Title: Virgin State of Mind

Rating: M

Notes: title snagged from a K's Choice song (I think) & beware sex

She smokes cigars now, an old family habit that you remember from your days at grade school. She sits in old leather armchairs in the library, where her father used to sit, her left hand holding a snifter of brandy, while her right lifts the dark brown cigar to her mouth. (You notice her left ring finger is empty)

She cuts an imposing, overwhelming figure. She leans back in the chair, crossing her plaid tweed covered legs; her jacket is off & you find yourself tracing the lines of her suspenders, over the starched white oxford. The top four buttons are undone, showing surprisingly girly lace. Her long brown hair is in disheveled curls (she brushes it away from her face, annoyed, & you see the faintest trace of grey, but perhaps it’s just the bad lighting & too much smoke). Her face is strangely beautiful, feminine, above the masculine clothing; her lips red & perfectly formed; her eyes the darkest green you’ve ever seen; her make-up, just enough to be noticeable but not intrusive. You find yourself back in her eyes again.

She intimidates you.

(Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly…)

She said to look around, so you do. Books of every language & date are shelved in perfect order, every one devoid of dust. (the only way you can tell she actually reads them is by the condition of the spines.)

There’s a collection of records in a box on the floor in one corner. You bend down, flicking through the albums, making little comments to break through her ice wall.

You put on an old swing record. That’s when it all goes to hell.

You’re not quite sure how you made it to the bedroom.

It’s not until you’re shagging her, really fucking her, that you understand. She’s so in control of the details, the day-to-day details, because she’s not at night. It’s a bit cliché, you realize; you should’ve seen it before it went this far.

But then she moans & she comes & you’re full of a fiery heat that is never sated. You feel in power, in charge, in control; you wonder why she’s not making you pay for self-realization & philosophical revelations during your time with her.

But you shake & you shudder & you squirm to get the right position & all your philosophical thoughts are dissolved.

When it’s over, she sits up & reaches over you to the bedstand. (you kiss her shoulder & her collarbone & she does nothing.) She gathers the white sheets around her as she lights & puffs on a cigarette.

She doesn’t say anything & you don’t either; but it’s not an awkward silence, which, somehow, makes it awkward. (you’re very confused at this point, still lost in the post-coital fumes.)

“So,” you say suddenly, taking her cigarette & breathing the noxious smoke inside you. “What type of food do you like?”

She looks at you blankly before snatching back the cigarette.

“Why?” she’s actually curious. You smile, glad you still have secrets hidden from her.

“I’ll make you a midnight snack.”

She puffs for a moment, looking somewhere else.

“It’s not midnight.”

You check the clock. “11:37. Close enough.”

She smiles briefly, lips curling around the cigarette like the smoke around your heads.

“I don’t know you, do I?” she asks, hands clenching in the sheets, jaw clenching around the ciggy.

You laugh & she frowns.

“Not at all, love,” your British accent is thick, the fake American side of you falling away easily.

She nods, pensive, & stubs out her cig.

“Omelets.”