There was one night I went to a reggae concert on the beach, and in the crowd there was a girl dancing with a hula hoop. She was young, with long untidy hair and a long tight dress and no shoes. She had a way of snaking the hula up above her head, and with her arms stretched she made a tunnel of its descent; she undulated, dancing inside the hoop for maybe a second, then, with well practiced hips she caught the blue O and flicked fast side to side, her hard bottom working the toy into a ribbon. Just before the thing reached the ground she kicked it with her heel and had it back in play. She was desperately sexy.
Her companion, male, rangy and blond, in knee length shorts and a lot of tattoos, lounged on the sandy dirt leaning on his elbows with his legs out in front of him daintily crossed at the ankle. His attention seemed entirely rapt upon the reggae band. And to be fair they were good.
I figured this couple must have been together a very long time for him to no longer be mesmerized by his girl’s screaming sensuality. Or he was not her boyfriend and, instead, of another persuasion entirely. The only thing I knew for certain was, whoever he was, he could not keep up with her. Few could. No matter, she was a pleasure to behold.