A Moment of Mine

The sharp clacking sound of her cadencing stilettos grows louder with each step. It pierces my ears and all else is fading to white noise. Clack..clock..clack..clock. The waves stir the sleeping monster bedded in my loins. My imagination waits patiently for the revealing sight of the promising clad above the clacks. Then, she suddenly steps into view and reveals herself; sometimes as a stinging point to pop the hope bubble - but not this time - oh no. This time, the vexing vixen unknowingly carries on her a weapon so powerful that it melts me from a stolid strength of smarts down to a bumbling beggar of buffoonery.

Fetishes. Seen by their victims as poisonous little spies masquerading about in naive indifference. Some tantalizing triggers are ghastly, harmful and contemptible even to those who create them; but don't worry, not mine. No. I, Thomas of group fortunate, am casted with a spell whose worst offense causes the eye-rolling amuse of a chuckling woman. My condition, my combination, will walk up to me or past me, quite literally, is she so pleases; a gorgeous, dressed-up pair of legs. And please note: not just any legs. No madame. Even Humbert Humbert said if every girl-child was a nymphet he'd have long gone insane. Well, these torments of Tommy must hit a certain note. They must 'stand-out,' in particular pedigree; although I don't find them so uncommon either, I'm afraid. These ideal legs would likely be supporting the body of a health-conscious, young (or less young) adult woman whose smooth skin tightly wraps crafted curves that were developed with a degree of devotion to both fitness and that artful glide over which she commands those hypnotic bells of clack.

Am I that bumbling beggar yet? Almost. Her canvas simply needs an accentuating frame. And this is where Tom becomes Tom. The sudden stepper is displaying, for instance, below the hips, a snug black skirt ending mid thigh to meet the expose of sheer black tights that cling down her skin all the way down into her lovely stilettos. Ok. The bumbling will now begin.

A red ripe steam whistles through my spine.

I'm leaving the planet en route to mine.

Enter this timeless cave of lust and desire,

A hapless riddle I accept and admire.

The titillating journey that fills my cup,

Let me drink every detail,

from the ground - up.

She's chosen with exquisite taste. I see pointed pillars hoisting the heels of two cascading canoes of designer delight for a showroom display of the feet, cherried by a thin belt of the stiletto skin that ties around the ankles into a delicate little silvery buckle to lock the material starkly against her screened skin. I must remember to breathe. Her tights and their shimmer. Her glossy new skin stretches thinner, tighter as they wrap up and over her blossomed calves and around her delicate knees for a smooth and flawless shine. Tighter still, I watch them ascend her feminine thighs until they disappear under the tunnel of fashionable fabric that binds her legs together. My jaw has dismissed his guard. The cocoon of skirt sells the shapes the forbidden fruits of sinuous gluteals and teases me all the way back to imagination's new beginning. I feel purged of my former self.

The ways she moves can stir me to soup. Standing straight and slacking a knee, twisting her legs to make them into one, sitting down and pressing them together while lifting the toes for a quick stretch of the calves, the advancing and lagging repeat to create those daunting clacks. Such weapons! But the most disrupting of them all, the settling movement that reduces me to my reptilian being, crawling to eat out of her hand, is when she happens to raise one demon and drape it over the other, leaving the floating foot-bait to dangle and kick about my new sight that now feasts on the exact fit of her shoe, her pressed calf under contouring tights... her skirt pulled higher up her leg! And maybe, just maybe, if the moment is quiet enough, I'll hear the carnal cricket of rubbing nylon between her legs.

Yes, this is where I'm left. Stripped bare, curtain-less, frantically holding onto composure. What happens from here: I never know how to assume. Will we talk? If we must, will she detect this insane longing to caress her legs and feed my starving senses? Perhaps I'll release my thoughts vicariously with a sartorial compliment as I secretly beg for her to acknowledge what she's wearing. She may find my words charming if crafted just right. But no, it's better to stay focused, and find and present what grace and wit I can. And I convince myself to remain hidden in my world until I'm called to come out.