Cookie Simms loved a single piece of furniture in her home, the two-foot wide, seven-foot-tall mirror in her bedroom, away from all the other fuss and bother in the house. She found it easy to favor the mirror because it favored her ass, her breasts, the elegance of timid nipples, the unnerving black clutch of hair highlighting her pubic area, after her ass or nipples, that dark and mysterious claim to feminine wares was knockout number one in the man-parade of gazers, she was ultimately sure. It had begun when she was a mere 15-year-old sophomore in high school and often heard the boys saying, supposedly in private, what was so good about the privates that roamed around them all day in school and much of the balance of day rushing to midnight, where new and nightly dreams about hidden female treasures flooded dark hours as well as supposedly sleep-like twists and turns of growing boys. Those secret hours were loaded with ideas of how all such goodness would soon be theirs, by hook or by crook.
Life had to be so rich and rewarding.
She knew the way men at the office where she worked looked at her properties from every conceivable angle, like here, there and everywhere. The gazers, without speech, told her all the awed and odd approaches they dreamed of at fully-clothed sights of her, their mind sets filling their mouths with near-words of what they would do when and where the time was ripened towards victory.
Cookie felt it everyday she passed a man in the office, in the hallways, on stairs halfway up or halfway down, knowing many errands en route went asunder and demanded restarts. She felt much of it was the way she bounced, how her ass twisted some of the on-lookers into knots, some into near hysteria when the dark knot of her pubic crown showed the shadow of depth and desire clean through a thin skirt or dress or the weekend dungarees graced by the dark triangle, right down there where everything happens because that’s where it all gets going, and the sooner we know it, the sooner we get to the good parts of it all, just like the whole damned world runs around chasing all the good stuff in dresses, skirts, panties, bathing suits with thongs that miraculously disappear right before your eyes.
Her father often screamed at her as she started her day, about the way she was dressing, and her mother shushed him with her regular comeback; “Harry, don’t try to tell me I didn’t get you looking like you had broken your neck to get a good look at what you’ve owned for twenty some years now. She’s having the time of her life before she gets burdened otherwise, and you know it, so, let’s hope she gets a knockout of a gent like I did, who still knows his way around all the good stuff that practically lights up when you flick the switch, or I turn it on for you, in more ways than you can shake a stick at, as they probably say down at the pool room or the back of the card shop, where goodness knows what stories of conquest or loss are told with old-fashioned jargon that some of the breed have captured for their own, but which all of you understand right down to the first real look at pussy starts to change your very life. One look does it all, and don’t try to tell me again that it was your own discovery, rather than some supposed maiden gave you the first real come-on in your young life. It beat all, didn’t it?”
Cookie caught her breath, tipped her head, and added, “It’s all just what makes the world go round, Harry, my sweet one. Most of us are equipped the same way, and it’s up to us to use to the best of our best advantage, our peak points, our great dreams of the evermore.
Cookie, meanwhile, went on her way, doing her thing with her thing, and firmly remembered walking down hill from her office to meet a dinner date, a detective in the police department, in her bright red suit, her strut damned near voluptuous at the exact moment that he tried to transcribe to her, how it hit him.
“You were like a queen from out of the past, Cookie, in that red outfit, like a queen from King Arthur’s days or in the Vikings at-conquest days, the whole Earth coming round to meet them no matter who or what they touched, it somehow all belonged to them. every square inch of flesh, every secret of hidden beauty suddenly open to their eyes, to their touch, to their hungers.”
Cookie could have blurted out that she was not wearing any underpants on that day of the red suit, because he would have folded up and died on the spot as she walked toward him with nothing covering her pubes, as she often called her secret parts in a song of songs, “Pubes they is and pubes they are, and if you don’t make a move soon, I’ll have to make it for you, and you will lose an edge with me, I promise. Say it like it is, what you want, how you want it, what it will do for me, what it will do for us. Like you crave with madness the sight of that mysterious patch of hair down there, caught in my crotch like a crown of protection the way it looks back in my mirror, a frigging thing of beauty that could smother me as I own it from sight to taste. Oh, don’t shake that head of yours like that. I am what I am, Hell itself on roller blades, a bubbler, a queen that you want everywhichway to love, the kind who will wake you up for another go-around if you call asleep on me or near me, like a part of us is in the very air, invisible, but there in the awful memory of clutch and reply. Say it like that, ‘of clutch and reply’ for the two of us, not just you, not just me, but the two of us for now and forever, if it goes that way.”
“Otherwise,” she argued with herself, “I’ll go back to my mirror and get another look at all those great parts, timid nipples for sucking, pubic crown down there at my crotch to get lost in, lips, tongue and all, that royal ass of mine capturing every gaze that saluted it on this day with a look of admiration, need and greed.”
The end of all things sexy.
Image – Google images