Funk On a Thursday Night

I sat on top of a speaker at Zanzibar and felt the afro funke beats vibrate my legs as they swung freely. My friend Cat danced with vigor as the song transitioned into samba. A medium-built Latino male with an Elvis Presley hairdo approached me and leaned against the wall above where I was seated. We chatted and he asked me what I was drinking. I’d had a glass of wine with Cat earlier, but I was not planning to drink any more that night. Plus, Momma always told me to be careful about letting strangers buy me drinks, so I declined his generous offer.


Somehow, we got on the subject of hair. He told me that he was growing his hair out so that he could have it braided into corn rows. As Cat returned from the dance floor and sat next to me, he pulled out his phone to show us a picture of how he looked with corn rows. It looked much better than the Elvis Presley ‘do to say the least! Cat demurred as she pointed to the picture of Julio in corn rows, “you should wear your hear like that again.” Next thing I knew, Julio was asking if I braided hair. That would be a no; but I do salsa.

Julio and I danced to salsa, disco, and world music. It seemed that his upper body had taken dance lessons that his lower body hadn’t attended. His arms spun me around artfully as his legs tried to keep up. We both liked hip hop; only I was old school and he was new. He was Latin Brooklyn and I was Black LA and we were both cool with that.

At the end of the night, he asked if he could walk me to my car. He said he didn’t want to dance anymore if he couldn’t dance with me. That was sweet. Cat accompanied us talking about how wet her hair was from dancing in a sweatbox.

My best friend often asks me the question, "At one point are we too old to date twenty five year olds?" I guess the answer is "when you have a twenty five year old."

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