If a woman like O, into fashion and interior design, a woman who wore only the best Parisian clothes, knew Ionic columns from Doric ones, could have let such flesh whales do what they did in every part of her, mouth, vagina and even what must have become an incredibly rash red asshole. A woman who read and knew art couldn't be too unlike her. It's not that she was an environmentalist out to save some thrashing dying male
manatee or spotted owl and so let them plunge into the cove of her skin. She wonders if that's why O put an owl mask over her head and let her self be led by a chain? Not that she wasn't led, Jackie sighs. And led on. She might as well have had a ring filed thru her labia, been a slave. She's felt branded, had her own masks, did what she did for love, too, her hands tied. Like O, her clothes, her inner feelings and architecture are her main intrigues. She tries to imagine
		herself in O's body. The best way to get close would be with a penis of her own, just for a day. She shudders, knows O did like women too, and her name's even in O's writing, another pleasure they could share. Her penis would be like a massive horse between her legs, that thick warmth that sweeps her off her feet and won't cheat on her but let her hips roll with a deep sensuous pitch, a half ton of snort and leather after so many years of riding that giant phallus, - often better than,
well, she won't go in to that. On the night something starts to grow inside her she whispers Penis over and over in her breathy soft way as if to make the word flesh until skin jolts up, a dick big as an amaryllis, a favorite flower of O's she's heard, sure to lure her to a Chateau in Roissy. "How," Jackie shivers, "could O, anonymous and cool as me, not be open to such a stalk." This wouldn't be the first big O in her life but maybe this time it will stand for orgasm she pants as she imagines plunging into O passionately as if she was redecorating the whole
		White House. This time she'd have a bone, not a home of her own, O the sheath she'll fill as well as she has the others tho this one's not of black linen or silk but moist as her own mouth. She'll cantor and trot, ride O as she would a stallion. Afterward, they'll curl in the dark, maybe talk about O.J., wish Nicole had her own penis, her gun, stick, spear, sword, knife that could if it had to slice another lap sausage, only they'd use French words, come up with a barrage as they talked about men who liked to roam. Then they'd go out shopping, have snails, eager to rush back to that elegant space
with lush interiors to play with, redo a little more than just the rooms