The mirror is old.
A Victorian hand mirror. Picked up in poor student days - when a mirror was needed but nothing fancy was required.
How many women have glanced in it? Looked in it.
How many women have lain on their bed, the afternoon sunlight streaking across their soft, white thighs, parted their lips, their labias and looked ... really looked at themselves in that mirror?
Looked to see what men see?
How simple it all appears.
How innocently simple ...
The key to it all lies hooded .. snug and safe ..
Unmask the pearl beneath the cowl and know what a bud must feel like when it bursts into flower...
Unfurling, unraveling, unstoppable ... If the flower never unfurled - there would be no more flowers .. No honey .. nothing for the bee's rasping probe ..
Surely, it must feel the same?
As my Core glistens and becomes slick with Curiosity, I draw a wet finger over the folds, the velvet of my pinkness and my desire rises ..
The slightest touch becomes Exquisite.
The more Exquisite it feels, the more inviting the picture becomes ..
Running with wetness, deepening in colour, ripening in fragrance, demanding to be devoured like the ripest peach in the basket...
If the peach was not eaten, there would be no stone .. if there is no stone, there would be no more peaches ...
Originally published December 2007: XXXMas