stl: atomic fireballs, 'swing sweet pussycat'

He danced around the minimalist room, his feet barely touching the plush carpet, a blur of black pants and button-down shirt and limbs. The movements came of their own accord; he had been doing this for so long that it was as natural as breathing. His mother had her painting, his father had his miniature models and he had this-- this was his relaxation, his escape from the hustle and bustle of the world. Locked away in this room he was free to be himself, to give in to the incessant pull of muscle and sinew. He was completely lost in the brassy saxophone, the trumpets, the embodiment of swing revival.

The important thing to remember was to not let the sweet melody cloud his mind.

The important thing was to not get caught.

Not that he would've cared, honestly. He was eccentric, never one to bow to convention. He wasn't a football star or cross-country runner, though he could have done both and excelled beyond anyone's pitiful imaginations. No, it wasn't that he was worried about what people would say but more that his retreat would no longer be his alone. When the music would start, they would know instead of just assuming he was merely listening. This was his and only his. He wasn't willing to share it with a soul.

Especially not this song.

The lyrics came tumbling from his mouth; he was consumed in the secret perversity. No one, especially her, thought he had it in him. If she could see him now, hear the words that moved him, she would more than likely die in a thousand shades of crimson and embarrassment. He couldn't help himself-- this particular song alleviated the demanding desire within him, kept the promiscuous tiger at bay. Yes, yes he was promiscuous, if only in thought. He was, after all, a man first and foremost, gentleman be damned.

While the genteel man inside brought her roses, whispered sweet nothings, opened doors, the man-whore in him wanted to ravage her every chance he got. Especially when she wore that little red number she had on last Friday. His tempo increased while visions marched through his head.

I wanna slide with that pussy cat...

Oh yes, yes he did.