C’est moi…la femme d’aujourd’hui, la femme d’hier, la foule (qui s’élance et qui danse une folle farandole)…
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Womanish cohesion
[Daydream study]
(…)the back of the knee, stubbornly sallying out of her flowing skirt, flappery, skittish, so innocent and yet so arousing. She turns around, serious, indifferent, looking for a book in the shelves above she raises her foot a bit, showing off the playful ankle, like a gift, a dance or perhaps a subtle invitation. You can notice it flitching, a small poppy movement that makes you bite your lips, slowly opening them. Ridiculed by your persistent rivets, you try to concentrate on your reading, or at least get up of the floor, but you can not give away the “front row seats”, and you like it there, standing back against the bookshelf, trying to hide your interest behind the words flying on the sheets of paper, and a sweet smell of mildew bourbon hovers around, shyly spread from the yellowish library tome’s pages. You can almost feel the old librarian’s bluish eyes sticking to your nape, percipient at your sinful aims from the back of the shiny eyeglasses on her nose. Your peers slither upon the collarbone, as the pin up retires in a corner trying to choose a flamboyant piece of writing. With a sudden slip of eyelashes, you notice the inferior part of the breast, hugged by her opalescent arm, contouring an arch-like mellow crescent that you’d wildly turn your hand to and nab with your teeth… it’s such a tease…even your imaging is withheld by the thought of the pain you might cause. Scansion beats of swinging vogues form with incredible swift: you kiss that warm, soft delve which perfectly fits the fingertips, with flaming shivery lips, then the inner part of the thigh, playful, leading, fearful yet longing, the wrist, right between interior of the forearm and palm, so white and trusting, the small veins adumbrate a map of compelling trickles, teeming with life. You can now see her standing naked in front of a mirror, rapidly try to occlude her sculpture inside your eyelids, you absorb her curved waist, and in a fetch you turn into a potter, modeling your Galatea – an earthenware hourglass, pressing your palms and fingers’ apex against her lacuna spidery waistline and go up to the ribs, savory bust, hardened nipples…her neck gets wet with pleasure, then you start descending to (…)
