There is an urgent inevitability in their shared presence. It permeates the air and burrows the pores of everyone around them. It gives gall to goosebumps. Boils the fleshly kettle. Sends them each into tizzies from which few motions may extricate them. The sizzling slap of hormones. The dizzying dance of chemicals. An overwhelming all consuming force. A hand on a thigh. A rush of blood to the head, a burning pyre of warmth in the belly, spreading, rising, racing. A single look. Eyes lock. Hips squirm. No postural adjustment can free them from the rapid spread of blush. The intoxication. The ecstatic rollipollies doing somersaults on their scalp. The ancient cry. The mad gasp. The fear. Don’t. One must not succumb to their passions. We are afraid of pleasure as much as pain. It is the Sympathetic come to protest at the gates of the ruckus. The bureaucrat. The priest. Come to break up the Bacchanal. But it’s too late. Their eyes have dilated. Their knees repel. The poles shift. The oceans part. And the phone rings. 


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