Monday, March 3, 2014


I foreshorten my gaze to look closer at the constituents of his body. The pectorals slough of beads of sweat running in rivulets down his chest. His biceps bulge, their muscular pliability working my fingers into accelerating raptures of felt mobility. His eyes are filmed with the tenuity of working out. He exudes excitation, repletion, expendation.
Striations of chest hair curl around his chest. I forestall my importunity by running my hand through their smooth roughness. His stubble curves incisions of raspiness on the skin of my palm. His goggles reduplicate me. His heaving chest betokens exertion, effortfulness, freneticism.
A thin trail of hair runs down across his belly to his , culminating corporeally in his sweatpants. I trace the downward runnel of it with my forefinger. His stomach muscles contract and billow as his body reclaims rightful repose after a tough day at the gym.
I run my hands around his back. His back muscles ripple, his spine traverses gracefully its downward spiral . Indented bones stand out, as sharp points and i feel the satiny smoothness of hairless skin with the hard edged outlines of spine bones, superimposed, refracting infinitesimal stipples of pleasure.
I foreshorten my gaze to look at his fulcrum. The throbbing blood in his stream duplicates his engorgement. I see, conspicuously, the sheath of his sweatpants pants studding this tumescence. With my eye i trace every curve of it, its colossal flanks heaving and roiling, its alertness.
The man behind the frame is a professional gymnast. With me, other spectators, with their own foreshortened gazes and expectations, pause to absorb this montage and move on to the tea stall.

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