I want to be her.
Not sound like her, dress up like her,
I want the power she exudes with each sway of her hips, or
the suggestive potency of her shimmering lips when she smiles.
I want what she has regardless of where she is or what she
wears, here on the river or when she’s dressed to the teens, her long legs in
jeans or sheer, unbelievable stockings.
I want what oozes out of her, and which drive’s men crazy,
like a pack of horny hounds following her pheromone trail, begging to be given
a bone.
I want to be able to snap my fingers the way she does and
get them to give her anything she desires, begging her for the privilege.
I would even settle to become one of the men·ageriethat
follows behind her heals, craving her attention, even when mean, letting her
use our backs as stepping stones to get to the next level, where other men do
the same, we all willing to be used and abused, and if we do our part, she will
remember us fondly when she moves on without us.
No comments:
Post a Comment