I don't know for certain how old I was when I first became aware of the special perception that women have of males' reactions to themselves. Call it a type of radar if you will. I'm not saying all women have it. But a woman who is deficient in this awareness is simply not worth knowing. If I am walking down the street and notice a woman with a beautiful ass ahead of me– even twenty yards ahead – and begin to admire her, she will be aware that someone behind her is looking appreciative at her. She doesn't need to turn around and look. She just knows.
And if she knows, what else matters? Why on earth should a male think that he needs to inform her or anyone else of his approval and appreciation? Does a "wolf whistle" or public comment add anything worthwhile? Any such act only draws the attention of third parties who have no part in the admiration of the woman. If she knows she is admired, no one else could possibly count.
If everything is strictly between the admired and the admirer, then it becomes a delicious little secret. And who could resist the thought of a secret shared with a fantastic woman? She could be a co-worker, a friend, the wife of a friend, an acquaintance, or even a stranger that one may never see again. It is enough, if even for a brief moment one is able to show his admiration and delight in her presence.
All of which is only a preamble to an incident that occurred a couple of years ago. Something that shall live in fond memory for me for the balance of my life.
It was a Saturday afternoon in late spring – May or June. I was shopping in a neighborhood book store and having found several promising books, I paid at the front register. And then I went to the rear of the store. Actually, the second entrance. There was a coffee shop at the rear with tables; and even better, a set of doors that opened onto a elevated terrace overlooking the Intercoastal Waterway in Fort Lauderdale. Purchasing a Super Grande coffee I made my way out to the terrace and to my delight found a vacant table just to the right of the door: my favorite spot . The view was looking west across the water to the piers where there were large sailboats tied up. It was about fifteen minutes past noon and the sun was just beginning to peep over the building from the east side.
Delicious coffee, new books to examine, a cool salty breeze and the faint sounds of lines slapping against the masts of boats.
The door to my left opened and out stepped a vison of paradise. She was tall with fair skin and shoulder length jet black hair and crystal blue eyes. She appeared to be in her middle twenties. Drop dead gorgeous. Clad entirely in black, she was wearing a Danskin top with a scoop neck and three quarter sleeves, form fitting black pants, and knee high black boots with four inch heels. She paused briefly, her eyes swept over me and the rest of the terrace. No sign of recognition of anything or anyone. She slowly walked across the terrace and stopped at the iron railing that bordered the end of the terrace and separate it from the narrower lower level. She stood there with her hands on the rail and looked toward the boats on the opposite shore. I have never seen a more perfect ass. Perfectly rounded and set atop the most exquisitely long legs imaginable.
Since it was just after twelve o'clock, many people where coming out from the store with trays of sandwiches and coffee. The terrace was filling up and soon there were no vacant tables. I assumed she was waiting for a man. Certainly such a creature would not be alone. The door opened again and a couple in their mid-fifties emerged with two trays and the lady called, "Miranda, did you find us a place?" The Goddess in black turned and without saying a word pointed to me. The lady put down the tray with sandwiches that she was carrying at the seat to my left. The man crossed to my right and placed his tray with coffee there. Miranda looked at me, walked straight to the seat opposite me without any open expression, and took her seat.
The couple were obviously Miranda's parents. The mother immediately thanked me for agreeing to her daughter's request to share a table. Miranda had made no request, of course. Miranda knew that she didn't need to make requests. She fully understood that I was available to accommodate her in any way she choose. From the moment that Miranda had simply pointed to me, I knew that all my assumptions about her were correct and that she had immediately taken my measure from the first moment she had laid eyes on me.
