Heat. Chemicals. Arched backwards over a wooden bench she stares at the lines in the ceiling and feels her hairs stand on end. Her exhalations are large and hands tightly clenched. Possession. Feeling. He helps her up and does up her blouse before hurriedly pulling up his pants. She fumbles to help him, her fingers struggle to gain traction on his jean buttons, pushing and matching them with the holes at great speed. She kisses him long and hard, bodies tightly juxtaposed as they rise, warm hungry air whispering threats between each kiss, penetrating the skin. He leads her out of the darkened depths of the tent, away from the collection of unclothed bodies groaning and grabbing at each other in the dark.
Back in the mass of the crowd the air is warmer and moist and they explore each others mouths. She feels his form and he feels hers. Each movement of the hand is suggestive. A game of movement and pressure. Sinking and sliding. Testing and teasing. They are blind at close proximity. Everything is an engrossment of sensation.
But she is losing him and he is losing her. Their hands lose their intent. Their mouths lose their appeal. A space opens up between them and they can now see each other. Clearly. Freely. She feels his hand slide off her waist and her hand slides off his chest. They can feel the pull. The longing. For some reason he is different from the rest. She feels her hormones at their peak. He wants her and she wants him but they are now drifting in opposite directions and although she keeps her eyes on him and his eyes remain on her the distance between them grows and other people get in the way. She is being drawn back into the crowd. She tries to peak over and around the other bodies but they draw her in and she loses sight of him. The energy of the crowd takes over. She forgets.
In the nexus of the crowd she finds herself in a series of embraces and touches. Packed like sardines she reciprocates and feels forms without faces. Her hands interpret and communicate. She feels the difference of each individual's touch. Forceful. Desperate. Rushed. Some linger. They speak of feeling. She responds with the language of her body. Inviting. Retracting. It happens in rapid succession. Like a dance. She responds subconsciously. Unbound and free. Anonymously entangled in a hedonistic sea.
But she drifts away slowly from the centre. At first it occurs slowly and she doesn't notice. Touches suddenly become more forced, unnatural. The tactile language becomes less fluent. Interrupted. Circumspect and foreign. She loses interest. Her arousal wanes.
She finds herself on the outer perimeter of the crowd and stepping back. There is such a space between her now that and she sees everyone clearly. Their features are obvious. Their age. Their sex. Certain features and blemishes. She can read their body language. Uncertain. Unconfident. Awkward. She looks at them and they look at her. They approach her and hug her and then step away reflecting on the process and how they will go about repeating that with someone else. They react differently. Some laugh. Some seem unconvinced.
She feels awkward.
Everything seems too clear. The details. The concept. The barriers. The space.
She lifts the flap and exits the tent. The sun instantly blinds her and she has to wait for her eyes to adjust.
She sees her friend waiting and walks to her and they both look back at the tent.
"What do you think it's all about?" she asks her friend.
"HUG TENT" reads a sign above the tent door.
And so they stand, curious.
