4

She blinked again and I read it. I study her face with passion. I like the material. I like the shape, the content, and I even like the aroma that emanates from her body as she passes. Tight zip-up hooded sweatshirt, wife-beater underneath, and velour pants over a nice looking causal sneaker. I love that look, the light shine of the material, the strings that hang down, both at the bottom of the hood and at the crotch of her pants, helping to accentuate and extend the line from her chin down between her breasts to her vagina. The aroma hits as she passes, it’s a fresh scent, sometimes lightly vanilla, sometimes lightly fruit, not a specific fruit, a synthetically acceptable fruit that gains its acceptance through emanation from such a tight bodied exemplar. There is a sliver of exposed skin between the bottom of her shirt and the waistline of her pants. There is a tease of stomach and hips and a cloth barricade above her trimmed patch of pubic hair. I steadily imagine it.(The desire to know that she wants you to slip your hand beyond that barricade can be overwhelming; overwhelming if you are infatuated enough.) The skin is there to intrigue, the creep shows and the normal people alike. There are no mistakes in this atmosphere. I smile from one hip bone to another, in control… but fancifully dazed. I wouldn’t be in danger of walking into a table, but my formulations are single track.

I don’t give a shit about hygiene, love, or consistency; I just want to cuddle up to some tenderness.