Objectifying Dean
Kitty Cat
The day is drab but humid, rain spilling down dismally from leaden skies to stain the parking lot with tarmac teardrops. I watch the thin, black cat as it crouches and slouches its way from puddle to puddle, shaking its soggy paws and meowing its disgust at the ill-timed downpour.
I sit in the waiting room and observe with the others as it slinks towards the lone car in the lot, assuming it will seek shelter beneath the muscle car's chassis but it doesn't. Instead it jumps on the old, but immaculate, car's shiny bonnet and I watch with interest to see what the occupier of the vehicle will do.
The driver of the Impala does not look like a man to tolerate claw marks on his paintwork. Although seated I can tell he is tall and lean and his face, in profile, is strong to the point of intimidation. His hair is a dark blond colour and spiky with gel. He looks like it is short for ease, like he does a job that is dangerous, where he is often called upon to get dirty and longer hair would likely be a nuisance.
His nose is slightly bumped, like perhaps it has, at some stage, been broken, but it fits his face well, and it is a face of incredible beauty. I see this in the expressions of my fellow watchers and know that the mesmerised look they each show is something he sees wherever he goes.
Lashes, which curl provocatively, sweep cheeks that are speckled with amber freckles and his lips are lush and ripe and made for kissing. Were he less masculine his mouth would run towards a pout, but no one would ever dare accuse him of that.
He opens the door of the Chevy a little and across the lot I hear the tortured squeak of old hinges. I brace, as do my fellow watchers, knowing that he is going to punish the pathetically wet creature for its transgression, but I am surprised. Instead of shouting or pushing the cat from the gleaming black he sweeps it carefully up, in one strong but gentle hand, and ducks back inside the car with his captive.
My interest is peaked now wondering if the clearly, partially feral cat will struggle and spit but I watch as the little creature purrs contentedly in his grasp. He is talking to it as he holds it to his broad chest and its slanted eyes look into his deep green as though it understands his every word. He shifts in his seat, one hand tugging at the bottom of his T-shirt and he pulls the shabby black fabric past rock hard abs to cocoon the shivering feline in a cotton blanket. The cat rubs the wet from its body onto its host, and I see its little body growl with pleasure as it wriggles. His shirt is soon plastered to broad chest and taught biceps, but all the time the drivers grip on the kitten is utterly gentle. I hear sighs from my companions and smile at their undisguised jealousy for the stray cat.
He finishes drying the rain from its body and the sleek black fur now sticks out mirroring his spikes but the cat doesn't mind and it puts its paws on his chest and prowls forwards to nuzzle its panther head against his jaw. He smiles leaning into the sensual touch of fur on his cheek and his hand smoothes its sleek body as it purrs and thrums its delight.
I look round the waiting room and 'hear' from each set of transfixed eyes, 'Lucky Cat! '.