The music pumps into the air of the enclosed room. Lights accent the darkened space, sparsely decorated, densely packed. Bodies move in rhythm. The reverberating bass pulsates in my chest until I must move. My hips, my arms, my body keep time and motion with hers. Our hips together, a sexual swing on the floor. A stranger. A momentary partner.
My eyes lock on her body as she keeps her arms elevated so I can see her curves, moving, swaying, twisting, giving motion to the sounds. I can’t stop.
Then, a drop. The music stops. No rhythm to carry me. Nothing to celebrate. It makes me stall. To fall from my high.
I look. I see. I’m entangled in the eyes of a woman I cannot ignore. She pushes me to notice her. To take stock. To drink in the desire she’s giving me, her gaze locked on mine. The room goes dark, and not because of the lights. I feel trapped, capped in a vast space. Drawn. I make my way to this creature, this force pulling me near. She has power. I leave the one behind for the one I cannot evade.
The music begins. Sultry beat. A drum line saturates my spine. I feel the rhythm build. Slowly. I move through the crowd. Her eyes, her body, her attraction— a siren’s song. I meet her. I have landed. Captured. Nowhere to go but in her eyes.
She and I begin to dance. Slow, intimate. Her right arm finds my shoulder. We sync up fast. The music grinds: a bluegrass guitar—seductive, torrid, carnal. She goes left. I go right. She swings. I balance. She moves to me. I bring her under my gaze. Down her body. She moves with erotic desire. Her dress, form-fitting. Her black hair, sexual, fun. Her curves. Her movements. Her. Her. All her. The only thing I see is her.
Her free hand strokes her hair back. The long black locks are pure sex. A deep look of heat. Raw, sensuous movements letting me fixate. Nothing dwells but the physicality of our dance.
She steps one leg around mine. Then the other. She lets herself mount my body with the dance. Damn the clothes between us. Her head swings around. Lust. We are lust. Steam and dreams and venereal expression fill the space. I take her hips. I claim control. As long as the music lasts. As long as we keep moving. I have her. All to myself. Mine to have. I observe. I feel. I steal the moments.
I let my head move into the curve of her shoulder. We are so close I can smell the perfume. It sends my thoughts into a higher orbit. Ecstasy. I nearly lose myself. Nearly kiss her like a fool who can’t control the urge. This floor is meant for nothing but two people moving, locked in a motion timed to fantasy, desire strummed by a guitar that lights our organs on fire. Desire.
Her head falls back. I swing her around. She opens her body. I take it in. She gyrates. She grinds. I hold—and pump—I don’t let her run from the need. The need of me to be her man. Demand, command of her soul.
Is this real?
Can I let myself feel these things? Can the thoughts in my head really be fed, be led to a place never discovered before? She dances. She moves. She causes me to lose. Lose my mind. My intelligent, logical kind sensibilities. God, please. Please don’t stop. The music that drops and lifts and swings and grinds these bodies into something that can’t possibly be anything but pure, true, love at first sight.