Eye Candy

I have come to the conclusion that I may have a serious issue with gawking.  At men.

As a single woman, I’m naturally prone to letting my eyes wander and scope out potential mates.  It’s basically the same thing a dog does when looking for the next tree to take a piss on.  We both drool and pant excessively until we find our match. Then, BAM!  That territory is our biaaatch.

The problem isn’t the occasional leakage from the side of my mouth.  It’s not even the fact that oftentimes my jaw actually physically drops a few inches only to hang out there until I find some nibble of food to replace my awe.

It’s the fact that I can’t control my gawking in public.  Namely, at work.

On numerous occasions, I’ve walked into an elevator only to be met face to face with Jesus’ porn star twin, Sex God.  Minus the sandals.  And abstinence.  And instead of turning to my phone and letting a hint of red unnoticeably creep up into my cheeks like cute little witty rom com chicks are supposed to do, I stare.  Like, creeper stare.  You might as well slap a pair of rapist glasses on my face and call me Bertha.  Don’t ask me why I chose Bertha as my rapey/killey name.  It just felt right.

So Sex God proceeds to be entirely unaware of my presence in said elevator (because I’m behind him…and consequently staring at his ass like I’ve been fasting for a solid month).  He’s just standing there being all like, “why of course I didn’t spend an hour perfecting this barely there beard – it’s my natural five o’clock shadow at eight in the morning because I’m just always this sexy.”  And I’m all like, “now would be an excellent time for this elevator to break down.”  And then in the, oh, 30 seconds we’re together before he gets off on the floor of the Gods, I’ve already concocted a massive sexual fantasy that includes him ripping off my nylons (because let’s be real, they sit at my bra line and I really don’t want to have to explain how far he’s got to travel to actually find the edge), picking me up, and having magically orgasmic sex against the elevator doors (which is actually really fucking uncomfortable – goddamn you movies, you make it look so easy).  This is followed by us lying side by side in post-coital bliss while elevator music continues to play in the background.  But not shitty elevator music.  Like some sexy soulful Ray Charles or something.  Oh, and the elevator would (gasp!) be stuck for at least the rest of the workday.  Because Sex God and I would have at this point fallen madly in love and have no choice but to continue to make massive amounts of love.

DING!

Doors open.  It’s his floor.  And Niagra Falls has just made a guest appearance in my pencil skirt.

Fast forward to lunch.  It’s gorgeous outside, so my coworkers and I are eating in a little courtyard about a block away from the office.  I’m mid-sentence talking about some earth-shattering story about when I used to work at Potbelly’s (I was a bomb ass sammy maker – bow down bitches).  All of a sudden, from across the courtyard, I see a man in sunglasses and a t-shirt, pulling a cart full of some sort of sexy construction worker shit.  And he is built like a brick shit house.  Granted, you never know what lies under the sunglasses – could be Golem for fuck’s sake – but in that moment, he was Jesus’ cousin, Muscle Magic.  And in my brief 15 second fantasy, Muscle Magic definitely lived up to his name.  See, he started by picking me up and –

“Oh my God.  You literally just stopped in the middle of your sentence to gape.”

Aaaand it’s back to reality.

Don’t they have some kind of pill for this shit?

Also, I am slightly concerned that all of my sexual fantasies involve someone of relation to Jesus.  Though it’s probably because every portrayal of him in Sunday school made him look like fucking Collin Farrell.  Who I would fuck.  So there’s that.

Happy Tuesday.  I hope yours was as full of sexual elevator fantasies as mine was.  Cheers.

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