Objectifying Dean

Traffic Lights

So the lights are at red and my frustration levels are peaking 'cause I have a thousand important things to do and I'm cooling my heels here sucking up petrol fumes. I gun the engine irrationally, knowing it will not get me any further, and swelter in the rising heat of the day.

I abandon the modern wonder of air conditioning and opt for an open window and the stale city breeze. The car next to me is an ancient muscle car and it growls and purrs even as it sits at rest and I sneer in contempt knowing I have a superior carbon footprint. I glance into the shadowy interior of the Impala looking to see what sort of person is a foul polluter of our children's earth.

All thoughts of ecology flee my mind as my eyes find the driver of this suddenly angelic vehicle and my frustration fuelled hypertension becomes lust driven. I am no longer Stumpy the eco-warrior, I am Sheena, cavewoman and my hormones tell me here is the perfect specimen of manhood.

He pretends oblivion to my gaze. His hands gently caress the so familiar leather of the steering wheel as he taps out the silent rhythm of whatever song he is singing along to. They are efficient looking hands, the fingers long and sensual in their embrace of the wheel. I follow their connection and his arms are toned and bronzed as they track beneath his shabby black T-shirt to shoulders that look like they see real labour. The bicep I am privileged to witness is defined and golden as he drums to the throbbing bass beat.

My eyes track down as I hit the notch of his throat and I wander happily across his strong chest and ripped abs, my BP hiking another notch as I hit his slim waist. My gaze meanders further, to legs that, even from this angle, I can tell must be sweetly bowed. His grimy jeans fit in all the right places and I feel a trickle of sweat tickle its way from my throat to sheen my breast as I fight to look casual and uninterested.

I move back up now, finding the face of my divine road warrior and it is a journey so well worth taking, that I have no remaining memory of those thousand things I had to do.

In profile his face is lean with cheek bones any Armani boy would die to catwalk with but this is no pampered, coddled creature. Contained ferocity and danger oozes from the strong features and he is only saved from looking unapproachably hard by the lips which are meant only for kissing. He would, I know – and of course I do not know him, die rather than admit this, but he is pouting. Those lips that look both soft and brutal are pushed out as he sings his silent song and all I want to do is press my own to them and rest there for eternity.

But it is his eyes that truly mark him as divine. They are the nearest thing to velvet I have ever seen and have an emerald translucence that breaks my drumming heart as it reveals his tortured soul. He blinks as I watch him and lashes that were surely intended for Bambi sweep his freckled cheek. He is perfection.

Oh no, please God do not let the lights change! Not now when I have found an Earth born angel.

He turns to me as we shift gears and his smile is brighter than any traffic light. He knows I have been watching him and that my blush is for him. He is used to it, loves it, but then how could he not be?

He is divine.

Ends