When you surprised yourself in the mirror, when you became a stranger to yourself, who was the who you dreamt yourself to be?
̶ Mirror, mirror, tell no lies, how do I look in Boucher’s eyes?
̶ In brush strokes that caress the canvas, in paint sensually applied, you lie on your belly amid tumultuous sheets, naked and insouciant. Propped up on the arm of the divan, you have an air of sleepy alertness as you stare out of the picture frame. Tender, warm, desirable, a nubile child on the way to womanhood, you are oblivious to the effrontery of your wide open thighs blithely inviting penetration.