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What pleases a certain man?
If a man has created success, felt the stirring of art in his bones, and lusted after prolonged perverse relations what kind of woman understands that man?
And what does it matter how many decades shes experienced, as long as her heart races like a girls when his hand brushes against her.
And what does it matter that she is by turns his protege, his girl, his devotee, his confidante, his charge?
Arent these things as natural as the sun and sky?
And what does she thirst for? To be seen. To feel the heat of his attention.
To have direction, to yearn for release under that direction, and to know that a layer of decision has been lifted from her, and in its place the vivid rain of an expressive life.
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