I hadn't paid any attention to the shape of Amish girls' backsides until one of them mentioned it.
I was on the front porch of the farmhouse I'd bought with the advance from my last novel. It was a perfect spot to work on the new book. It was June, and I was halfway into the third chapter. I was on the open front porch and about to write another thousand words when I heard them coming.
At least a dozen young Amish women, sweating in the summer sun, hair up in white bonnets, pastel dresses down to their ankles, formed a bicycle parade past the house. They laughed and called back and forth to each other. They paid me no mind.
They stopped at the weeping willow tree at the roadside. It wasn't far from the barn where I parked the car and kept all the unpacked junk. The tree cast a massive shadow over the road that time of day.
The young women stood over their bikes and chatted in rapid fire Dutch. I had the feeling the conversation was full of dirty jokes. There were lots of blushing faces, shocked expressions, and covered mouths.
They were all beautiful. Most could've been Teutonic Viking shield maidens. Their cheekbones were high and firm, their necks were tanned, and their hands looked strong enough to snap the necks of chickens without effort. I could see some of their legs, strong from all the farm work, bike rides, and walks, exposed by the hems of their dresses resting on their bent knees. Their calves were hard, and I wondered if they'd shaved their legs.
The gossip died out as they parted in small groups. Two stayed behind. They could've been sisters. They talked more, but the tone was different. The volume and speed had dropped. The shorter of the two rubbed her fingers over the handlebars of her bike. The other smiled a naughty grin.
I thought they were talking about boyfriends or husbands. The body language was all there. The taller one laughed, and then motioned for the other to follow as she rode away. The other smiled and her rock-solid calves pumped the bike pedals to catch up.
I didn't think about them for a week or so. I was well into the fifth chapter when I saw the Amish Girl Parade again. They cruised by on their basket-laden bikes, not bothering to stop by the willow tree on that foggy morning. They were birds zipping through the clouds, only visible for moments. The cute short one burst from the fog and whizzed past, giving me a brief glance before turning her head to call back.
"Don't get lost."
A voice came from the fog behind her. "I won't." The tall one came into view just as the short one disappeared near the willow tree. "I'll just follow that sweet little ass of yours."
I almost dropped my tea.
I watched for them every day after that. I soon learned to tell them apart, despite the matching bonnets and dresses. The tall one was Gina. The short one was Myra. There were not sisters. I couldn't tell if Myra had a sweet little ass because the unflattering dresses took all the curves from her body. I became intrigued with what was underneath the plain dresses. They showed only necks, ankles, forearms, and sometimes those lovely calves. The dresses left plenty to the imagination. They concealed instead of revealed. They were wrapping paper.
I wondered if their legs were shaved, if their bushes were trimmed, if their stomachs were flat, if their breasts were full, if their hips were wide, and if they knew how to give a blowjob. I remembered I hadn't been laid in over a year. I remembered I was forty. I remembered the novel.
I poured myself back into it. I made good progress until the thunderstorm a week later. It was a good August storm. A sky-splitting, Earth-drenching storm that you felt coming for hours ahead of time. I watched it from the porch all day as it rolled in from the west like a Roman army that crushed everything in sight. It drenched everything in its path, letting up only to punish you with a wet blanket of humidity that made showering worthless. The storms came back an hour later, cracking louder than cannon shots and pushing a wall of water across all I could see.
I heard the laughter between the thunderclaps. I sat up in time to see Gina and Myra, wet as happy ducks, ride past the house. Their dresses were soaked through and stuck to their bodies like pastel tattoos. I could make out Myra's sweet little strong ass and Gina's hefty breasts.
Their legs were splashed with mud. Gina's bonnet was long gone. They stopped at the willow tree, ditching their bikes in my yard as the rain doubled in drops and ferocity. They scampered through the lowest willow branches, sagged to the ground from the water weight, and disappeared from sight, laughing like nymphs.
I sneaked down from the porch and quick-stepped to the tree. The wet grass made my footfalls silent. I dropped onto my belly and low crawled up to the edge of the willow branches.
