Beyond Lace

She has just the dress, it’s short and floats

around her thighs but is tight at the waist.

She sees mens’ eyes on her when she wears it,
never acknowledges, but knows she has captivated  

them for a minute, maybe more: an electric shock

from brain to crotch after she has passed. 

She’ll put on the clear stockings with lace borders 

holding them snug around her upper thighs, that hand-like 

grip on her skin. She will leave her cunt unclothed 

under her dress, like breathing, a gag removed, sexy, 

herself, the way she knows she can be, is.

She will sit with her thighs crossed, the lace 

showing just beneath the hem of her dress,

her bare sex six inches above. How they would

strain to see beyond that lace, how their minds

would race with the faintest glimpse of her bare

flesh exposed for a moment with the re-crossing 

of her legs, the smallest shift of her body.

A drop lingers before falling from a leaf. Collecting

water from the blade, it quivers but holds, holds and 

holds till one molecule arrives that is too much to hold.

She knows about anticipation, how the infinitesimally 

small movement can turn a man’s mind, she has 

watched the drops and she has watched the men.

She will sit and talk and hold her drink between thumb

and forefinger as though it was a trinket.

She will allow her dress to rise to the place where

the sliver of her skin will tighten the mens’ penises; 

she will be chatty and smiling, occasionally shifting her 

thighs, looking into the men’s faces with charming 

nonchalance. Her eroticism brushing lightly against all

the exchanges of the evening, she will be utterly seduced
by her own sexiness.