Mandy’s skirts were always too short. That’s a strange opinion for a red-blooded chap to have, I know, but she was a short, squat lady and her legs were just too thick and bulbously muscular for such a revealing hemline. Such an expanse of unappealing calf, knee, and thigh provoked no admiration, lust, or envy; just slightly pained glances from the men in the office and catty asides from the women. But Mandy was oblivious to the fact that her legs were of little artistic merit and she flaunted them in all weathers, exposed for all to admire.
In her defense, there was no trace of cellulite or other flabby wobbliness on Mandy’s legs, which was a matter of great pride for her. Her legs were well-maintained—smooth and tan and tautly muscled—but appeared to be so unnaturally firm and solid that they seemed not so much flesh and muscle as solid timber, fashioned by a sculptor’s hand. Though not a master sculptor, not an experienced artist; a master’s young apprentice, perhaps, or an elderly lady who took an evening class. Or imagine if you were to hand a suitably-sized block of seasoned oak to a complete novice and say, “Here mate, carve me a pair of shapely female legs, would you?”—the result, from any reasonably talented individual giving it this task his best shot, after he’d rubbed his works down with 320-grit sandpaper and varnished them to his satisfaction with a dark teak woodstain, would be something akin to Mandy’s legs.
But Mandy knew nothing of such aesthetic considerations. She had long ago decided her legs were her best feature and she wanted the whole world to know about it, hence the mini-skirts, the high heels, and the frequent crossings and uncrossing of her chunky pins, which she carried out with a gratuitous and unseemly abandon. But that’s another story.
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