I thought I'd try my hand at the Great American Novel. Here is my strong opening paragraph.
The wind from the east tossed the garland jauntily about her wimple. It was the kind of effect that drove him crazy with lust. Pant. Pant. Pant. Her bodice was laced tight enough so as to restrict her breathing. This also was the kind of effect that drove him crazy—this time with something not quite lust, but closely resembling it. He could have put his finger on it, but his hands were occupied with the act of fidgeting in the folds of his tunic, looking for the silver drachma he was sure he had placed there before leaving the house, if for no other reason than to be able to locate it for just such an occasion as this. Presently his hands found other things to do. Mainly, a genteel caress of her nape. Now it was inevitable. Kiss. (pause) Kiss. (longer pause) Kiss. He looked deep into her eyes. Once they had stopped kissing, that is. With his left hand, he began once again the search for that damned drachma. His right hand he raised to her voluptuous face, placing it on her cheek, which was blushing. “My darling,” he said, and gently squeezed her goatee.
What do you think?