I’m an inveterate admirer of women. Their faces, their bodies, how they carry themselves, how they move.

I’m respectful. I don’t leer. My gaze doesn’t intrude, or assert ownership, or power.

I simply admire.

Today, I’m admiring a beautiful young woman in leggings, form-fitting cotton that leaves nothing – and everything – to the imagination.

It’s this combination of revealing – shape – and obscuring – flesh – that is so alluring to me. My imagination leaps into overdrive. Under that black fabric, what might I discover? Freckles? Beauty marks? Scars? And while I can see the muscular shape of her thighs, of her calves, I can only imagine the feel of her flesh, the tone of her musculature.

But I do.

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