Alexis Kay: I am Anal School Girl!

Temptress Alexis has a million little ways to lure your eyes: short skirts, soft curves, big blue eyes… and when you see her in action she’ll capture your mind as well.

The first time I saw her, she was crossing the street against the light, completely unbothered by the cars waiting for her. Short skirt, legs that went on forever, blonde hair catching the sun like it was designed to do exactly that. She moved like she owned the world, or at least like she’d rented it and wasn’t planning to return it anytime soon.

I watched her disappear into a coffee shop, and something made me follow. Curiosity, maybe. Or the particular magnetism of someone who knows exactly who they are.

Inside, she was already at the counter, ordering something complicated that made the barista smile. I took a seat near the window, pretending to check my phone, actually watching her every move. She caught me looking and didn’t look away. Didn’t blush or fidget or pretend not to notice. Just held my gaze for a long moment, then smiled slowly, like we were sharing a secret I didn’t yet understand.

She brought her coffee to the table next to mine—not mine, but close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something floral, but with an edge.

“You’re staring,” she said, not accusatory. Just factual.

“I am.” No point denying it. “Sorry. You’re just…”

“Just what?”

“Hard to look away from.”

Alexis—I learned her name later—laughed, and the sound was exactly what you’d expect. Warm, confident, completely unselfconscious. “Most men try to pretend they weren’t looking. You’re either very brave or very bad at lying.”

“Maybe both.” I set down my phone, giving up all pretense of doing anything else. “I’m Sam.”

“Alexis.” She extended her hand across the space between our tables, and I shook it. Her grip was firm, her skin soft, her eyes—those impossible blue eyes—holding mine with an intensity that made my heart stutter.

“What do you do, Sam? Besides follow beautiful women into coffee shops?”

“I’m a writer. Or trying to be. Mostly I just stare at blank screens and wonder why I thought this was a good idea.”

She tilted her head, considering me. “A writer. Interesting. And what would you write about me, if you had to put me in a story?”

The question caught me off guard. I thought about it, really thought about it, looking at her not as a beautiful woman but as a character to be understood.

“I’d write about the way you move,” I said slowly. “Like you’re always aware of being watched but don’t care. Like the watching is just… background noise to whatever you’re actually doing.” I paused. “And I’d write about your eyes. Not just the color—anyone can describe blue eyes. But the way they look at people. Like you’re seeing past the surface to something underneath.”

Alexis was quiet for a long moment. Then she smiled, and it was different from before. Softer. More real.

“That’s actually good,” she said. “Most people just describe the skirt.”

We talked for hours that first day. I learned that she was an artist—a painter, actually, with a studio across town where she worked when she wasn’t modeling to pay the bills. I learned that she’d grown up moving constantly, an army brat who’d learned to make friends quickly and leave them easily. I learned that she was smarter than she let on, funnier than she had any right to be, and more complicated than her surface suggested.

The short skirts and soft curves and big blue eyes—those were the bait. The real Alexis was underneath, waiting for someone brave enough to look past the obvious.

“I don’t usually do this,” she admitted, somewhere around hour three. “Talk to strangers. Let them in.”

“Then why me?”

She considered the question. “Because you looked at me like I was a person, not a collection of parts. Because you didn’t pretend not to be looking, but you also didn’t make it weird. Because when I asked what you’d write about me, you talked about my eyes instead of my body.” She shrugged, almost shy. “That’s rare.”

I reached across the space between our chairs, taking her hand. “The skirt got my attention. But you kept it.”

Alexis smiled, and it was like watching the sun come out.

We started seeing each other regularly after that. Coffee shops, galleries, long walks through the city with no destination. She showed me her paintings—abstract, emotional, nothing like the careful surface she presented to the world. I showed her my writing, pages and pages of it, things I’d never let anyone read before.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said one evening, lying on my floor while I sat on the couch above her.

“What did you expect?”

“Someone who wanted the easy version of me. The skirt and the curves and the eyes. Someone who’d be satisfied with surface.” She looked up at me, and her expression was open in a way I’d never seen. “You keep digging. You keep wanting more. It’s terrifying.”

“Terrifying good or terrifying bad?”

“Terrifying good. Terrifying like standing on the edge of something and not knowing if you’re going to fly or fall.” She reached up, catching my hand. “With you, I think I might fly.”

I slid off the couch to lie beside her, our faces inches apart. “Then fly. I’ll catch you if you don’t.”

She kissed me then, and it was nothing like I’d expected. Not performative, not calculated, not any of the things I’d imagined from the woman who’d first crossed that street. It was real. Vulnerable. Terrifying and beautiful and absolutely true.

Months later, at an exhibition of her paintings, I watched her work her magic on a room full of strangers. The short skirt, the soft curves, the big blue eyes—they were all there, drawing people in, making them curious. But when they looked at her art, they saw something deeper. Something real. Something that captured their minds as completely as her beauty had captured their eyes.

“That’s you,” she whispered, appearing at my side. “The reason I could show them this. You made me brave enough.”

I slipped my arm around her waist, pulling her close. “I just saw you. You did the rest.”

She leaned into me, watching her paintings, watching the people moved by them. “A million little ways to lure your eyes,” she murmured. “But only one way to keep them.”

“And what’s that?”

She turned to look at me, those impossible blue eyes holding everything she was. “Be real. Be brave. Let someone see.”

I kissed her right there, in front of everyone, not caring who watched. Because Alexis had captured my eyes the moment I saw her, but she’d captured my mind—my heart, my soul, my whole self—when she trusted me enough to be real.

The temptress had done her work. And I was exactly where I wanted to be.