There had seldom been couples as striking as you both looked that evening. He wore a tailored black suit and an anthracite tie in a Windsor knot. You had tried your new evening dress. It had a famous name and evanescent laces of black and white, diving in an indecent décolleté. Your beautiful, slender neck, held high by antique jewelry. You were young and brilliant; sexy, and you knew it.

You talked a lot and cleverly. You laughed a lot and cleverly. Made fun of some people who deserved it, and of some who didn't. As the bottle of Riesling dried up, you flirted just enough to keep things interesting.

Those were days of swing and strife. Something about people who shouted a lot, their ideas so loud they called themselves something ending in Ist. You agreed on the politics but argued anyway. 'Tis matter of manners... The devil must always have his advocate.

Chaos loomed. The news was hushed and hurried along: someone had made a grand speech. And from the caresses of her tongue, the city neared the edge. Ah, the atmosphere! The beauty!

The end of the world is so sweet to young people.

The sole meunière was exquisite but the magret overcooked. The flesh barely bled under the knife. You shared a tiramisù and fought over the bill. The waiter was old and an arse. A stingy tip was the loudest form of your polite contempt.

Walking side by side, you heard it first a street away from the restaurant. It was a deep roar, coming from the city's throats. You looked at each other and without a word you laughed. He knew. But it was you who first said, "Let's go!" 

You danced to battle side by side with elegance your armor. Onward, to glory!

The Ists were a flood in the streets. A raucous youth, beating the pavement with iron sticks and bare feet. An irresistible force. For hours, you joined in on the dance and the slogans. He smiled and howled. You threw stones and bottles and kissed a man who had just asked. Everyone laughed.

All around, there was talk of a new world and old things burning. They made love, and fucked the police!

Ah. It was time they joined the dance...An exclusive performance for you tonight, by the swinging coppers. They came in costume, with boots and leather. They just loved to play with batons and plexiglas shields.

The youngest ran to the front and fell to the scythe. Old story. Against the tide of chaos, the plexi dyke held firm and mean. Their bad smiles were full of fear.

Grenades flew, shiny stars shot through the night's sky. Where they fell, the Ists ran amok, away from the gas.

2-Chlorobenzalmalonitrile. Such a bitch... She swirls and dances in the arms of the cold wind, a formless mistress in smokey white laces. She is gracious indeed. An exquisite fuckery, who grabs you by the throat never to let go. She tangos you down and down again, leaves you blind, furious and weak... Leads you straight into a cute little world of hurt.

You fled, stumbled away holding each other. Barely breathing. Your eyes were blurry. Was it laughter or chemistry? He cried and so did you.

Evil white fog and plexi shields on one side, thick black smoke and raging Ists on the other. You were lost at the world's end. What are you waiting for? Run for your fucking life, citizen!

Adrenaline really has a terrible taste. Bitter. Even the magret was better. But... Are we to go back to this restaurant ? Food for thought.

A narrow back alley. A mere hole in the wall to keep you away from the leather boots and the madness. You took care of each other, with caresses and hugs and kind words. You opened our eyes and looked. The suit was in pieces, the gown ruined, the decolleté a cascade of tears and cold sweat.

You felt hideous and terrified. How could you not kiss?

Your lips locked together. Exalted. Avid.

The wall you fell against scratched with old chalk the last hopes of ever saving the gown for another night. You did not care. His tongue danced with yours, in the music of the city's screams. His caresses climbed along your neck, your thighs... Your teeth ripped against skin, with abandon and mad happiness.

No one ever knew what was the spark that lit it all. A forgotten candle, a Molotov cocktail or new found love. The city was aflame. It burned and burned, with cleansing desire.

The caresses became daring, then forbidden. His fingers crawled their way to the culotte you held so dear. In the night, your nudity was barely a glimpse, a promise of the ruined gown and shady public lights. They veiled you in shadows and that could not stand.

The gown was first to fall, revealing your shoulders and little, hard, pink nipples. They pulsed and bounced under his tongue. Rolled between his lips. Delicious. Little moans slipped your lips to swirl in the breeze. Fire spread. It blazed along your nerves, fueling your lust. Your lungs tainted by tear gas ached. It was delight.

The fear had dealt away with shame. Rage had consumed the doubts. Fuck the precious gown, and the jewelry, and the sexy culotte, and reason, and what was right, and all the rest!

You would abandon it all right there. There was no cock you wouldn't suck. No hole you wouldn't give away. Nothing at all you would resist. You were destroyed so you were free. Fucked by the whole world on the dirty pavement of a sordid back alley, you would be happy. Your own personal Apocalypse.

But there was only him and his eyes, mirrors of your own... His cock as hard as your pussy was gushing. He fucked you right there, for all to see, without thoughts or nuances. Pleasure took over your every nerve. The riot flowing around was but a blur. The violent men, quiet as still water. Tear gas floated and reached for you. You welcomed the bitch back as an old friend.

Someone took a picture. The riot was magnificent, a battle scene from the Renaissance. It told a classic tale, about an old war and a young couple. He wore half a suit, she held the relics of a stylish gown. Her breast looked so delicious you could taste it. Her eyes, full of tears, were lights of bliss. On the front page of the Herald, a sneaky scribbler titled it: “Make love not war”.