Massed Heat

A ficlet for the Tea Room's August Challenge of 'Summer Nights'.

*****

There are groans from the couple next to us as a young woman is hoisted onto her
boyfriend's shoulders, blocking a sliver of the stage from view. You nudge me
and nod at the honeyed expanse of skin above her cut offs. My own hand briefly
finds its way up under the bottom of your tee to your back. She might be with
her fella, sitting high on his shoulders, but here in the hump and thrum of the
crowd, I am holding my girl. I plant my feet and grasp your hot hand more firmly
as the band appears, anticipating the sudden shift of the massed audience
towards the front. High-riding girl is joined by a few more, all perched atop
broad male shoulders. I won't, can't, know what it feels like to carry you up
there, but I remind myself that I know what you feel like over my lap, spread
open and shifting under my hand and that thought hardens my nipples, in spite of
the warm night air.


A groundswell as the music gathers pace. The loose hipped front man sets the
energy swirling over the packed forum. Body heat, sweat, the last notes of
sunscreen and bug repellent applied throughout the long set up and queuing
mingles with the dirty syrupy sweetness of soft drinks and booze long soaked
into the matted grass at our feet. I could do with a cold drink, but the lines
are ridiculous. Are you thirsty? I look at you and your face breaks into the
broadest of grins. Head thrown back, you slip loose and raise your arms in the
air, whooping out loud and I know you, know your body; you are but a note from
dancing away from me in your own small corner of the world.


I don't know that I will always keep up with you. But I will try. I shut my
eyes, having to trust that you want to stay together in the crowd as much as I,
and let the music pick me up and away in my own ecstasy.