Here’s the situation. Two blocks from my apartment and en route to the bus stop, there is an extremely hot boy painting an extremely lucky fence. (Just to clarify for now and life, when I use the term ‘boy,’ it refers to individuals who identify using the male gender between the ages of 21 and 37.) Everyday since the week kicked off at approximately 2:10 pm, I have counted on him to give me the extra flail in my prance.
On Monday, he caught me completely off guard. Not prepared, I whipped passed him Toronto-style and then proceeded to kick myself for not slowing down.
On Tuesday, fully prepared, I snailed passed him at a proper Vancouver pace. I studied his technique, the way he held the brush, and the speed in which he stroked it up and down.
On Wednesday, I brought a fan and a bottle of water to cool off.
And Today, well Today he knocked me off my feet. The gods above must have been smiling down on this redheaded ’mo, because this afternoon when I walked passed him, it appeared he had misplaced his shirt.
Olive-skinned and perfectly toned, he stood there bare-chested, sweat-dripping, and working on the same piece of wood I had watched him polish since my love life began again. Soaking up every wave the sun had to offer, there was no amount of SPF that could’ve protected me from the heat he was radiating. Glancing down at my pale skin and scrawny figure, compared to him at that moment, I came with a UV rating much less cancerous.
With bits of sunscreen dried up on my ear, I strolled passed decked out in more layers than this season was ever meant to handle. Feeling totally inadequate, I skipped my bus, veered off to Starbucks and set on a mission to restore my personal sense of hotness. Seating myself strategically in view of every man that walked through the door, I let the steam out of my dark roast, crossed my legs, and laid out the 500-page I took out from the library book before me.
Thumbing through page after page, I felt my temperature steadily grow hotter and hotter. And after only ten ages and two sips of coffee, I was on fire. Looking up, I watched as each man forgot the order for their drink, poured sugar two inches from their cup, and stumbled into the glass lining the door. Sexily smiling, I imagined the dirty fantasies they must have been conjuring up for me: hard-covered and spread open like a novella hot off the press. Once I finished my last sip, I stood up with my chest held high, and caught the bus I was originally heading for.
Taking a seat across from the steamiest man I could find, I thought, I might not have a brush, or for that matter a tan, but I can still work like the hottest of them can.