Travel Thursday: Vienna, Land of Wine and Flamenco, Part 2

One of the many things I liked about Terry was her not being a typical woman clotheswise; with most women who told me she’d be dressed and ready in ten minutes, I knew I could lounge for at least a half hour at a leisurely pace, but not her. If anything, she was ready before me. I didn’t travel with much clothes, but I knew Terry wouldn’t mind my wardrobe, since at heart she was a simple girl despite her minor pretenses with hair.
I looked at Terry‘s trenchcoat where it was belted around her very slim waist, looking very sensual, I thought. “Might as well use a bracelet there,” I murmured, making her flush with pride, which quite a few people in the lobby noticed, but assigned to the wrong reason. Getting into a seductive pose as we waited in line, she ran her hand through my hair and murmured into my ear, though from the distance to the door it could easily be taken for a nibble. I would not have thought she had it in her, but she was full of surprises tonight. I stayed silent, though with a foolish grin as she continued to tickle my ear with her breath until we got to the door to the hall. The girl who took us to our seat looked very much like a local blonde despite the orange and polka-dot flamenco dress, which inspired Terry to airily ask, “How do you think I would look in a dress like that, darling?”
Despite misgivings, I told the truth. “You know damned well you would look good in anything, you silly little hussy.”
“I am not little!” she complained, hurt, loudly enough so that a few men turned and couldn’t help but notice she was telling the truth as they looked UP to see her beautiful face. “Still, orange doesn’t seem like my color.”
“Green all the way, as long as it matches your eyes.”
“Somehow I knew, even before seeing that dress, that you were taking me to flamenco,” she continued as she sat in the chair I offered her and crossed her legs demurely. I had turned the chair out from the table so she could face the stage, and as a consequence I was now seated behind her, though of course that didn’t bother me for a moment. It was almost as if the back of her chair didn’t exist as I put my arms around her and brought her so close the front legs of the chair tipped up. She didn’t seem to notice the precarious position, positive that I would never let her come to any harm.
The music and dancing started, but I was aware that my beautiful companion was drawing attention away from the stage. Instinctively I tightened my grip on the lovely woman before me and took in the dancing ladies setting up on the stage, which instantly downed my mood. “Not good. I prefer flamenco when it’s done in a synchronized group, not solos.”
“I prefer solos. I’m sure it’s an ego thing, but I would want all eyes on me.”
“But you’re watching, not performing.”
“True, but this’ll make it easier for me to steal some moves.”
Laugh. “I can’t imagine what a mishmash your dances must be.”
Luckily the show kicked into gear. Unluckily, it was geared more toward her tastes, there being only five female dancers and one male, two guitarists, and a singer. I sighed, which only brought a laugh from her. Sensitive female my ass, I grumped.
As expected, after an intro with all six dancers, they settled down to solos and duets. The other ladies sat in the background, fanning themselves and clapping when appropriate. It was easy to see the first soloist was the prima dona of the group, dressed all in white and looking a little thicker than the others. If I hadn’t been watching with one of the most beautiful woman I’d ever shot, I would have been looking at the dancers for something other than their moving abilities. I especially liked to do that when flamenco was concerned, because the gals dressed up to look alike. Hair and makeup were all done the same, and the only difference was in the colors of the dress. My theory was that this was done so that if the viewer chose a favorite, it would be strictly on dancing ability, and the dresses would allow the viewer to say his favorite was “yellow dress” or “pink polka-dots.”
Whatever. Right now the older lady was doing more spinning than dancing, the beat speeding up, both music and clapping, turning her faster and faster. To the amazement of the crowd, the lady’s hem, long enough to qualify as a train at a wedding, slowly crept higher and higher, spinning alongside her as she continued gyrating on one foot with the other providing an occasional push off the floor.
“Cool!” Terry laughed. “Let’s see how shy she is!”
But there was no way to find out, since the dress was too tight up top to go much higher. Instead I pointed to the woman’s legs. “See that? Those aren’t calves, those are cattle!”
Since it was dark, I couldn’t quite time it right, but it was okay because we were at the front of the table and no one got doused by her spit take.
The singer and band were making a wonderful effort not to appear bored, but luckily no one was looking at them. One of the other dancers moved to the center of the stage to replace the diva, using the quick, darting motions associated with the dance. The other four were standing by their stools sideways, back arms raised over their heads in classic position. As if on cue–which I was sure there was, but I missed it–all the ladies reached down by their stools to pick up a basket of cut flowers. “Flower dance,” I stated the obvious, though I was surprised they would do it with just five dancers. I’d never seen it done with less than nine, but apparently these ladies thought they were good enough not to care about something as piddling as numbers. Obviously the small stage dictated the smaller group, but it prevented them from doing the more complicated passing of baskets and flowers that were the trademark of the dance.
“I can do that,” Terry sniffed.
“How, if you only dance solo?”
The music kicked up, preventing me from hearing her response, which was probably for the best. Now the three ladies who had yet to go solo moved stage front, their back hands still over their heads as they did the torso-twisting steps so familiar to this style of dance. I knew it was as easy as skipping one foot in front of the other without actually changing ground, but I had to admit they did make it look as if you had to be quite experienced to accomplish the move. Besides, I’d never tried it in heels and a long dress {and if I had, I would never admit it}. The three ladies twirled and danced their way to the foot-stomping crescendo, perfectly synchronized with the music and each other, causing the lights hanging from the ceiling to rattle in unison with the stamp of their heels and the clap of the audience.
The last stomp of the song came as I saw one of the young dancers right on the edge of the stage, no more than ten feet away from me and a foot above my head. I saw that her tap shoe was right on the precipice; if she had landed one inch farther, she would have fallen into my lap. . . or more likely Terry’s. I looked up to her face and saw her grinning, so I figured she’d calculated it that way, thinking she couldn’t lose even if she fell, since she would be caught by a–presumably–rich tourist. I smiled back at her, not only making the dancer grin all the more but also eliciting a laugh from the woman sitting in front of me.
The other two ladies sat down on their stools while my new girlfriend–as Terry was already referring to her–took out her fan–from her cleavage, of all things–to cool down quickly before starting her solo. She also began by clapping and stomping one foot, the other dancers backing her up but staying out of the spotlight. But no, she was just teasing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the other two dancers reaching for water bottles; not very traditional, I thought. Once they had recuperated a bit, they came forward to replace the soloist, who then sat down and reached for her own water bottle. She must be lowest on the totem pole, or else she was so pretty compared to the others that they had all conspired against her. I happen to notice, through the camera, how dainty and regal she took sips from the bottle, as if she knew no other way. The other two had grabbed and swilled as if dying of thirst, but the way this lady acted, I would be surprised to learn she sweated.
The two ladies now dancing made a big production out of hiking their dresses and swinging the loose skirts as they danced, but I didn’t see it. Through the camera I saw my vision, and I could tell she was looking back, exaggerating her movements as she slowly drank. When I dropped the camera, our eyes met, and suddenly I felt like a cliché; all I needed was a cigarette, though that would of course screw everything up.
“Watch carefully,” I told Terry.
“Oh, I am, I am,” she assured me, still grinning.
“Watch her, I mean. She’s a born actress.”
She wasn’t sure how to take that, but said loudly that I would be shooting at least twenty rolls of her in the next few days. . .
Finally it was my girl’s turn to dance alone. Again she started with the fan, this time dancing with it over her head rather than using it to cool herself. I noticed that she had put a black mantilla over her head, making her previously shiny-black hair look light-brown in comparison. She was also wearing some purple piece of cloth on her front, wrapping around her neck and coming down to tuck itself in her belt before hanging down further. Strangely enough, the thing actually enhanced the look of her curves hidden by the dress, making other parts besides my eyes itchy for more.
She began spinning, holding the fan over her head and continuing to wave it back and forth as she turned. Having been an ice skater, I knew it was much more difficult, or at least required more strength, to spin with the arm up instead of against the body. Considering the speed at which she was twirling, I knew she had to have powerful muscles in her skinny-looking arms as well as everywhere else, yet that in no way detracted from her feminine beauty. She was so slim, yet curvy, that–damn, she was staring at me again! She must not have seen Terry very well in the subdued light, to look so confident. Her eyes seemed to focus on me every split second she was facing me during her spins, almost as if playing a game, and I couldn’t help but grin when I realized I was doing the exact same thing, trying to fix on the exact spot when her face would swing around to face me. . .
I didn’t notice when Terry stopped grinning. . .
Finally the girl stopped spinning and put away the fan, then put her hands on her hips to begin the rapid-fire stomping routine, as it trying to break through the wood floor (“Killing cockroaches,” I called it). With a sly grin shooting straight at me, she gently moved her elbows and shoulders forward to tighten her upper body, not so accidentally thrusting her breasts further into the small tunnel of vision that was meant for me. This time I couldn’t help laughing at just how blatant she could be when she was trying not to be blatant. She caught the laugh and gave him a sly wink.
Blatant was also the buzzword in Terry’s head as she fumed with jealousy. This girl is practically shoving her wares down his throat. . . and he’s playing along! She knew she’d helped that, but never imagined I’d take the bitch up on it. Right now she couldn’t remember one single good thought about why she wanted to take this trip. . .

