The film of sweat makes the electricity between us tingle. We did some yoga kind of things, not enough to build up a sweat. We ended up drinking herbal tea and smoking Marlboros and talking about postmodernism and nonpresentational movement. The smoke curled up through the bright, sunlit loft window.
Dancers always smoke.
And P.S., they're all crazy. It turns out that her shoulder muscle's tight and I have this special massage I learned from somebody, who learned it from a shiatsu master. We're kissing, rolling around on the floor on the gym mat, and she's got that funky aroma from working out all morning. Which I like a lot. I'm rubbing her so hard with my crotch that the zipper of my Levi's is digging a blister into my dick.