She didn’t wear her sexuality on her sleeve like a cheap carnation corsage from a disastrous Prom Night. That place had already been taken by her unusually strong need to please everyone around her. Her sexual nature didn’t spill out much, like a heavy breast might accidentally slip out of a decadently low-cut dress.
What a pity really because all one would have to do to discover it would be to simply scratch the surface…a ribbon of skin gingerly removed from a day-old sunburn, a finger carefully drawing a heart on the fogged-up window in the train.
She didn’t want to be had. She had already been had far too many times before. She wanted to be wanted.
(Damn! I’ve been had!)