1953

People, particularly men, expect me to be a certain way. My ultra-feminine sensuality makes them want to fuck me and protect me, own me, struggle to breathe me. They're so predictable. It's become too easy. All it takes is a lick of my lips and a flick of my hips and they're mine.

I fantasise that I'm an expert seductress, a hunter prowling the old pubs of London. Bored and untouchable. I've had all the men, played all their games, better. Then one night I meet a woman, different to anyone I've met before. An elusive artist with penetrating eyes, she undoes me completely. The lines of our masculine and feminine blur and this excites me. We dance in dimly lit rooms, heavy with smoke. She undresses me, paints me, fucks me. She makes me come harder than I ever have. And she never promises to protect me.