I wrote this for the monthly challenge set by my writers group. The picture (if I remember right) is from a book of 1920s woodcuts. (Someone will correct me if I'm wrong.)
~~~
Ezekiel knew that he shouldn’t come here, and yet every week, at this same hour, here he stood, resting his life-wearied form on his cane. This late at night there was a dull hush over the darkened street, and even the rats appeared to have gone to sleep. There was the occasional rustle of paper or a whistle as the breeze caught the street lamps at just the right resonance, and Ezekiel would startle from his reverie to glance around, shiftily checking that he was still unobserved. Of course, nobody would think anything of a well-dressed man in his fifties gazing into a shop window, even at this hour, but Ezekiel feared that his thoughts would give him away to passers-by, and he had a reputation to uphold, and a wife that was already impossible to keep happy. Agnes would likely beat him if she knew that he still had dark stirrings of passion inside him, that often he looked at women and felt himself rise at the thought of running his fingers over a fine physique, that he longed to feel soft fingers on his swollen shaft, and that sometimes, late at night, he touched himself imagining penetrating such a woman and making banal noises of pleasure that would not befit a man of his position.
~~~
Ezekiel knew that he shouldn’t come here, and yet every week, at this same hour, here he stood, resting his life-wearied form on his cane. This late at night there was a dull hush over the darkened street, and even the rats appeared to have gone to sleep. There was the occasional rustle of paper or a whistle as the breeze caught the street lamps at just the right resonance, and Ezekiel would startle from his reverie to glance around, shiftily checking that he was still unobserved. Of course, nobody would think anything of a well-dressed man in his fifties gazing into a shop window, even at this hour, but Ezekiel feared that his thoughts would give him away to passers-by, and he had a reputation to uphold, and a wife that was already impossible to keep happy. Agnes would likely beat him if she knew that he still had dark stirrings of passion inside him, that often he looked at women and felt himself rise at the thought of running his fingers over a fine physique, that he longed to feel soft fingers on his swollen shaft, and that sometimes, late at night, he touched himself imagining penetrating such a woman and making banal noises of pleasure that would not befit a man of his position. 
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