You don’t know her.
Relaxed. Sophie casually waited to dance. Tango music moving her spirit. Swaying to the sounds of the rhythm. Sophie loves to dance. By herself. Or with a woman. Or with a man.
Waiting to be asked.
But not for the reason the other women were waiting.
They wanted a fantasy.
They wanted young. Stud. Latin. Chiseled face. Piercing eyes. Hot-blooded.
Shirt buttons open to six pack abs. Matted intertwined black curls to the navel. Her braless breast pressed against his chest. His pants skin tight. Firm thigh surging between her hot, quivering legs. Moist. An ever hardening muscle slowly slithering its way up against her warm, twitching belly.
Sophie just wanted to feel her inner passion.
The freedom of dancing.
Sophie could dance to the news.
Opera singers feel their inner passion.
The sudden burst forth of Rodolfo’s heartbreaking finale from the opera La Boheme by my Tenor Nephew, Barton.
Guitar players feel their inner passion.
A stray guitar flows into the hands of my musically gifted Grandson Jarod as he weaves out his latest composition. “The Story”.
You feel your inner passion.
The keyboard of your desk. Your fingers rhythmically listening. A musical favorite.
The freedom of letting go. The spirt rising. The release.
Doing what you love. Doing what you really feel.
Deep down inside.
Your inner core talking.
Your inner passion.