Copyright 2003 Frank Downey. All rights reserved. Any use other than personal archiving requires the permission of the author. Do not repost.

This story contains adult material. If this is illegal where you reside or if you are underage where you reside, begone.

I’d learned to dance young. It was a good decision. Big-band, swing, a little Latin.

I’d known Josie for a while. She was a friend of a friend of a friend, you know—so she ended up hanging with my crowd. I asked her out dancing one evening.

The air conditioner in the club was on the fritz.

We were friends, Josie and I. Until about midway through the first dance. Then we were sweaty body parts, slippery, conjoined, melting. We were The Beat. The bass, the drums, the heart, the pulse. One, two. One, two.

Later, in an apartment with another balky air conditioner, we were The Beat all over again. The pulse, the heart, the sigh, the moan. The thrust, the clench, the rhythmic explosion that overwhelmed any mere drummer.

Later still, we were the frantic in-out one-two of desperate gasping. We were the cadence of murmured promises, the steady rustling of sweat and cum soaked bedcovers. The sleepy kisses of satisfied dancers, the steady breathing of sleeping lovers.

Sweat-coated, satisfied, in perfect time.

The rhythm of the heat.

---the end—

Note: this little ditty was inspired by three things: 1) the fact that I’m writing a major novel about dancing anyway <G>; 2) a recalcitrant air conditioner at work tonight, and 3) hearing Peter Gabriel’s "The Rhythm Of The Heat" in my car on supper break.

It’s amazing where inspiration coalesces <G>.