I have to image my thoughts and reactions mirrored those of a man staring down a 72 mile an hour Peterbilt—except with less of an erection. Everything shimmering for attention; nothing fading to the periphery.
First I notice her unnatural Cardinal-red hair; coal-black eyebrows; and gem-green eyes. First I see her tiny areoles and upraised nipples like arrows bullseying two targets and waiting on a quiver more to be loosed. First I stare at her asymmetrical tattoos. Her left arm sleeve is a whirlwind of all the classics: Hula Girl, Oriental Flower, Aboriginal, and Jailhouse Knuckles—a Stabbed Heart with Mom Scroll curiously absent. A Bald Eagle clutching a Skull descends through her cleavage and a Lotus Blossom flanked by handmaiden Roses rises womanly from her other cleavage.
But first I’m drawn to how her hips drift outward and upward then give way to her waist. Then first I see that gentle angle mimics the slighter softer one spreading her collarbones to her shoulders.
But even before all those startled yet meandering thoughts I think her red, white, and blue starred panties seem simultaneously incongruous, because she’s Russian, and patriotic, because we’re in a DC hotel. Then, first, I consider her not sitting in bed slender, legs bent with knees to her chin like an innocent, nor sprawled with smooth legs twined creating a focus line drawing my attention along the contoured horizon of her warm skin to her blush-pink lips and wanton smile. Instead I first realize she stands in the bed waiting not for me to approach but waiting for her decision on when and how to attack.
I have no control here. Every inclination I’ve considered, every consideration I’ve deliberated, every deliberation I’ve set aside she inspired in me. This night will not end until she closes it down.