Re: Shiloh/Mao
Dancing was typically a means to an end for Shiloh. Some bar or club, a steamy song, and some stellar sex to follow. Or a deb's ball, the kind that was still a requirement of puberty in Alabama, and all those girls in yards of ruffles, and all those boys in yards of boredom. There was dancing at those balls, but not the type that Shiloh preferred. He was fond of dark clubs and bodies pressing unmistakably close. With the debutantes and their beaus, it wasn't about dancing at all. It wasn't even about the electric chemistry that sparked incandescent in smokey bars. With the debs (and their beaus), it was about defiance. There were rules for interactions in the upper echelons of polite Southern society; Shiloh liked to break every damn one of those rules.
Tonight he was just looking for fun. Dancing seemed fun. It might only entertain him for a minute or two, but Shiloh flitted from entertainment to entertainment, a hummingbird in search of nectar, and there and gone. "I might surprise you pleasantly," said the Southern boy as he handed over the beer, then took a swallow from his own. "I have plenty of rhythm, but I don't know about dancing." His smile was a youthful smirk on sharply boned features; there wasn't anything really about Shiloh that could be labeled as softness.
"There's nothing that makes me yearn to try a thing so much as being told I might as well not bother," he added, noting the slighter boy's accent and placing it in the Northeast. Mother hadn't allowed much socialization, but she had educated them brilliantly; they would all be dreadful embarrassments otherwise, and there wasn't much point in adopting urchins for publicity if they were going to act like urchins.
He turned, and he walked toward the DDR machine, beer held loosely in his hand.