Expressions change. Faces become grim, stuffed down into the collars of overcoats. No one celebrates their body in winter. They celebrate resistance—if grim survival can be celebratory. But that’s why I’ve come now and not then. Even in the city the air smells like flowers. Chestnut blossoms dust the pavement and the girls who walk over them move like willows. Their short, loose skirts whispering over their buttocks and fluttering about their soft, strong thighs. In the afternoon heat, from my shaded seat outside the café, I notice the girls. And I notice that the girls are not annoyed when I look. They have not dressed to be plain and they expect to be noticed. I notice them pass, but without lechery in my eyes. They needn’t know the secret heat of my maleness, as the singly sentient member tightens both itself and the fabric of my jeans. And so they smile sweetly back at me as I smile sweetly at them. They cannot know how the heat of the day and the delight that I find in the mystery of their beings fills me with a lust that needs to be celebrated just as roundly as the winter’s defeat.
What do You think about Summer In The City (2013)?
