The Object of Lust

I can see her weekends at the beach, and perhaps for the entire month of August. She always arrives with a deep tan, the exact antithesis of everything that turns me on. She is tall, close to six feet tall, and well muscled, always wearing a string bikini that reveals far more than it covers. She has the small breasts of an athlete, and has occasionally mentioned that she either trains or participates in triathlons. She is definitely built for speed and not for comfort. Her mouth is large and wide, and she has thicker lips. Her voice is loud and boisterous and deep, her language full of "fuck this" and "screw him". She is tattooed and may well be pierced in places I can't see. She has the intellectual sophistication of a teenager and cannot seemingly carry on a conversation for more than a few minutes. She is not young by any means, the single mother of three children mostly ignored, at least at the beach when I see her. We've never exchanged anything more than passing greetings for the last I don't know how many years.
She is the object of my lust summer after summer, the one that I watch from behind the dark glasses.