Dear One Hit Wonder

I would say that the biggest things that make a follower nice to dance with are being relaxed and having good balance. Of course, these things are interrelated with other qualities, for instance you must have nice posture in order to be on balance and a comfortable embrace will make you feel more relaxed. Sometimes when I dance with a beginner in a class and she is very relaxed I will forget myself and try to lead a turn or ochos before she knows how. It is easy for someone to feel more advanced than they are if they are very relaxed. Try not to tense up and remember to breathe. For  balance, I think that practicing ochos is one of the best exercises. When I was learning, I would go into the stairwell at my office whenever I got bored (which was often) and holding onto the banister in the landing I would practice ochos with 180 degree pivots, forward, then back. I must have done thousands of ochos there; there's probably a figure 8 burned into the floor there!

The biggest things that make a follower not-as-nice to dance with are being heavy, off balance, and hard to 'steer'. If you are guilty or any, or God forbid all, of these things you just may hear 'thank you' after 1 dance.

I think that most likely you are just inexperienced and therefore missed a lot of leads, and the guys didn't have the patience for this. (Although if you warned them you were a beginner they should have been sensitive to this and not led ganchos etc on you.) Lots of practice and more lessons will take care of this. And yes, there will always be people you find more compatible, and the funny thing is that the more you dance, the people you once had a hard time connecting with will suddenly become your favorite dancers and the people you once loved dancing with may suddenly seem hard to dance with. It always changes.

Also, from your description, it sounds like you might have to take care that you don't wind up falling into the 'heavy' category. Being heavy has absolutely nothing with your actual weight. Some of the biggest ladies are the lightest. There are a couple of ways to feel heavy to your partner:

a. Pressing forward into your partner with your muscles to give him 'resistance' and a feeling of connection. Make sure your connection, or compression, is totally relaxed and a result of surrendering a fraction of your weight towards your partner (not so much you are off your axis). Do not press into the floor with your legs or feet to get this slight pressure. As one of my first tango teachers would say, 'Ladies, release the brakes!'

b. Taking too long to prepare for the steps or interpret his leads. You must be very light on your feet and react without thinking. You shouldn't have to take time to make an adjustment before taking the step. Try to step at the same time as him instead of lagging behind him, and don't let his chest get away from you, especially in turns. Don't make him drag you with his arms, you should be right there with him.

c. Failing to push off your standing leg to get yourself to your own axis. If you make the leader push you on top of your own leg you are making him do the work for two, and you will also have less control over your balance. You know best where your axis is, so put yourself there.

d. Waiting for the leader to put you onto the beat instead of stepping there yourself. You are listening to the music too and if you step on the beat yourself you will feel like you are dancing with him, not slightly behind him. This is also a big factor in feeling 'musical' to the leader.

e. Not having good balance so the leader has to literally catch you and hold you up after almost every step.

f. Pulling down with either or both arms - ie hanging around his neck like a weight or not supporting the weight of your own right arm.

Dancing with a 'heavy' follower is uncomfortable by the end of 1 song and literally painful by the end of a tanda, so many leaders will choose to end the tanda early. I feel providential to have had a friend that introduced me to the world of Tango as it has opened scores of doors for me that has provided many delightful experiences and the means of meeting countless astonishing people.

The Hombre turns his eye toward the bar where lean men in dark striped suits stand with their feet on the bar rail, talons tapping to the beat of the tango, eyes lost in shadows under wide brimmed hats. They put down their drinks, turn towards the dance floor and stand wide legged, waiting. The curtain will soon rise. An hombre can never allow his woman to humiliate him.

Circling like a panther, The Hombre seizes Ruby’s arm and coils her body against his stiletto frame. She spins away like a lynx with fangs and claws extended. He pulls her back, crushing her breasts against his bare chest. I hear the rip of fabric. He entwines her dark hair between his bejeweled fingers and slowly forces her head backward to receive his kiss.

In the language of the tango, it is forbidden to smile; a smile creates an impression of weakness. We must never smile. Yet, at the corners of his mouth, the hombre’s lips curve upward cruelly as his leg caresses Ruby’s thigh.

Ruby’s foot glides between her hombre’s legs. Her emasculating gancho rises sharply like a knife . The Hombre’s face contorts into a mask of disbelief and agony. But his response is swift…the white blur of a diamond fingered hand, the sound of flesh impacting soft flesh, like the violent clack of castanets.

A stain rises on Ruby’s cheek, blood to her lips. Her back arches. Her arms encircle her hombre’s legs as she slips to the floor.

He will kill her. I've seen his bloody knife work. I am no good with a knife. He will turn this bistro into a butcher shop; Ruby’s entrails entwined with mine on the tango dance floor.

I rise from my chair. The tango's hard, steady cords beat across the room. I place my wide-brimmed hat on my head; if I am to die, let it be with style. But even as I think this, I imagine the sharp point of The Hombre’s dagger slicing into my guts, and in the back of my mind I hear myself begging for mercy. Don't kill me! Please, please. I will never touch your woman again. I swear it.

I am no hero. Nor a poet. Poets are willing to die for the gift of a flower, a smile. But perhaps it is better to live life swiftly, to die with a knife in the heart, to die with noble purpose rather than cower before an eternity of shame?

The Hombre lights a cigarette. Its tip glows red as he inhales. At his feet, Ruby’s body quivers. The sweet strains of the tango caress her, cradle her and rock her gently, as gentle seas soothe the anxious voyager. Her eyes open and stare into mine. Take me; set my compass, sail me far away, they say.

Lightning flashes along the blade of the serrated steak knife on the table. My hand closes around its handle. I pull down on the brim of my hat and step onto the dance floor.

