[This is the beginning of another story by a guest writer.  It's hot and, yep, fun.]

It was 1968. The sex was fierce, sharp and dangerous, as were the politics.

We boomers outnumbered the old, the children of war and depression. We controlled so much of the culture that we no longer needed them. We were off in our own little college ghettos and had the freedom inside those enclaves to do pretty much as we pleased. The professors wanted to be us but we did not want to be them.

Her name was Clarissa. We were both in a dance company that was bringing the college theater department into the modern world. She was a senior in high school but she danced with the college company. I was a junior in college and ran the technical department. She was a bit innocent, or seemed so, her family being old world. She didn’t pay me much mind. I had a reputation, so she stayed on the other side of the room from me. I found her beautiful to look at and interesting to talk to, when she would talk.

We were at a party after our Friday night show. Dancers always come out of a show wired from the sheer physicality of it all. I’ve never understood exactly why, all that exercise seemed exhausting to me, but they never were exhausted. Often, they just continued dancing at the party.

I don’t dance, not with real dancers, so I was just sitting on the floor enjoying the show and getting a little stoned and a little drunk. Clarissa flopped down next to me; she had a drink in her hand. She was usually the one dancing. I offered her my joint and she took a hit. “Tired?” I asked.

“I’m just a little bored and maybe a bit pissed off.”

“What about?”

“I wanted to dance ‘Sex.’ Why didn’t Dr. White want me to dance Sex?” The company had opened a new dance that night called “Sex, Drugs and Rock-and-Roll” which was an allegory of a woman dancer representing Sex playing with two men representing Drugs and Rock-n-Roll. It was probably going to cause a scandal, but then that was what modernism is supposed to do. Almost all the women in the company had vied for that part but it had gone to Heather, who was older and was dancing in a go-go club to work her way through school. She danced Sex, hell, she was sex. Heather was both the cause of my reputation and the one who helped me live up to it.

“Clarissa, that’s not your part.”

“I’m tired of playing little girls.”

“But that’s what you look like.”

She gave me a look like she was going to tear my throat out with her teeth then it softened.

“Maybe it’s because I’m 18 and still a virgin. You can do something about that?”

“But your boyfriend …”

“He’s so afraid of me … are you afraid of me?”

At the moment I was, but, “No” seemed the more appropriate response.

“Then get me out of here and fuck me. Let’s go to the dance studio.”

We got up and left. No one noticed. It was a warm night, early summer. I was in my uniform of jeans and a work shirt. She was in bib overalls and a leotard. I wore boots, she was barefoot.

“You have your key?”

[To be continued ….]

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