Audacious & Salacious in Stilettos

I ran into an old flame tonight.

Molly…

Molly…

Jesus.

Fucking Molly.

You’re disillusioned after you come of age. You give up all the magic: Santa, the Easter Bunny, true love.

But then you meet Molly.

Molly is magic.

She’s like Christmas—the first warm caress of wind after a frigid, desolate existence. The first inhale of crisp mountain air at dawn. The first taste of rain hitting your tongue. The first rays of light burgeoning on the horizon.

Always sunshine.

She brightens a room like only the rarest souls can. She makes you want to move, dance—slowly, seductively. Her eyes always inviting.

Fuck me eyes.

She touches you in ways you’re afraid to ever lose. She loves so perfectly. And when she’s done with you, she walks away without a backward glance, calling over her shoulder sweet promises to see you again.

Whenever you want.

But she’ll never stay for more than a few hours. Too many people crave her—need her shine to save them.

Fucking Molly.

She’s too dangerous. Too addicting. She’s not perfect, but she makes you feel like everything will be. You feel so safe curled against her chest. She trails her fingers slowly, feather-light—a breeze across your skin—for hours. She makes you shake and shiver as wave after cascading wave of pleasure crashes over you.

She was my first real love. But she’s too perfect, and she’ll either be the best thing that ever happened to you—or the apocalyptic heartache that destroys you.

She can ruin your life.

But I still love her. Purely. Unadulterated.

She’s a goddess—Aphrodite incarnate—offering ambrosia. But she gives herself to anyone who demands her attention. She’ll never be owned or restrained. She defies every societal expectation by being purely, unapologetically herself—and be damned anyone too serious to take her as she is.

She’s fierce in her bravery, her confidence, her love of herself and everyone she touches, making her all the more alluring… intoxicating.

Too many worship her. She inspires a cult of fans obsessed with her life and the illusion they project onto her—blinding them to her true nature and the raw glory that’s hers alone.

I still remember each taste of her fondly. I fear I could never get enough. She’s my own personal heroin—my kryptonite.

But I can only take Molly in small doses, when I need to remember what it felt like to be a carefree, innocent child exploring the world’s beauty with virgin eyes.

She tempts and teases with enlightenment. She raises your level of thinking every time she graces you with her presence.

But she’s not healthy for me.

She’ll ruin your life without even trying.

Our trysts leave me depleted—the acute deprivation of her signature cocktail of dopamine and oxytocin abandoning the pleasure and reward centers of my brain, leaving my senses keening for her touch.

She leaves the greatest hangover in her wake—days of emptiness—making you curse her existence for turning you into the pathetic creature you become under her spell.

She never asks for anything. All she sincerely wants is your happiness.

You’ll never stop loving her, because she promises heaven without ever saying a word.

Molly.

Fucking. Molly.