Your hot and erotic words make me want to polish some leather. Beeswax and turpentine, I imagine the scent of leather combined with hot metal and grease. Oh, it promises sweet relief from the heat. Let’s get our hands dirty. The appetiser before the main course - stimulates the hunger in our loins. The feeling poised. We hear no noise, immersed in the sultry, potent scents - our breathing laboured. We walk on the baking cement; we feel the heat rise - oh, the torment is unrelenting. The metal gleams, burning hot, lust infuses the air, and so disappears our cares and resistance. We give in to the feelings. Burning rubber on the hot tarmac, the humidity is heavy and overbearing; the sweat is pouring, and our tighs are moist from perspiration. Leather against our wet skin lubricates the tension. Caught in the groove, the guitar is screaming and wailing. Getting dirty, we engage in some lust-filled lyrical conversation. We need these words to clear the head - giving in to the sweet release. After the squall, the steam rises from the tarmac. We infuse our senses in the scent of hot rain evaporating off the hot black tarmac, burning rubber, the hot liquid splashes on our skin. (a stream of consciousness in response to your words)