I would have been beyond embarrassed, but I was feeling way too fucking good, so I shared a kindred moment with the woman, both of us grinning at each other like fools. I cranked up the stereo and we sang as loud as we possibly could until we missed that the light had turned green and the guy in the truck behind us began to honk and scream out his window, “Move your gay asses!”
I thought about flipping him off because I was Miss Independent, but then I saw he was in a Ford F350 and I was driving a Prius, and I liked my face shaped the way it was, so I just waved as sarcastically as I could. And if you think one cannot wave sarcastically, then you’d be wrong.
So there I was! Feeling good! Feeling fine! I pulled into work and I was going to make it after all! I’d made it thirty years, and I was gonna make it another thirty years! I parallel parked on the street better than I’d ever done before, and I was gonna fucking rock this motherfucking Tuesday! I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and grinned the biggest fucking grin. “Today is your day,” I told myself. “Make it shine!”
I looked in my side mirror before opening the door and saw a bicyclist approaching, waiting until he passed. I think I told you that I’m an ass man, so seeing a guy in tight biker shorts seemed like another good start to my motherfucking Tuesday. His head was bowed, helmet on, sunglasses on his face, and he went by without looking at me, and I caught a glimpse of a hard-core ass, probably in the top ten I’d ever seen, maybe even top five. I looked back into the rearview mirror and grinned again, rolling my eyes. A boy can dream, right?
But no. Oh no. God wasn’t done fucking with me, no, sir, he wasn’t!
I got out of the car and walked across the street, looking up just in time to see the bicyclist pull up to the bike rack next to the building. And then everything went in slow motion.
Okay, so you remember the TV show Baywatch? How everything the beautiful people did on that show always seemed to be in slow motion, be it running down the beach or taking a shower like it was some soft-core pay-cable program? I would always watch it because of the abundance of man flesh, though I don’t know if my twelve-year-old self completely understood that fact. I think, though, that I was very well in tune with the fact that I was far more interested in the slow-motion pecs versus the slow-motion tits. I wasn’t a stupid boy by any stretch of the imagination. “Are you sure you should be watching this?” my mother had asked one time, frowning as Mitch climbed out of the pool, the fur on his chest dripping with water. “I like it for the stories,” I replied, slightly slack-jawed.
So it was kind of like that. My very own soft-core pay-per-view show. The bicyclist stepped off his bike in super slow motion, and I could feel my heart thudding against my chest, the blooding roaring in my ears. The long slow flex of his thighs in those bike shorts made my mouth go dry instantly. The hard curve of his ass pulled against the black spandex and all I wanted to do was fall to my knees and bow in exaltation. I would worship that ass.
And then, in even slower motion (it was like time was running backward), he lifted the helmet up and off, shaking his head back and forth, brown hair cascading like he was in some kind of fucking pornographic shampoo commercial. I wanted to rub my hands through the hair and scream out, “Yes, yes, yes!” like they used to do in those Herbal Essences ads that they discontinued because no one actually had an orgasm using the shampoo. This thought distracted me, just for a moment, wondering if the real reason those people always shouted in the commercials was because someone was actual going down on them and you just couldn’t see it. Then I realized that all those commercials involved women and that would mean someone was munching carpet while the other was washing her hair, and I got kind of grossed out because vaginas have more folds than a pile of laundry.
Blargh.
“Paul?” the bicyclist called out, pulling me out of my Herbal Essences, vagina-induced reverie.
I focused again on that ass. “Hello,” I mumbled, unsure about how the man I’d dubbed Favorite Ass Ever knew my name.
“Wow, is this all it took?” He chuckled. “My eyes are up here, sailor.”
Okay, that totally ruined the moment, but it made me well aware that I was eye-raping him, which was then made all the more worse when I realized the bicyclist was Vince. I blushed furiously and tried to walk away, but it was like one of my feet was glued to the ground, because I could take one step, but I couldn’t move any further. I was looking everywhere but at him, trying to focus on things like the big tree in the courtyard and the blue sky above and that cloud that looked like a penis going into a butt….
“Oh God,” I moaned. “Not a sex cloud! Why would you do that to me!”
Vince got a funny look on his face as he looked up into the sky, taking off his sunglasses. “What’s a sex cloud?”
“A product of high winds, humidity, and atmospheric conditions,” I muttered. “Why are you riding your bike? Don’t you have a car?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but I like riding my bike. It helps with the ozone… and stuff.”
“You’re trying to avoid leaving a carbon footprint? And here I thought bicycles were just for tree-hugging hippie heterosexuals.”
He eyed me seriously. “We all have to do our part to help avoid nocturnal emissions. The planet needs us.”
I stared at him. “The planet needs us to avoid nocturnal emissions?”
He nodded. “Nocturnal emissions are the number one cause for the hole
in the ozone.”
“You’re… you….” I sputtered. “You can’t… adorable fucking… it’s cheating, is what it is… bastard… ass… so much ass….”
He grinned and pressed a foot up near the seat of his bike, stretching out his leg so it was horizontal and then doing an obscene stretch that outlined his crotch so perfectly I wanted to run away screaming with my arms waving over my head.
“Work,” I said weakly.
“Work?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow as he pressed down on his thigh. His mad-crazy, hot thigh.
“I have to work.” Well, I had to work on breathing, because he switched to bring up his other leg, doing another stretch, bending down until his stomach was flat against his thigh, like he was folded in half.
“I’m pretty bendy,” he said casually, his gaze never leaving mine, and what was I supposed to do with that?
I tried to remember the pep talk I’d given myself the night before. I tried to remember being Miss Independent while driving into work, sharing that moment of camaraderie with the woman in the car next to me because we didn’t need no fuckin’ man. But that seemed like a lifetime ago, because I was pretty sure I was getting an erection while standing outside my work, watching a man who was turning me inside out doing the most erotic version of Pilates I had ever seen (and that’s saying a lot, because I once saw a porno disguised as a nude Pilates video. I tried to follow along on my own floor, but it’s hard to do when you’ve got a boner).