(The lyrics to "Sway" by Dean Martin can be found at:

http://www.deanmartinlyrics.com/sway.htm)

           

 

       I have always loved live shows. Ever since I was a punk kid with spiked boots and a bright blue mohawk, I have made it a point to get to every concert possible. There is no feeling like a good song throbbing through your body. The bass moving the floor, vibrating up my legs and into my chest, making me a part of the music, and it is the most incredible sensation on the planet. I'm soaking in the atmosphere, the smoky, hazy air, the scent of cigarettes and sweat and something I can't quite place. Bodies are pushing against mine, there's barely enough room to shift from one foot to the other, and it is absolute perfection.

 

       Somehow, despite the crowd and the noise and the chaos, he is alone. It doesn't matter that there are people surrounding him, or that the music is loud enough that my ears will be ringing tomorrow morning; he has shut all of that out. He has his eyes closed, his dark lashes shadowing over high cheekbones; his lips are open just slightly, involuntarily so, a perfect curve that almost resembles a grin. He is moving rhythmically back and forth, to the right, then left, the moves of an athlete, a confidence in his body that someone less conditioned would lack.

 

       And I'm alone with him. Just his small, strong form dancing, swaying sensually to the beat, and me, my eyes unable to turn from the blatant sexuality of the rhythm. The crowd around us has gone away, it is far below us now; we are in a place where nothing but the music exists. Without a thought, I'm standing behind him, hypnotized by the slim hips beneath a pair of impeccably fitting blue jeans. Fighting a wave of nervousness, I slip my hands to his waist, pulling him back against me. He tries to turn, but I deny him the right, holding him in place.

 

       After a moment of fighting me, he relaxes, and we fall into a comfortable rhythm, swaying back and forth with his backside rubbing against the front of me. He is only an inch shorter than me, but the difference is enough that I can rest my head on his shoulder, breathing against his ear, inhaling his scent.

 

       My hands slip forward, latching at the front of him, where my wrist grazes something under his T-shirt. My thumb rubs over it, a hard little ring, and I'm dying to know if its what I'm thinking. Curious, I slip my hand under the fabric, my fingers moving up, finding exactly what I'd hoped.

 

       A navel ring.

 

       I run my fingertip over the warm metal, then tug carefully on it. He growls deep in his chest, and the sound vibrates from his back into my chest, and I tug harder, hoping to get the same reaction. It’s even better the second time around. Along with the growl, his head falls back against my shoulder, leaving his neck and ear completely bare, just centimeters from my lips. I don't hesitate; I lean closer and pull his earlobe into my mouth, biting gently on the impossibly soft skin.

 

       His body sags against me, and I take the moment to turn him around. I want to look in his eyes. I want to watch him smile. I want to kiss him.

 

       His eyes are glazed, his eyelids heavy with the desire swimming in their depths, but they flicker with recognition. He mutters my name, almost in awe, and I smile at him. He smiles back, a curling of his mouth that hints at mischief. I press my lips to that smile, pulling him closer until there isn't enough space between us for light to pass through.

 

       The music is still throbbing through my body, but so is my heart, and so is a form of passion that I've never known before. It is the bass of the song, the smell of his skin, and the lights flashing behind my eyelids. I am a part of him, and he is a part of me, and there isn't even enough space between us for me to take a deep breath.

 

       And it is perfection. Absolute perfection.