balding angrily

This actually happened to Jerry, but he gave me permission to use it as my own story. I’ve tried and tried to get him to write something for the blog, but he won’t. When I suggested that he make this his first entry, he said he thought it was too insignificant. He wants more of a grand entrance for his first post. File this under, “Don’t you hate it when…”

I got on the elevator yesterday with a very hot man. He was more hipster-hot than everyday hot, the kind of hot which you acknowledge but makes you feel guilty for being shallow. He had a pair of Gucci sunglasses on a fake-n-bake tanned face…with perfectly faded jeans split at the cuffs over his leather flip-flops, hugging his narrow hips and ass. He wore a thin t-shirt that stretched over his muscles.

Wait-wait-wait. Sometimes I forget I’m not writing erotic fiction.

I hit my floor button, and he hit his, which was two floors above mine. He picked up a call on his cell. I looked him over…and gave him a casual nod, a wink, and a smirk to show my availability. I rubbed by forearm and hand stuffed casually in my pocket bringing attention to my loins burning with a white-hot heat. My lips quivered, and I licked them to cool them down…

Sorry again.

There’s enough room in our elevators for four people comfortably, six people uncomfortably, and eight if everyone is model-skinny and freshly shower-to-showered. While I cowered in the corner he paced inside the elevator, yelling at whoever was on the other end of his call, taking up the space of the other six hypothetical, model-skinny people. I almost put my fingers in my ears and rolled my eyes at him. Why are the ones who aren’t being assholes in this kind of situation the ones to sacrifice their comfort in order to not come off as douche-like?

We got to my floor, the dinger dinged, and I got off. I jumped off. I got the hell off the elevator away from Hot Asshole. (What ever happened to The Hot Assholes? Has anyone seen them come up on an 80s reunion tour in their city? The last time I saw them they toured with The Itchy Nipples.) Hot Asshole was so involved in his ranting that he, thinking he was on his floor, followed behind me on my way to my apartment, which is a hike from the elevator. We dread having to go to the elevator bank because of the distance involved. I listened to Hot Asshole until I got to my door. As I put the key in my lock I turned around and saw him pause in his ranting, lift his hands in the air in the classic “Why me, God?” expression of exasperation, and turn around to walk back to the elevators.

I chuckled.

Then I thought about him getting in the elevator, taking his shirt off, sweaty from the long walk, revealing a broad chiseled pair of pecs, sheathed in tight skin, accentuated by a sprinkling of short hairs running down the center and disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. I saw him arch his neck and look up as the ceiling of the elevator dissolved to a slow-motion mist of neon rain, while he pulled back his arms popping his triceps to attention, gnarled fingers entwined, hips thrust forward, water dripping down the ridge between his abs, following his pleasure-trail under his jeans.