Curvaceous Mel was called a slut from before she knew what it meant. She was voluptuous early, her childhood invaded.
It had been noticed, the night Mel wore that tighter, briefer red frock, which emphasised, rather than camouflaged her libidinous form. She’d been lonely, and sick of being told by cruel bitches, and kindly relatives, and gutless male friends, that with her looks, she should have had men falling at her feet. She hadn’t even known if it was men she wanted. The night she dressed like a ‘50s pin-up idol, she ‘lost’ her virginity.
She wilfully misplaced it, with a confused friend who was ridden and controlled, a sacrifice in a ritual. She thought it would be easier to have a penis involved the first time. Mel was over-ripe and commanding, exploring the response of her fabled flesh through her friend’s complicit helplessness.
It took Mel a long time to succumb to another body of either sex. The next challenge – be generous and accept, as well as dominate.
In the end, after all the fears and self-doubt and asking why me, why was she given this thing that people wanted or hated, she had to learn about humility. Whenever you confronted something fundamental, irony lurked with its stupid clown’s tricks, popping out with squirting flowers, crucial fool of insight.
She laughed when she finally let her body be loved. It had been a hard, but simple task, this journey before the start of her journey. She laughed all through that night, and that was the second night she could remember as if it was being re-screened permanently inside her eyelids. With the memory of those two nights, she was confident. But not cocky, she hoped. The mind steered this pleasure craft.