Lust. Described as a psycological force that ultimately fabricates a need, a craving, or a desire - most frequently and aptly associated with a sexual longing.
In my case, things are no different. I could say with the upmost certainty that nearly all males have endured this torment; and ladies, each and everyone of you will have caused this. My unbridled sexual desire courses through my veins. The fire in my stomach, a reminder of the hunger I could not feed, the thirst I could not quench.
Every week, when Nicole walked into the bar, 6pm sharp, my nostrils flared, pulse soared and pupils dilated - physiological reminders of the hankering ardour and cacoethes I was made to feel.
This week was no different to any other, I was at the bar, with two friends from work - just offset to the middle, a tactical decision, an impeccable view of the TV screen behind the bar, if there was ever a game on and close enough to the fire to hear it hiss, and to feel it crackle in the bleak midwinter.
The week was like all others that came before, that evening was no different; but when Nicole and I locked eyes like we did those many moons ago, the fire in me resurged. The fire in the pub now seemingly insignificant, the warmth of passion from within more than enough to make me forget the cold. "Heck," I think to myself; "maybe it's too bloody hot in here now." A drip of sweat trickles down from my vascular hand. The adrenaline within causing me to subconsciously shake. The crystal of sweat glimmers in the dim light as it glides over my venous ridges before disappearing down my suit jacket as I undo my top button. The pub fire's sole purpose to me now, was the ambience and aura that it radiated.
Nicole was a smaller lady, maybe 5 foot 1, but the heels were oh so deceptive - and I can be quite a sucker for a smaller woman from time to time; the size difference and all. Her 'Christian Louboutin Pigalle Pumps,' described her in a nutshell; 'bold, playful and undeniably feminine.' The pitch, black, leather material just about shimmered in the dim environment she had just graced with her presence - the reflective shine perfectly complementing her silhouette in the doorway. The oak wood tone of her in-souls, with the sultry, blood red soul and heel, a further indication to me, that maybe this weekend could be something special.
The shoes a perfect accompaniment to her seductive, black garter leg wraps. The tight leg straps allowing her healthy skin to gleam, her perfectly toned legs flowed to this magnificent, tight fitting red-velvet corset come dress that hugged her bust and curves in just the right way. Her pouted, matte red lips encouraging you to move further up her body. The smoky eyeshadow accentuating, her deep, ocean blue eyes. Eyes that without a doubt could transport you to a land of ecstasy, a dimension of euphoria. It was as if she had fell from the heavens to remind us mere mortals, what it would be like to be sculpted by the Gods and Goddesses; or that DaVinci had been consulted with the use of the 'Golden Ratio' and to be as aesthetically pleasing as possible - in my eyes of course. Beauty is, and forever will be in the eye of the beholder. My physical manifestation of perfection and epitome of beauty.
I know lust can build for months, years. However, there is no definitive time scale for such passion; mine had only been brewing for a few weeks, seven, eight, maybe nine - you lose track of time when your own mind is torturing you. Not necessarily brewing for all that long, but, my concoction of lust was nothing short of explosive and effervescent. Those eyes did exactly what I said they would do and transported me to another land - only this land was in the 'comfort' of my own mind.
