I see him every afternoon. Muscled calves flexing in the sun as he lunges across the court. Return the ball or flash a smile. It’s all blinding. The allure. Concentration of effort. Pure and pinpointed. Crushing.
Unaware of my gaze. Maybe.
Now that I think of it, he could be watching me, too.
It gets so I don’t have to use my eyes. I can feel his movements; taste the sweat trickling through golden hairs on the side of his neck. Back and forth. Baiting the hook. Tracking. Tracking. I stay focused on the game, engaged and tracking. As my pulse races and my undershorts grow damp.
The perfect L of the vastus intermedius (times 2!), and the one, crooked incisor – they’re like catnip. I want to roll on my back and wriggle; purr and claw and bite. …Which only hones my resolve.
Oblivious to females at first glance. At least he’s curious. The females watch him, and feel the catnip. It make their hips wiggle, too. I see it. The males write him off as a dreamer, a dork. There is no place for such beauty in their pantheon – or for such remove.
Hard to pin down. Hard to define. A hard man is good to fine. And enjoy.
I walk to the net and stand. The sun bright and brassy, like every other mid-valley afternoon. Distant sounds of splashing in the pool and birds chirping in the parched trees. His white clothes stretching delicious over tanned skin, and balls scattered at court edges.
My undershorts need a tug. Shoelaces need a pull. I feel my heart beat, steady, and my eyes take in everything, without moving. I stand, transfixed. Motionless. Love swelling in my breast. Like a bird, pinned in the crosshairs, knowing its goose is cooked.
He’s somewhere beyond my peripheral vision. He’s not all the way grown yet. But he’s big. And strong enough to take down. His father. Or me. Lion cub with lethal paws, innocent, kills without intending. Trying to figure it out.
I turn my head and smile. Not aware until it’s too late. That I’m the one who’s been hunted, and bagged.
Unaware of my gaze. Maybe.
Now that I think of it, he could be watching me, too.
It gets so I don’t have to use my eyes. I can feel his movements; taste the sweat trickling through golden hairs on the side of his neck. Back and forth. Baiting the hook. Tracking. Tracking. I stay focused on the game, engaged and tracking. As my pulse races and my undershorts grow damp.
The perfect L of the vastus intermedius (times 2!), and the one, crooked incisor – they’re like catnip. I want to roll on my back and wriggle; purr and claw and bite. …Which only hones my resolve.
Oblivious to females at first glance. At least he’s curious. The females watch him, and feel the catnip. It make their hips wiggle, too. I see it. The males write him off as a dreamer, a dork. There is no place for such beauty in their pantheon – or for such remove.
Hard to pin down. Hard to define. A hard man is good to fine. And enjoy.
I walk to the net and stand. The sun bright and brassy, like every other mid-valley afternoon. Distant sounds of splashing in the pool and birds chirping in the parched trees. His white clothes stretching delicious over tanned skin, and balls scattered at court edges.
My undershorts need a tug. Shoelaces need a pull. I feel my heart beat, steady, and my eyes take in everything, without moving. I stand, transfixed. Motionless. Love swelling in my breast. Like a bird, pinned in the crosshairs, knowing its goose is cooked.
He’s somewhere beyond my peripheral vision. He’s not all the way grown yet. But he’s big. And strong enough to take down. His father. Or me. Lion cub with lethal paws, innocent, kills without intending. Trying to figure it out.
I turn my head and smile. Not aware until it’s too late. That I’m the one who’s been hunted, and bagged.
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