The Hombres at the bar point in my direction. They stare in disbelief; they down their drinks, wipe their mustaches and dance a few clownish tango steps, imitating the duel they are about to witness. Its inevitable outcome seems to represent a source of amusement for them. Deep, guttural sounds rise from their throats, a sort of embarrassed laughter, as if saying "who is this fool? Who is crazy enough to challenge L’Hombre de Buenos Aires, to face the bloody point of his dagger? Make ready yet another box for another fool.

Forbidden rhythms enter my blood and speak to the dark corridors of my soul. The insistent cords of the tango guide my steps towards where Ruby lays on the floor and into the arms of sweet destiny. The Hombre stands calmly at the center of the dance floor smoking his cigarette. Ruby lays sprawled at his feet, her arms entwined about her Hombre’s leg. Her eyes turn in my direction and follow my slow, catwalk approach. Like The Hombres at the bar, she knows; she must witness yet another mad fool’s final act of madness.

I arrive at the forbidden space: the distance at which a knife may be drawn quickly and plunged into the heart of an opponent. Knife duels often end this way, suddenly, silently. The Hombre steps to the side, with Ruby still clinging to his leg. He drags her body along the dance floor like a troublesome appendage and then stomps his heel. She releases her hold.

The Hombre faces me. "There is time", he says, "time for a last tango, a farewell tango. Time to mark your death in the minds of the amigos at the bar." Without visible movement, his dagger appears in his left hand. He holds it loosely, fondly. The blade reflects the barroom light. I blink… distracted, vulnerable.

"Amigo! I want to know", The Hombre asks. "Do you believe in Heaven? In Hell? I want to know this before I kill you. I want to give you a chance to ask for last rites before I send you across the river of eternal darkness. Trust me. Do not be afraid. I give you something. Here, You must have this." He withdraws a gold coin from his shirt pocket and flips it to me across the forbidden space. "Here is for the boatman."

The thunder of the tango burst upon my ears, like flaming notes from hell. The Hombre’s eyes search an opening for the first thrust of his blade. We cross- step around the deadly perimeter of the forbidden space, I in a low crouch, hoping to provide the smallest target. But The Hombre stands upright, confident, swaggering.

Our blades touch. Clink! Clink! The sound, deceptively soft and musical, is like metal goblets clinking a deadly toast at a banquet. Our blades catch the beat of the tango. THRUST, clink, clink, CLANG! Our exploratory thrusts search an opening, a chance to deliver the coup de grace.

The Hombre retreats a step, and, in an incredible act of bravado, he sweeps the rose from Ruby’s hair, inhales its perfume, then thrust it towards me as he would his dagger. So swift is his movement that the thorny stem grazes my neck, leaving behind a trail of tiny blood-drops. He could just as easily have slit my throat with his dagger.

The Hombre turns his back to me and steps towards Ruby, inviting me to seize the moment. But behind his back the point of his dagger weaves warning circles in the air. He seizes Ruby by the hair, drags her to her feet, covers her mouth with his kiss and thrust his dagger beneath her naked breast.

As the blade’s tip penetrates her soft flesh, she rises on her toes and inhales deeply, as if to suck the blade into her body. A low moan escapes from beneath her Hombre’s kiss.

I lunge, my knife driving for The Hombre’s back. With Ruby in his arms, The Hombre spins in a classic tango pirouette. My dagger plunges to the hilt. Ruby’s eyes meet mine. "I feel no sting," she whispers. The Hombre releases his hold. Ruby slides down his body, my dagger embedded in her breast. Blood, red like the rose lying by her side, spills onto the dance floor.

"Now, amigo," says The Hombre, "now I must kill you. I promise you an easy death, but if you fight me, my dagger will twist in your heart.

I will surely die when The Hombre tires of his cat and mouse amusements. "Before you kill me", I tell him, " I ask for last rites." The Hombre laughs. "Last rites? You shall have them, amigo. I give you last rites of the scared tango!"

I go down on one knee and place my hat over my heart. The Hombre stands above me, his feet crossed in a tango crusada. He dances a circle around me, his dagger close to my throat. He nicks an ear, a nostril. I endure his torment, waiting. His boots weave an intricate pattern; twisting, turning, stomping. He laughs at my helplessness, my submission to his torment.

At the bar, The Hombre’s brilliant footwork is applauded and imitated; he responds with movements more audacious, more daring. He sweeps Ruby’s rose from the floor with the toe of his boot, catches it behind his back, breathes its perfume and then crushes it like a banana peel under his booted foot. The Hombre has forgotten the old gypsy proverb...to violate the beauty of the rose is to discover its thorns…

Suddenly, he is airborne, fluttering like a giant bird. His dagger drops and embeds itself in smooth oak planks of the floor. He crashes onto the floor at my feet. I sweep the dagger from the floor and thrust its steely point beneath his chin. My hand trembles as I brace to deliver the coup de grace.

"Kill him! Kill him!" the hombres shout from the bar. But my blade, poised over the Hombre's throat, hesitates. I do not share the brutal, killer instinct that beats, like thunder from Hell, in the heart of the Hombre. He has killed so many less mannered men. He has devoured the souls of so many women, hypnotized, driven to madness by an irresistible macho charm and an aura of raw masculinity that even the Hombre himself cannot control.

Suddenly, I feel a sharp, penetrating pressure at my back. Paralyzing pain sweeps through my body. The barroom lights begin to fade, and the music grows faint.

Ruby lies sprawled next to me on the dance floor. Her hand creeps forward to caress my face. I look into her gypsy eyes. "Why, Ruby, why?"