He was a man of chivalry, a dying breed, perhaps a dead breed, one who respected honorable women and thus defended their honor.  His eyes did not drift to their bosoms or their bottoms when walking down the street, not did they when speaking with them eye to eye.  He was not a skirt-chaser, and to even consider the possibility that he was would be a stretch.  From a purely technical standpoint, it was simply not women with skirts whom he chased.

“Attractive” to him was not a full-bodies hourglass goddess, but a svelte woman whose body was practical, not promiscuous; a large chest after all created back problems, balance problems, and could not always fit into your standard size of clothes off the rack.  “Sexy” to him was not a slinky dress full of cleavage and leg, but a trim pair of pants and sensible shoes; a woman so-dressed could walk, run, bend over, even dance as she pleased, with no fear of that overused term called a “wardrobe malfunction”.  Glasses to him bypassed and went beyond the stereotype of the luscious librarian; in a world of contact lens glasses evoked an old-school charm when life was simpler.  A necktie on a woman drew his eye far quicker than a necklace, and a suit coat quicker than a scarf.

Business, or pleasure.  But for him it was not hard to have both.

{I dunno.  It was on my mind.}


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