All I can see is breasts and hips, those breathtaking legs and the tumbling of her hair across her bare shoulders. It’s as though she’s surrounding me with her beauty.
And I wish that it were as exciting as it sounds, for your sake, but this is just the way she dances.
I lost any sense of self-consciousness a long time ago. I’ll dance anywhere with floorspace and a diry beat, no idea whether I look like a smooth mover or a drunken octopus; no real cares either way.
And we grab at each other; dance hip to hip; grind against each other. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to having making love in a room full of strangers.
But this isn’t the start of some great romance. I don’t even know what it actually is. She’s the same with all the boys, and I’m the same with all the girls. But something always draws us together, more outrageous than usual and darker too.
It’s a battle of wills. She’s used to forcing a surrender, but I’m hell-bent on victory.
So far it’s a draw.