Legs, Cleavages, And hearts

 

     Two days ago, while we were waiting for him to be vaccinated inside the clinic, I caught my dog, a 15-week old puppy, staring at the thighs of his veterinarian (a woman in her late twenties or early thirties). She was wearing ripped jeans, so some parts of her thighs and legs were exposed, and the holes or the ripped parts were quite big. Of course, the dog wasn’t staring at her thighs or legs but at the fluff or the lint hanging from the ripped parts. He was thinking of chewing it, I knew. But I noticed that her thighs and legs were conspicuously hairy. I didn’t know if it was a statement or she was just too lazy to shave it or she just didn’t care about it, but still, it sent me back to the years when I was a younger when if you were a lady who had smooth and shapely (and not hairy) legs, I, like millions of young boys, would automatically have a crush on you. Back then, I would ogle pretty girls in shorts while singing Hagibis’ “Legs” in my mind. Lol.

     Ironically, the few girls I got close then didn’t really have legs you could insure for a million dollars. One was even afraid to wear skirts “because my legs weren’t pretty.” But then, it just shows that there’s no ideal when it comes to falling in love. You are a woman and dreaming of having a relationship with a man who looks like a six-pack-abs-wielding Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise, but then, IRL, you find yourself falling in love with a pot-bellied man who resembles the Missing Link.

     As I grew older, I outgrew my fascination with beautiful legs and became, like millions of libidinous men, enamored with alluring cleavages, that if you’re a woman then who brandishes an ample cleavage, I’d automatically have a crush on you.

      But yeah, the next woman I got close with then was a flat-chested one.

     The heart, obviously, doesn’t care about legs or cleavages; it only cares about what makes it happy.

     I don’t know, Enhanced Community Quarantine always enhances my being sentimental.