There was a girl on the Metro today. The snugness of her shirt emphasized her chest, the abundant breasts amplified by the straightness of her back, which didn't touch the rise of the seat. She held the posture of a pianist. Her hands played the smoothness of her thighs.
Her skirt was short as hope. Her movements tugged it higher.
She knew that she was being watched, scrutinized, desired — and not only by me. She expected this attention, this hommage. Her lips pulled up with a conscious smirk.
When do women become aware of their sex, how it is hungered after and coveted? It is a power they wield. Those who submit, do they give the power up? Does it increase in its abdication?
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I'd been aware since I was about 5 that I had "privates" that were...not so much hungered after and coveted (those ideas were too sexual for a little girl to be warned of), but...in danger, perhaps. In danger of being touched, looked at inappropriately, violated in unknown dirty ways. Genitals, my chest, my bottom...only mom, dad, and Dr. Zade could look at them and touch them, and then only briskly for reasons of health and safety.
I became truly aware of the desirability, mystery, and power of these parts about a year after menstruation. So, by the time I was fourteen; 8th grade. My breasts had been budding since 6th grade but they were sore, annoying little cushions. Menstruation at age thirteen remained a mere curiosity for months - I wasn't instantly awash with fertile fuck me hormones.
Definitely by the time I hit high school I was creamy panties on wheels. I was fantasizing wildly, masturbating, dressing to accentuate my breast/waist/hip ratio, imagining the boys noticed. I don't know if they noticed or not. I doubt it. you know I was a straight-A student, and wore glasses to boot, and that was all probably offputting.
Hmm...there was one fellow named Adam, a year behind me in school. I think he noticed. A geeky, skinny, raven-haired thing, so full of enthusiasm he spat a little when he talked sometimes. He played the sax and wrote plays and he always asked me to dance. I check on him via MySpace once in a while. Forgive me, Raj?
Anyway. I don't know that submission means one gives up the powers of one's bodily sex. It's more like...the powers become more potent and enjoyable because they're being shared. It's like a bottomless bottle of red wine. One could become bored, satiated keeping it all to oneself, or one could see what developments unfold when one shares the bottle with a friend.
Do you think I'm giving you all the seductive powers of my tits, my trimmed up pussy when I submit to you? I don't feel that I am. I keep the powers, wield the powers, share some of the powers with you as you decide what you'll make me do with them.
But then, I am not the truest of submissives.
--Amy
There's nothing to forgive, my dear.
I don't believe you are giving all your seductive powers up. I wouldn't want you to. I do think I have control over some of them, and in ways that matter. A few summers ago, on an otherwise ordinary weekday, an e-mail was waiting for me when I arrived at work:
On a whim, I shaved my pussy bare this morning.
I am like a little girl. I feel giddy inside.
Do you remember?
I told you to flash someone who would be moved by the gesture. Maybe it would be the pimple faced adolescent boy who had never seen a woman's cunt. Maybe it would be the widower with the stink of loneliness who hadn't had any in a decade plus. I imagined the possibilities all the day, but never did ask who you had chosen. It was — it is — enough for me to know that you had done so on command.
(Maybe the girl on the Metro was also playing bedroom games?)
I don't want the truest of submissives, Amy. I want you.
In Paris one has the Vélib'. It's amusing to sit at the café in the afternoon with a glass of wine and watch the women riding bicycles in their summer skirts. They pass along the Seine, on the great boulevards of the city, through slender streets paved with cobble, where once the barricades of the revolution stood. They sit in motion on sun-warmed saddles, the colors whipping behind them like flags. The fabric is bunched above the knee. Muscular legs catch the light. Occasionally, knickers flash.
I have become a lech.
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