Sandrine

But he said I was beautiful.

I was standing unaware in my polka dot dress, dancing in the shadows of my gorgeous friends. You thought I was dressed to impress.

You picked me out like a daisy in a summer field, you singled me out like the book of secrets. Next thing I know you were grazing my hips, «you are beautiful» you whispered, and I couldn’t believe my ears.

My first reflex was to turn around and see if my friends had all come up with some sort of rash, of swelling allergic reaction or better, sudden death. No, they were right there besides me, their striking golden beauty aura blinding every man in the place but you. You. You were looking at me, you were horny for me, you wanted only me.

I felt so special.

All night we engaged in a playful tango of seduction where you would come on to me and I would gently push you away. I felt like I had to make you work for it. I was a woman of word, of brain, I was not easy. Or so I thought. In reality I couldn’t believe for a a second you thought I was beautiful, that you would pick me out like the hard-to-get orchid I was pretending to be. I had to get proof. I had to test you. To see if it was for real. To see how much you wanted me. To quantify, to testify, to calculate, ...