Tight Whites
© 2019 Victor Cabana
They were white. And tight.
When one leg stepped forward the thin fabric would stretch taught over the opposite cheek, hugging the swell of her buttock, adhering to it, outlining everything. As if painted on. No pantie lines meant no panties. She was walking fast and it was mild so when the captured hillock's leg swung forward the cloth clung to her moist skin until the slightest of jiggles sloughed it off. Deliciously. Then the other cheek would be embraced, similarly revealed, until the next shimmering bounce of her butt would release it. The quivers were entrancing and I could feel, almost taste, the softness, the roundness, the fullness of her derrière as it undulated before me. My fingertips twitched, tingling, caressing without touching. The cycle repeated over and over and, walking behind her, I had no choice. I stared.
Her ample hips swung to and fro naturally and counter to the sway of her long blonde braided ponytail. Tanned triceps and calves had definition borne of fitness, and her blue Nike tank top hung on wide, tanned shoulders, but didn't hide the straps of her white sports bra. However, it was her shorts that captured my eyes. Rather what was underneath. Though scrumptious, it was not a trim, distance runner's rear. Under truth serum she'd no doubt aver that she needed to lose five pounds, maybe nine -- women are so harsh with themselves -- but to me the fullness was perfect; it allowed the jiggle. My mouth opened in amazement when I felt the stirring.
I'd been walking very fast, part of my rehab program, but had slowed as I approached her, taken in by the show. There were others walking on the wide beach trail, savoring Pacific vistas, but I felt safe. The focus of my lascivious eyes was masked by dark wrap-around sunglasses. She could hear my footsteps behind her, however, and I reluctantly decided I'd better pass before she felt uncomfortable. As I did her head turned slightly. I said, "Hi. Lovely morning." She smiled. Very pretty, probably 35, no wedding ring.
* * *
The following day I'd walked at the same time. Not by chance. Her shorts were pink but the show was the same. The next day they were pale blue and I surreptitiously took the video. I felt like a masher, a lecher, a pervert, but the vision of her cheeks, their softness, their supple bounce, had embedded in my mind and I was unable to keep it from replaying. Especially at night when I tried to sleep. Why not memorialize the real thing, the sight that had triggered my return? It had been eleven months since the sudden death of my wife, a long period of mourning, and I was used to feeling dead, devastated, suspended, and cold. It was almost annoying that my mind, or maybe my body, was pulling me back, back to feeling, to life, to desire. To vulnerability.
* * *
Sitting at the table waiting for her to return from the ladies room I recalled the inch-by-inch progression that had led to this: lunch at Fisherman's. First longer greetings when I passed her, her eventual replies. "You again," in recognition of mutual recognition. Smiles. Walking alongside her for a bit, just long enough for a carefully planned bon mot or two, then resuming my faster pace. Then staying beside her longer, allowing a couple questions.
She lived nearby. Walked daily. I was on extended leave, recuperating. From what? Injury. Accident. I felt there was a connection and she wore no rings. Her impenetrable road block surfaced only when I asked her to lunch: you seem nice. But married. Oh, that. My wife died, nearly a year ago. I suppose it's time I took off the ring... Oh, I'm so sorry. Forgive me... Not at all. Lunch? Yes. Wine? Why not?
I'd already learned a lot about Diana, never say Di, Cummings. The last her recaptured maiden name. Recently divorced from a cad who traded her in for a more recent model. Bitterness quite well masked. At least he was a rich cad, and she got the house and compensation. And the two kids, 20 and 17, boy and girl, he at college, she a senior in high school. I'd revised my meaningless estimate of her age to early 40s, up from the mid-30s she looked.
I stood when she returned from the restroom and held her chair. She smiled, probably at the antiquity of the gesture, or maybe the antiquity of the gesturer? Or maybe she liked it. I'd ordered another round of Pinot Grigios and she commented.
"A third glass? I'm not sure I should." But she took a sip. "This is a nice wine. Are you an expert?"
"Hardly. I've tried but there are so many vineyards now I can't keep up. I ate dinner here last week and the sommelier recommended it."
"What brought you here, John, to San Clemente?"
"I'm rehabbing an injury. It was work related, so I'm on extended leave. I'm supposed to get back into shape."
"You look quite fit to me."
Good, I thought. "Thanks, but I've got quite a ways to go still."
"Me, too. It's harder to keep in shape now that I'm older, and it's frustrating. It's awful to be 'out there' again, thinking about dating, obsessing on how you look. It's been so... Oops, this is, as my daughter would advise me, TMI, too much information. I must be tipsy." Her eyes crinkled as she giggled softly. I was even more charmed.
"Not at all. You must work out in other ways, too. You've got muscles."
"Ooh, that's a smooth line, John. You really know how to make a girl feel special." She batted her blues.
I felt my flush and didn't much like it. I tried for a save with, "It really was a compliment, Diana. Muscles are good. Attractive." It felt lame on my tongue but she just went on, letting me slide off the hook.
"You've got them, too. You must work out. Your calves are highly defined, also. Do you run?"
"Not since the accident. I'm planning to get back into it, starting with small jogs next week." This much, at least, was true. Most of what I'd been telling Diana wasn't. Not even close.
She offered, "You've got a nice walk, very smooth, and effortless."
"Thanks. I just put one foot in front of the other."
"I'm on the beach path every day and am an aficionado of walks. Yours is actually quite unusual. Do you play music in your head? Your gait seems to have a flowing cadence to it."
Wow; perceptive. "Guilty as charged. Are you a musician?"
"I played some piano as a kid. Like everyone. But no, I'm no musician."
"I repeat a sort of tune, a melodic mantra I guess, as I walk and it's in ¾ time, like a waltz, so emphasis shifts from one foot to the other every three steps. I find it keeps me balanced, and equalizes muscle development. Everyone has a dominant foot and if we always lead with it, step more heavily on it, our muscles can develop unevenly and... God, how boring. Sorry."
"No, it's interesting. I'll try it. I used to listen to music when I walked, but I prefer to hear the ocean. It's very calming. Anyway, I like your walk. It's very fluid." She blushed slightly. Did she like more than my walk? Dare I hope? Maybe because of the wine, I jumped in with both feet.
"I like your walk, too."
The look of a mother disappointed in her ten-year-old who just said something stunningly stupid. "Oh really, John? I tell you I like your walk so you reciprocate? Seriously?"
