Jack is 6’2” tall and a lean muscular 190 pounds with a body perfectly balanced like a gymnast. His black hair cascades in waves to his neck, framing his rugged face with its rare, lustrous turquoise eyes and thick dark lashes that seem to possess your very soul with a single glance. A straight well-proportioned nose slopes toward full lips that taper teasingly up at both ends, always on the cusp of a sly grin.
Jack is always impeccably dressed for any occasion. For formal occasions, a Stefano Ricco suit, a Salvatore Ferragamo tie, Gucci eyeglasses (the glasses for show only) and Gucci shoes. For casual wear, he keeps a full panoply of Ralph Lauren mix and match denim jeans, polo shirts, chinos, knitwear, bermuda shorts, relaxed shirts, swim trunks, flip flops. For casual footwear, a tasty collection of Tropicfeel shoes. For the tennis court, he chooses Lacoste shirts and shorts, and Babalot Propulse Fury shoes for support and traction.
And when he passes, each girl he passes goes aaaaahhhhhh – yes, they would give their heart gladly.
Jack doesn’t enter a room as much as float airily into it which he then commands, pheromones radiating out in all directions. Conversations slow and quieten. Girls giggle musically, pushing up their bras and tugging down their necklines, instinctively moving toward and circling him, each vying for his attention, each one thinking she and she alone has it. The level of estrogen in the room rises and is palpable. The competition to be the first to circle her arm through his is fierce, usually ending in a two-way tie. When he leaves with a woman on each arm, boys say when is he going to give us some room, girls say God, I hope he comes back soon.
When they arrive at his apartment, a trail of garments leads to his bed with satin sheets and various implements of a pleasurable kind and the girls moan aaaaahhhhhh.
“It’s time for dinner!” yelled Joleen from the kitchen.
“Aaaaahhhhhh,” Jack moaned from his red and blue plaid chair.
“What?” Joleen yelled.
Jack suddenly jerked up straight in the chair, shook his head and adjusted his t-shirt and boxers. “Oh, okay. What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken salad. You said you need to lose twenty pounds, remember?”
“Crap, What’s for dessert?”
“Don’t be silly, silly.”
“Aw, jeez.” Jack rose from the chair, nearly toppling over in his 70s disco platform shoes – stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive. He stumbled into the kitchen, and looked at his wife with a new appreciation, her braless, nipples straining against her strapless tight T, wearing tight shorts that cling teasingly to her righteous rump. Yes, he thought – tonight’s the night I’ll surprise her with fur cuffs and a jackrabbit he’d just bought online. He snuck up behind her and kissed her on the neck.
“Don’t be silly, silly.” Then, “Later.”
Copyright © Johnny Clack 2022
Short Shorts 