I can feel the steady thump of the base in the pit of my stomach. I am hot. Scott’s mouth is contourted in extasy? pain? love? Who cares. It is passion. I feel it in my fingertips, in the breath forced through screaming lungs and lips and in the bodies pressed up against mine. Passion. Lisa purses her lips playfully as she moves towards you. Her dress shifts just so. There! I catch a glimpse of the soft mound of her sex, teasingly covered in thin nude fabric. I want her.
He has lost his shirt and his body shines with the effort of playing and singing and dancing. A bead of sweat trickles down her face. An arm brushes up against mine and I shudder. She is hot. We are all hot. Molten balls of bouncing, throbbing, wriggling. passion.
It is no wonder that people lock bodies and lips at their performances.
