Leaving the big bad cat after a rendezvous of particularly spine-tingling intensity, I view the world with different eyes.
Prior to stepping out of the magical world, in which no one exists but us two, I make myself ready with humdrum yet essential preparations, since walking the streets naked and glowing is not really an option.
Oh shhh. You know it isn’t.
I look in the mirror, and stifle a squeal of horror at the birds nest my carefully coiffeured thatch has become over the space of a few passionate hours. Working my much-practiced magic, using weapons of mass destruction, I manage to subdue and restrain the frightwig on my head until I once again resemble the ordinary, working mother so beloved of my vanilla acquaintances.
I turn to the Big Bad Cat, and ask him whether I still have sex hair.
He laughs.
“No, you don’t have sex hair, my darling, but you do have sex eyes.”
And it’s true. I know that to remove the sappy, happy, sated and blissed-out grin plastered across my face, it will take time and much concentration on matter of extreme mundanity. I’m floating above the earth, although my feet make contact with the metal, concrete or gravel that they encounter, but I’m still a passenger on the Sub-Space Express, and there’s not a lot I can do to change that.
Not that I would want to, as I’m sure you can imagine.
But from the inside — and I believe I have mentioned how the events that go on around me, and involving me, are all taken down and noted by the little man in my head, the quintessential documentor who is a constant passenger on my shoulder — the world from inside looking out is a very different place when I look out through sex eyes. I half-expect people to stop me in the street, ask me for tips on having their eyes glow tawny gold as mine feel as though they do, or tell me how blissed out I look.
No one ever does, of course. Which is fine. I’m quite happy to radiate the love and peaceful tranquility that I feel, with no specific payback.
Elegant Smut 