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All Tens

By Tim Wilkinson

diver all tensThe diver stands poised at the edge of the platform. His tight, firm body, void of hair like the pristine flesh of a pubescent schoolgirl lightly toned and evenly tanned. His twelve-pack ripples glisten in the wetness, shimmer with youth. His frame is thin, tall and muscular, flushed with health and the viral promise of hidden, untried sex.

He looks over the edge, preparing himself, looking down but briefly, then he stares straight ahead, concentrating, gathering his thoughts. His azure eyes close, his blue-tinted lips press firmly together.

The judges watch in rapt attention, captivated and spellbound, their eyes fixed and focused upon his form, his strength and masculine splendor. I turn, seeking their faces, their eyes. I find only hunger, want, and unspoken need. The thin busty blond, the one with the hardened nipples, licks her lips, leisurely and deliberate. The black-haired Asian swallows hard, her black eyes but pools of burning lust. The men wring their hands, straighten their backs, each casting furtive, secretive glances downward, adjusting, checking for unwarranted development and unseen approval.

The diver steps forward, stretching high, balancing on the tips of toes, his arms and hands extended high over his head.

The eyes of the judges widen, leering, thirsty, and lustful.

His body is a shrine to prowess — beauty, youth, and strength. Even I, a mostly straight male in my mid-fifties, find myself wondering how far the smoothness extends. Is it too shaved and smooth, like the numerous, faceless kings of porn? I imagine the taut roundness at the base, drawn up, tight and firm from the cold, the chilled air or the excitement of a light caressing touch lightly cupping and holding with gentle squeezing firmness.

I push these thoughts aside. They are not my own, yet they spring from some deep well of hidden forbidden desire, some vestige of youth now lost, a memory of sweets never tasted, of pleasures not known but often dreamt.

He dives, falling headlong, a series of twists and turns, rolling somersaults, a free-falling acrobat. Yet, as he falls towards the crystal blue of the water below, he loses his alignment, his legs falling over forward as he strikes the surface, splashing solidly atop the water upon his back, slapping with a loud, painful report.

I turn once again, scanning the faces of the judges. The blond is smiling, her head tilted slightly back as an elongated string of drool spills from her flushing lips, her thin, nimble fingers hidden beneath the table. The red-lipped Asian whispers in her ear, laughing low and haughty, her own fingers hidden, busy. The others simply stare, red-eyed, grinning, and famished.

I look to the water briefly, watching as the diver dog paddles to the edge, his back a plate of flushing crimson. Then, turning back to the judges, I watch, entranced, as the Asian bites nervously upon her lower lip. A ten comes up, then another, and one more. Soon, they all hold tens, each smugly displayed on white placards held close before their faces. I laugh as the blond loudly moans….

Father of two girls, Tim Wilkinson has been writing since the age of twelve.

After spending thirty years working in the telecommunications industry, traveling and writing in between the often conflicting commitments of family, work, home and life in general, he now focuses more time and effort on his most enduring dream – writing.

Recently accepted for publication in ‘The Path’, ‘The Speculative Edge’, Fictitious Magazine,’ ‘The Global Twitter Community Poetry Project’, ‘Ancient Paths’, and ‘Static Movement’, he continues to write and seek new avenues for publication and distribution.

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