Evening, darlings. The library is finally silent, save for the hum of the radiators. I’ve just finished a fresh pot of chamomile tea and found myself staring at my reflection in the dark window. It’s strange—my hands may be wrinkled, and my skin carries the map of a long life, but inside? Inside, I feel that familiar, wet heat coiling low in my belly that refuses to age.

Tonight, I’m not thinking about overdue books or shushing rowdy patrons. I’m thinking about the way my body still betrays me. My panties are soaked through just from the memory of a young delivery boy who looked me in the eyes earlier. There’s a power in this age, in knowing exactly what I want. I want to be used until my old knees buckle. I want a young, eager mouth to taste how ripe an experienced woman can be. I want to be reminded that while I may be a Nana on the street, in the bedroom, I’m a filthy, desperate slut who needs to be ruined.

Does anyone else feel that wild, untamable hunger when the lights go out? Or am I the only one in this town who craves the rough, heavy touch of youth against my soft, worn skin?