DIEGA

THE FIRE

 

A wobbly wooden hacienda porch with numerous traces of peeled paint. A freckled shade from the old vine leaves. The sun, frying like a sizzling hot pan. A shabby radio playing heated melodies. An idle lazy fan, well forgotten by time, supposedly cooling down yet loading the air with flaming love impulses. The flowers blushing red under those flying fiery hormones. The rustic wooden windows were left all bare. The old floral rich curtains were turned into provoking clothes that now wrap her slender body in a tight hug. Her vivid red patent open-toe platforms, three sizes bigger than hers, with heels like golden thin nails penetrate the wooden deck. Her nails, smooth as porcelain, painted like red walls with roses wallpaper. Her cheeks set on fire. Her lips – glossy red poison marked out with a black lip pen. Her hair – nest of fiery black wires. Her earrings – thin golden blossoms. Her tattoos – naughty little scorpions on her breast, trying to hide under the lacy bra, far from the melting sun.

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She had a blazing taste, no doubt. Sassy behaviour wrapped in an irresistible sensual call. Her body, a lean chord made for some hard loving. Her soul – an emotionless trap for men’s feelings. Once inside, they were burned by passion, not by love. DIEGA was for sure a smoking hot lady with some fiery tricks. She wasn’t a flame; she was an annihilating fire instead.