club once she got there. This just wasn’t her scene at all and she couldn’t believe she had agreed to go out with Greta like this. What the hell was she doing in a club trying to meet guys? Genevieve knew she would never find any man worth her time in a place like this.
A popular, overplayed salsa song La Vida Es Un Carnaval blared through the speakers. Celia Cruz’s baritone sounded phenomenal, but Genevieve was too uncomfortable to pay her voice much attention. The lights in the club were dim except for a couple flashing green and red lights. It looked like a scene right out of Havana or Santo Domingo. Except no one in the club cared if you were Latino or not. In the dim light, anyone who could speak Spanish was Spanish. Anyone who could dance salsa belonged. The club was filled with Cubans, Dominicans, Panamanians, Puerto Ricans and more. Anyone who bumped into Genevieve’s thought she was their Dominican cousin or something. Negrita! Negrita! She she couldn’t count how many times she had the word hurled at her as some suave Latino man tried to have his way. If only it weren’t for the language barrier, Genevieve would’ve found plenty of them physically attractive. But Genevieve knew a serious man like the one she wanted wouldn't get caught dead here.
It was still early in the night, but the smell of sweat was already starting to permeate the room. Dancing salsa was a workout no doubt. Genevieve couldn’t help but wonder why on earth Greta brought her here. Genevieve didn’t know much salsa. She had taken one class and she was absolutely terrible. Despite all her years of childhood ballet, when she got on the dance floor with an instructor who expected her body to know movement intuitively, she had two left feet. Genevieve wanted nothing more than to plaster herself against the walls and not move until Greta decided was time for them to go home.
Genevieve looked over the dance floor at the scene before her…
The men populating the club seemed confident to the point of arrogance and had no qualms about feeling up every woman they danced with. Their hands wandered over hips and cupped butt cheeks confidently. Each man knew that once a woman agreed to dance with him, it would be far too difficult for her to get away. They touched and felt their curves as if the women were their property. At least that’s how Genevieve saw it.
Genevieve wasn’t a prude (in her mind), but she considered herself to be too classy to be felt up by a guy who’d spent the entire night feeling up ten other girls just like her. She didn’t want to be a notch in some guy’s belt. Greta ordered them both cosmopolitans and they sat at the bar. Genevieve didn’t like cosmpolitans as much as she liked a simple rum and coke but she didn’t want to piss Greta off. After all, she was already being a party pooper and she could tell Greta was getting tired of babysitting her.
Greta decided to stimulate Genevieve into action. She wanted that girl to get some dick! “Look at that guy damn he’s so fucking hot!” Greta yelled loud enough for the guy to hear her if he’d been listening. It was amazing how her raspy voice seemed to carry even over blaring speakers. Genevieve looked over at the man Greta was trying to point out to her. Meh. Sure on the outside he was pretty attractive. He was taller than average and oozed sensuality which Genevieve interpreted as being sleazy. She hated guys that walked around thinking they were God’s gift to earth. Whatever happened to a little humility?
“Looks like kind of a sleaze ball,” Genevieve mumbled dismissively. But Greta wasn’t listening to her. She was just staring at the man making his way around the dancefloor like a pro. The suave gentleman's name was Sam Andover. He was tall, tanned lightly with green eyes that seemed to gleam even in the dimness of the bar. He was clearly muscular and athletic, an all around gorgeous guy. Sam
A popular, overplayed salsa song La Vida Es Un Carnaval blared through the speakers. Celia Cruz’s baritone sounded phenomenal, but Genevieve was too uncomfortable to pay her voice much attention. The lights in the club were dim except for a couple flashing green and red lights. It looked like a scene right out of Havana or Santo Domingo. Except no one in the club cared if you were Latino or not. In the dim light, anyone who could speak Spanish was Spanish. Anyone who could dance salsa belonged. The club was filled with Cubans, Dominicans, Panamanians, Puerto Ricans and more. Anyone who bumped into Genevieve’s thought she was their Dominican cousin or something. Negrita! Negrita! She she couldn’t count how many times she had the word hurled at her as some suave Latino man tried to have his way. If only it weren’t for the language barrier, Genevieve would’ve found plenty of them physically attractive. But Genevieve knew a serious man like the one she wanted wouldn't get caught dead here.
It was still early in the night, but the smell of sweat was already starting to permeate the room. Dancing salsa was a workout no doubt. Genevieve couldn’t help but wonder why on earth Greta brought her here. Genevieve didn’t know much salsa. She had taken one class and she was absolutely terrible. Despite all her years of childhood ballet, when she got on the dance floor with an instructor who expected her body to know movement intuitively, she had two left feet. Genevieve wanted nothing more than to plaster herself against the walls and not move until Greta decided was time for them to go home.
Genevieve looked over the dance floor at the scene before her…
The men populating the club seemed confident to the point of arrogance and had no qualms about feeling up every woman they danced with. Their hands wandered over hips and cupped butt cheeks confidently. Each man knew that once a woman agreed to dance with him, it would be far too difficult for her to get away. They touched and felt their curves as if the women were their property. At least that’s how Genevieve saw it.
Genevieve wasn’t a prude (in her mind), but she considered herself to be too classy to be felt up by a guy who’d spent the entire night feeling up ten other girls just like her. She didn’t want to be a notch in some guy’s belt. Greta ordered them both cosmopolitans and they sat at the bar. Genevieve didn’t like cosmpolitans as much as she liked a simple rum and coke but she didn’t want to piss Greta off. After all, she was already being a party pooper and she could tell Greta was getting tired of babysitting her.
Greta decided to stimulate Genevieve into action. She wanted that girl to get some dick! “Look at that guy damn he’s so fucking hot!” Greta yelled loud enough for the guy to hear her if he’d been listening. It was amazing how her raspy voice seemed to carry even over blaring speakers. Genevieve looked over at the man Greta was trying to point out to her. Meh. Sure on the outside he was pretty attractive. He was taller than average and oozed sensuality which Genevieve interpreted as being sleazy. She hated guys that walked around thinking they were God’s gift to earth. Whatever happened to a little humility?
“Looks like kind of a sleaze ball,” Genevieve mumbled dismissively. But Greta wasn’t listening to her. She was just staring at the man making his way around the dancefloor like a pro. The suave gentleman's name was Sam Andover. He was tall, tanned lightly with green eyes that seemed to gleam even in the dimness of the bar. He was clearly muscular and athletic, an all around gorgeous guy. Sam
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