Let it be known, that the business of questionable habits, is suspect.

No other sate of being is as well defined as the state of being risque'.

Where to begin.

Bated breath.

What will she say?

For starters, we begin to know its existence when quite small and all knowing.

All knowing in its very nature.  We experiment.

That's what we do.  It is trial and reward.  For our very curiousity.

Sometimes it comes quite easily; and sometimes it is a mystery of grand proportions.

We stumble.  We fall.  And sometimes we fail.

But not for long.  That is where the fun begins.

She tilts her head.  He notices.

He adjusts.  She sees.

Their eyes meet in unison and their song begins.

It draws them in.  Intowards of each other.  It is destined.

So they dance.  They dance the dance of ages.  Of ease.  Natural and at a distance.  Not for long.

Why is it we do circles around the subject?  We so often do.

You would think it should come so naturally by now.  But is it?

Each time it is a commencement of brand new.  That is what makes it tingle so.

The tingle of the dance is what we follow and seek, time and time again.

Whether with the same partner or many, it is the circle that keeps us entangled.  Engrossed.  Enticed.  Enchanted.  Bewitched.

It corrals us into a tight and binding ring.  It can be dizzying.  It always is.

So much so that it keeps us coming back for more.  And more.

The tilt of her head.  The raise of an eyebrow.  The question that begs to be answered.

Will she or won't he?  He certainly will and she wills it so.

They fawn upon the ritual; each with his or her best approach.

So sultry in its movement.  So wanted in its result.

So silky in its pursuit.  And in its inevitable resiliance, it lasts far into the night.  Into the day.

Into the waters of luxurious warmth, comfort and bliss.  It bathes us in tempting longings.  It is perpetual in it's consistancy.  It's heat.

Is it he or is it she that is the instigator of all things to come?  We'll just have to wait and see.  Or just feel it when it does.

Can you sense the urgency?  Can you smell the desire?  Can you wait another moment of this delicious temptation?  You must.

You will not be disappointed.  This much you know.  There is certainty in its rush of tides.  It's pure strength in the undertow of wanting.  It is there.

Find it.  Pure and full of heat by the magnetic pull of the moon.  It is so bright.  You want to become the inception of  what is to be.  It will become what you envision and you will see its aura in crimsome and jet black.  Its finite differences.

For it comes in many shades of wonder, mystery and tastes.

It is dark and so light in its relevance to the essence of wanting.  It is delicate in the beginning.  It is harsh in it's insistance.  It is its own reward.

It comes from deep within us.  Our joys.  Our sufferings.  Our anger and loss.  Our riches and our sense of knowing that all things come from this place of urgency.

It beckons to us.  To our primitive nature.  A sign of life from within.  A beauty and the bounty of our survial as creatures of our own creation.

Coming from our deeper, darker selves, we reach outward with our sense of urgency to another who beckons to our call.

We crave the light of another, brighter version of ourselves.  He; she is there.  Waiting in the shadows of another day.  Another time and place where we search for something a little risque'.  A little outside ourselves.

A brave exclamation of needing to take from; the knowing that one should give but simply wanting it instead.  The giving in, on the side lines of polite lessons, making room for the urge to grab all there is to know, want, feel.  To release.

No time to be gentle.  No time to be sweet.  This time to be beast, from which we came. To find true inner salvation for its own sake.

To be free of all that would bind us and relish in the letting go.

To be the provacateur...to be risque'.