There was something wrong with Miles and he knew it. He learned to keep his aesthetic and sexual preferences to himself early on. When everyone else admired young and famous supermodels, he was attracted to something completely different. His ideas of eroticism, while still remaining straight, were as far as possible from the accepted standard. He was roused by chunky older women. The older the better and the bigger they were the better.
Soon he was turning his head for ordinary looking grannies. They all seemed so different to him and unique. They all enchanted him with some kind of beauty that overpowered him. Despite being curvy and elderly, these oddly shaped elves had several distinct bodies types. He loved any and all kinds of these handsome creatures. He admired all of them in their own way. Some were big and tall and powerful. Others were round, fat, and petite in an adorable way.
At first, he was a little shy to approach his divas in public. Miles had to change his thinking; he had to think of the ladies he found attractive as the more socially acceptable ones. He trained himself to believe that it was more normal for him to talk to strangers that were at least a generation older then he was.
He was soon proud to make eyes with the chunky old senior women that proliferated the store. The bodies, faces, hands, and hips of these seniors appeared as perfect to him as if he was looking at the great beauties who had perfect bodies from the point of view of society.
Young girls seemed to be much too immature and had uninteresting bodies. He loved big legs and hips. When talking to a breathtaking sensual old lady, he began to step up to his wrinkly diva like he wanted to. He did it because, in public, and in private, now, he saw her as an approved mate for his younger self.
Now, he behaved appropriately for his feelings and felt no social awkwardness flirting with the lonely seniors. He found they often did not even look up when walking by him, not expecting anyone to notice their jumbo backsides or whatever else was bothering them.
When he did get their attention, however, the change was remarkable. How friendly they became! They were so thrilled about a good-looking guy engaging them. He looked right at them when he could and enjoyed the surprised and various reactions he got.
For the most part, the gray dryad flirted back shamelessly with Miles. He never failed to get sexually aroused by the situation. These lush and lovely elder-mothers were throwing themselves at him without knowing him as if he was the pretty young lady and they were rich and powerful men controlling his fate.
He wished he could tell them all how he felt about them. He wanted to tell them how these alluring and mysterious mistresses made him totally sexually aware of himself. He wanted to tell the pensioners that, without exception, he felt women become more beautiful with time.
Dusk fell onto the cooling city. The white noise of rainy echoes, honks and voices rose from the streets below. A lone trumpet echoed its jazz lyrics to whomever would listen. She was alone.
"I wish I had someone to love," she thinks.
Azana knew she needed a change. She was an old retired portly woman. She was short and quite round and did not think of herself as attractive in anyway. She disguised her swaying hips and stomach with bulky layers and long flowing robes. High heels added another inch or two.
This night, she went out, her large body hidden under her long flowing hooded coat. Her chubby, nondescript small shape made its way between people and shadows.
Unnoticed, she wandered through small streets and neighborhoods. She stopped before a peeling door underneath an inscrutable sign. Compelled to walk through, she entered a different world on the other side; a twisted world but still identifiable as a theater.
Gray people were sitting around a small stage in the back. It was so quiet every breath was heard and echoed. It was so dusty; an off-off Broadway kind of thing.
In the play, which had already begun, someone attractive was posing in the nude for an average looking lady. The clothed artist studied her exposed lover who did not move.
The nude model was very young and strong looking as one would expect a model to be. Not exactly what she had in mind, she thought wryly to herself. She did not stand a chance with any younger guy but the sight of him standing there like a statue of David certainly triggered her lust even more then before.
But what surprised Azana, too, was that the artist painting on stage was a spunky old lady. She looked very uptown and in style with big bright earrings and an expensive purse which put her in contrast to the other actor on stage. She fretted and fidgeted while he had to remain completely still in a strange and rigid position. He stared at nothing in particular with a blank and resigned look in his eyes.
There was a reason the old lady was able to go to these kinds of shows. It was because her mother had been a member of a strange cult. It was a secret matriarchal society which was described in one of her occult books from her moldy library.
This is what she was taught. She was taught that the ancient Grand Dame of the Old Place was known as The Righteous Poet of Sinful Kaddish or sometimes simply as Tatiana Skobtsova. The Honorable Pantokrator did not appear much in the lives of the others. Despite being slow and ungainly, she dwelt in the ruins of the old temple area with only one special companion who was with her all the time. This ancient sorceress was clothed and indulged every day by this much younger and eager junior member. The beguiled and emotionally entangled young mate was never far from her if not under her feet or directly attending to them.
