I can’t get that dance out of my head

 September 26, 2011

My definition of hunger has been forever solidified by a drop of sweat trickling down the contours of a thigh, glistening, unsteady in the trembling of muscle, catching the light.

Grace has been captured in gyrations, contortions, in the play of finely-honed muscles wrapped in flesh, rippling over ribs and blades of shoulders, traveling the ridge of the pelvis.

The flexion of the head, neck, the trunk and hip to follow, so slow yet fluid; the power behind each motion palpable, leaving your own body trembling in sympathetic exhilaration, that is desire.

Beauty is an ankle, tapered thin, delicate with a toe pointed to the sky, or a wrist, the line of a hand straining with a neck arched and a waist firm for grasping, a fine throat gasping.

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