It's in His Kiss

Very little can rival the unbridled virility that is the sexiness of the Brazilian man. The passion, the confidence, the dancing, the kissing... Oh god, the kissing... I have now learned that the French Kiss is a misnomer. I thought I'd been on dates before. I thought I had danced before. Hell, I even thought I'd been kissed before, but when we swiped right, I had no idea what was about to happen.

I was hour late to the pub he picked out for our first date. I texted that I would be late, but I had suggested that I'd be late by fifteen minutes. You know? Cute late. Late like, "aw that's just Heather" late. Not one hour, he's been chillin' at the bar alone waiting, late. But he waited. For whatever reason, he waited and still greeted me with a dazzling smile (like no joke, ladies, the kind of smile that gets you pregnant) a hug and a kiss on the cheek (Brazilian style, but I didn't know).

I wouldn't learn until later, from his best friend and roommate (a conversation that earned said roommate a dishtowel to the head and much rapid scolding in Portuguese), that he took me on a VERY Brazilian date and that the moves that were making me swoon were, in fact, a patented Brazilian routine. But oh, he made me swoon...

He didn't do what Google had suggested he would (because of course I Googled "first date with Brazilian, what to expect" — not really). But still, he paid my cover, paid to check my coat, and bought me a drink. He then proceeded to have an actual conversation with me. Overall, not a bad start. He started inching me toward the dance floor gradually. There was a live band playing hits of the 90s, which he told me in the most charmingly accented English I've ever heard in my life, that this was why he had chosen this particular bar, "the crowd is less young." I would have been annoyed by anyone else telling me that. I mean, I'm thirty-one, not exactly ancient, and he's twenty-seven. However, I had told him that I hadn't gone to a club in about ten years. So he wanted to ease me back into the scene with something a little less intimidating. And he said it all with that accent. Charmed. Again.

Now I'm no stranger to dancing. I grew up when hiphop still had a little edge, and I have a booty that I'm not ashamed to shake. But when I danced in front of this man, for the first time in about ten years I felt legitimately shy. Because, until you see the confident fluidity with which Brazilian men move, you cannot realize how completely clumsy your hiphop-esque moves look in comparison. Fortunately, he was either too polite to point it out, or just to into me to care.

There is a word in Portuguese for how we danced that night. "Coladinha." There is no direct translation for it in English, but the general gist of it is to be like glue on someone, but sweeter. We were dancing like that when he kissed me (and when I say kiss, I mean KISS). I have literally, in my fifteen-ish years of dating and enjoying the company of men, never been kissed like that. At first it was overwhelming. Accustomed to the inept pawing and pitiful attempts to kiss with nearly closed mouths that is customary in our Puritan society, I was moderately shocked by how passionately he kissed. So passionately that he had to pull me over to the wall so that we didn't tip over on the dance floor. He left me weak in the knees. Which is why (several dances and a lot of kissing later), when he suggested going for a walk to hunt for food I was a little concerned. However, a vegetarian burrito (for me) and an everything in the world burrito (for him) later, I was feeling much surer of my footing. So we walked down the unseasonably warm streets, strides matching, laughing and talking about food and travel and exercise (cuz I workout a lot) and his job. Just normal stuff. We walked for well over an hour. I didn't realize that all this time the subways were closed and he was just walking and enjoying my company.

While we waited for our cab we talked some more, in between kissing. I couldn't decide which I was more interested in, the conversation or way his lips felt against mine. Once again he had to seek out a wall for support, and by then I had given up all pretense of caring who saw me making-out on the street. I kept thinking, "we met on Tinder, the way he kisses he must expect me to go home with him tonight." But when the cab arrived, he said, "two stops please."

Our dates didn't end with that night, and suffice to say that the passion that his kisses suggested was supported in all other aspects. Brazilian men are known to be adventurous lovers, and he is no exception to that rule. Conversations that would have had former paramours blushing just make him flash that "I dare you" grin that I find so damn appealing. It takes two to tango, so they say, but I think for the next little while I'm going to be working on my samba.