Standing in the long queue in the Customs Hall, I estimated the crowd in front of me to be above 200. My eyes scanned the customs agents, computed how many people they would each process, on average, before my turn would come. As one lucky arrival approached an agent, I began ticking off "one-thousand one, one-thousand two," until the processing was complete. The mental math was more strenuous than it should have been, but I was tired from the long flight, and it occupied me enough to turn a few painful minutes into tolerable ones. By my estimation, I was looking at an hour of zig-zagging through the line before freedom in Paris would be granted.
As you're reading this, and have travelled to foreign lands, you know the experience well. You're stuck in a line that forces you to walk past the same people, again and again. At first, you subconsciously ask yourself the basic questions. Are they on holiday? Travelling for their job? Why did they choose those clothes today? Are they successful? Why do they look so unfriendly?
But as you zig-zag through the line, those questions turn to more, well, personal thoughts. Such was the case for me that day. As I would pass next to the same seven women ahead of and behind me in line, I found myself thinking, "Is she a good lover? Does she like oral sex? Is she loud and aggressive in bed?"
Of course, the appearance of some women just doesn't strike a chord of sexual chemistry, and even those questions are left with blank images. On that day, one woman did in fact stand out. She was about 15 people ahead of me in line, so that as she was turning to walk towards me, I had a good 15 meters of direct visibility before she'd pass next to, then behind me.
Early on, I know she caught me staring. I definitely wasn't the only man in line doing the same. She was black, but I hadn't yet determined if she was Nigerian, African-American or Caribbean. Her hair was braided, with long extensions added to allow a tight bun to sit atop her head. The hair on most of her scalp was woven into artfully organized rows and lines, forming a dazzling maze. Her full lips were shining of lip gloss, no doubt an attempt to combat the dryness from a long flight.
Her skin was smooth and dark, without a spot of blemish. She wore a bright blue, short sleeve pullover shirt, and a pair of stretch denim pants. Her toes were exposed, as she was wearing some thick sandals that looked to be designed for performance rather than fashion. As she passed to my right, I kept my eyes down, and noticed that her feet were freshly pedicured, and each toe nail was perfectly painted a rich, dark red.
As I took a step forward, she was immediately at my side, and as I pretended to be looking at the customs desks, I focused on her eyes. These were confident, knowing eyes, and I could tell that she knew exactly what was on my mind. She turned her head to make eye contact, and to let me know that it was no longer my secret. No words were spoken, but we both knew. I smiled back, almost apologetically.
As we both pressed forward, I glanced back at her, and my eyes gravitated to her large, firm ass. She was a full-figured woman for sure, but more firm and thick. Guys know exactly what I mean. Her big ass was stretching her pants, and her thick thighs were proportionate to her Rubenesque body.
