Thank you for your time in the vestry, giving me inter discourse. Is there any small part of my neighbour that I may covet?
Am I allowed a second confession? I find I am irrestibly drawn to admire a certain cyclist's fitness and his anatomy. He conceals it not, only being seen in tight-fitting lycra of many colours. Furthermore he is frequently seen on the moving picture device in my home. I shall not be disclosing of his family name, but his given name is Fabian.
Daughter, you are a repeat visitor in need, and I am here for spiritual guidance.
I fear I know this cyclist you speak of, and believe he could be of Swiss parentage.
Like many other ladies, his undoubted physical presence has caught your eye as he grinds and hammers away at the pedals, displaying a musclature, speed and stamina
and other attributes hitherto normally associated with pedigree race horses. As his body heaves under the excertion, and his brow sheds fresh droplets of perspiration, one could become spellbound in his athletic majesty. Perfectly formed calf muscles and chiseled thighs are topped adequately by pert sinewy buttocks that act as an insatiable ram to the bikes yielding frame. Relentlessly hammering away, not stopping, heart pounding, arms wrenching mercilessly at the bars - eking out every last drop of energy to reach a crashing climax.
Then he falls, spent, to the floor, every last nerve tingling with pain and adrenalin. Slowly he recovers his composure, hauls his tired body to his feet, and smiles (through Hollywood teeth) before hopping into the tour bus to have a massage with a Latvian masseuse called Igor.
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