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Incredibly Miserably
 

    A small gathering on the beach had circled the volleyball area to watch the unreasonably attractive young women play a surprisingly competitive match, two against two.  The initial smattering of applause soon turned into raucous hooting and hollering for both sides.  The onlookers applaud each skillful shot, swiveling their heads as the ball passes back and forth over the net, and Phil, too, admires the quality of play.  His emotional investment in this showcase of athleticism and talent surprises even him, yet his focus remains fixedly on the bikini-clad bodies of the volleyballers, and primarily the one he had been imagining himself wooing.  The others receive markedly less attention, merely acting as the supporting characters to her heroine lead.  Each new angle of her contorting body triggers a burst of hormones to Phil’s brain, dampening his brow with perspiration and causing his heart to beat a little more rapidly.

    Phil had first noticed about the woman her extremely large bosom, which stretched thin the red fibers of her bathing suit.  He observed that her breasts were beautifully disproportionate to the rest of her body.  But then, glancing up from the chest, Phil became aware of her lovely face, surely naturally independent of the layers of makeup, which had amazingly remained intact despite the heat and physical exertion.  He felt inspired and poetic:  Her hair was like the golden sun just above the horizon behind her, offering a spotlight in tribute to her beauty.  Her eyes were as blue as the water which struggled up the beach to weave through her ten toes and then retreated, satisfied, back into the ocean; her skin was tan like the wet sand which eagerly absorbed each footprint.  Phil admired her, neglecting to exhale, until the cigarette smoke in his lungs began to burn, making him cough forcibly and watering his eyes.

    Phil motions for the bartender.

    “Who is that woman?” he queries.

    “Victoria Robins.”

    “How the hell would you know?”

    “Phil, she’s famous.  TV, movies, so forth.”

    “Victoria Robins?”

    “Victoria Robins.”

    Victoria Robins.  Yes, that sounds about right, thinks Phil.

    Victoria Robins projects her radiant aura into the transfixed eyes of transfixed men who become increasingly more mesmerized with every pulse of Victoria Robins glow that flickers across their gaping transfixed faces.  She seems to channel their desire and moves her body accordingly.  She adjusts the underwire of her bikini top exactly as they would want her too.  She brushes the sand off her thighs.  She pouts.  Their desire remotely controls each bat of her eyes and toss of her hair, though they sense that she might even purposefully act so, as if to say “I know what you want and I know you can’t not look.”  Yet, without their watchful eyes, she’d be stripped of all her beauty, and existence even, so wholly does her appearance constitute her identity. Their desire makes her desirable.  Her desirability makes them pathetic.  Still, they have to watch.



 
 
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