A page-three girl attracted my attention a couple of weeks ago: India Reynolds, aged twenty-two from Reading.
I found her unusually alluring. She is what I would call a woman so structured as to resemble an immaculate work of art. Her femininity is plenteous without being raunchy, yet raunchiness, if any, is so weaved as to negate any whiff of coarseness. She looks like a beautiful flower undulating in a summer breeze, her lips tantalisingly parted with a promise of a honey-like dew to refresh whoever the gods choose to favour.
The nipples make any arbiter of good taste wish he or she were a child again, having the privilege of close proximity to these life-feeding, heart-throbbing, miraculously formed fleshy gems to entice and give comfort to human needs.
Her thighs are those of a woman well endowed to make sexual congress an unforgettable experience and a life-enhancing exercise to remind us of nature’s greatest gift.
Her vampish demeanour is a rhapsody, celebrating womanhood in a fashion the new generation of self-induced bony women have forgotten what it feels and looks like. Her frilly knickers conceal her mons pubis which is like a white orchid in full bloom.
Such a woman as India is a treasure of femininity to emulate.
I sincerely hope that women will one day revert to being the goddesses they once were and men such as I will then worship at their altar.