My eyes rested upon his frame like the clothing he so carnally wore.  Each traffic light brought with it another opportunity to stare surreptitiously at the glorious form driving a Mustang convertible in the manner it most deserved to be driven—pushed, roughly steered, and revved in attention-getting ways.  He manhandled it as though I watched a fantasy come true.

So blue collar, he was, with his arm resting atop the steering wheel as though the vehicle demanded only cursory management.  The stylish sunglasses did nothing less than augment an already perfect face, yet somehow—and I fail to understand how—somehow they made it more perfect, as though perfection itself still had one step to go before reaching perfection.  The glint and glare reflected upon them, perhaps, made all the difference.  Or was it the dark shade resting against his already dark skin?  Even still, I’d guess it might have been the perfectly proportioned look and feel of their cold metal on such a warm and enticing visage.

Regardless of how they made the allure even more powerful, his quick, casual glances in the mirrors beckoned to me.  Not seeing his eyes made the simple gestures more powerful.  I can admit that only in hindsight.

Warm sunshine filtered through clouds.  It fell on us like rain.  In a topless car demanding I look, it seemed only reasonable that I do so.  Many times.  The afternoon light provided ample opportunity.

At the first stoplight, my windows down to invite cool spring air to embrace me, I looked quickly at him.  His attention never wavered from the perfect model pose he offered to all who might be interested.  His eyes forward, his body relaxed yet in control, his arm held outward and rested atop the wheel…

My eyes struggled against my brain.  I wanted to look.  No, I wanted to stare.

That first glance revealed on his left arm—the one that dangled so casually over the steering wheel—on the inside of the forearm lighted a bit of sunshine capable of revealing a tattoo, one that covered the underside of his arm from elbow to wrist.

A dragon.

Oh my goodness.  Its monotone presentation easily rested on Latin skin, Hispanic perhaps…

The ink’s design intrigued and excited me.  I would think it obvious tattoos represent one of my greatest weaknesses.  To make matters worse, I have never been more sensually gratified with what my eyes behold than when they soak up the vision of a beautiful Latin male.

And beautiful he was.

Curls of black hair danced in the wind as he drove.  Perfectly styled and apparently made for convertibles, I wished nothing more than to partake of it, as though my hands ached for not having it brush against my palms, my nose cried for enjoying its aroma, and my entire body wished to be brushed by its gentle touch.

His skin…

Be still my heart!

His skin was like honey, a soft brown magically smooth to the point of being artificial.  I could never deny how the color washed over me in waves of sensation.  Imagination told me it was paint.  How else could it be so flawless?

The tattoo simply added a touch of naughty and a pinch of bad boy.  I longed to run my fingers across its many lines, to feel the raised flesh beneath its details.  Muscular outlines held it for all to see.  Whether an avid resistance trainer or blessed by genetics I could not tell, yet my wandering eyes saw ample proof of an impressive shape.  Especially where the dragon called to me, called for me to look, demanded that I take notice of what could not be ignored.

Casual glances to and fro revealed a face better suited for upscale male modeling.  To call him handsome or gorgeous or—and heaven forbid!—to call him cute would be to diminish the striking features he offered for all to see.  His profile meant the realization of all that is wondrous, all that leaves us wanting for what we can never have.  For a glance, however…  Ah, what I wouldn’t have given for yet another glance.

For some time we traveled next to each other.  I put forth whatever effort I could to ensure that remained the case.  And I watched.

Every breath called out for his presence.  Every blink threatened to deny me what I wished to consume visually.  Every maneuver by another car horrified my soul as a challenge, one meaning to take from me what I did not—could not have.

Azure tones met my eyes when upon his shirt they fell.  He wore a casual shirt with several buttons undone near the collar.  How marvelous a ploy to draw attention.  As he drove, invisible fingers drew the shape open, held it agape enough to leave one wanting more, to make one wish for knowledge of what rested beneath its billowing style.  Upon the heaves of that chest…  If only…

Yet it was all mine, at least in those moments captured within stops and starts, accelerations and decelerations, flashes of sunlight through clouds, and reds and greens and yellows—all mixed with a dizzying array of pigments tossed about the street like so many random marbles.

I measured the time.  Doing so came easily.  I needed only mark the seconds as brief moments measured in zeal contained by wishes.