Its Friday night and the lights are on.
Fresh painted helmets gleam as the teams take the field of green amid the crushing screams of adoring fans. The ball takes flight through the crisp evening air, let the game begin.
She glides through the audience fluid, like a shark, her satin eyes undressing her opponents, sizing them up to the task. Deadly smile wrapped in pouty cherry lips, her best offense to move the ball ten yards further, trading flesh for a first down.
Fevers rise with each batted eye, teasing and tantalizing, young and old she is indiscriminate in her indiscretion. Golden bands just raise the stakes of her hard luck chase, drawing them deeper into the shadows beneath the bleachers.
Lust is her musk, built on a lie that if only you had it, then...you would feel young again, handsome again, alive again...playing on your deep dissatisfactions. A promise it will never deliver, only leave you empty and hollow, wanting more.
The game is done, 41-0, the final score. I wonder does she find her identity in the touchdowns she scored. I wonder do the boys that chased her into the end zone.
Its Friday night and the lights go out.