Every man has one. You notice her when you are sixteen and she still inhabits your heart at sixty. She is the angel always just out of reach. Her scent is of Ivory Soap and lilacs and spring and youth. You never quite forget her. She becomes the template of desire. You tremble for her flesh, but wouldn't know how to touch it.You spend your life wishing she would invite you up to her room to play, knowing that she never will. You want to embrace the texture of her being. You want to brush your tongue along the thighs of her most secret longings. You want to hear her moans echo in your own throat. You measure all the women you will ever stumble into against her. Some fit; most don't. You believe she holds the answers to all your unasked questions, the dark ones your soul is afraid to speak out loud even to itself. Sometimes you wish she would release you, but that can never be. She is the Queen of your dreams. You are her subject. You will always kneel before her. You will always believe that her touch could heal your deepest wounds. You will be her Fool forever and be glad of it. On your deathbed, you will catch her scent one last time, smile and carry her with you into infinity. Every man has one.
  - mce