I lift my left leg and fold it around his right calf. The fabric of my tights slips slightly over the denim of his jeans, but my leg remains comfortably hooked around his. I want to twist my figure and melt into him. I feel his warmth radiate into my body and press against him some more. My right hand travels from his head and down his back, pausing on his backside to appreciatively embrace it in my palm through the thick denim. The hand continues its journey, snaking over limbs and sliding under garments. Fingertips discover the texture of skin and hair. They playfully tickle and zigzag from the curve of the back to the hair around a shy navel. They tentatively probe the top of the jeans before happily swimming back up the torso. As the right hand blissfully explores the hidden flesh, the left hand is locked into a tender grip with its manly counterpart. Emotions and thoughts flow through gentle squeezes, passionate clasps, and caring thumbs that appease flyaway thoughts.
Lips continue conversing silently and eyes occasionally hold gazes that communicate affection and fervour. Hands gradually abandon fabrics in search of more flesh. My hands team up to pull up a hoodie and relish in the freedom of slipping under a light t-shirt. They choreograph a waltz on a back, dancing up to a pair of shoulders, then sliding down the sides of the torso, gracefully extending and elongating themselves over flanks, pausing to appreciate the solid hold on a cherished body. Another pair of hands joins the dance and fly like delicate butterflies up my abdomen, towards my breasts. Fingertips whirl, fold, and graze buttons that give way, one by one, to the underside of the cardigan. The same fingertips hover over to the sides of the shirt, pulling apart the curtains in preparation for the upcoming show. The hands drift apart and mirror the other pair of palms, finding a resting place on the curve of hips modestly covered by a soft jersey top. The hooked leg drops down and all feet face their counterparts. Two bodies face each other symmetrically and two minds are connecting.
All actors are ready. They know their lines; they know their roles. They understand their place and trust their instinct. They know that no play is complete without true feelings. Playing is only playing if one dissociates themselves from their part. Playing is not truth, though, and Stanislavski makes it a point to differentiate the appearance of doing and actually doing. These actors have studied their art. They know the worth of a true caress. The know the depth of a passionate embrace. They understand the true human meaning of a gasp and they can interpret a million sighs. Yes, these actors have studied the art of body talk and they are ready to communicate in the most natural, human language there is.
