Cross-Country Sport

Today I went for my habitual walk beside the sea. With hindsight, it might not have been such a good idea. I collided with a cross-country skier.

I will say in my defense, though, that the glare off the snow was blinding, like snow Twizzlers in the eyes. I don’t know what the skier’s excuse was.

My first reaction was to lay down the law. Ask aloud what the hell’s going on. But then I hesitate. My first mistake. And then I notice she’s attractive. My second mistake.

And she’s wearing hip North Face to my tatty tweeds. Tight uber-cool pants to my baggy remnants of a bygone era. Her trendy shades reflect my nerdy reading glasses. Firm tits to my sagging testicles. Trendsetting pigtails to my receding hairline. She’s urban and young and I’m wishing I was and remembering that I never was.

At this point I really should have spoken up, given her some tongue, instead of just staring.

My hesitation was my downfall. I’ll never underestimate the young again.

She waxed my balls, made me strip, and create a snow angel in less time than it takes to say “creative class.” (Although I will say that the snow angel was my best work to date, even under duress.)

Afterwards, the sun glinted off her polished skies and with a chuckle, like the uploading of tunes to a flashy new iPod, she slushed off in the melting snow, letting gravity take her down a slope, her fancy black pants snug-fitting on her arse, her pigtails glistening like brandnew forks.

I gathered up my haberdashery (not clothing, since everything I wear can be turned into drapes, tablecothes, or the upholstery for Edwardian chairs), stiff and cold now, and trudged up a slippery incline.

When I reached the top, desperately trying to step back into my démodé trousers, I wondered if this encounter had sullied me or made me more sexually liberated.

The seldom seen, but heedless, kid

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