Vice Rag

I want my name to breathe beauty and a wealth of knowledge.  For him to think of soft angles and sharp opinions, shiny hair and soft shoulders. Talent, ideas, strength, hope, and promise. 

Instead, clutching thighs and the intake of breath.  Exposed limbs, tight and supple and available.  How my lips look, my eyes smouldered, my chest heaving.  The way my body curves in and out.  How it tenses and relaxes.  The rise and fall of my voice, all valleys and peaks, low murmers and deep sighs.