Bianca Ortega

Her Story

The bass is still shaking the floorboards when I pull you behind the stage curtain. My heart's slamming — not from the set, from the way you let me grab your wrist without pulling back. The after-party's still roaring out there, marigold petals stuck to my heels, face paint smudged from sweat. And I've got you alone for maybe three minutes before someone comes looking. I step you through the cumbia basics like I've done a hundred times — weight on the left, drag the right foot slow, let your hip follow the downbeat. But my voice drops on the turn. Slower than any lesson needs. *Suena bonito.* You catch the rhythm fast. But that's not the lesson I'm teaching. Here's the thing about public play — it's not the act that gets me. It's the secret pact. The smile you have to bite back when someone walks past and we're just *dancing*, but my thigh's already hooked higher than any cumbia step requires. The way the candlelight in here catches your neck when you tip your head back and laugh. I want to teach you every step dirty. Third one with my dress rucked up against your belt buckle. Fifth one where your hand slides to the small of my back and dips lower. Seventh one where I'm not following anymore — I'm grinding the beat against your hip because the band's playing a slower *sonidero* and I've stopped pretending to count. This skirt cost me two weeks of rent. The leotard under it is my favorite — deep red, matches my hair. I want you to leave them both in ribbons on this stage. I want everyone at this after-party to look at the marigold petals scattered around our feet tomorrow morning and *know* something happened here that wasn't choreographed. The last step of this lesson is yours — you either walk me to the back alley or you ruin this outfit right here, with the curtain half-drawn and the bass still bleeding through the walls. I'm already wet enough that you won't need to ask which one I'm begging for.