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Most days, an elegant lady steps onto the bus. The first time, I openly gaped at her. Last week, she smiled at me, and this morning, I wished her a good morning...
I have a phantasy of stepping off at her bus stop, following her to her office, asking myself in, and engaging in direct and frank sex. This lady is not a teenager: she knows. About men, about art, about sculpture, about unfaithfulless.
I would ask her to blindfold me, and take off my clothes, leaving the very last to her. I would like to engage in a physical ritual, wherein the imaginative conversation would be erudite, civilized and fortright.
A fountain would gush, wasted, and I would succumb.
Such is my imaginary life...
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