If it’s about heat, panting and contortions, it can’t be that bad
Imagine a rectangular room seeping with a damp mist. The inside of the room maintains itself at 105 degrees Fahrenheit. The front wall is covered in mirrors. It is densely packed with heaving, perspiring bodies succumbing to gravity’s supple entreaty, contorting with the capabilities of animals and writhing under the strain-induced tremor of their aching musculature. There are no windows in this basement room. Bright fluorescent lights make visible every clinging garment, illuminate every fold of skin pulled across the nearly nude, fluidly-moving bodies. No one speaks. Beyond the...
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