Jogging boy/walking boy

I saw my next husband, jogging through the Carlton Gardens. He was jogging, I was walking. I decided that since all other forms of exercise seem to have deserted me at the moment, I'm getting back to basics and going for an hours walk at night - 3 times a week, minimum. Easy. I don't have to think. I don't have to get any thing together or get to the gym. Don't have to worry about flat tyres, goggles, where I left my speedos, or my playing partner. Just put the shoes on and get out the door. It's working a treat, so far.

My next husband was tall, dark and handsome and was wearing a pair of those black jogging tights, which fitted him like a glove. He had a fist down the front of them that rolled from side to side, with every step he took, under the flat, black material that stretched tightly from hip bone to hip bone. The stretchy material clung to his muscles; his tight calves, his taught thighs, the legs of a thoroughbred; the curve of his solid, round arse cheeks, chewed in the middle by his deep, arse crack. He had a blue singlet on the top, which clung to his shoulders and his back and around his broad shoulders. The singlet fell from the curve of his chest down the flatness of his stomach to the elastic of his black tights, which seemed only just able to hold him tight and snug down there. I stood and watched him run, marvelling at the fluidity of motion, marvelling at the beauty of him. Long sigh.