Who I Was in Jamaica

A tall, dark and handsome 26 year old with an eight-pack taught me how to do this dance at the Pier One nightclub in Jamaica.

Which is weird, because I really don’t do the nightclub scene when I’m in DC. I’ll do parties and lounges, but I’ve been over the “hey baby” dudes grabbing me as I make my way to the bar in most clubs in the city.

But in Jamaica? The energy in that club was literally hot sex on a platter, and I didn’t mind one bit. The men were fine, the music was bumpin’…and people actually danced instead of holding the wall trying to look cute.

It reminded me of a poem I wrote a while back:

who i was last night

late last night, there I was
moving to the groove of drum bass beats
primal child carried away by the music
folding myself into you and that hard chest

lean body of beauty against mine
my hands in your head
full of neat thin dreadlocks
my legs on your legs
your fingers fingering my waist

…five songs later…

beads of sweat forming on my bare belly
our rhythm working overtime
electric currents connecting two near strangers
us united in this wild dance of want

lost in our smooth reggae sway
two sets of hips talking some urgent code

I am high on the way you move

this deliberate dancefloor foreplay
your mouth so close to my neck
my lips damn near touching yours
this game, intoxicatingly sensual
with me so happy to play

So, yeah. I’m still trying to get used to life after Jamaica. Back home in DC, there are no palm trees waving at me. No cute bow-tied waiters to serve me omelettes for breakfast. No strawberry daiquiris on the beach. And worst of all, no late night reggae parties on the pier.

Tweet

Want more posts like this? If so, subscribe below and join over 2,000 women who receive blog updates on personal development, entrepreneurship and lifestyle. As a bonus, you'll get a FREE COPY of my 13-page Life Mapping Workbook to help you design your ideal life in 7 key areas.