It starts with a look. Across the table, across the room; it’s not the distance that matte

It starts with a look.

Across the table, across the room; it’s not the distance that matters, but what’s said without words. I want you. Sometimes, it’s impersonal; just for the joy of the moment. To sway to the rhythm and feel the beat.

But sometimes, it’s more than personal. It’s an electrifying touch of the hands, a guiding circle around the waist and a caring hand on the shoulder. The music is transformed by the two bodies caressing each other, and no longer is a tempo to be followed, but a crescendo to be climbed towards ecstasy.

The song may end, but the music doesn’t stop. It’s but an intermission from the floor to the bed, writhing, moving; the beat from a hungry heart and the melody of passionate mouths. But those people keep their secret private.

The dancers only allow a hint of what might come later. After all, in a sea of people enjoying the moment, true passion can easily be washed away.

So, do you want to dance, or do you want to dance?

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