Memoirs of our gay dance instructor

It was Monday night.
The sun had begun to set, and women were filing into the dance studio of the local gym for the weekly dance/aerobics class. I was there with two friends from the school and we had no idea what to expect. In walks Marco, our dance instructor, wearing black athletic shorts and a neon orange muscle shirt. He is short, bald and extremely flamboyant. Pretty soon the sounds of Madonna are ringing through the stereo system, and Marcos shouts out with a slightly feminine tone, "Vamos chicas, estan listas?". Oh boy. I will admit that I've never seen a guy shake it like Shakira before, and man, was he shaking it! We moved through 60 minutes of Latin Reggae, 90's pop music and oldies. Finally, after a graceful cool-down to Mariah Carey's "Hero" (sung in Spanish of course), we were done. Sweaty, tired, yet satisfied. After screaming his praises to us all for a job well done, with the light reflecting off of his wet, bald head, Marco came around to give his goodbyes until the following week.
We began our 15 minute walk home, laughing over our Latino Richard Simmons dance instructor. Maybe someday, I will post a picture . . .