Perversion Process Read Free Page A

glory.
    The artist has spared her the side dimples in the buttocks that afflict most Greek figures, and given her a very full rump indifferent to the forces of gravity. He somehow managed to give the impression of a deep cleft, scoring into the stone with absolute precision to leave a heavy shadow at the top where her cheeks met the base of her spine. But the crack itself was wonderfully narrow, the buttocks huddling together to keep the gap closed and secret. Their surface was creamy with an opaque shine and absolutely smooth, without a single blemish or 12

    imperfection in the marble.
    One day I simply had to touch it. I had often felt the urge but had never before allowed myself. Her back arches slightly and her rump is pushed out invitingly, so I reached out and stroked it, just lightly, with the backs of my fingers. I was surprised when I found it cold. It was so life-like I had expected the warm give of real flesh. I tried to pull my hand away but it hovered above the surface and turned palm-in as if to grab one ample cheek. I managed to arrest this impulse but stroked her again. Her surface was absolutely even, there were no pimples or pocks or hairs to distract the sensation on my fingertips.
    My breath was hard and faltering, and my heart was racing.
    I must have been caressing her in wonder for all of a minute when other senses broke through and alerted me to the fact that I was being watched. I suddenly registered the form in my periphery and turned to see her staring at me. My fingers jumped ashamed from Erato‟s bottom and I blushed for the first time in what must have been a lifetime. The watcher‟s expression was not one of scorn or censure, or even of mocking amusement. She just inspected me calmly, taking me in. I wanted to look her up and down, to see her body beneath the tight black clothes so similar to mine, but I just couldn‟t break her gaze.
    Her mouth was wide and pouting, the top lip ever so slightly bee-stung under the dark red gloss. Her eyes were almond-shaped and as brown as mine, but set further apart. Her forehead was high beneath her fringe and her hair was sleek and straight, raven like my own, but probably dyed. Her skin was pale and flawless, her cheeks cut by a blush of applied red to show angular, high cheekbones. My first thought was that she was German, 13

    or maybe eastern European. But this frittered to inconsequence when my second thought pushed through: that she was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen.
    I could feel myself melting, my legs actually shaking as we regarded each other, some ten feet apart.
    Trepidation was alien ground for me – usually any girl I looked at for this length of time was already under my spell, whether gay or just curious. I tried to think of something to say, a plausible excuse for why I was stupidly stroking a statue‟s arse so lovingly. But my mouth was dry and frozen, and she did nothing to relieve my tension. She just stood, patiently and wordlessly waiting to reel me in. I recognised her technique for seduction so well: it was exactly the same as mine.
    With my heart threatening to burst, I dragged my legs from their paralysis and took a step towards her. From out of nowhere a figure cut my vision and suddenly an elderly lady was there between us, addressing my girl. The blood hissed in my ears and muffled the old lady‟s question but I was still lurching forward, trying to divert my momentum away from them, too humiliated to stop and wait like a lost sheep and desperate now to just get away with as much dignity as I could muster. I could feel my face burning and as I passed them I felt her gaze still boring into me, tracing my departure.
    I didn‟t want to walk away from her but I did. I was such a shaking mess that I had to go. I knew that she was still looking at me but I couldn‟t look back, not until I had reached the double doors to the stairs. I turned briefly and saw her speaking softly to the old woman. Then my eyes