idiologue

It's fucking hot here, lazy dripping molasses hot. Thirty-nine with the humidity or so the weather people tell me. It's a steamy sticky heat that seems to hang like an unspoken word heavy with meaning, wrapping itself around me like wet velvet, holding me tight and close. It makes me light headed and dreamy, restless under the weight.

And there's an undercurrent lurking below the surface, a certain kind of lust bubbling there beneath the sweat. A low burning desire for languid motions and silent breathless sighs. Desire for a dripping kind of sex, slow writhing and deliberate, somehow serpentine. An almost irritable and aggressive sort of fucking fuelled by the friction between hot skin on hot skin, descending into a base passion soaked in delirium and twisting in an impatient insatiable fever. A mindless and primitive dance leaving one lying there drowned in the strong heavy smell of sweat and fuck, exhausted and sated like an animal full after the hunt.

What a sweet aphrodisiac this is that slowly brews in the inertia of such wet heat. A drug of the flesh, of instinct and baser drives. A thick golden drink of passioned life.