Blog Dis
His sculptured back
2024-06-04
He isn't what she anticipates, standing in front of him, waiting for the Number 69 bus, early for a change on this hot and humid day. He wears barely a stitch of clothing, no shirt or socks, just a toque and a pair of well-worn cargo pants, clinging to his slight hips, dragging down to his bum. His runners belong in the 70s, not originals but re-issues, capturing a retrograde style highly popular. His back captivates her thoughts; the shoulders are slightly rounded, the blades jut out, muscled, young and strong. His body creates a sculpted look of flesh and curve. She looks briefly at her watch until her eyes need to want him again, need to want to settle on him again. He stands with earbuds plugged in, music blaring, hardly aware of her presence.
Does she want to?
Of course she wants to... The bus is packed beyond capacity. She chooses to stand beside him, as his long arm reaches upward to grab hold of the bus strap. The dark, fine hairs on his skin are visible. She purposely moves into him, closer, almost touching her bare arm to his. Still, he doesn't notice her, lost in music. She looks up and permits her mind to roll into a fantasy, the kind of reverie where lust and want are welcome, where the want of desire is so intense it can only be recognized and realized by the co-mingling of bodies. She wants him to acknowledge her. She wants to be consumed by him. His strong back turns toward her as the bus moves, pushing and pulling riders, swaying back and forth; the momentum makes her stomach drop. His presence is affecting her and each time the bus stops, his body slightly touches hers. She allows herself to become lost in the moment of reality, to go back into her world of fantasy.
He rides her with strength that flows forward and backward, working as one with two outstretched arms, moving and gliding across her with fluidity and purity of intent. He feels right inside her. He's alive on top of her, his taste of morning coffee on his full lips as they connect with the plushness of her lips. And his hair, that disheveled state of disarray becomes part of the fantasy. Her fingers reach into him to experience the texture of his coarse hair. It is natural and fleeting, these notions of possession, these feelings of desire are uncontrollable. Her fingers are no longer her own. They reach out tentatively and stroke his skin as the bus moves again.
Finally, he notices her.
"Hey lady! Keep your f*cking fingers to yourself!"
"Oh, sorry," she says, feeling intrusive. "I didn't know fingers can f*ck," she states.
This makes him laugh. He pulls the plugs out of his ears and looks long and hard at her, from toes to tip of head, scrutinizing her make-up, her summer outfit. But his stop arrives and he quickly disembarks, not bothering to look back. The moment has passed. She contracts her inner muscles and feels the moisture, the impact of his presence is felt inside her, through her, across her skin.
Anonymity strikes randomly.
==========================
Some writers believe that to speak in a voice of the opposite sex you must first research with the opposite sex to accurately reproduce their state of mind and being. As a writer, I believe the imagination doesn't distinguish between the sexes. The imagination is a reservoir of action and only practice, literally flexing your imagination like a muscle will make it taut and useful, ready to race the moment the gun is fired.
Does she want to?
Of course she wants to... The bus is packed beyond capacity. She chooses to stand beside him, as his long arm reaches upward to grab hold of the bus strap. The dark, fine hairs on his skin are visible. She purposely moves into him, closer, almost touching her bare arm to his. Still, he doesn't notice her, lost in music. She looks up and permits her mind to roll into a fantasy, the kind of reverie where lust and want are welcome, where the want of desire is so intense it can only be recognized and realized by the co-mingling of bodies. She wants him to acknowledge her. She wants to be consumed by him. His strong back turns toward her as the bus moves, pushing and pulling riders, swaying back and forth; the momentum makes her stomach drop. His presence is affecting her and each time the bus stops, his body slightly touches hers. She allows herself to become lost in the moment of reality, to go back into her world of fantasy.
He rides her with strength that flows forward and backward, working as one with two outstretched arms, moving and gliding across her with fluidity and purity of intent. He feels right inside her. He's alive on top of her, his taste of morning coffee on his full lips as they connect with the plushness of her lips. And his hair, that disheveled state of disarray becomes part of the fantasy. Her fingers reach into him to experience the texture of his coarse hair. It is natural and fleeting, these notions of possession, these feelings of desire are uncontrollable. Her fingers are no longer her own. They reach out tentatively and stroke his skin as the bus moves again.
Finally, he notices her.
"Hey lady! Keep your f*cking fingers to yourself!"
"Oh, sorry," she says, feeling intrusive. "I didn't know fingers can f*ck," she states.
This makes him laugh. He pulls the plugs out of his ears and looks long and hard at her, from toes to tip of head, scrutinizing her make-up, her summer outfit. But his stop arrives and he quickly disembarks, not bothering to look back. The moment has passed. She contracts her inner muscles and feels the moisture, the impact of his presence is felt inside her, through her, across her skin.
Anonymity strikes randomly.
==========================
Some writers believe that to speak in a voice of the opposite sex you must first research with the opposite sex to accurately reproduce their state of mind and being. As a writer, I believe the imagination doesn't distinguish between the sexes. The imagination is a reservoir of action and only practice, literally flexing your imagination like a muscle will make it taut and useful, ready to race the moment the gun is fired.
