Looking, not touching

Guido and I spent Christmas at the farmhouse in Majorca. It was such a tonic to escape from the cold winter skies over London. It felt a little like Summer again. Guido would swim at the beach every morning and I’d wait for him at the Gran Café 1919. You can see the sea from there. And, as it turned out, it wasn’t the only thing to look at. The great thing about a warmer climate is, everybody takes more of their clothes off. You can probably guess where I’m going with this one.

Last Saturday morning I was quietly dipping an almond cookie into a cinnamon milk at the seafront. That’s when I clapped my eyes on an unexpectedly terrific set of biceps. They were sitting right next to me. They were bulging out from under the stitching of a white ribbed vest. It was one of those richly seminal moments in life which makes you put your glasses on. If I’d gotten out a measuring tape I reckon those beauties could’ve come close to the circumference of a generously proportioned Californian melon. It took all my self control not to reach out and check for ripeness. The best part of it all was they happened to be attached to a hairy arm with a barbed wire tattoo which belonged to a guy called Caleb. He had a dazzling smile. I didn’t know straight away Caleb was called Caleb. I only found that detail out when I struck up an utterly spontaneous conversation with him about his pancakes. That’s when I told him about the many varied and alternative uses possible for maple syrup. It certainly seemed to prick up his interest.

You’re probably thinking the premise of this whole post is based on my ongoing shallow objectification of men and their lithe torsos. And you’d be absolutely right. Some of you may think that’s wrong. Though I’m guessing your view could be skewed depending on what you do with maple syrup. Well, over the course of the following week I saw some terrific bodies. There’s too many to mention but here’s a stand-out few.

Carlos with the sizzling abdomen. Nils, from Sweden with by far the best washboard sexpack (his pronunciation not mine) this side of Stockholm. Mitch, who explained at great length to me about his overly developed pectoralis major. But, as it’s turned out, he’s never been able to achieve the same size with his pectoralis minor. Which has to be depressing for anyone. And finally; Miguel. The captain of a small local fishing boat. Here’s what I have to tell you about him. He had perfect buttocks. Outside the marina he showed me he had one leg marginally longer than the other. This could possibly explain why he walked like a penguin. Though it just goes to show if you’ve got a great ass nobody’s going to care much if you’re short of a few inches someplace else. There certainly appeared to be no anatomical reason for this to affect anything he did which involved a fish. Just in case you’re wondering.

But, I’m married. I only ever look at guys, never ever touch them. Thankfully I’m blessed with a husband I want to look at and touch. I just don’t think I’ve ever compared any of his muscles to a cantaloupe before.