I’m sitting on the floor in my own sweat. My super skinny jeans are clinging to my legs, not because they are super skinny jeans, from the sweat. I can feel the sweat forming on my forehead and then reform as I wipe it away. I feel it rolling down my back and soaking through my tank top. The arms of my sweater are rolled up to my elbows, but that doesn’t help much. Underneath my sweater, I’m sure my tank top is just drenched. The humidity in the place is crazy. I don’t know how they do it. Yet I find comfort in it. Not sitting in my sweat, but rather just being in this particular area.
Not that this place is pleasant by any circumstances. It’s actually the last place I feel comfortable in. It reminds me of my days as Monte the Mustang. The room is loud, everything echos: the boots of the set-up crew, the slamming of the door, the bounce of the balls, not to mention the sound of the generators. I can’t even hear the guy sitting right next to me. Plus, I’m sure my butt is stuck to the floor.
Even though I’m complaining about all of this. I really don’t mind. I like it here and what I do.
“Diane! C’mon!”
I’m already sweating up a storm. What’s a little more sweat?
I love my MAC Family~
The first sentence is definitely an attention getter. I want to ask why. The same goes for the end of that paragraph: why do you find comfort in this particular sweaty area? Some good sensual description