In a post that will never get posted (it made no sense, even to me) I called a gym acquaintance “ravishing.” Why? What was it about her today that made her look so deliciously powerful. She’s a great athlete so she’s fit. She has good hair, and a nice smile and open eyes, but that is all well established. She didn’t have on new workout clothes like Sasha who comes in with a new outfit every couple of weeks, always tight, color-coordinated Lycra..
Kacey, on the other hand is so perfectly put together. Strong, lean, young, a bit gangly she is innocently oblivious to the many eyes, male and female, that watch her in the mirror during class, waiting for the moment when the room gets warm and she pulls her worn-out sweatshirt up and over her head, revealing a dark blue sports bra and the best rib/waist/hip curve ever to grace a woman.
But what was it today of all days that made her so enticing?
From my vantage point on the front row (I was student, not teacher today), I watched her in the mirror, stretching her neck tall, elongating her upper torso as her shirt lifted and exposed the 1 inch of skin that make her sexier than most nudes on the Internet. It made her look sleek, fast, even on a bike that never moves. Class started and she began to climb with the rest of us. Occasionally pulling her deep brown locks back behind her ears and out of her face, We all waited for the sweatshirt moment.
I can say “we all waited”, because I have seen it from the student and teacher chair, the whole class watches (well most, there is the one gay guy and a couple of 90 year Armenian women who don’t watch). There is a slight pause in the collective breathing until she pulls it towards the ceiling and her smile pops through and she shakes her hair out and gets back to work. Then everyone else is free to resume their lives.
As class progresses I realized what was different, a subtle change, but one that sparked several distractions within the room. She was in her same long cotton shorts, basketball style as if a hold over from her high school days. But today they were lower than before, dropped from the waist, keeping a tenuous grip on her hip bone as her legs pumped up and down in rhythm with the music.
On a break between songs, between hill and sprint, she sits up tall and reaches to the ceiling, her stomach smoothes out to a gentle six-pack, hidden by the softness of a woman’s curve, but I see it. I see that space between, where her strong leg joins her lean body, it’s where the “V” starts that leads a lover’s lips lower, the line traced by her thongs, the crease that deepens when legs are lifted and lovers invited in. This space, this line, this spot, makes all the difference.
It only appears when her pants are low on her hips, tantalizingly close to revealing her under clothes, if there were any there. It’s that little gap explored by a lover’s finger as they stand inappropriately close to each other at the back of class. His finger (her finger? I don’t know) traces along the waistband, skin-to-skin, breaking through the personal space for that invited connection.
As the lover’s touch moves from her hips to her center, tracing the top edge of cloth, the gap between cotton and skin is discovered and a finger slips down inside, the nail tracing downward the crease between thigh and pelvis. Maybe the softness of intimate curls is found, making her blush with the intimacy, or maybe there is no hair to discovery and the exploring digit traces bare skin, hidden, but just inches from the waistband so eager to come down.
She looked ravishing, long, lean, strong, athletic, so unaware of her own beauty, yet dressed perfectly to entice and tease. But how do I tell her? How to I thank her for making my day one full of fun fantasies and naughty thoughts? Can I? Dare I? Lexi covered last week and it all came back today.
How do you offer that compliment that borders on come-on, innocent, but sounding dirty, just a statement of thanks without any motive to let her know she caught your eye. We do what we always do. Nothing.
(As an end note, they say a picture is worth a thousand words, and I know I didn't even get to 75% of a picutre, sometimes words - my words - can't catch the vision in my head. Ahhh, the frustrations of the writer.)