I know what you see, when you look at me. A small, unremarkable middle-aged woman. Perhaps you think my lipstick is a little too red for my advanced years? Why doesn’t she, you think, wear something more appropriate? Perhaps you look a second time and are troubled by the arch of my dark eyebrow. Perhaps it wears an unsuitable curve of arrogance or, worse, an obscene invitation? And what is that? Is that the sliver of a stocking top? The crook at the corner of the garish mouth? The slick, black click of a heel? The shadow of dark lace beneath my apposite blouse?
When he touches me, there, like that, with his voodoo concoction of casual ownership and arrogant defiance, how could I not be the most beautiful woman alive? That single gesture invalidates every other measure.
There are traces of my red lipstick, the lingering wetness of my mouth, still around the base of his cock. His fingers still bear the faint nutmeg scent of my cunt. My hips still have the fading red marks of where he grasped me. My labia are still swollen. My inner thighs still damp, sticky with the evidence of his desire. There is no voice like his. No tongue so hypnotic, no language so ancient, or wise or raw. I will be gone long before you ever learn the grammar of it, if you ever do.
There, in your world of pleasure transactions, of sexual caricatures and autonomic genital reflex, you beaver away in your quest for the conquest of the easily conquered and the two-beer purchase of giggling pussy. And from what I can see, it’s never stopped challenging you.
Ours is another world, little boy. And, no matter how fast you grow up, you’ll never be big enough to step through its doors.