This isn’t my writing, it’s that of a friend. But it’s hot, and so I share it with you:
She appears, as so many of the subjects of my paeans do, on the bus I take to the gym.
She’s in her twenties, an age at which, as I recede further from it, some women are starting to be too young to be attractive. She’s not one of them.
Caucasian, long medium brown hair, the level of makeup that, when applied with skill (as hers was) makes a woman look sun-kissed and makeup-free. She might have just stepped out of the outdoor shower in Amagansett.
She is holding an impossibly large iced coffee. It could be a planter, or an urn. The lipstick on the straw turns me on instantly.
She is wearing a navy blue dress that someone more knowledgeable could name and that I can only describe. A light material. Almost no shape to the dress. Sleeveless. Falls to that part of the thigh that is below the point of scandalous but above the point of demure. It hides her shape except when she moves, at which time it reveals her body to be beautiful. Fuller ass than one might guess from her arms and neck.
She got on at the stop before mine. She never saw me. I saw her for at most thirty seconds. I get off the bus, thrilled it’s summer.