THERE WALKS A LADY

You know she is coming because her roar can be heard for miles.
When she gets out of the car she leaves the headlights on, so you can see her walking away with the light on her shining sequin skirt. Even the walk from her car to the front door is a red carpet, to cross slowly and with confidence.
She opens doors with a glance and changes her outfit every time she changes the room, that’s her magic trick. She moves in the house like a jungle cat, searching for her pleasure spot: the pink sofa for a drink, the marble hall for a dance, the white stairway to heaven. She’s able to find pleasure wherever she is and whatever she wears: a golden silk dress or a red tartan jacket.
She loves having flowers on her and around her: on her hair and in her hands, as a message of love or a red herring, because she also loves the thorns.
She can be as lovely as an angel or naughty as blood-thirsty Salomé. Her choice, her pleasure.
Smiling on her four-poster bed or twisting the phone wire chatting in her room, she’s always excited by her beauty. Because, she knows this well: if in love the other is important, in lust you are important.