I was sitting outside, eating lunch and chatting with Roxy when my gaze fell upon a blooming rhododendron bush. I don’t remember if I giggled out loud, but I mentioned to her that I was having some lewd thoughts about those flowers.
They were beautifully colored, from a deep, party-girl pink to a pale-almost-white on the furthest, inner reaches. They looked like can-can dancers, lifting their petticoats as they swirled by. I couldn’t help but want to peek under those skirts to see how far the pink went. Roxy proclaimed me a flower pervert, though she had a fancy French term for it that I don’t remember now.
Is that so wrong? To pervert the ordinary with such ease and pleasure? To my eyes, snap dragons are blatantly sexual, with their lurid, outstretched tongues making promises that’d get you a mouth-washing with soap if you said them out loud around your mother. I can’t be the only one who drawn in by the velvety soft, yet stiff, petals of a rose, modestly folding in on herself but inviting my nose with her sweet, sexy smell. Look at paintings by Georgia O’Keeffe and tell me I’m alone in recognizing the barely civilized sexuality of those brightly colored and sweetly scented blossoms. My favorite are lilies, especially the Tiger lilies with their maddeningly sweet come-hither scent. Looking isn’t enough, smelling from afar just draws me in, eyes half closed, nose forward, until I’ve gone too far and my nose must wear the evidence of my indiscretion for all to see.
Hi, I’m Kyle and I’m a very happily unrepentant floral pervert.
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