I love visiting museums, zoos, parks, places where families like to go and feign togetherness. There are always young mothers wanting to prove their sexuality; older women in their sexual peaks with older husbands way past theirs; and bored teenage daughters, embarrassed by their parents and looking to get back at them. I'm quick with a smile, with a wink, with a raised eyebrow in response to even the slightest sign of interest. Usually I get a demure smile, a turned head, a shy backwards glance as they pass. That alone keeps me going, knowing I've made them feel noticed and appreciated.

Sometimes it goes further.

Wandering through a museum with my wife I notice a young girl. She is young neither in body nor attitude, but as she is there with her parents and a younger brother, she can't be all that old. I look her up and down, appreciating the lines of youth that age will never return. Her dark hair is pulled back in a bun, her face is thin, her glasses cat's eye. Her powder-blue turtleneck conceals too much, but her jeans cling to a high tight round ass. Immediately I want to put my hand between her legs, to cup her cunt, to squeeze her gently yet insistently until she comes. Subtlely she slows, her father, mother, brother lumbering past her. She turns, meeting my gaze, and stretches, arms over her head, back arched, hips thrust. The turtleneck rides up, revealing a hard, flat stomach I could span with one hand. The jeans ride low on her hips just revealing the top of her mound. and her breasts, now pointing skyward, are suddenly defiant, her nipples very visible protrusions. I nod, and smile, there is brief eye contact and then she sprints back (skips back?) in front of her family.

My wife has been talking, about what I have no idea. She assumes me to be generally spaced, which I am, and does not pursue a line of questioning about the cause of my distraction. We continue wandering, holding hands, looking at paintings, the image of the girl in the powder-blue turtleneck imposed on every picture. We enter the Asian wing. The Indian section is cool and dark. I can feel an imaginary wind whispering through the temple which was carted stone by stone half way around the world, the naked figures, half human, half animal, rebuilt to cavort here as unworshipped erotic art. I have never been sure why they keep this room so dark. Is it to recreate the cave in which the contents were originally found, to protect the statues on the columns from the light, or so as not to offend the more delicate sensibilities of those who pass by casually?

The girl in the powder-blue turtleneck is not easily offended. Indeed, she seems intrigued, as she flits around the columns in the half dark, staring intently at the carvings, her parents and brother looking somewhat dubious at her interest, walking off slowly, hoping she will follow. She waves them on and shrugging, they comply. Catching my eye, she stretches again. I am torn. My wife's interest in the columns holds an elusive promise of wilder-than-usual copulation, and yet the girl hints at unimagined purity of sin.

We begin a strange dance, moving from column to column, vaguely approaching each other, then distancing ourselves, but slowly (probably nowhere near as slowly as it seems) growing closer. My wife is too absorbed in the carved cavorting on the columns to notice the live cavorting unfolding around her, the glances, the gestures, the flicking tongues, the nibbled lips. The guard, who is supposed to be guarding this room, guards with a pointedly turned back, shunning the gloomy unspeakable contents. All three of us, myself, my wife, the girl in the powder-blue turtleneck walk slowly around the same column. Does my wife not find this odd? This ancient ritual procession of three around one of a hundred columns? My wife steps a little ahead. My hand, senseless, reaches back and the girl takes it, places it up, under the sweater to a braless breast, to a hard nipple. I spin in place, back to the column, wife (I hope) on the other side, other hand on the girl's hip as she faces me, rises on tiptoe, kisses me, tongue to tongue, lip too fleetingly to lip, and then spins on, my hands reluctantly retracting along her arm as she disappears after her family.

At home the copulation is, as promised, wilder than usual, and yet my mind, still back in the museum, interprets it as a series of still frames, the image of the girl in the power-blue turtleneck imposed on every picture.