There was a man on the Circle Line the other day. I didn’t notice his face — which was squared and good-looking in an angry sort of way — until well into our shared westward journey. I was too busy staring at his invitingly buoyant ass. It was pushing pertly out of his perfectly fitting pin-striped trousers, and it was all a bit to much, really.
I had to restrain myself from telling him what anti-social behavior this ass of his was making me consider. (He eventually caught me staring, so probably knew what I was thinking anyway.) When our eyes met, he looked at me with such distaste, such derision that my lust turned to guilt then shame then defiant adoration. He might despise me, but good lord I couldn’t help myself.
A behind like that made up for the fact that he was wearing too-broad pin stripes and deep navy blue in the dead of summer. Made up for his scowl, his aloofness, his sun-crisped cheeks. Made up even for the fact that he was utterly not my type, with his rugby player’s build and mouthwatering height. Not my type at all. And yet…
Sometimes, real beauty comes from the backside.