Stalking Light

So, light being the voluptuous thing it was yesterday afternoon, I found myself chasing it, stalking it, as if anything it touched were the realization of a sexual fixation over which I had virtually no control – constantly darting in and out of corners or around sides of buildings or behind streetlight poles affecting disinterest while I surreptitiously grabbed shots of light's more outrageous invasions, copped feels and caresses. At one point light's misbehavior coincided with what I understand ignites a very common compelling lust in those members of our population, lesbians and heterosexual men (in neither of whose camps I count myself), who claim for themselves the condition of being leg-women or -men. As I rushed along the sidewalk praying that the batch of naked-limbed young women in front of me might (please!) be kept from their insensibly fast pace for just a few seconds at the corner by a red light and moving traffic (red lights alone would not have sufficed, New Yorkers quite rightly ignore those when they can) – manfully, if that's the word, appearing not to care – at last I was afforded the chance (albeit involving having to zoom in from a third of a block away) to take these. I had never seen early evening mid-June light do what it was doing with the color and texture and capacity for unearthly glow of/on the surface of these young ladies' naked legs!

.