And then I reached out my hand to join with hers.
The now-familiar shiver ran through her, easy to see, as well as her relaxation. Everything had been a product of her imagination; oh, I might be flirting with the gal, but she had no doubt where I would be spending the night, and there wouldn’t be three people in the hotel bed.
Not tonight, anyway. . .
Glad to have that out of the way, she settled down to watch the rest of the show, giving my hand a little squeeze before disengaging. Perhaps she’d even do a little flirting of her own, though she hadn’t seen enough of the male dancer to say whether he qualified to receive her charms, if only from a distance. She knew I wouldn’t get jealous, but right now her ego needed some major stroking. . .
Picking my camera up again, I zoomed in on my chosen one. She had moved to the right of the stage, and from my angle she was between the two guitarists, in front of some cardboard balcony backdrop where some maiden might have reclined while her Romeo or Don Juan serenaded her. She was heavy into her solo now, both her arms and hips swinging in seemingly every direction at once, yet never looking anything but flamenco. Instinctively my telephoto lens telescoped out to settle on her chest, where even from the front view it was easy to detect how much the dress was struggling to contain her impatient orbs, even though they moved very little with her gyrations. It was probably from her heaving breaths, though to the camera the reason didn’t matter.
A sudden inspiration hit me. “I’m pretending that’s you up there.”
Terry instantly became excited. “I’ll learn this so you can shoot me like that,” she promised.
Putting her hands on the front of her hips now, the dancer raised the level of her moves another notch, in both difficulty and energy, drawing gasps from the few in the crowd knowledgeable enough to know the difference. My camera work rose to match, now that I had the added inspiration of Terry’s face on that lovely gyrating body. At this point the singer, who hadn’t done much of anything so far–luckily–got up from his chair and joined her in the dance. She stopped and faced him, though sneaking one last glance at her target in the audience. That message got through loud and clear, even to Terry, who was able to enjoy it again, now that she knew I was watching her up there instead of the dancer.
Too bad for the dancer that she didn’t know it, Terry thought, but with little sympathy.
Her hands still on her hips, the dancer turned sideways, giving an amazing view of her curves as the guy placed his hand on the side of her face the crowd could see. Either it was a large hand or a small face, for it reached all the way across her cheek and from her neck to her ear and the flower of her hair. Her own right hand, the one not very visible to the onlookers, mirrored his, and they slowly caressed each other like lovers in private.
With a sudden flourish, she raised her hands straight above her head and turned around, her body completely thrusting out in just the right places. She danced in place while the guy sang and ran his hands up and down her body from behind; I could hear moans coming from the audience, and laughed at their weakness. Not that I was feeling any different, but I had the sense to hold it in. . . so to speak. Placing my chin on Terry’s shoulder, I saw even her eyes were glazing, but was also managing to keep quiet.
The audience could hardly fail to notice the guy’s hands and voice shaking, plus the fact the girl’s eyes were closed and her chest heaving again, even though she wasn’t moving all that much. I wondered if that grimace of pleasure was actually from the singer’s hands or her own fevered imagination; it seemed like the music wasn’t the only thing building to a climax.
The clapping and stomping did indeed grow to a crescendo, and right before everyone’s eyes, the guy drew his hands across her breasts, making both her eyes and her mouth fly open as her knees buckled. He caught her and slowly let her collapse to the floor, a death scene any prima donna playing Carmen would have been proud of, as he turned to bow to the audience, basking in the ovation he thought he was receiving for his masculine prowess when the crowd was actually applauding her fine acting and imagination.

