Sometimes, I catch my reflection in the library’s windows when I’m shelving books late, and for just a second, I forget I’m 35. The way my hips sway, how my tits press against my blouse when I reach for the top shelf—I know I still move like a woman who can make a man’s cock hard. But then I remember my cardigan, my sensible shoes, the way patrons call me ‘ma’am.’ Ugh. Tonight, I’m pouring a glass of wine, sinking into my couch, and letting myself fantasize about the kind of hands that wouldn’t let me forget. Rough ones. Impatient ones. The kind that would drag me by my hair to the bedroom, bend me over, and remind me what my fat ass is really for. God, I miss being used… and I miss the way my late husband would growl ‘good girl’ when I took it all. Maybe one of these days, I’ll ‘accidentally’ drop a book in front of that neighbor of mine… see if he’s got the guts to pick it—and me—up. 😈