It’s more like seduction. The eyebrows knit and rise, the thin-lipped smile widens, the head nods. Seduction falling from below, up and up and up. Your fists ball up and you feel… triumphant.
Gratifying, better than sex. Being evil, not smashing your fist in someone’s mirror, just being evil. You feel like you could do anything, and get away with it. You feel invicible, like a god. You strut, you tease, you walk on ceilings and think nothing of angels looking up to you from a different angle.
Sex in your walk, your talk, your squeeze, your tease, a wild orchid.
Passers-by say “who are you” and you gift them with smiles and condescension and you strut oh so viciously: like an open palm, fingers askew and outstretched: declaration of intent.
The glossy facade of your blood red lipstick, a ferrari on a two-lane road to nowhere. Parted: the wet sheen like your want. The perspiration on your skin: how dare you. You sway on your tight, tight rope.
Wild orchid.
