Francesca

When this image appeared on Rebecca Molay’s site about a month ago, I was breathless. I had to track down more, and the gentleman who did the guest post, “ConMan” from Rachel’s Haven, was kind enough to share where he found the photo at X-Art.com.

I hardly know where to begin, so I’ll start at the obvious–her perfectly formed little breasts. Tight, brown upward pointing nipples of perfection direct one to her intent but expressionless, subtly made-up face. The very blond pony-tailed hair is the ideal length. Very girly but short enough to be sporty too.

The collar on her neck accentuates its slenderness and twists the mind with the first hint of naughtiness in this apparent innocent. Her slight shoulders are flawless expressions of feminine vulnerability. Waifish arms the embodiment of weakness.

The just barely sun-kissed skin drawn across ribs evoke memories of a time past. Powerful memories of sexual awakening and mystery when differences between men and women were more distinct rather than today’s subtleties like her relatively modern navel piercing. Without tattoos, Is she a modern woman or from another era?

I’m teased by friends who don’t get it. Typically liking big boobs they see only flat chests, calling my preferred women “boy bodies.” Francesca is a woman. Youthful, she is neither a boy nor a girl, the curve of her hip betrays both her femaleness and maturity. All supported on fit but weightless thighs.

Then the object of her gaze held so naturally, what must therefore be masculinely. Yet gripped in a woman’s long slender fingers. Her visage possesses no overt impulsive lust but almost detachment and routine. She appears completely at ease bearing a penis. It’s possibilities. Pleasure. Function. Love. Weapon. The contrast of powerful phallus held by its owner’s gentle feminine touch contorts the mind.

I am guilty as any and surely more than many. I objectify models. Not just in pornography, but all graphic images including film. I am a pure voyeur. Although I may tease myself about it, I don’t seriously entertain dream dates with Kate or meeting the famous.

Even from the youngest age, I didn’t fantasize about fucking the women who accompanied my beating-off. They were pleasure for my eyes. Visual masturbation. The pictures did not illustrate the story board in my head. I did not join the scene. Even now, looking at blow job shots, the compelling desire to experience sex as a woman, making me want to “be her,” is only for that captured moment. What must she feel? Be feeling? Right then and nothing more.

If anything, the image of Francesca should have conjured desires to be on my knees sucking her cock. Anticipating in fear and longing her wielding that prick to ravage me anally. Instead, somehow my mind instantly processed a very peculiar craving--to be inside her. I wanted her in bed an old-fashioned, kissing, missionary love-making.

I was genuinely curious.

Is she kind?
Gentle?
Intelligent?
Athletic?
Conversational?
Interesting?
Interested?

What’s her voice sound like?

Is she refined or coarse as a cussing sailor?

Mostly I wanted to know, is she as complex as the bewitchment her vision has cast upon me?

Don’t worry. You’ll not be reading about me in the tabloids as some hopped up stalker. I’m not jetting off to London, New York, Los Angeles or wherever she may be. I am soundly grounded in the fact that she is pure fantasy, albeit a very unique feeling one.

Porn’s not supposed to be like that. It’s supposed to be about getting us off.

It’s supposed to be like this.

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