…then here are a thousand words.
I’m sitting at the bar in my favorite coffee shop, sipping hot chai. The sun shines on my face, blocked by a building for now, but already filling the shop with warmth, almost enough to make the chilly morning commuters start sweating. The room is a little muggy, but it smells like hot milk and steam, boots and denim, pastries and the scent of sweet spices all fill my lungs (the scent is technically in my nose, but lungs are sexier, because they’re under my breasts ;-P). My book is open before me but I’m not currently reading it, choosing instead to think about the way my skin feels when the rays of the rising sun begin to slide down my face and onto my freckled shoulders. I watch the people walking by, boarding buses and nursing hangovers. Of course I just got off work and I’m looking forward to an hour or two of morning productivity before I crash… and I’m waiting for someone. I have a description but I never need it. I’m always early so I’m ready when you walk in the door, checking you phone for that last email and looking round surreptitiously. You’re looking for someone, too. I catch your eye and it takes a moment for you to be sure I’m the one you’re looking for. I always forget to tell you what I’m wearing. I’ve never made a mistake finding the man I’m to meet, so I simply forget how nerve wracking it can be. You haven’t seen my face before, so while you were prepared for the rest of me (until my clothes come off. You’ll be re-surprised) you weren’t quite ready for my face. It’s in the shape of an acorn or a heart, well proportioned, with natural eyebrows, light brown without today’s popular exaggerated arch. My hair is swept back from my face so you can easily see my eyes, their size accented with a touch of eyeliner and a wisp of mascara, but true to themselves. The left one has a small dot in it that, if you look closely enough and the light is good enough, is a discernible ‘x’ marking some sort of spot. There’s probably a clever remark about treasure being behind the eyes to be made, but I’ll leave that for you to supply 😉 My nose is perfectly average. It doesn’t turn up, nor down, or to either side. It is neither too large, nor too small, the most unusual thing about it is a freckle right at the tip, easily ignorable unless you have a thing for freckles. Then it may even compete for your attention with my lips. By far my favorite facial feature in many people, not just myself, my lips are soft… I mean really soft. Like the bottoms of the feet of toddlers. Like the feel of rose petals when you rub them on your lips. If you’ve never done htis you’re keeping from yourself a delightful sensual input that never gets old. They are pink and light, complemented perfectly by the creamy, barely tanned complexion of my face, shoulders, and arms. They are topped by that little dent just below my nose and it adds a flair to the curve of my lips as it deepens, anticipating this new experience. I have a small, soft dimple… not in my cheek where it would be cute, but on my chin, matching the men in my family and balancing the eyes, the lips, and the laughter to make me a special kind of ordinary. There’s nothing exotic about my face, with its freckles and soft cheekbones, but there is something real. Something genuine that draws people out. Some people walk around with what we like to call ‘chronic bitch face’ where your regular “I’m thinking and in a neutral mood” looks like “there’s a giant pile of bonfire wood in my soul and you’re holding the match. Light it. I dare you.” I seem to walk around with a cherub behind my eyes. Strangers tell me I look nice, people I will never see again smile at me and say nice things to me. Part of it is simply that people can be very good. Part of it is that I, all of me, not just my face, invites it. I’m so not exotic that I almost shouldn’t be pretty, but I am, and you notice. You’ve seen this face which surprised you, and the dark, dense freckling across my shoulders and down to my wrists. You can see just a peek of cleavage, firm, young, with a visual texture of… well, I can’t think of anything that looks and feels like a soft, pert bosom and isn’t that jell-o salad mom used to make from green pistachio flavored jell-o and cottage cheese. Even that is a poor comparison. I’m open to suggestions. Regardless of what it looks like, what it is is irresistible. You behave like a gentleman and keep your eyes above my delicate collar bone, but not without difficulty. I greet you like an old friend, with a hug and a big warm hello. You sit down with your coffee and we chat. We talk about what your day looks like and what my plans are and we talk about what we like to do in our free time. We exchange funny stories and thoughts on the NSA scandal and I forget myself for a moment while I get angry that no one, myself included, seems able to do a damn thing about it. Before long, you know which books I just finished and I’ve added a few to my list and as I look up from my list, you can see in my eyes that something is on my mind. I’ve made the decision. Your effort at wooing me, making me feel safe, has paid off. I’m asking you with my eyes and my words if you’re ready for another first time.