My Hero Experience: Singing with Enrique at Mohegan Sun

I stood at the edge of the small  stage at the back of the house, holding on to the chest- high, heavy metal fencing that separated us from Enrique Iglesias.  He was hustled underneath the raised stage by security, black hoodie trying to obscure his identity.  He entered the tiny elevator, and the winch brought him to stage level.   He scanned the crowd, as the band vamped the intro to HERO.  He asked who would like to dance with him tonight.  I put up my hand. The women beside me were screaming and jumping up and down, and this lovely ballad resonated inside me for some reason, and made want to cry. He looked past me, scanned the crowd again, and came back to me.  He looked me in the eyes, pointed, and said, “You.”  I pointed at myself, and said “Me?” He said yes, “You.”  Well, okay.

I tried to open a gate, but there was no gate to open.  I said to him, How do I get to you?  And two security guys, one on my side of the fence, and one on the inside, said We lift you over.  Really??  All right, then.  They crowd-surfed me inside the fencing, and I stepped on to one of those trunks that hold coiled sound cables.  From there, I needed to get up to the stage—about 4 feet, and no steps.

Enrique reached around me, and somehow I landed on the stage, lying next to him.

He was singing HERO now, and kept singing, eyes closed.  He pulled me full on top of him. Him supine.  Me prone.  Alrighty then. 

We played it out, 9,999 people watching. This is what he does, and this is his gift: to make someone feel so valued, so intensely chosen, because right then, you are, and the feeling remains for a long time.

He sang,

we sang, 

I sang—thank you, Enrique; I was so absurdly happy.

He doesn’t hug you; he enfolds you.

He kisses, full, repeatedly. 

This is also his gift:  to be fearless with a stranger, because he wants them to know that it’s okay, and that he cares.  And in that moment, he does.

We step onto the platform that is the tiny elevator, and he folds me in again.  I ask, where are we going?  We’re going down, of course, and it’s over.  He kisses again, puts on his black hoodie, and says, “Thank you”.  I say “de nada”.  He’s hustled out, as I wait for security to take me back to my seat.

Later, at intermission, it seems I’m a celeb.  After all, I’ve been seen, in all my glory, on the Jumbotron.  Women and men alike ask me some pretty amazing questions, like “Is he a good kisser?” and “What did you do when the lift went down?” and “Did you touch his package?”  Ummm, no.  He honored me; why would I do that?  Gaggles of young women in their Louboutins surround me, at one point my friend Lynn and I count a herd of 8.  The celebration of me continues until we leave Mohegan Sun Arena.  My face hurts from smiling.  It’s exhausting, but a pleasure to respond.  I say, “He’s the sweetest, sweetest man” a hundred times.  Now I know why he sequesters himself.

After I went to bed that night, I didn’t sleep much.  The energy of this exceptionally generous, sensual and talented man’s body was still running through mine.  That may sound weird, but it was potent and remarkable.

I knew it was an act, and he knew it was an act, but it played out so beautifully, and was so honest, because in the very moment, it was real.  That’s kinda all we’ve got, and my guess is that he knows that.