AMoveableBeast is offline
Join Date: Feb 2013
In Appreciation of Mothers
There is beauty in the young and nubile, in women who have just entered the blossom of adulthood. Like a berry flash-frozen on the bush by an early winter, they are a delicate moment suspended in time, hanging there behind a translucent pane of flawlessness, nearly perfect and practically untouchable. It's the abnormality of such a thing, the rarity of it, that make such women desirable. They last for only the shortest of seasons, defiant of gravity and ignorant of age, just ripe, only now edible, firm to the touch and barely into their juice. There is an excitement in the plucking, a thrill in experiencing the first batch, and it draws men to the harvest by the dozens. Yet, like fruit, there is a sweetness that is gained only in the ripening, a softness like velvet on the tongue with the contours of a full-bodied bloom. This is the flavor and feel of a full-grown woman.
A young girl can be an infectious melody, a catching ditty, tightly composed and forever stuck in your mind, but a woman, allowed to progress fully into her prime, can be a symphony, deep and booming, fleshed out and satisfying to the last note. Her body can hold the rhythm of confidence, a dance learned only with practice. Like a Wagner opera, her lips can sing a song of life, of love and lust, carrying with it images of a worthy past, heroically feathered and splashed brightly with red. Her hands, strong from use and steady from trial, can race across you in ragtime-ravishment or milk you smooth jazz. Like the greatest of tunes, a woman will teach you a little more every time she's played, about her, about you. A woman left to grow to her crescendo becomes an art unto herself, a master in a style all her own.
Never is this more apparent than in the sexy mom. She is the impossible: all things at once, loving and lustful, caring and carnal, in all forms--fluent as a liquid, solid as a rock, as difficult to hold down as the lightest gas. She is awesome, as that word was intended before it was corrupted by the ill-spoken prattled of clueless adolescents. She is magic. Possessing an ability known only to her, she is a shape-changer, a mutable substance, altering and being altered in turn. As an alchemist makes lead into gold, a mother turns lust to love, forming life within herself. A potent potion, she can accomplish in nine months more than a man can in a lifetime. As flexible as molten glass, she is a vial without limits, growing, stretching, accommodating, yet, through it all, glowing hot. Then, when finished, when her sorcery is no longer needed, she returns to her original shape, empowered by her ordeal, stronger and more succulent from her success, an hourglass figure once more, filled with the infinite sands of possibility.
Yes, there is an allure in nymphs, but there is divinity in motherhood. Mothers, this is your holiday, your holy day. May you be worshiped as the goddesses you are.