Hot People

Hot people were burning up. Their attractiveness was becoming a problem. The problem was, they couldn’t stop dancing and gyrating more generally.

It caused the various trinkets and baubles they wore to clink and clank together, creating horribly discordant music.

All of life became a Bebe Rexha video featuring David Guetta, golden and gleaming.

The dancing and gyrating was naturally displayed in an attractive manner, too. Of course it was part of what made them appealing. Their huge sunglasses jostled. Their overtanned skin reflected the light as though they were each and every one of them a mirrored ball.

Slicked-back hair came loose. Pony tails were undone. Blonde hair was generally everywhere.

Alcohol was being consumed in vast quantities, which might have contributed, as accelerant, to the problem, though it wasn’t the spark.

There was an argument that nothing about the hot people dancing and gyrating was particularly bad. Maybe a bit distracting, especially when they made their way into the street and caused accidents, or otherwise made thoroughfares impassable.

They were making people horny on the one hand, including themselves, which is a normal and very human sensation – but they were also, eventually, exploding, which disrupted the hornyness of others and certainly entirely ended it for themselves.

They’d never be horny again.

What happened before explosion was, they’d start to heat up, ostensibly, because they’d get all red in the face, red all over their body. A beet red complexion, very unnatural. But still, strangely alluring. Beads of sweat forming, adding to the allure. Thirst no amount of water could satisfy.

They never really suffered from bloat before they exploded, their cheekbones remaining  prominent, jaws chiseled. Every single muscle was taut and visible beneath their skin.

And you’re there, amid it all – hard to say if you’re hot in the context of this story. Could be. Could not be. The uncertainty is enough, in itself, to make you want to explode, but so is the horniness because, yes, you too, when confronted by the sensuous bodies of the hot people, are also deeply affected. You’re one of the human race that is stimulated sexually by visuals.

Nothing to be done about it, but you will suffer more, accordingly.

It’s also still possible you’ll explode. You might be a hot person yourself! Maybe it’ll trigger some kind of time bomb when you feel the growing warmth in your loins (and I am sorry for saying “loins” but it is the only logical term for the conditions I’m describing; though I suppose I could have said “genitals” and conveyed the point with equal vigor), which forces you to reflexively let loose a powerful thrust, this being the best you can muster for a dance move, since more adroit dance moves elude you.

Maybe it was better to explode, if all the attractive people were doing it.

Yes, there it was, you were about to explode just like the rest of them. Bodies exploding all around. Tattered viscera turned confetti, and you danced right there among them, ready to explode.

Until you were the only one left, dancing and gyrating.

You felt the ability to collect yourself, look around. Alone. All alone. It was true.

Why hadn’t you exploded? 

No matter how much you thrusted you just wouldn’t explode.

You thrust and thrust out there, engendering deeply ugly debasement of yourself in the process though no one is around to see.

And still, you just won’t explode, no matter what you do.

Just explode already.

Explode!

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Matt Rowan lives in Los Angeles. He edits Untoward and is author of the collections, Big Venerable, Why God Why, and How the Moon Works (Cobalt Press, 2021). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Maudlin House, TRNSFR,  Barrelhouse, PANK, Moon City Review, HAD and Necessary Fiction, among others.