How do you feel?

She's walking east on W 20th St. - brushing past 6' in
black platform shoes, the warm breeze billowing her
short, open leather jacket into a beautiful frame that
is nevertheless barely suitable for her improbably
lush figure, a figure pulled into even more sinuous
curves by a waist cincher of supple black leather worn
over a long, clingy black and white dress. Her arms
swing with the rhythm of her rapid stride, the neat
wrapping of the thin package she holds high in her
right hand, a baton keeping the tempo of her pace,
doing little to conceal the fact that it contains a
newly purchased riding crop. She remains above it all,
her bright eyes meeting every gaze, each stare of the
suddenly alert passers by. She is an angel rendered
earthbound, a queen without a country, a diva on an
impromptu stage.

You follow in her wake - amazed, amused, aroused, but
also a little bit embarrassed. You are unaccustomed to
the walk as a form of street theater. And you are but
the bag boy, a mere spear carrier for visiting
royalty. In her words, you volunteered for the ride.