She allows no one to touch her. No, she touches them. . . . They search for the connection, the invisible line. For years they drift, roving and exploring, feeding and preying on other beauties. So many delectable feasts for the eyes to undress, the tongue to taste, the body to take in panting thrusts to their peaks. They tick them off, put notches in their belts as she lets them wander, and just when they think they’re free, she’ll pull the line.
Antarctica calls
the RAMBLE 