Dear Man in my local pub's beer-garden,
Yes, you. The one who stared at me as I jogged past where you were seated yesterday. Please don't take it personally that I didn't stop to chat to you: I had my reasons.
Admittedly, you were very handsome; being deliciously 'ripe' in your mid-thirties and having soft hair sexily speckled with grey. As our eyes met, I immediately imagined what you might look like naked - and was very tempted by what I saw. When you then smiled, I was aware that you had shifted away from your friends to enable you to get a better look at me - most impressive.
As I slowed down momentarily and you grinned widely at me, I wondered what your delectable mouth would be like to kiss. And as you waved, I imagined how those long fingers would feel inside of me. (Quite nice, I expect).
But, you see, no matter how sexy you were, no matter how keen you seemed, no matter how much I was tempted by your evident interest, nothing
was going to stop me from fulfilling my objective; once this girl's on a roll, there's no holding back. (Annoying when one is trying to have a surreptitious orgasm in a public place
So that's why I only smiled briefly, before continuing down the street on my five-mile run. Toning my thighs and arse is more important to me right now, than the prospect of having a good chat/dinner/shag - as much as I might enjoy them too.
Plus, I couldn't have stopped to say hello anyway: I was far too busy listening to my darling Graham
on my iPod, and I would never
interupt him when he was off doing his thing. (Unless I was choking and needed some air, that is).