I met her in a dive bar. Well, not exactly a hole-in-the-wall; it wasn't that dingy. But you know what I mean, right? Old curling posters on the wall, blinking neon beer signs, only one coin-operated billiard table. She was sitting with her legs curled up under her, a charming fedora perched on her head like a familiar bat, and a set of horn-rimmed glasses rode her delicate nose. She turned the page in her novel and adjusted her scarf, gently flaring her nostrils as she did so.
Hips.
I sat at the bar and ordered a Guinness. The bartender smiled at me, a regular, and cocked her head to the corner where the new gal sat. I shrugged and blushed. It is possible to do both, actually.
Lips.
I noticed that my hands were sweaty. The Guinness slid down smoothly and seemed to bathe my navel and then stroke my labia with one hand. I shuddered. Who was she? She looked sweet. Like a child in her pose. But her breasts. And the way she held her mouth. Her hands were womanly. My pulse increased. I had to speak with her.
Bravely I got up, my knees wobbling. I can do this, right? I quietly strode to her corner and paused before her booth, watching as her fingers stroked the stem of her wine glass. "Hello," I stuttered. Careful blue eyes glanced up, framed by those adorable glasses and long blonde lashes. Dimples appeared. "Hi yourself! Have a seat." What? That was too easy. I tried a cheesy pick up line and introduced myself as a desperate girl with a burning need tucked away deep between my thighs.