My clothes were perfect. My hair was perfect. Resistance was futile tonight. I was a runaway train numbly leaving dumbstruck men in my impressive wake. I wore my ankle-length black sheath skirt with the neck-high slit up my left leg. By moving just right and at my whim I could let my garter flash like a secret smile between lovers. I smiled knowingly as the men became weak-kneed puppy dogs, their eyes followed my every move while their wives or girlfriends shot them with hollow points from their furious eyes. From the toes of my open-toe black heels to the top of my beautiful, soft auburn tresses I exuded confidence, control and delicious feminine power. Inside I laughed at them en masse-from the sneering hostess to the openly-gawking man on the other side of the room (who sent me an amaretto sour despite the fact I was obviously with a date) and every person in between. I derided them because they were my helpless sycophants... yet their very helplessness and their flattery, despite my derision, thrilled me.
I noticed that Keith reacted to our height difference, subtle though it was. He squared his shoulders and pulled himself up, trying like hell to make his once 6'3" (now closer to 6'1") frame appear 6'5"-to no avail! I contained my chuckling when he stared-while-trying-to-act-non-chalant at my shoes, adding numbers, estimating height in direct proportion to inches added by a high heel divided by inconceivability that he shrunk while wondering if legs could be any prettier. I had him hungrily eating out of the palm of my hand from the instant I made him knock three times before I would answer the door. Throughout the night I mentally danced around him, a flyweight compared to his cumbersome George Foreman heavyweight self. I jabbed and crossed, bobbed and weaved, I kept him wondering and confused and waiting with bated breath for my next word, my slightest gesture. My eyes locked into his, I stole another chunk of his heart when I slowly lowered mine only to peek again from half-closed lids. I devoured every ounce of power and control he unknowingly offered, justifiable stealing even more as my appenage.
I noticed a prominent difference between our heights by the end of the evening. I started the night eyes to his nose and finished eyes to forehead. I think he was too smitten and caught up in the tornado of me at my most dazzling to realize the profound change. He asked to accompany me inside after pulling into the parking lot of my apartment complex. The manifestation of my power plus the secret knowledge of my spell on him had kept the milky way in my eyes all night. I turned them on him full-force, momentarily blinding him with their brilliance-and simply said "No." No explanations, no excuses. His face deflated, I was exalted. Inside I was chanting, 'I did that, I made him look like that!' He had no recourse, he had to resort to plan B. He asked/begged for my phone number, a glimmer of hope raising his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth. I hesitated a heartbeat before answering-"no." His chin hit his chest, his shoulders sagged, he sat there in a world of defeatism. I let him suffer several seconds, enjoying my dizzying might. "I'll take yours though." Never have I seen a quicker or more dramatic mood swing! He was oblivious to the fact that I was in control of everything-right down to his moods and emotions. I could make him elated, I could make him deflated-whatever, whenever I wanted--and there was nothing he could do about it.
He gingerly leaned towards me for a kiss, his lips quivered with anticipation. I met him halfway, surprising him with my aggressive desire. The entirety of his soul, everything he felt-consternation, awe, desire, trepidation-erupted into me as he tenderly caressed my mouth. I hungrily explored his soft lips, fighting my primal urge to shrink him down to a bite-size Snicker's bar. The realization that he was completely under my spell drove me over the edge of the cliff Thelma and Louise style, and left me craving more, more, more. I dragged myself from the tantalizing, wicked thoughts cavorting unchecked through my thoughts. I opened my eyes to find him subtly-as-a-chainsaw smaller than me. In his eyes I saw the first flicker of comprehension sneak into his consciousness that something was amiss. I smiled, pretended that I didn't notice that at the touch of my lips he had shrunk at least two more inches-and pretended that I wasn't so filled with ecstasy, because I knew I was the cause of said shrinkage, that I was 1.3 seconds from exploding. I couldn't trust myself to taste his lips again, so I brushed my lips to his forehead in a perfect June Cleaver passionate kiss and said goodnight.