The Fault In Your Chromosomes

It was a bright sunny day at Carter Road, and the general vacation mood had brought beautiful pairs of soft shapely legs sticking out from fluorescent hot shorts out in the open.

Yes, I am, what most women would call,  a sick lecher, but I couldn't care less for what they thought of me as I sat there with my noisy gang of friends. Sunday evenings just had one agenda – some would call it bird watching, some, eve teasing. But for me, hey, I was just out to admire an artist’s work! Beautiful, fair, newly waxed legs had thronged to the place quite generously today, and every now and then I’d see the ‘cherries’ on the cake wobbling conspicuously in their low neck t-shirts as the legs jogged by. Oh it was pure paradise here – any real man would agree to that!

To those of you, who actually call this act of admiration, a crime; to those, who give this a term as heinous as molestation, I’ll ask a simple question: Since when did looking become a crime? Since when did staring become offensive? I mean, as long as I’m just looking, you have no reason to turn around and swear! What I do to you’ll in my mind, is frankly, none of your business.

You would, as a matter of fact, have the right to complain, if my hand touched you. But of course, you wouldn't think of this as an “innocent” error on my part, and as I’d turn around to look at you, I’d see your angry eyes staring back at me. Little do you know, that this fiery rage in your beautiful eyes is what turns me on even more. Yes, watching your cheeks go red, watching your bosom thump up due to the violation of your security gives me a bigger kick and my lips can’t help but give you the most coy and sadistic smile you've ever seen.

So as I sat there daydreaming and fantasizing in the evening sun, a pair of supple and sleek legs caught my eye.  As I looked at them with bated breath, the soft, spherical and shapely artwork adorned in hot pink shorts made my heart skip a beat. How could I not pay my respect to her? She was so irresistible! So I got up, and walked carefully behind her. I let my hand feel her, and then, with a gentle push, I casually walked past her. I turned around, prepared to see those feisty eyes glaring at me, but instead, I saw something very different. I saw devastation; I saw her eyes get hurt and surprised at the same time, and it is then when I saw her face.  Her face was not an unfamiliar one.

A rush of memories followed. Tears gathered in my eyes and guilt enveloped my heart as my mind took me 15 years back into time, when the nurse had placed her small fragile body in my innocent arms, and my heart had sworn to protect her until it stopped beating.

As I lay down on my bed at night I felt ashamed, guilty and mistaken. Yes, I was wrong. How could I look eye to eye with her ever again? I know that she knew that it was me, but what do I even say to her? As memories of my baby sister clouded my brain, I finally drifted off to sleep.

The next day as I walked out of my house, I was greeted by the deliciously low neck blouse of my neighbor. My heart rejoiced and I was back to being myself again.