I am turned on by nice men, attention, care, flirting, intimate conversations and spicy games.
I am like a flower of magnolia, which is revealed slowly, but imperiously, with the very aroma that is remembered.
I am not one of those who are afraid of numbers in the passport. Age is not an expiration date, but an excerpt. Like an expensive wine or skin of a suitcase, rubbed with frequent travel. And I had a lot of them: from the Parisian boulevards, where I learned to kiss with a haze of cigarettes on the lips, to the New York skyscrapers, in which I once broke my heart to the banker. I go in heels that could destroy if I wanted to. My legs are long, fit, with history. They wore me on Milan’s boutiques, fled from the rain in Prague, measured the beaches of Miami with their steps. They know the price of every step.
My spectators do not come for cheap adrenaline, but for what they lack: for sophistication, for a hint that maturity can be more dangerous than youth. These are men who are tired of plastic smiles and pouting lips. They come for what they cannot buy in ordinary life: for intellect, for the conversation, for the look, which says: "I know what you want, even before you understand it."
I am not competing with twenty years. I am a different category. They still learn to wear their body, and I have long merged with him in an ideal dance. And if you think that age deprives a woman of power, then you simply did not know people like me.