Naomi Schmitz
July 2021
My day really begins when she leaves her apartment across the street.
The time varies, but she never gets up early. When I see her in the morning, it appears like she has so much positivity that she dances out of the front door to the small café nearby. That is how elegant she is in every way she moves.
She doesn't look like a sex worker today. To me she is not working, she is not doing it for trivial gains. Somebody so beautiful must have more profound motives than to merely sell her body to strangers.
So, I will call her the scarlet woman. It is a more poetic term. Her scarf is scarlet red, and it flutters behind her like a coat of arms displaying her powerful femininity. It symbolizes her devotion, passion, dedication. To me she is also like a witch: She is proud and mysterious, and she is aware of her powers.
The woman carries herself like an artist. Every of her movements, even the tiniest, is deliberate.
She is a scarlet woman though, and I am longing for her services, although I could never gather enough courage to approach her. Yet, I imagine her fingers on my body, on my breasts, between my legs. They would sculpture emotions, paint worlds of lust. I would like to be her clay, her canvas, so she can create whatever she deems appropriate with my body. I wonder what she sees in me and what she would do to me. Would she gently tease my nipples with a feather or spank my butt with her bare hands? Would she kiss me? Would she embrace me, hold me in her arms? Comfort me?
She is a woman, and so am I.
"Do sex workers take on female clients?" is my question. My friend Google replies: "Some do", and then it elaborates:" It depends. Few do. You have to find the right one."
I don't want to find the right one. I want her. I don't even know if I'm lesbian. I know that I don't particularly like most men. Their brutish nature, their ignorant swagger, and their drunken self-confidence. Does that make me a lesbian? I know that I am scared of pussy. Of its sinister power. When I am touched down there in the right way then it changes everything. It opens a door to another world. It is like a scary drug.
When my pussy is teased, when it is unleashed.
My fingers used to be able to. Not anymore. They have become numb, clumsy like stumps. And my sex toys are just that. They are machines. I am too analytical to let them fool me that they mean their touch, that they pretend to care. They are impostors, promising what they cannot deliver.
Her fingers can. I just know that. Once I stood next to her in the café, when she took a coin out of her purse with one hand, delicately fishing the right one out like her fingers were acrobats in a circus tent. I bet she plays an instrument. One that plays haunting and beautiful notes. The piano maybe. She can find the right keys and every finger can just push down the keys with the right amount of pressure to evoke a new emotion. Imagine what they could do on my body, on my pussy?
Watching her, I feel she has travelled the world, she seems so confident, while I am sitting in my tiny room, too scared to go out, looking out of my window with curiosity, yet too much anxiety to actually talk to anyone, let alone this sophisticated woman.
I watch her every time she enters the house in the company of men. Sometimes I have seen them before. No clue where she picks them up. She also has regulars who ring her doorbell. They are the ones that scare me most. I am jealous of them. That she might fall in love with them, and she quits what she is doing. My hope to ever approach her, would be gone.
A silly thought because I could never just talk to her and ask her to do to me what she does to the men.
It's just out of the question, unrealistic.
So, I will imagine it. And it's not so bad. My fantasy will surely surpass any reality.
Imagine my encounter with her:
Me and her in the small café in line to place our orders at the counter.
"Hi!"
She turns around and smiles a little confused: "Hello! I'm sorry, but do I know you?"
I whisper: "No. But I've seen you around. I know your business, you know, what you do. The service you offer."
That was the wrong way to start the conversation, I can see it in her eyes. I am not good at this. At conversation. She is surprised and careful. I bet she thinks I'm the wife of one of the men she takes home. So, I quickly add:
"I would like to use your services... For myself. If you... offer your services to women, that is."
She relaxes and the room warms up with her smile: "That's a bit of an unusual way to approach me."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be! Let's talk! And yes, I am happy to be with women."
She orders her coffee, and so do I. While we are waiting for our orders, she does some small talk about the café. There is nothing I could possibly add to the conversation, I rarely come here. But I smile and nod and agree with everything she says because it sounds so right.
We walk over to a booth and slide in opposite each other.
Facing her so close for the first time, I savor everything I see. Her eyes are dark brown and huge, and they seem to burst with curiosity and life. Her brown hair falls to her shoulders in a calculated wavy mess. Her jawline is very pronounced and square. It gives her an almost aristocratic look. Like her creator took the time to chisel it.
"So, what can I do for you?"
"Well, as I said. I would like to... hire you? I don't know how to say it."
She smiles patiently. "I understand. But what would you like us to do?"
I like how it is us, as if we have already formed some union. I don't know how to answer though, and she senses that.
A moment later the most erotic thing in a long time happens to me. She puts her hand on mine. Her delicate fingers rest on mine. They are soft and reassuring. It is so casual but also such a gift of reassurance and sympathy.
I wish I could put my other hand on hers and feel her soft skin and to gently stroke it. Not in a sexual way, but like you pet a rabbit, to feel good, but also to make it feel good. But that would be inappropriate.
I haven't been touched like that for a while. Looking at her fingers I imagine what is in store for me. Her index finger, slightly tanned and slender, is the most elegant. Can fingers be beautiful? Hers can. I just that know that its natural curvature seems to be made to perfectly slide into my pussy and do just the right things. I picture various positions in which her index fingers do things to me. How it slides across my vulva, enters my pussy, gathers the nectar of my arousal, and then feeds it to me. Her thumb seems to be perfectly shaped to arouse my clit while it roams through my bush.
If just her fingers can do all those things to me, then what can the rest of her body do?
I can see how this woman was made to make me happy.