The lights came down, plunging the stage into darkness for the intermission while the seating lights came on, too brightly of course. I blinked a few times over at Terry, noticing she was doing the same thing, and smiled, “Are you as sweaty as I am?”
“I could use another shower, yeah,” she sighed, chest heaving a bit. “You were right about dark alleys on the way here, though!”
“Yeah,” I laughed. “You wouldn’t get to see any of Vienna for your three days here!”
“I almost feel sorry for your dancer chick. . .”
“She’ll just have to make do with second best. . .”
Terry giggled as she motioned for the waiter to refill her wine glass.

The rest of the show proved to be anti-climatic, which could not be much of a surprise, all things considered. Finally the show itself was over, but then came the surprise. The male dancer, who appeared to be the only one who spoke English, announced that anyone who wanted to come up and give it a try was welcome to get a quick lesson. He said this staring at a girl on the side, big grin and all that, then blanched and moved toward the back when Terry slipped from my arms and announced that I’d better get my camera ready.
“You’re kidding.”
Giggling, she turned to face me, then placed a foot on the chair between my thighs, letting the flap of her skirt fall off to the side. “Check out these calves.”
I did, with my hand as well as my eyes, and had to admit they weren’t nearly as skinny as the last time I’d seen them. I wondered just how much of her had puffed up as I murmured, “Cattle. . .”
Her foot moved a little forward, very dangerously, as she coolly intoned, “They’re not THAT big, you mean thing. Now watch the rest of me, and tell me if it turns you on.”
My eyebrows went up. “You know you turn me on all the time, just letting me look at you. Nothing else is needed, you beautiful, lustful wench, you.”
She just grinned. “Then this will just drive you even harder into your continuous state of lust, you animal.”
“At least you’ve got the boots for it,” I laughed as I watched her leap onto the stage, thinking this would look better if she was in her jeans but not about to question my luck. From the first I’d been wanting to see those beautiful legs in action. . .



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