Something that can only be called Genius Sex

Last night my inebriated brain was a spanked beehive of activity before I passed out. I happened to think about this recital back in high school, something that was sparsely attended during lunch, not a big nighttime production, just some of the in-house geniuses playing music. There was the shy cello prodigy with the super-sensitive ears who was also no slouch at math and had no TV at home, and she tore up the joint as usual. Then she stood to one side as her boyfriend, another genius at math, and science, and, almost as a weird afterthought, badminton, expertly played the violin. And we all elbowed each other as the cellist started unconsciously stroking the shaft of her instrument, captivated by her boyfriend's performance.

But it took until last night, a good ten years later, to lay and wonder about their sex life, whether it was awkward and tentative, which is what I would've assumed back then, or elaborate and super-secret, or something that can only be called Genius Sex, or just regular, or if it only existed in the mutual appreciation of each other's virtuosity.

After that I thought about being able to shoot long streams of fire from my hands and what that would feel like. I am not kidding.