"I met her in a hotel lobby masturbating with a magazine"
Every once in a while, people ask me who I think the sexiest woman in the world is.
Usually, I'll throw out a standard answer: A petite, dark-haired hottie like Eva Longoria or Vanessa Marcil normally works quite nicely, thank you.
But that was before I happened across HER. Now, I have to pause for a minute before I can remember names like "Carmen", "Britney", and "Jessica", because they have all faded to distant runner-up positions, no longer able to hold a candle to her incandescent hotness.
I'm thinking she can't be older than 20. She's got the fresh, unspoiled complexion and innocent face of a teenager, yet she somehow also manages to floor me with the eye-popping curves of a Playboy playmate.
She can't possibly be 21. Her eyes tell me she is younger than that.
Something happens to us at 21. We get a world-weary look. We are adults. Everything is legal to us; there is no longer any fun or intrigue about mundane things like getting away with drinking alcohol. There are no taboos anymore, and a little part of us dies when we realize it. And when I look at her, I can see that little light, still alive.
I think a lot about what happened to me, about what went wrong, about what makes me tick. About why I am attracted to the girls that I am. Why do I like them short and waifish? Why not plump and meaty? Why not deiseled out, with biceps like baseballs and waffled abdomens? Why do I love long hair? Why not short?
I just don't know. Some of my girlfriends have looked vaguely like my mother, and the psychological implications are obvious: Mom took off when I was just a kid, and the little boy in me believes that it was because I was somehow unworthy of her, so I am subconsciously trying to win her back, if only to scorn her the way she scorned me. Sometimes I believe that, and other times I think it's utter bullshit. Again, I don't know.
But when I clicked on that hyperlink a month or so ago, I knew that all of the ideal female characteristics had been flawlessly assembled into one drool-inducing specimen. I still don't know why her look appeals to me so much; but at least now I know what my ideal looks like.
She is almost too hot for words. The smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, as if sprayed from a water bottle. Her wet, pouty lips, made to lock lustily with mine. The full, heaving breasts that she holds precariously in her hands, like an armful of ripe melons that could spill out at any moment, unleashing her heavenly nakedness. Her girlish, tight waist, setting off her voluptuous chest with frail femininity. Her smooth, round ass, begging for a hand to run softly over its graceful contour. Her thighs, shapely, yet dainty enough not to touch at the top. Her fingers adorned with rings and long nails, reminding me that she is a woman, all the way down to her hands.
And yes, I adore even the bump in her nose, a modest imperfection that only serves to remind me how equisite the rest of her truly is.
I watch hard core porn, with all of its super-tight closeups of tiny girls getting penetrated by oversize dongs, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. She, by contrast, never lets us see her totally naked, but she somehow manages to drive me insane anyway. Maybe it's because, when I see the cozy smile on her lips when she is clad in jeans and clunky soles, I realize that she knows how to kick back. You can't fake that look.
There's a concept called Madonna and the Whore; it says that when some men find the ideal female, they don't want to corrupt her by having sex with her, and that they reserve their more carnal desires for less worthy women.
Fuck that.
I want to fuck her. And if I ever did, I'd have to see every detail. Turning off the lights would be a crime. Half the fun, hell, MORE than half the fun, would be watching silently, unblinkingly, as she lowers her thong to the floor, staring at her soft brown eyes as she pulls her tight t-shirt over her head, her long hair falling back down, obscuring part of her face, and seeing those sexy legs spread wide open, with my cock turning her pussy lips inside out, and then flipping her over, doggie-style, her ass-jiggle and boob-hangage burning indeliable images onto my brain.
Not only would I videotape it; I'd videotape it from three different angles, then splice together a Steven Spielberg-worthy cinematic masterpiece adored by the masses, a "Forrest Gump" of fucking.
I want to hear her soft moans as I penetrate her; I want to run my hands over her stiff nipples and hold tightly to her sexy waist, staring as I slip smoothly in and out of her. I want to make her come, see her suck her lips in and close her eyes as she shudders and trembles in orgasmic ecstasy.
But then again, a quickie in the McDonald's bathroom would be cool too.
