Now, unlike women well-endowed who are used to rear end ogling, yours truly is not. When some sassy guy I no longer speak to said, I look like a Number 2 Pencil, he was regrettably right.
I’m skinny, and the type of skinny with no definition. I’m like one long line, in tights.
I’ve looked this way for so long I’m pretty much over being lusted after. I’m an acquired taste if you will, and as the years roll by, more men are removing me from their shelves.
Men like curves, comparing those on a woman to those of a sports car…either one fun to drive.
Catching a dashing young man at the library looking at my hindquarters in the mirror, I was suddenly a hopeful teenage girl again. It was brief, but there was that old feeling of being shopped and bought, at the full retail price.
I started to flirt even though our age difference was vast, coyly teasing, “and what are you looking at there mister?” He slowly came towards me, his big brown eyes looking into mine and said…
“is that my umbrella by any chance?”