[When I think of lust, I think of four-inch Mary Jane platforms, all black patent leather and white piping tracing the edges, being worn by a girl with the longest damn legs you ever saw—calves that curved around, butter smooth, settled over with a fine layer of gold hair, thighs like the long thunder rolling through a hot July night, and the tightest pair of hot pants you ever did see, cupped like not even second skin but first around her fleshy rump. The kinda girl who her friends say (the sharp, skinny ones at least) shouldn't exactly be wearing hot pants anyway cuz look at how her butt keeps pushing out from under the shimmery material, all sweet and jiggly and needing just and exactly the sort of attention I could be giving to it. Yeah, these cold nights up here in Detroit when the stream heat's not working right and I can hardly get the damn stove going hot enough to put some warmth into my too-tight studio, all I can do is think on Shirleen in those near-carnivorous hot pants, and how she let me in 'em just that one Christmas before I left.]
a true story (whether you believe it or not), by lesléa newman
[She sure was pretty. More than pretty. Gorgeous. A real looker. Awesome, like the kids on Mrs. Lawrence's block would say. I knew she was a stranger around here, 'cause I know every woman in this town — those who do, those who don't, and those who might. This one would, I was sure of it.
She was wearing jeans that fit her just right — tight enough to give you a good idea of what was under 'em, but loose enough to keep you guessing just a little bit. She had on this red shirt that was cut straight across the shoulders so that her collarbone was peeking out a little bit and I could just see the edge of her bra strap, which was black and lacy. She had on these little red shoes that damn near broke my heart and a mess of silver bracelets on her right arm that made a heck of a noise sliding down her wrist and crashing into each other when she reached into her purse for her wallet. There musta been fifty of 'em or more. Her pocketbook was red too and so were her nails and so was her lipstick. Not too red though. Not cheap red of flashy red. There's red and there's red, you know what I mean, and this red looked real good. She had silver hoops in her ears, to match her bracelets maybe, and she was a big woman, which suited me fine. I like my women big, you know, like those old painters like Renoir usta paint. None of this Twiggy stuff for me. I like a woman you can hold onto. A woman you're not afraid you're gonna break if you squeeze too tight. A woman with a little meat on her bones.
Well, I took all of this in in about two seconds flat and then I looked away, 'cause I didn't want her to think I was being impolite or nothing. I know my manners and my mama taught me...]
cunt cult, by dorianne erickson moore
[Wind sways the curtains and sends in a hit of chilly air, which traces my skin sharply. I rise, calm, and walk across the cool, creaking wood floor. I stretch. Reaching up, I pull my body loose, and the rap on the door comes. Sliding open the lock, I allow her in, this handsome woman on the edge of fifty. She looks up at me, her light blue eyes glinting and her slow smile scattering my thoughts. Though seven inches taller than she, I feel short. Her close-cut blonde hair is lighter than mine and it frames her pale skin with an edge of other-worldliness. She is dressed in Levi's, a warm jacket, a t-shirt, and black cowboy boots. She tosses down her red backpack and then shakes off her jacket. I lock the door. As usual the sixty-year-old door sticks and I have to slam it shut. The sharp crack makes me jump and I look over to see her smiling at my shaking hands. I slide them into my back pockets and wait. No words yet. Do I talk first? Does she?
She says, "What's for dinner?"
Is this a trick question? I go for the easy answer and lead her into the kitchen, where I have set out a simple meal of bread, cheese, and fruit. I've been much too nervous to cook anything. She sits at the table. I sit. She thoughtfully chooses an apple wedge, slowly pushes it into her mouth, and sucks on it, savoring. My shaking hands starts its reach for the food and then jumps when she bites down on the apple with a hard snap. I manage to get down a bit of bread and cheese, knowing more than ever that I'll need lots of energy.]
kianamaiart
prguitarman
dailybridgerton
2087
turnnoffyourmind
