A Picture Worth Two Words

Writing from the male POV has always fascinated me.

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A Picture Worth Two Words

Every woman flirts with me. I’m not being vain. It’s a fact.

Most brush their tits against my arm while they reach for some invisible object. A few have been bold enough to press their entire body against mine, making my cock jump in reflex.

I can’t help it. It’s not easy to resist a woman’s soft curves when she’s so damned willing. And they’re all willing.

Except for Miss Eleanor. She is the only woman in this one-stoplight town that hasn’t tried to get into my pants.

Miss Eleanor lives in the white cottage across from me.

As she does every day, she walks to the end of her drive to collect her mail, wearing a variation of the same outfit: long ground-skimming skirt, over-sized man-shirt, tattered gardening hat.

She pushes down the mail flag, opens the door, reaches in to pull out her mail. Standing at the end of her drive, she sorts through the envelopes, setting them into some sort of order I imagine only makes sense to her.

She looks up and sees me standing at the end of my own drive, glances down at the camera hanging around my neck. I was planning on taking a hike through the woods at the end of our road, but I am now compelled to capture something different. I am intrigued by the quiet woman that hides beneath the baggy clothes, who seldom leaves her home. The woman who avoids eye contact.

“Would you mind if I take your picture?” I lift my camera in question.

I have never seen her smile, but this time her lips curve—somewhat lopsided, a little rueful—before she heads back toward her house. I only hesitate a moment before following her.

She glances back at me before stepping into her house, leaving the door open.

It’s an invitation, I’m sure of it, but I call out, giving her the option to change her mind. “Shall I wait outside?”

“No, I’m ready.” She steps through a doorway at the end of the hall, walks toward me, hips swaying. She wears nothing but the oversized shirt.

It no longer covers up what I imagined was a matronly body, wide from birthing children, sagging with age. The sleeves of the simple white shirt are now rolled up, the front unbuttoned, exposing beautiful firm breasts and long, toned legs that taper to a thin triangle of fur.

Miss Eleanor stops, leans against the wall, one hand on her hip.

“Where do you want me?” she asks.

“Jesus Christ,” is all I can manage.