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When I step into a bar there is a soft pause - a tiny intake of collective breath. This is what happens when a person of erotic power and great intelligence enters the room. I do not wait for drinks. I do not fight to sit. The Lady simply arrives.
I walk in high heels - peep toe pumps, size 8.5 - and I move in them with a graceful carriage. I'm a building with two floors. Up top my head is high, my back is straight. Down below my hips and ass sway snake-like; quietly obscene.
I wear classic cuts from the fifties and sixties - from a time when women dressed like women, when lines were made to flatter those dips and curves which Mother Nature designed, and which drive men insane. Underneath my dress I wear beautiful things - fully fashioned stockings with cuban heels, real metal garters, steel boned corsetry; all classic reproductions in beautiful designs.
My skin is ivory, my hair is raven, my eyes are green. I am strong, but soft. I am firm, but gentle. I am powerful, but kind.
Not many men have deserved me, but those few who have known this body have all said the same - with their eyes rolling back and their mouths lolling open, their hands trembling and their minds gone blank, they murmur or they gasp or they breathlessly exclaim that which I have always known...