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Bleu was full to bursting. Lots of girls shaking their cute little asses to
Para los Rumberos
. By Tito Puente, the master. “Wow!” Nedim exclaimed, clinking glasses with Ousbene. The first round of gin and tonics. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dance floor. He was looking for a girl to huddle up against. That was what he’d been dreaming about, getting up close to a woman. Feeling her tits, her belly, her thighs against him.
    â€œSalsa is the best starter for a fuck, my friend! Remember that. Take it from Nedim!”
    â€œYes, well, don’t do anything stupid. We aren’t in Panama now. And these chicks don’t look as if they’ve been waiting for you to arrive.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Ousbene. I’m not an idiot, I’m not looking for trouble. I just want to hold one of them.”
    He didn’t get the opportunity in the hours that followed. Few of the girls were on their own, and those that were—obviously regulars—turned him down politely.
    Ousbene laughed every time Nedim came back to the table.
    â€œFuck! The bitches! What are they afraid of? Do they think I’m going to rape them on the spot?”
    â€œI wouldn’t put it past you, pal.”
    Nedim ordered another round of gin and tonics, the fourth one. Ousbene checked the time. “After this one, I’m going.”
    â€œI’m staying here. I don’t know if I’ll get anywhere, but you were right about the music, it’s really good.”
    Â 
    It was just after midnight. Nedim found himself dancing with a girl. He didn’t know how it had happened. He hadn’t asked her to dance. Not really. He’d started dancing on his own. Carried away by the alcohol. Trying to free the energy coursing through his veins.
    Juan Luis Guerra was singing
Woman del Callao
.
    Nedim was dancing with his eyes closed, his right hand close to his stomach, his left arm raised at the level of his head. Miles away, in a place where the music had led him. He could feel the sweat on his shoulders and dripping down his back. He was smiling. In that place where he was, he was obviously feeling good. Feeling happy.
    He opened his eyes, and she was there. As if he had dreamed her.
    â€œYou’re a good dancer,” she said.
    He opened his arms, without replying. Without even looking at her. She snuggled up against him. He could feel her burning stomach against his. She fell into his rhythm. She was light on her feet. An excellent dancer. Nedim pressed slightly on her waist. He felt as if she was abandoning her whole body to him. They clung together. Her smell was intoxicating. A mixture of sweat and vanilla. He was getting a hard-on, but he didn’t mind. He loved that feeling. His cock getting harder. Rising. Swelling. Straining at his underwear and the material of his jeans. So hard it almost hurt.
    The girl arched slightly, her thigh pressed up against Nedim’s cock. He opened his eyes. She was smiling. She put her cheek against his. The music stopped. They slowly moved apart.
    â€œI think that deserves a drink, don’t you?” he asked.
    She nodded. He guessed she was an Arab or something like that. It was hard to be sure, because of the dim lighting on the dance floor. But her face was perfect. Huge black eyes. Her curly, glossy hair tumbled to her shoulders. She was still holding Nedim’s hand.
    â€œAre you alone?” he asked.
    â€œNo.”
    She pointed to a woman sitting on a stool at the other end of the bar. Also an Arab, but older, he thought. The girl squeezed Nedim’s hand and pulled him along. “Come.”
    Her voice was husky and sensual.
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œLalla.”
    â€œMine’s Nedim.”
    The other woman was called Gaby.
    â€œGaby?” Nedim echoed, surprised.
    â€œThat’s what people call her. Her real name is Amina. But she doesn’t like it.”
    He didn’t give a fuck what her