In Avignon, July 1999
in Carbon 14, number 17, spring 2000


There she sits with her back to me, four tables away at the "Lalogene" Bar, in central Avignon, Festival Time. Four tables away but mere inches from my roving eyes. Four tables away but oh, so close and piquant, sits the young one with the auburn hair.
And a great glorious auburn mass it is, swimming in henna, dropping-dripping down her back, a back of gold and tan, ochre and sienna, flesh and sun both hot and molten. Nails polished of aureus translucence flutter about her face as she speaks animatedly, Italian style.
Bracelets and ancient bangles dangle-jangle on butterfly wrists, to-and-froing from drink to mouth to cigarette to hair to my entranced hypnosis. The shoulders are bare. She wears a short vest, an Indian Paithani weave of sorts, that must expose much mid-riff and belly button when she stands. But there she sits and it's that perfect smooth and downy lower back that moves and undulates as she fidgets about, all hot and bothered, no doubt.
And that gets us (eyes, soul, lubricity,--… and hands, we wish!!), to the crux of the matter, the proverbial nitty-gritty, the essence of my attention.
The trousers are black, with black paisley patterns, VERY lo-cut, and as she leans forward, much curvaceous derriere struggles to be free. Oh, how much it struggles!! It sinuously weaves up, down and around, turns left, turns right, assumes balance, oscillates, sashays, speaks in tongues, SCREAMS for recognition….
And, best of all, charm and delectation ineffable, it sends out into the world the upper part of a black G-string, the belt end if you will, riding as high as the trousers fall low. No subtle hint, here. The elastic belt is thin, but that's nothing compared to the string venturing down into regions of delight and inscrutability. Some call this variety "dental-floss G-string": a charming description indeed. Back in the days, one had to lift the covering cotton or silk to get one's hand on the round and soft butt therein. Nowadays, you have to part the smiling cheeks to get to the silken thread covering nary a thing!

Up to this point, I had only seen her from the back, and glorious as it was, it had not prepared me for the Te Deum of wonder, the Hosannas of bewilderment, and the Hallelujahs of enchantment to be found in her perfect obverse, when she turned ever so fleetingly to point to something in my general direction.
Mediterranean was her face with deep burning black eyes laden with erotic invite, blending to perfection a sense of shame with hints of perversion; long lashes under the shades of abundant eyebrows, inviting you to consider the prettiest of noses, with that slight upturn alluding to endless glee, leading to her mouth. The mouth. That Mouth!
Lips of magic, lips of ensnarement. Full and abundant, dark red and oh, so finely co-ordinated with the henna of her hair, the proverbial ripe fruit waiting to be tasted, their succulence the dream of desert-lost adventurers, those lips could tell me of Eleusinian Mysteries as well as suckle the sacred hydromel whilst she worshiped my sceptre and jewels. The chin, the fleshy cheeks, the oval of the face, it was all there in absolute divinity. The kind of face that would make a preacher lay his bible down (ask Muddy Waters or your preacher!).
At this point, I decided I had to do something. Luck and C'Thulu working in unison, the Dutch group at the table next to Ms. Goddess decided to leave at this blessed moment. Not even waiting for the waiter to clear the table, I moved in. She looked at me as I sat down, and I blurted something about escaping the sun, quite inane indeed, since the table I escaped enjoyed equal shading with this new one. But how could I tell her that her shade was all I craved?
The conversation I then proceeded to eavesdrop was all about her philandering boss and her job as a summer maid in a rich vacationing family's household, on holiday in Avignon for the Festival. Not sure if Mr. Big Boss managed to have his way with her, but it sounded as if he tried mightily. Ah, the joys of ancillary amours: little maids tend to fuck as enthusiastically as duchesses, but they're a whole lot cheaper. Don't you agree, M'lord?
Now, I'm sitting facing her, and thanks to dark sunglasses, I can continue my exploration. The vest I spoke of earlier is also very low-cut on the front side, giving one a fine view on some superb cleavage. Venus de Provence having eschewed a bra this afternoon, I find myself able to see breasts with a will, the will to expose as much of themselves as Missy's movements will allow. And all excited as she is by the lurid tale of her employer's attentions, she allows plenty, believe me!
Firm they seem ("Excuse me Miss, may I cup your boobs and check for texture and warmth?"), and abundant without excess, enough for a double-handed elevation as the twinkling of bells and the chants of cherubs lead the adorers to the altar of her nipples.
At one point, she bends forward and I see one berry of a nipple, nicely erect possibly due to the perverse excitement of her tale. Later, she stretches tigress-like and it's a full view of a gold ring pierced belly button I am regaled with! Where will it all end? How much more can I take? Ah, to be her acolyte for a lifetime or for a day, just to sit there enthralled and mesmerised, watching her breathe.

More mundane and lustful concepts work their way through my mind, though. I am grabbed by the urge to grab her and denude her at this café terrace, to squeeze her so hard so as to find myself both in front and in back of her at the same time. I want to open her up and read and taste her secrets, invest and invade every atom of her marvels. And then, content and united, to elope with her into abysses of delectation. I see warm aromas rising from her languor, I taste the moans of her excited state, and scream in silence the wishes of Eros. Verily, we have entered regions of mystery, where soul and flesh meet and sublimate.
When I say "we", it is wishful thinking to the utmost, of course, for Lil' Darling has ignored me throughout with a virtuosity worthy of an award! Also, for there is always a black cloud to go with that silver lining, she is accompanied, as you might have surmised. He smiles meekly, appears interested, nods occasionally, interjects here and there, and fails to devour her on the spot. I won't describe the geek, all too common, I fear (Ladies, just look at your boyfriends!!). But tormenting and torturous are the pangs of frustration as I picture his roving hands mapping her perfection, his fingers running ellipses and double-eights in sweet musk and sandalwood scented coves I wish I could fathom.

Later that night in my hotel room, trying to find solace in Morphea's soft bosom (hoped-for sister of Morpheus, son of Hypnos!), whilst memories of Venus in Thongs make my blood flow southward and up the stiff incline, I realise in full the unfairness of your God.
From the next room and through the flimsy walls, I hear…
Moans and whispers and excited breathing
Creaks and croaks from much fatigued bedding
With a woman in need finding her fulfilment
While a star-filled member leads her to firmament:
"I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm comiiiiiing", she kindly informs her neighbours. "Coming" as a figure of speech, I'm sure, and stating the very obvious, since a Lady so moved has obviously arrived.

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