Tango Foreplay or How To Fall in Love in 30 Seconds

In tango, there exists in tango, an unmentioned, but implicitly understood,30 Second Rule. It is the quintessential litmus test of chemistry and compatibility that is achingly accurate and all so simple. It goes like this: someone asks you to dance. As you say yes, you observe how he takes your hand and if he leads you to the dance floor, as a prince would, escorting a swan. You notice as he stands quite still, facing you; he opens his arms and invites you to the foyer of his chest and the house of….him. Your right palm slips against his, floating like a feather into a unique cradle of fit. Your left hand settles onto his shoulder (if his height is near yours) or his bicep if he is taller. An unbreathed sigh settles you into the moment and then you wait.

The music starts and you notice if he starts to dance at the first note or if he pauses, hovers and listens as the music seeps into him. You observe if he chooses the moment, the exact scuffed space of the dance floor, that one aperture between the other couples, before taking that first step, taking 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 first note? You are in his embrace and now you are set to motion. The two of you are a ship; he is the captain and you are precious cargo but you have no way of knowing, until the first wind fills those sails, if he is able to navigate whatsoever. You put more trust in the wind than in the man who shepherds it.

The music extends and he adjusts and all of him now comes towards you in a sensation of new male person. You are close enough to see the hair at his collar bone, his shave, his sideburns and texture of his skin. You can see his Adam’s apple and pulse of his breath and telltale tattoo of his heart 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 or starch or perhaps simply the scent of an foreign male who is as close to you in seconds as the men you date but take two, three days or dates or four café lattes to earn the same proximity.

Delicately, you test the scent to see if you can live with it for three minutes or a longer dance, that dance of a different ilk, determining if he is someone just to dance with or a man you could make love to, not that you will or won’t but it’s this primal thing we do. You hear his breath and feel his heartbeat and you wonder if he hears your own heart race; you try and still it. A tango woman knows how the game is played; like a tango geisha, you disclose nothing for the dance really begins before the first bar. In turn 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 can’t know if they are nervous because of the challenge ahead of them — it is all sublime. You feel him assessing and accepting the shape of your body, your breasts where they touch his chest in tacit intimacy. No one says a word but instead, stay silent and befuddled and calm — all at once.

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 Second 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.

You wait.

The dance begins. All bets are off and all notions are 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 me 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 does he titch his tongue in exasperation of me or himself or both? 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.

The music plays on. You relax ever so slightly. You notice he can lead, andcan take care of you. You don’t have to worry. You are in safe hands, if not yet tango’s Promised Land. If he is nervous but also new at tango, you change roles. Instead of him guiding you, you guide him in leading you. You accept him, as is, and 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 — 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.

Twenty seconds pass and you understand his moves. What a surprise was 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 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. 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 start and stop; you no longer notice and difference in height and the line of his body meet the borderlines of your own.

The thirty-second mark nears and the consensus is he can guide you; you are safe and more so, accepted. There’s a fit. You feel his relief and pleasure behind the impassive expression. It doesn’t matter. You know that he knows you are a match for him. He knows that you know you passed as well and now you are both in tango’s inner circle.

Such thirty 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 deny yourself that because it’s enough you are finally in the dock of the bay of connection. This feeling lasts as long as the music plays and it’s all you want and need or so you tell yourself. We live on borrowed time and trembling dances.

The dance ends. 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. You try not to watch who else he dances with and if he holds her quite the same way or shares precisely the same touch. But if he never returns or he does and the magic is gone, there is always another tango boat on the way.

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