Flirting

To Whom It May Concern,

I have spent long years watching and listening and learning, about men. Even through marriage I still work. Finding things out, slowly teasing confessions, nervous laughter and then watching, eyes wide and slowly they reveal. I have flirted since age twelve, my first victim my dear friend, best buddy for life, and it began so sweetly. Out of the blue while climbing trees, that odd spring during eight grade, I decided I wanted someone to look at me the way Richard Chamberlain's character had looked at his desire in Shogun. I had also decided I wanted to be a geisha, which my parents simply accepted. Thus I was spending hours in a kimono jacket and peeling tangerines into decorative patterns. I zeroed in on my friend John and decided to make him look at me the way Ajin-san had...and so it began. I knelt as he talked about school, at his feet, in a kimono. He accepted this new behavior and my parents basically ignored my eccentricities, the same was the next year they would ignore my interest in Mae West and burlesque. But with my father's antique business we always had awesome props, thus the beautiful teal kimono and sash.

Next I began to speak more carefully, working on my geisha moves, and slowly it captivated John. Whereas before he'd have punched me now he kept trying to catch my eyes. Perfecting the downcast glance and soft smile, my work paying off as he left football games early, and would now eat the tangerines I carefully peeled. Finally I took the geisha act on the road and made sure during our massive games of kick the can I would find him, snuggle with him into the best hiding places and continue to press my advantage. The night he finally kissed me I was ecstatic. His breathlessness matched my own and I knew, from the new heat around him, from the little soft moan when he stopped that I had discovered some wonderful magic.

Over three decades I have worked the same magic upon a select few, and reaped the rewards. My looks are not special, my intelligence is, my figure far from perfect, my wit rapier, in short until I turn the magic on I blend as standard. But sometimes if my fancy is snared it begins, the look over my glasses, the smile, then eyes downcast. Still peeling tangerines, slow and graceful. But over the years my other interests overtook the geisha-burlesque star, tavern wench, madam in a brothel (my Victorian phase) and lastly temple harlot. But all these things now add up to a bawdy, overly open, line crossing, pervy wench.

I say and do things designed to shock my gentle readers. I touch and trash talk in ways designed to get under the skin of those who know me best. I let my geisha shine, and temper her with a bawdy harlot. Catch my eye on the wrong day and its all soccer mom with way to much to do.

Yet on the right day, catch my eye and hang on the ride might be bumpy. I use language ladies don't, yet blush like a schoolgirl. I stay on my side of the fence yet push you to vault it. I cyber like a slut yet offer advice like a therapist.

I love the rush of flirts, the edginess of want, and the hope and pray of lust. I love the game-it's free fall, no entanglements. I would have been magnificent at the flings and flirts of a high court. Fidelity above all, monogamy is not a limit but a definition. Lusty wishes whispered, phrases you might pay to hear spoken.

I believe in shock and awe, dropping verbal hints at what might happen. E-temptations, images ripped from a mind that can talk itself into orgasm. Submissions easily given, DaddyDoms, hard limits and laughing at a pirate's wenchy wishes.

Giddy with longing, itches to be scratched, permission given, lust typed out so it drips, wet and wanting.

And it all began so long ago, the wind in a tree reminding me that I wanted something un-named. And still now the rush of a breeze, summertime wishes, late night clouds all remind me. The thunderstorms I have watched the rain I have made love in, the woods quiet except for my own pleasure cries.

Yet forever inside is that girl on the cusp of woman, wanting that magic, hearing the notes and her body knowing the music before she realized it. So that is whose doors I open when flirting.

My as yet unkissed self joins with the experienced slut and together they wait for that open hungry look seen on the face of a man tormented by his forbidden desire. It is that look I crave, the breathing changes, the surprised laughter, the new delight, and the smiles at words that tumble freely making promises I would be delighted to keep.

The delicious flavors of flirts, warning folks of an impending flirt seems to rattle them, taking them off guard before the play begins. How fabulous to push limits, to push wants, to make offers and see where they are taken. How many lines can be crossed? So simple to go from I never cyber, to God please I want to hear you beg. How tempting to draw new sets of lines, how simply wonderful to watch resolutions crumble. Taunting the bear the villagers have chained is never wise, bears growl and snap but most of all sometimes they can move their chains far enough to grab you. Then it's all about a feeding frenzy, lips, tongues and teeth.

The restrictions of life sometimes suffocate, and so diminish drive and want. But it never clears, always there, waiting. The governments own edicts about pornography have created subtle signal, signs of want ably answered, the world's morals don't always apply. Sometimes heat makes its own morals, want draws the lines and thus it issues forth renewed. Thus I now hope you will understand why I refuse to apologize for my behavior.

Sincerely,

wanton