Have you ever been called names in the milonga? I was called an ‘arrogant dick’ once, years ago. I understand that one of my friends has been called a ‘cold bitch’. We risk rejection, putting ourselves out there. Frustration may cause emotions to flare. You’ve worked so hard to improve that connection. The private lessons have been intense. You’ve studied all the tango tips by maestros and all of Veronica Toumanova’s essays. Having your brittle confidence glued together like that, you’ve spent money on wardrobe and travelled hundreds of kilometers. And then he or she just passes you by without even so much as a nod or a smile. Not once or twice. All evening. Fuck that. 

Like most seasoned tango dancers, I’ve learned not to take rejection personal. However, last weekend, I was sitting next to a woman who I assumed to be foreign. I didn’t know where she was from or which language she spoke, because we didn’t talk. People have a way of avoiding small talk with a certain stiffness in their posture or a particular sort of sad gaze at the dance floor.

I suspected that the old ‘chateceo’ tactic wouldn’t work and glanced furtively in her direction. Somehow, she managed to look expertly away every time. But she instantly woke up when guys far away, across the room, glanced in her direction. Even when leaders boldly stepped in front of her with outstretched hand, in flagrant breach of proper milonga etiquette.

Mildly frustrated, I invited other followers to dance who turned out to be nice.  Each time she got up to dance, resentment seeped into my brain like little drops of poison. She seemed an okay dancer but was she to die for? Those guys she was dancing with… did they look like extraordinarily outstanding dancers?

Returning to our seats, the standoff between us continued. The frequency of my glances dropped to almost zero and I pretended not to care. She was obviously totally fine with that. When she was off again, I covertly inquired after her with other followers. Who was this Wonderwoman? They didn’t know, but the guys certainly kept coming. ‘Don’t be a wimp, I thought. ‘You’ve been there, done that.’ The next dancer I invited was sensationally precise and musical. We had a wonderful tanda. Facebook invitations were extended and confirmed before the milonga was over. Still, I couldn’t get this other woman out of my head.

That fateful night when I was called an ‘arrogant dick’ was a particularly busy one in our milonga and I had things to attend to. I mostly avoided glances, except for the invitations of some friends that I’ve known for many years. When I left the floor, our eyes crossed. “When are we FINALLY going to dance?” she demanded. Feeling ambushed, I smiled awkwardly and walked past her. And then I heard it: ‘Arrogant dick’. In a low voice, but clearly audible to me.

I wanted to tell her it was all part of our milonga’s training program, hardening dancers for the tough world out there. That it’s a bad strategy to speak, but totally alright to THINK what she felt. And that maybe, at one point, we would dance. But I didn’t, in an expression of what may probably best be qualified as ‘tough love’.