Strut

I saw him again yesterday afternoon, this time alone. He looked good. I pulled over again.

The first time I saw him was the other morning, with about 10 others (yeah, I took time to count). I stopped my car, trying not to be too obvious while I admired what was clearly much to be admired. He wanted to be noticed, and yes, I noticed him.

Clearly, he was something very special. He looked, well, there's no way for me to adequately say, but I'll go with "fine," superlatives inadequate to describe him.

He brought it. He came to play. He had it all going on. Whatever saying works for you, think of it and think of him.

He stood, head raised, pacing slowly, taking time with each step, legs muscular and perfectly formed. His chest was full, upper limbs hanging relaxed, but not really relaxed, let's say, fully displayed to best advantage.

And his . . . tail. Perfection.

Unbelievably, the others around him seemed not to even notice, just had their heads down, snacking, doing their own thing, paying him no mind, unimpressed, whatever.

But him, total confidence, readiness, waiting. Waiting for the others to realize just how hot he is.

Even from a distance, I could practically smell the testosterone. Oh, yeah. No question. Total stud.

The way he moved, well, if there's an Intelligent Designer, let's just say she has a wicked sense of humor.

What a turkey.