Call Girl

She is candy when she's hot and pliable.

She is double jointed taffy.

She bends forward to kiss you, and backward to please you.

She is your island.

The dreamy place you go when your body lilts and your eyes go vacant.

She's got long tawny arms. Soft, golden, downy little hairs on them.

She's got plush lips. Little mauvey pillows.

When she speaks she whispers. When she speaks, she echoes.

Her breasts heave when she gasps for air. And she gasps for air when you leave the room. Only then.

She has coal-black hair. Sooty tendrils that stick to the wet kiss you left on her cheek.

And you love the way it feels when it falls into your face. You breath her in. She smells unfamiliar.

You like to wrap one hand around her knobby, young wrists. Hold them tight.

Whisper into the seashell curve of her ear " All mine, all mine, all mine."

When she squares her shoulders and draws up her spine, and straightens out all the little kinks and curves in her body, do you think she's standing at attention for you?

Or is she bracing for impact.

Your little cotton candy girl.

Her little cotton candy panties.

You slip a $100 bill into them.

She produces that practiced smile.

You see sunshine in it.

You want to pop a lollipop between those lips.

Is it love?

Does she surrender her soul to you?

Can you surrender your soul in 1 hour?

When she leaves, the room smells stale.

Your eyes refocus.

You leave your island.