Happy Hour

She goes down on me right on the dance floor, unashamed and unafraid (and after only a few drinks). What kind of club is this? Works her hands up to the back of my thighs and, with little resistance, slides elongated fingers underneath my skin. Her fingertips tickle my heart and I chance a look down, no longer recognize as human what’s here below my waist. We’ve transformed. We need to reach down and touch us. Our fingers gently massage a warm and welcome gelatinous matter. Our lips pucker up. Kiss ourselves goodbye. Finally, our lips too, collapse into so much mush and this, oh yes this – is what they mean by love.

Happy Hour