Gawkers galore, that’s what followed her around, at any corner, on any walk, never mind the beach in a thong outfit nearly disappearing itself. Men of all ages, for their own reasons, guesses, imaginations, rallied to the cause, we all can readily believe. many women, too, who wondered what they themselves could do with her carriage, like seeing is believing from the word “Go,” or “If I had that bod, I’d be a god of the ward.”
Her name was not, “Hey, look at that,” or, “Wow, that’s what I call a Sundae on a Saturday,” or “Hell has no calling after that.” Any such application fit her on the instant, there were that many curves and lovely explosions on her frame, breaking loose from her frame, saying words from her frame without making a sound.
Her mother called her Betsy, her father called her Doll, her brother called her Sis, and the guy next door couldn’t ever say a word as he stood transfixed for the umpteenth time on his front steps or on his front lawn keeping it trim, near impossible with her on the brim.
She, in the first place, was lucky to get out of high school, the charms flooding hallways, classrooms, teacher studies or gatherings, or enough “Please see me after class,” to get a little more time for their whatevers. The girl’s basketball coach drafted her, the soccer coach promoted her, but the hockey coach couldn’t cover that frame with all the armor the sport required, but dreamed about the dressing quarters before important games and the chatter incessant and noisy.
When the one and only one Hollywood movie star visited their school to promote his latest film just released to the circuit, he couldn’t keep his eyes of her gifts for any part of his introduction from her on the school stage or how she maneuvered her way from the microphone to her seat on-stage where he was hung in the middle of an imaginative encounter with the still-teenager at her busiest and him locked into a dreamy curse of every nickel of his dime’s worth.
His attraction was, he thought at first, at her breasts breaking near loose, but for that awful like for the tyke because there was that butt on the move and in the way of his eye and his imagination coasting along like it had proper momentum in grace for the graces, or that special bump with a lump too many ladies wish belonged to themselves regardless of the cost of the trade, if it was so made. But there was a magic on parade, not seen, that deep in-between that’s so hidden it almost yells out, “I see you looking there at me, that fair majesty I proclaim without an aim, and makes a change in its range, do or get done, whatever the thought is won, the balance swung in my high favor, me as me, and her in that flavor, but near at my 95th year and only on my third beer, all the fun’s been mine, and soon I will entwine.
Image: Pixabay.com
literally stories 
Tom–
I approve of third beer flirtation in one’s 95th year. It gives the world a little more hope and class. Excellent as always!
Leila
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When I read something like this it reminds me that –
Current perceived wisdom is that men are not to objectify women.
If men hadn’t been seeing women that they wanted to stick their (use proper name or slang of your choice) into for thousands of years none of us would be here. Another case of nature or biology wins.
Correct me if I’m wrong but Mr. Sheehan is even older than I am, and yet here we are admiring women even at our age.
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Excellent comment Doug–
The age mentioned is not an exaggeration. Babe Ruth and speakeasies were in their heydays when our friend Tom was born. Age matters, but only in the best
way.
Leila
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Hi Tom,
Writing is ageless.
Age gives experience.
Experience to write.
Brilliant as always my fine friend.
Hugh
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