His blood was boiling. He could not take his eyes off them. Everywhere. Every unrestrained jiggle. Every poorly padded nipple. Every sweet, shapely ass. Every curve, every bulge, every stolen glance down the shirt. His blood seethed right behind the eyeballs and his lizard brain screamed its primordial mating call in the subconscious recesses of his self. There were beautiful women everywhere and he felt utterly powerless to resist them. The streets were a minefield of libidinous hazards. He had to hide or he feared his head might explode, hormones rushing through him, torrential, violent, powerful.
Yet, sitting there alone in the cafe sipping his tepid coffee and staring at the buxom brunette with the fancy Italian-named drink he could never hope to pronounce correctly, he suddenly felt very old. His suit felt like shackles, the unfulfilled dream of his squandered youth. His graying hair another reminder of his drained virility. His belly hanging over his 15 dollar belt a harbinger of the end. His sad, useless life in decline.
He wanted so badly to bury his face between the young supple breasts of the brunette he had been staring at for almost an hour that he could almost feel the warmth of her breath on his threadbare scalp and smell the secret drop of perfume he suspected she placed in her cleavage, a reward for any man lucky enough to find his nose there. But not for him. Never for him. His days of unrestrained lust were behind him, memories of the way things should have been but were not. Now he was relegated to the role of suffering silent observer. There was not a woman in the whole world that would look upon his tired paunch with desire and he knew it. And he felt it. He felt it in the very core of his loins. Everything was lost.