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Purple Passion

 

I declared my newfound celibacy in an impulsively brazen way:  I dyed my pubic hair purple.  The track of hair that lined my clit remained black.  As strange as it looked, it turned me on.  Very counter-productive.

            My purple passion fueled me to move past my breakup with Todd, the know-it-all psych major.  I walked down Franklin Street and sent out strong purple energy with my iridescent pubes, radiating my path. Of course, no one really saw them, but I was very aware of them down there. 

My celibate-hood actually lasted for two months, but after the official declaration and dyed pubic hair, lingered for only twenty-six hours and forty-three minutes longer. I’ve committed to things for much longer before, but my colorful short and curlies overwhelmed me.  I feared that it would consume me or implode me.

I’d given up sex, but not my lust for vintage clothes shopping.  Everything purple caught my eye, especially some tripped-out old rocker’s platform boots and a fake feather boa.  I knew they would match my purple cuties beautifully. 

I made a beeline to one of the changing rooms, stripped down to my black lacy bra, took off the matching panties, pulled on the boots and draped the feather boa around my shoulders.  Oh yeah!  That was sexy.  Far too sexy as I started tracing a figure eight with my hips and undulating my arms to work the feather boa. 

For a hot second, I panicked that I was showing out in front of a two-way mirror.  For a hotter second, I cocked my left leg on the mirror, showing off the full rainbow:  creamy mahogany thighs, downy purple pubes, thin black ring of pubes, surrounding a rich salmon-colored clit.  But the hottest second came when I started grinding.  I’d never watched myself in action before.  That additional novelty heightened my excitement.

I’d just worked up a good hump when my foot slipped off the mirror. I fell backwards in slow motion at an awkward angle, squealing.  Even though my hands frantically flailed in the commotion, I couldn’t catch a hold of the curtain, which was the only thing separating me from being publically viewed.  I finally landed on the floor, mostly on my right shoulder, a cloud of fake feathers fluttering down around me.  Fortunately, only my torso peeped out from underneath the curtain while my bare ass remained inside the changing room.

I started giggling before slowly rolling off my shoulder and onto my back, facing an olive-skinned man with dark penetrating eyes. 

“Are you all right?” he asked with a sexy foreign accent. He squatted a tantalizing kissing distance away from my face.

“Huh? Yeah!” I sat up quickly, instinctively covering my boobs with my hands even though I wore a bra.  “I think this thing came alive and started to attack me.”  I waved the feather boa.

“Yeah-yeah, that’s why we outlawed them in Germany,” he replied with a very warm smile.  Boy, he sent out the vibes!

I gracelessly scooted back under the curtains without mooning him or the collection of onlookers who had craned their necks to see what all the screaming was about.  I quickly dressed while trying to calm down. 

I pretended not to look for him as I returned the boots, but not the feather boa—I needed at least one fun purple thing.  I scouted a few of the racks that I’d checked out before, hoping to buy enough time to spot him again.

Just when I’d given up and approached the cashier to pay for the feather boa, he joined me in line.  “You’re buying that dangerous thing?”

“I must face my fears,” I told him.

He introduced himself as Aleksander, a Turkish German exchange student, and invited me to lunch, but honestly, pretty much everything after falling out of the changing room was extended foreplay. Oh sure, we walked around a bit, had lunch and sat under a tree and discussed deep things that I can’t remember because all I really focused on at the time was how his lips were perfectly full and formed and how his thick bushy black eyebrows added a mysterious flare to his eyes.  And those eyelashes!  Why do men always get those thick, long eyelashes and women have to wear lots of makeup to achieve close to the same effect?

We walked to the house where he rented a room: lots of books with a bed taking up most of the floor space.  His German-English, Turkish-English and German-Turkish dictionaries sat stacked in a neat pile on his desk separate from the rest of his two haunting bookcases full of mostly electrical engineering books written in one of those three languages. 

He had just closed the door before I was all over him.  My purple passion burned intensely.  Sensing that, Aleksander made quick work of undressing me.  He laughed and said something in Turkish, or perhaps German, when he saw my colorful display and dove in tongue-first.  I wish I had a camera to capture the sight of his olive-skin face foraging into my bright purple bush. 

Once he had me hot and juicy, he sat on the bed and I mounted him, wrapping my legs around him.

“No, put your feet on my legs,” he said.

“How?” He spread his legs and put my feet on the top of his thighs so I was in a squatting position.

“Hold on,” he said, smiling.

“What?” Next thing I know, Aleksander stood up, causing me to hug him closer in order not to fall off.  Then, he started thrusting for all it was worth. 

I don’t know how that little guy found the strength to hold me up while putting it into overdrive, but I hung on for dear life.  I just kept envisioning us falling over, hurting ourselves, needing the paramedics to help us and somehow the details making the newspaper.  How would I explain to my parents about the purple pubic hair?

He finally shot his load and reclined on the bed.  I covered his face with soft kisses before dismounting and heading for the bathroom. I noticed my purple pubes on the bed.  They were like my personal forget-me-nots, a gentle reminder that I’d been there. 

In a strange way, I was proud of myself.  I’d broken the curse.  I left Aleksander’s feeling both sane and liberated.  He served as the perfect random sexual encounter I needed—passionate and fleeting.  Just like my pubes.  Every now and again, I have to do something radical just feel normal again.