It's the first one and I don't think it gets a name

Once, to fill an annoyingly specific credit requirement, I took a class about Jewish literature and civilization. We spent a lot of the early weeks, during the few sessions we had due to the intervention of the high holy days, discussing the early parts of Genesis, when that almighty deity we know and love makes man from the dust and woman from man’s rib.

Tell me, when you were little, did you have baths with your opposite sex siblings? Did you see others your age naked and notice the differences? Adam, when he first saw Eve, before he had even named her “woman,” called her “flesh of my flesh.” He went for the similarities between them, not the differences. Only when they had eaten from the tree of knowledge of good and evil did these become apparent, did they suddenly feel shame at their brash nudity.

And here is the point, because my teacher brought in a perspective I had never considered. It is thought that children are aware of sexuality, but nudity is not threatening to them. It is abusive sexuality that makes nudity frightening, exposing and vulnerable. Does knowledge and maturity beget this paradigm shift wherein this heinous possibility becomes an accepted facet of the human psyche?

Let’s just say I don’t enjoy night clubs as much anymore.

I can watch her dance for minutes, even hours, and her hips, though the motions are different, swing the same dance as a hundred, a thousand women before. Women, they’re called, now that their breasts bounce with each step, each jerk, each turn. Women, because their legs ache to wrap around equally insistent hips. And as I watch her, I think of the times before, when my hips quaked and our breath came ragged and hot, fits and gasps and boiling blood raging south until the inevitable came crashing down upon us, breaking in waves as we cried out in a moment of mutual connection.

Not this one, but another. Another with a name that I barely caught and a face that I hardly remember. Another with rosy lips and pale cheeks, sweet breath and soft skin. Another with vivacity, a vivid vixen. Is she just another? She sings the same siren song, playing to that weakness, charming me like a snake, and I don’t know if I want it to stop, if I don’t really want to grab her and rip her free, take her on the dance floor with the hardwood beneath us and the pulsating rhythm of the techno blasting through the bodies around us as we intertwine and our limbs interlock, hands catching and fingers twisting, breath catching and lips parting, tongues dancing and juices flowing.

How much of our nature is our own and how much is dictated for us by something like fate or genetics, something over which we have zero control? How will we truly know the answer until we take our destiny into our own hands? Her hips feel good against mine, filled with the rhythm and the flow, carrying my hips along as she rises and presses her back to my chest, takes my hands as they curve around her and rest on her belly, fingers interlocking, arms moving to cross her. As I lower my neck, crane it over her shoulder, she turns to face me and our eyes narrow, our lips touch and warmth and arousal ball together in an addictive cocktail of pleasure and excitement.