A dance school in Hamburg, a beginner, a patient teacher. A literary short story. 18+.
I’ve been teaching Argentine tango for eight years. My studio is in the Schanzenviertel district, second floor above a bookstore, and I give four beginner classes a week, two advanced classes, and private lessons for anyone too shy to start in a group. My body is my tool—slim, toned, with firm breasts that barely quiver under tight tops, and an ass that the men in my classes often stare at when I turn around. I always wear high heels that emphasize my calves, and tight skirts that stretch over my hips. I know what I’m doing. I know how to make a man burn without him even realizing it.
Hannes was one of those. He’d called me three weeks ago to schedule an appointment, without telling me why, which is rare—most people immediately blurt out why they need to start alone. His voice was deep but hesitant, like a man not used to asking.
He came for the first lesson on Wednesday at eight. Around thirty, lanky build, clothes he’d dressed up for—a shirt that didn’t match his pants, but he’d made an effort. I sized him up briefly as I closed the door: broad shoulders, narrow hips, hands nervously tugging at his sleeves. His shirt stretched slightly over his chest, and I imagined what it would feel like to let my fingers glide over the buttons.
“Ms. Sander.”
“Hannes.”
I always ask in the first lesson why someone comes to me. I hadn’t asked him on the phone.
“Why tango?” I asked as we changed shoes. I bent over, letting him see my ass as I squeezed my heels into the dance shoes. His gaze lingered a moment too long on my curve. Good.
“My sister got married. I danced at the wedding and couldn’t do it. I was angry enough to look for a tango teacher afterward.”
“A female teacher.”
“A female teacher.”
“A specific moment?”
“At the wedding, a relative wanted to dance with me. She was impatient. She made me feel like I was made of stone.”
I understood. It was one of the more common stories. Some come out of love, some out of embarrassment, some out of anger. Anger isn’t the worst start. Anger can be transformed into something else—into tension, into desire, into something that burns under the skin.
“Tonight we’re not learning anything. Tonight I’m learning you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You stand on the dance floor, I stand opposite. You do what I say. We don’t dance. Tonight we do static work.”
I positioned him in the middle of the studio. I had him align his feet, shift his weight, raise his hand, lower his hand. For an hour. Tango doesn’t start with steps. Tango starts with the question of whether you can actually hold someone. I walked around him, let my fingers glide over his shoulders, corrected his posture, pressed against his back until he straightened up. Every touch was deliberate, every one a small invitation. I smelled his sweat, slowly breaking through the shirt, mixed with a clean, masculine scent. My stomach tightened.
After forty minutes, he said:
“I’ve gotten warm.”
His voice sounded hoarse, almost rough. I saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed.
“You’ve shifted your weight twenty times in forty minutes. That’s work.”
He nodded. In the last minutes of the lesson, I said:
“I’m coming to you now. We’ll get into the dance hold. You do nothing. You breathe.”
I stepped up to him. I placed my right hand in his left, I placed his right on my back. I stopped a few centimeters in front of his chest. I smelled his shirt, a scent of detergent and some nervousness. And beneath it, something deeper, something that made me wet. My nipples hardened under the thin fabric of my top, and I knew, if he were close enough, he would see them through the cloth.
“Do you feel my hand?”
“Yes.”
His voice was barely a whisper. I felt his fingers on my back, hesitant, almost reverent. I pressed lightly against his palm, let it slide lower until it rested on the bare skin above my waistband.
“Do you feel my breath?”
“Yes.”
I leaned closer, let my mouth almost touch his ear. “Then we dance.”
We didn’t dance. We stood like that, in the hold, without music, without a step. A minute, two minutes. He breathed too fast at first. Then he breathed slower over time. Finally, he breathed with me. I felt his body relax, his chest draw closer to mine until only a thin gap of air remained between us. Through the fabric of his pants, I felt him stir—a slight pressure that quickly grew stronger. He tried to hide it by pulling his hips back, but I didn’t let him. I pressed myself tighter against him, my pelvis against his, and felt his cock pressing against my thigh. Hard. Big. My breath caught.
I pulled away.
“That was the first lesson.”
“That was it?”
His eyes were dark, almost black. He didn’t know how much I already wanted him.
“That was the most important part.”
We came to the second lesson, then the third. By the fourth, Hannes was sweating less and smiling more. He moved more confidently, more loosely, but there was something in his gaze that hit me deeper each time. By the fifth, in November, he said after the lesson:
“Ms. Sander.”
“Hannes.”
“Can I tell you something without us both regretting it tomorrow?”
“If you’re sure you won’t regret it.”
“I’m sure.”
“Go ahead.”
“In the first lesson, you placed your hand on my back. I’ve thought about it every day for five weeks. I don’t think about the steps. I don’t think about the music. I think about that hand.”
I looked at him. I’d experienced this more often in eight years. Sometimes I said a friendly no. Sometimes I said a friendly yes. This time, I said softly, while rubbing my nipples against the fabric:
“Hannes, if I say yes, I stop being your teacher.”
His hand trembled as he placed it on my arm. “I know.”
“Are you ready to continue without a teacher?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled me to him, and this time it wasn’t the tango hold. His lips found mine, rough.
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