Fortunately, my wife was visiting her mother, for there before me stood a nearly six-foot tall goddess in a string bikini that stopped a heartbeat shy of saying “howdy.” One could have fashioned both top and bottom from a single hanky with enough left over for a headband. Her face seemed to leap from the pages of a glamour magazine and her body would have made Pat Robertson do the “buck and wing.”
She was that stunning.
“We need to talk,” she said as a single tear slid down her perfect face. She brushed past me into the living room and asked if she could sit.
I sat and motioned. “On the crotch …” I stammered. “The, uh, couch,” I corrected myself.
She gave me a quizzical look and sat.
“What’s up, C.W.?” I asked.
“She looked confused. “I’m Delta Donax,” she said. “Don’t you recognize me?” She crossed her legs.
“Should I?” I asked. “Are you a pubic figure?” I said, and froze.
“I am an Olympic athlete. Haven’t you seen me before?” She looked directly at me.
“Your thighs, I mean your eyes look familiar,” I managed. “What sport?”
“Are you sensuous?” I stopped. “Serious, I mean serious.”
“Yes,” she said. “That is the problem.” Then she burst into tears.
“Now, now,” I said, trying my best to comfort her. “Why don’t you get it off your breasts and tell me about it.”
She looked confused but explained between sobs. “Nobody takes me seriously.”
“Oh, I’m sure they do,” I said.
“No,” she said. “Some sportswriters think that I am simply a hot body.”
“Well,” I said soothingly. “They are just boobs, dummies I mean.”
“If I was an Indian who could run fast, they would write books and make movies about me.” She stood up and paced.
“Perhaps,” I said. “Especially if you could excel in the longer buns.”
“Uh, longer runs,” I said. “Long runs.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “Do you know what the Greeks first wanted to promote with the Olympics?”
The air conditioner had kicked on a few second earlier and her body immediately manifested the fact beneath her bikini top, attracting my gaze.
She glared at me.
“Peace,” I said quickly. “Peace among the city states.”
“You men are all alike,” she said.
”Perhaps if you wore less revealing uniforms.”
“Tell that to Jesse Owens and Michael Phelps .”
”You have a couple of good points there.” She caught me looking again.
“Is there something bothering you?” she said.
“Well,” I said. “There are differences between track and field, gymnastics, and beach volleyball.” Not quitting while I was ahead, I added, “Mounds of difference.”
|Phidippides would have made it|
to Marathon even faster had these
athletes been wating there. - C.W.
“C.W.,” I said. “Calm down.”
She didn’t say another word, just walked to the door and left. As she walked out, I couldn’t help noticing the raised outline of a tattoo beneath her bikini bottom. It read simply, “Bite me.”
At least I think it was C.W.