A quiet, distant clicking noise slowly roused her from her dream-like state, she could hear padded footsteps coming from just down the hall. Quickly sitting up, she scurried backward towards the pillows, arching her back just so to flaunt her rounded breasts, and placing her hands behind her hips for support. It was a matter of seconds before a hand crept around the hanging curtain that separated the bedroom from the rest of the apartment. In stepped a tall, muscular man whose deep brown hair and slightly tanned skin reminded her of power, here was a man who could one day rule the world, she thought. For a second, she caught his eye: so much depth, so much strength lay in those two hazel orbs, she almost couldn’t tear herself away. Slowly, he made his way toward her, with every small step he took, she became so much more aware of herself, how her black corset gently pushed on her bosom, how her fishnet stockings crept up her legs, ending half way up her fine-toned thighs, how badly. I wanted my own Martha. Honda CivicIt is 1999. The Internet has finally been invented and the world has started to see just how obnoxious we truly are. There is an explosion of pornography and, while facebook and twitter are still a decade away, online chatrooms have opened up a pandora’s box of suppressed sexuality. Technology has allowed distant strangers to open up to each other in ways that were not socially acceptable before. Yvonne Hughes is a catch that I owe entirely to this cyber revolution. Had this been a different era, Yvonne would not be sitting in my rusty, 1992 model Civic. Here she is, sitting next to the driver’s seat as I speed down the road listening to Cher’s latest, “Do you believe in life after love!” It is hard to keep my eyes on the road for Yvonne has pulled up her jeans to expose her calves. They are strong and shapely, with feet that are perfectly arched. Yet it is really not her statuesque feet or calves that drew me to her in the first place. I am a boob.
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