emerges from behind a pair of dark curtains. The crowd—there are maybe eighty of us, all in chairs arranged in rows—goes silent. But I don't have to ask what you mean. I can see. The woman is attractive, but that's beside the point. She has a beautiful belly. I smile and squeeze your hand. You smile back.
The first performance is good. Not excellent, but solid technically and creative. It's the first time I've seen someone dance like that and you can see in my eyes that I'm glad I came with you. Exotic, I whisper into your ear. You nod and point with your chin—second dancer:
She is shorter than the last and dressed in darker colours. She also has darker skin and black hair. The dance is very traditional. I assume it's more advanced than the last dance, but it was definitely not as fun. I'm not the only one who thought so, either. Applause is merely polite. The dancer leaves the stage and the third one arrives. That is when it begins.
To my eyes, this dancer is less pretty than the other dancers. When she walks to the centre of the stage, she is also less graceful. But your reaction is different. You lean forward, your eyes widen. You're unashamedly staring at this woman. I notice, but don't do anything. I'm interested. Do you know her? Is there something about her that you're looking at? Nevertheless, the music starts, the lights are dimmed and the routine begins.
And to think I ever thought this woman wasn't graceful. From her first movement, a gliding motion to her left, she is the epitome of grace. Yet at the same time she is earthy, grounded by her body. I'm enjoying the first few seconds of the dance—when suddenly I hear you moan, ever so lightly. I must be hearing things. There it is again! A moan, a soft moan. Maria, I ask, what's going on? You close your eyes and try to steady your breath. Why are you out of breath? I take your wrist. Your pulse is quickening. Maria, what's going on? You clench your teeth and can only manage to answer through a suppressed moan: "I... don't no-o-oh..."
Maria? Your breath is getting heavier and heavier, you're moaning under your breath through clenched teeth. Your eyes are fixed on the belly dancer as she weaves in and out of her femininity. That's when you buck your hips for the first time. Slightly forward. Coupled with a moan. Maria, I say, louder this time, do you want to go? We can leave—
For the first time you tear your eyes away from the woman dancer and turn to look at me. You look angry. No, you say. That's it. One word. You buck your hips again. Your chair bounces ever so slightly off the ground. No. The man sitting behind you shakes his head, thinking you're getting bored or anxious or, at any rate, disturbing his enjoyment of the performance. Maria, I say, what are you doing? Let's go. Another movement of the hips, another bounce of the chair. Suddenly, I feel your leg start to press against mine. Your right leg against my left. It's pushing my leg aside. Your legs, you're spreading your legs!
The dress becomes tight between your knees. You moan loader. The dancer continues her dance. I start to take you by the hand, ready to pull you out of your chair—but stop. Frozen. My eyes glued to the inside of your left leg. There's a drop on it. A drop? A drop of what? It slides down your ankle, onto and over your shoe and onto the ground. Then another drop slides down. And another. Jesus, it's not the only place that's wet, either. The floor beneath your chair is turning into a small puddle. Your dress—the back of your dress—is wet, soaked through. Every few seconds the dress releases more liquid into the puddle. Every few seconds another drop slides down your left leg and over your shoe. Discretely, I run my hand up the inside of your right leg. Discretely. I almost forget to breathe. Jesus Christ! Your leg is all wet, not a patch of dry skin left. I realize: Your pussy is. You moan. Out. You push your hips forward. Of control. You spread your legs further.
The belly dancer is getting into the heart of her routine now. It's by the far the best and most erotic dance of the three, but, of course, I don't care about that. I don't know what to do. It's only a matter of time before someone realizes—the man sitting to your left clears his throat, you're pushing your left leg against his right, taking his space; then he looks over. He sees you staring ahead, your legs spread, my face telling him exactly the following thing: I have no idea what the hell is going on either!
Whoever made this gymnasium did a terrible job. The floor is crooked and your puddle has now started turning into a stream that's slowly making its way back through the rows and rows of seats. I can hear someone whisper in the back, "I think someone spilt their drink". I'm listening for any more comments when suddenly I'm neither listening nor thinking about anything anymore. You can't control yourself any longer and you moan so loud that the entire audience can hear. It's almost a scream. And I'd be pulling you out of your seat and toward the exit right now if it wasn't for the fact that as you moan you also put your hand on me, through my pants, and squeeze so hard that I groan just as loud as you did.
After a few seconds, your hand still firmly squeezing me cock, I regain my bearings and realize that though the dancer is still dancing and the music playing, all eyes are directed toward us. You don't seem to mind or care but I'm already thinking of excuses. None of them make any sense: so sorry, she's sick; I'm afraid she got some bad news today and can't handle it? I'm half thinking about making an announcement that your "water broke" when I notice that your left leg is now on your neighbour's knee. He's looking as bewildered as I am and just as aroused. His arousal is showing right through his dress pants. His right hand is massaging your juicy calf muscle.
And, for the love of god, you can't stop moaning.
The man on your left has now done the most sensible thing a man with your calf on his crotch could possibly do and taken his cock out through his zipper and started rubbing it against your leg. Your juices are making him slick and though I very much have my own predicament, I can't help but feel a pang of jealousy: those are my juices! I thus do what seems like the only other sensible idea at the time. I unwind your fingers off my pants, take out my cock and let you grab hold once more.
