Qtns, you probably have read of this before. For other's who have not read of my past posts, I include one here:

It, indeed, was a dirty place. Tiled floors that used to be light green, were now blackish green, fluorescent lights were buzzing feebly yet energetically enough to make things worse, and there was the hint of avgas smell drifting about. I was headed for the Flight Information Center to file some paperwork when I spotted a lone figure, about "yea-high" to my hip height, pirouetting in a darkened corner just in front of a large "picture window" displaying the ramp. She was obviously using the window as a makeshift mirror, albeit a rather dim one. I don't know why she was there, where her parents were, or how long she was going to be there. I do know she was cognizant of my watching her. In a spinning turn that pirouettes are, a dancer will often turn her body yet keep her head pointed in one direction briefly. This gentle, angelic spirit in a pleated skirt was doing so and, just once, used that pause to look in my direction across the expanse of the room. The flashing red from a taxiing commuter struck her skirt and blouse obscuring whatever color her clothing may have possessed, but I wouldn't have noticed anyway had there been bright floodlights focused on her: I was too busy watching her form and graceful motion to be aware of anything as unimportant as cloth color. The front of her blouse told me she was a couple years older than my AoA yet, still, such minute curves here and there announcing approaching womanhood captured my gaze by some sort of magic, a conjure of animal demand upon my weak mind. And I stared obediently. It is no secret amongst people who know me that pleated skirts on any female of our species will add tremendously – multiplicatively or even exponentially– to the fascination my male attention indicates I have for such fashion. As I said, this tiny dancer wore this elegance that night, driving my pedophilic hunger to incredulity. Her twirls spun fabric outwards and, oh gods of covetousness, higher but the faint illumination of her stage maliciously hid whatever sight might have caused any heart murmur I might or might not have to actually yell out joyously from the depths of its chest, a chest containing desire, yes, but a chest tormented those earlier few days by some fire breathing devil intent on torching lungs there until my death. Although I was drawn to some senseless introduction of myself that I might have been able to imagine up, my steps were frozen in place by the fear of my allowing some strong-willed cold germ to attempt a flight of its own from my confused and sickened body to the petite dancer entertaining the lust boiling in me. I have never had such a feeling of complete and utter love as I did that night for an older young girl. It was just her and I for a few, endless moments. And I wanted her, to grasp her hand and move with her in synchronicity, to drift beside her as she drifted beside me. To dance her ballet with her. Still, though, I stood in silent surveillance. Up to that moment, I had not cursed my vexatious stuffy nose, scratchy throat, nor congested cough that I had been struggling with for almost a week. Realizing my lack of action now barred me from a lover, I cursed my virus with vigor.