Tonight I am Cherry Garcia Girl.
The girl in the mirror is not really me. She is softly illuminated by a light that is not really emitting from the bedside night lamp. Before we begin, we must always apply a coat of cherry chapstick. It has been so, always. It has been done too many times that the old questions resurface no more. Maybe it is roleplay masked as psychological protection.
From the tube the lipstick pokes out, a red little nub — one turn, two turns, and the exploration of the topography of her lips is complete. Cherry-swathed, cherry garcia girl.
Naked lithe limbs, medium breasts stretching the flimsy cotton shirt. Skirt flirty and playful, giving the appearance of girlish hips, perky butt — she is right dolled up, the nubile dreamgirl of the lecherous flaccid pedophile. Fake orchid flower clip holds up the waterfall of hair, a dam for her wildness, a barrage for her emotions.
It begins: Slow, deliberate. Finding her limbs, realizing their role in relation to the rest of her body. Labored breaths begat quick fingers, flushed cheeks. The girl in the mirror sways slowly, a supple branch buffeted by the breeze; the layers in her skirt part like tree leaves, revealing secrets, forbidden fruit.
We are transported as high as clouds; she brings me along on her fantasy, and all I can do is to stare at her mystified.