Thighs

Round and dark. 

Poking out stickly from the bottom of a dress and just begging to be touched. As though all the hands in the world, drawn like magnets and stuck there forever to caress and caress and caress. 

It’s so god damn hot today.

And there are so many thighs, I see them all, floating through the sunshine and the slight breeze, back dropped by sidewalks and grassy lawns and stumbling around inside of liquor stores and oscillating between the $2.50 lemonades and the paltry whiskey selection behind the counter. All of them, all of those thighs, swaying back and forth, the muscle mechanism eddying through the sky, giving whispers and hints at the secrets they guard. I would snake up those thighs like a villain just to steal that little secret, stuck way high up there, silent and pink. I could scale that skin with my tongue alone, and every little ridge on the tip of every finger colliding, rioting against the small golden hairs and slight bumps and the sensations of my hands on those thighs. 

What I wouldn’t give to feel what those thighs feel. To be a thigh in the summer air. And what does it feel like to have the blessing of every eye, to be the scion of all desire, inducing leering and the lecherousness and unclean thoughts on such a pretty day. What is it like to be a thigh, and does it feel pleasure when brushing up softly, right at the top, sliding skin against skin against the felt of its neighbor. Oh, to be a thigh, touching another thigh. 

I would be ugly forever, if only I could be her thighs for a day. One glorious day, and if I were her thighs for a day, I would do nothing but peel open to the world and everyone in it, all day, revealing the secret, that juicy wet gash, that the thighs keep so closely guarded.