Reflections

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“Who is she?” I ask myself. She looks a little like my ex-wife, though she doesn’t act like her at all. I haven’t seen my ex-wife in several years, but I’m pretty sure I could still recognize her, so I don’t think it’s her. Maybe she is a stranger who has inexplicably taken a liking to me, an attractive face in the crowd. Maybe I remind her of someone. Maybe I am a totally random choice. My therapist tells me this is the most likely possibility, though I am not so sure. Sometimes I think she isn’t even real. Why do I say that?Even though I’ve never heard her speak, other than her whispered urgency when she says, “Bend me over,” or “Fuck me now,” I know what her normal speaking voice sounds like. I know what her voices sound like in real life, while talking on the phone to her sister, say, or speaking to her husband. But how do I know she is married? And how do I know she has a sister?I’ve only seen flashes of her skin under her dress or from her blouse ripping suddenly open, yet I know exactly what every inch of skin looks like. istanbul travesti I’m not just talking about her face or her breasts. I can visualize her hard, dark nipples, her slender neck, the butterfly of her shoulder blades. I know where her freckles are. I’ve seen her birthmarks. I’m obsessed with the vividly colored tattoos peeking out beneath her clothes, different every time I see her and in different places, as if they were alive: a dragon, a dove, fire, water, lightning. Most of her flesh I’ve caressed only through her clothes, and hurriedly, because when we fuck it’s always fast, and always public. Yet I know what she feels like naked, her heavy breasts, her slender waist and her tight ass, cupped in my grasping hands. She whispers exactly those things I want to hear. She says, “I need you inside me.” She tells me, “Give me your cock.” She begs me, “Take me and fuck me hard.” It is as if she can see inside my mind. She knows what turns me on. She is perfect, in every way in which I personally define perfection. istanbul travestileri She’s so perfect. Can someone so exactly mirroring my fantasies be real? She seems real and not real at the same time. Let’s back up and start from the beginning. I’ll tell you about my first time with her, the first of many. I was shopping in some generic department store at the mall, surrounded by fluorescent lights, sagging shelves of mid-priced merchandise, tired salesladies, smudged glass counters and all the other markers of a dying breed of commerce made obsolete by the bright clean screens of online shopping. I shop there because it’s real, because I like the flaws. I like my flaws. She has no flaws. I didn’t see her directly. I saw her from across the room, reflected in a full length mirror in the lingerie department, surrounded by row upon row of silk and lace and fishnet. She had short brown hair with dirty blonde streaks, blue eyes the color of the summer sky, full lips marked with an insolent pout. She was travesti istanbul making direct eye contact with me through the conduit of the mirror. She was wearing a short black dress, her slim legs encased and caressed by hosiery, the single sexiest thing I can imagine a woman wearing. Can she be real if she is always wearing clothes from my deepest fantasies? I walked down the aisle toward the mirror reflection of this perfect woman. She was, predictably, gone by the time I got there. I turned and searched and finally saw her in the rounded dish of the security mirror, hung in the corner of the ceiling. She was next to the door of the woman’s restroom, looking straight at me in the bright, mirrored glass. Then, she winked and turned so her ass was facing me and bent down to adjust her shoe. The tops of her thigh high stockings (of course she’s wearing thigh highs, I love thigh highs) were revealed beneath the edge of her dress, as was the barest hint of her ass cheeks, tiny panties pulled taut over them. It was as if she were performing just for me. I walked toward the bathrooms. She was gone. A woman stepped out of the ladies room, and through the opening of the closing door I caught the barest glimpse of her through the bathroom mirror, looking straight at me with those lovely blue eyes.

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