It’s actually the car that I notice first. You see a lot of sights in this city but a classic 50s American car in pristine condition isn’t one you see every day. And it sounds as good as it looks, the engine purring as it comes to a halt at the crossing. But when you see a great car, you always save a glance for the driver.
When I finally do look, I find I am looking at the most muscular woman I have ever seen up close. And as far as I can see, she’s sitting in her car, driving around in broad daylight, wearing next to nothing.
My heart almost jumps out of my chest. My mouth becomes dry. I can’t help but just stop, stand and stare as everything around me disappears. Everything but her.
The light is still red. She turns her head and suddenly she’s looking at me.
I know I’m gawping but I just can’t pull my eyes away. She’s looking at me and she’s smiling. Not a grin, the smile is a little enigmatic, a little Mona Lisa, like she’s amused at the reaction she’s causing, amused at the power she has. I feel my knees give a little, I have to remind myself to breathe. Then, as if she has a kind of irresistible magnetism, I find myself stepping slowly towards the car, towards her.
The light has turned green and a horn sounds behind her, but I remain in her spell.
And then the door of the car swings out in front of me, a long black boot holding it open. She is there before me in all her glory. She is wearing so little I am stopped in my tracks again as I try to take this vision all in.
But my eyes can’t settle on any one part of her, flitting from her thick, vascular forearm to her hard, flat stomach, from her rippling pecs to her mighty thighs.
Every square inch of her is beautiful muscle. Muscle so hard, so pumped, that it pulsates outwards against her perfect bronzed skin.
The horn behind her sounds again. Unhurriedly, she looks over her shoulder at the other driver then back to me.
I think you’d better hurry up and get in…
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