The Wind Beneath Her Wings

There is a jaunty fellow who could often be spotted riding his bike around town in a tight t-shirt and a flouncey black lycra skirt.   He is tan and taut, delicate of frame but sinewy of muscle.  If the wind and his bearings coalesced just so, the skirt would bob and weave, briefly revealing his dangly bits and remarkably tanned bum.  This, it seemed, pleased him very much.  Not so much the public exposure, as I’m not sure he realized how exposed he was, but the rush of the wind upon his privates.

For whatever reason, our paths stopped crossing, and I forgot about him.   And then I saw him.  Taut and firm, in his bike riding skirt, tossing his hair back, waiting for the light.  Tight white t-shirt emphasizing the rich tanned skin tones – and breasts!  Honest to goodness, possibly C cup breasts.  She looked so poised and confident.  Still, I couldn’t help but wonder, is the thrill now gone?  Once it’s turned inside out, do you lose that particular Mother Nature sponsored  titillation?   At a dead stop on a hot day there was no telling what was, or wasn’t, beneath that skirt.   But that smile and glow seem to mean one thing:  she has the wind beneath her wings.