inspiration-detail-signature-femme-fatale-block-text-story

inspiration-detail-signature-femme-fatale-block-text-story


Picture this… It’s hot in the city, 38 degrees Celsius, the skyline sparkling in the ink blue night. There’s a soft breeze on the roof of your hotel. Your cocktail burns bittersweet in your throat, the ice cubes clinking in your glass. You’re dressed to kill -a push up bra under a smooth leather jacket, stiletto heels and slicked back hair. After gorging on art all day, hitting the galleries and museums, the amber nudes of brilliant painter Balthus keep flashing in your mind.

Art allows us to see and feel without touching, without shame. You scan the cityscape. In half an hour you’ll be meeting him on the rooftop over there. How exposed you will be! You can almost smell him. And then, when your blood starts running cold through your veins, charging your body with electricity, you understand that it’s on. You’re on. So you pay the bill and walk towards the rough industrial building, heels clicking in the empty street. By the elevator doors you adjust your stay-ups, allowing your fingers to linger on your velvety smooth thighs. Once inside, you slither out of your cashmere knitted skirt and put on your sunglasses. You push the button for the 28th floor. Don’t think. Go. The cold metallic doors open, and there he is. Eye to eye, his scent filling your nostrils. You gasp, your heart quickens. And when you hear the low smooth timbre of his voice, your body propels you forward. You want him… now!