I miss the flashpoint heat of desire, the slow dance and the hot breath of it, wrapping tender all electric, winding yourself around the moment, the press of a creased pant leg against the V of lambada-dancing thighs, a salsa step, lips the breadth of a sin apart, the press of something fully clothed and yet so utterly scandalous that your heart beats outside your ribcage... the knee melting flood of desire and pain, knowing you're four layers of cloth away from your blood's desire, feeling the need of it press like a desert's searing dry heat against the ravine carved between mons and thigh. the salt-tide and sweep of it, teetering tip-toe at the edge of surrender and iron-tanged rage, those flames on a 50's Thunderbird peeling back from your temples, the daring and molten 501 rivets of every James Dean wannabe cracking your joints, poised between a kiss and a snarl, a single lunge away from the spotlight of a tangled sheeted eternity... somewhere in that civilized time between coat and car you have to make a choice to prolongue the sweetest agony or surrender to the point and blade of it, and you delay delay that decision until the last possible moment, your hand on the cool metal, your mind listening to the molten flow of want in your veins, can you possibly postpone the inevitable? is it really inevitable? or is it just for your own amusement, something for the pulse at your neck, the teeth that bare in a laugh and a whisper, the press and pull of magnets colliding? can you make it last? Can you escape before the lights come up? Is there magic to be had within the secret shake of him?