Thinking about those old porno magazines, one in particular stands out. Not the name of it, or where she found it, but a certain woman within its pages that snatched away her breath and lit a fire between her prepubescent legs. The woman posed by the side of a swimming pool. Her hips wide, and the curls of her black hair billowing about like curtains caught in a storm. Upon her skin, beads of water reflected the ochre sun hanging over her tanned shoulders, and in the dark circles around her nipples, an alien landscape beckoned her to come explore. Such tiny details were enough to quicken little Gretchen’s breathing, but it was the woman’s real mouth that had her like a rabbit in the headlights. The way it seemed so edible, like the most perfectly decorated of cakes one might find at an opulent wedding. The way it appeared to teem with life as if somewhere within its fleshy lips, the secret song of existence was aching to be heard. And those delicate lips with their delicate tones, flowering like the naughty thoughts in her naughty mind—such memories are enough to make her stick her tongue back between the moist bricks as if somewhere within the smell of that juicy pussy awaits her curious nose. She’s always been drawn to men more than women, and yet now and again, the sight of a nude woman does things to her that no man has ever done. Not that she’s in the habit of seeing many nude women. Not in real life, anyhow. Pornos are a bit old hat now. She much prefers the real thing, which is strange considering how distasteful she finds the human form. Dreaming of that original noonie and imagining what kind of a sights it’s seen since those steamy photos were taken, she swallows some more grit and looks up to the grey skies swirling above her head. In those heavy clouds, she feels the weight of love threatening to crush her to death, and yet such a death would suit her just fine. It would be an erotic masterpiece—one to rival even the most celebrated of works from Hirst to Emin and every fucker in between.