Sunday, October 11, 2009

Tropic of Eye Candy.

There is a fine line between eyeing someone up – and just plain staring. I am not known for treading this theoretical boundary with much finesse. Alright, okay, no finesse. None. In fact, I was three-fourths expecting the Starbucks barista with the prominent nose and beautiful eyelashes to walk over and ask me to “Kindly stop.” That or “GETTHEFUCKOUTOFHERE!”

At the very least, I’m as positive as a condom’s success rate that he’s aware of my interest. Could be the fact that this was my second visit in as many days to this particular location, which is not my usual. Might have something to do with the eye contact, heavy with intent, warm and lusty enough to melt the iced beverage passed from his hand to mine. Most obvious, though, is likely to have been my strategic positioning perpendicular the coffee bar, fixed into his peripheral and, upon jaunts to what appears to be the store room, occasionally direct vision.

I had to leave my post, briefly, and break to the bathroom. While I risked losing the prime, ogling real estate I had secured, this offered another chance to engage with the most recent object of my unrequited and near-instantaneous infatuation.

“Ah –” I attempted to cull attention from the cluster of green aprons. “What’s the code to the bathroom?” Yeah, that’s right, Roman Nose. I picked up the knowledge of the keyless entry from a previous patron’s query. Acute observation is just one of my many skillful attributes. Unfortunately, though, he wasn’t quick enough to speak up and provide the answer, sparking a conversation, however minute, from which I could dissect intent. But I was hopeful yet that the rich baritone of my voice and the sumptuous curves of my apple bottom booty were ingraining themselves into his various sense memory banks as I strutted, as casually as one can strut, on past the end of the bar and around the corner to my intended destination.

“Wahn-wahnnn,” I giggled self-deprecatingly as I relieved myself, shaking my head as I shook off those last (already) coffee-scented drops. I shuffled to the sink with exaggerated chagrin, glancing up and into the mirror with mild apprehension. “Oh!” I gasped, pleasantly surprised. Usually when I’m feeling sexy, as desirable as I did en route to the can, I stumble over my own feet, inexplicably lose my balance, and/or find my hair has been mussed in such a way that my part appears as more of an alopecic blight than a natural separation. Not so today, however. Nuh-uh. No. Not only could I have passed any sobriety test, my hair was looking most artfully awry. And on top of all THAT, my vantage point remained vacant.

I plopped back down and returned to gayzing with an imbalance of longing and surreptitiousness when much to my delight He-Of-Chiseled-Bone-Structure began lingering in the corner of the counter nearest to ME! Not only that, but he proceeded to increase our proximity on a seemingly unnecessary swoop to re-stock the cooler with three measly pints of organic milk. Things only got more intimate from there as he trundled out the door, passing within mere INCHES of my left elbow. Granted he had an industrial-sized garbage can in tow, destined for the dumpster; but still, two outtah three ain’t bad.

Two outtah three equates to hope. Hope I may not be as delusional as an hour plus of public voyeurism may convey. Hope that the knowing smile he exchanged with his coworker was in reference to our silent flirtation. Hope that he just might scribble his number down onto a napkin and drop it into my lap.

Annnd - then he took off his apron and walked out the door.

Shoot.

“Ah, well, self,” I thought – to myself. “Maybe he’s just shy.” The snort that followed may have been audible. “Although he did have a book in his hand. Maybe he’s just going on a break.” I wrenched around, scanning the courtyard of the West Hollywood Gateway. Alas, no luck. Once again I shook my head, dismayed by my own antics. Gathering my belongings I moved away from the drafty door, out of view of the coffee bar. No sense in enduring the increasingly nippy draft if there’s no hot fellow by whom I wish to be seen.

One last forlorn peek outside confirmed his absence. No sign of him. No sign of any cute – hey now – just – one – SECOND. An erection points north, and apparently for today this was the direction to gawk, or at least the compass point from whence to begin. Starbucks’ Most Statuesque may have up and gone, but in his place the universe, the universe or a study group, had introduced a new subject to my sights.

“Good GAWD this is the gayest Starbucks to which I have ever been. They’re everywhere,” I gasped. That may have been a bit of an embellishment, but they were certainly abundant, a plethora I had apparently overlooked in my two hours of single-minded scrutiny.

My jaw was felled further as the breeze blew in a Venti-sized dark roast of a man. No words. No – nope – no – no – He sauntered out of view, his twink companion following close behind. Psht,” I disregarded this short cup of competition. “He can do better than that. He can do me.” My eyes flashed mischievously, full of arrogance and aphrodisia, and they expanded wider yet as he strode back into view.

“Rugged and preppy. Handsome. Solid.” My pupils began to contract, my eyebrows lowered, but my gaze remained fixed and my mind wandered wantonly. Thishe – he is what I’ve been looking for. The embodiment –”

“Why is he staring at me?”

Muffled by my own ensuing laughter and their hasty exit, I can’t be sure of his petite pal’s response. Their theories may well have entertained them all the way to their next destination, but I needn’t know the answer to learn my lesson. Staring is not caring, at least not too most.

“Most,” however, my inaugural crush of the weekend is not. My instincts may yet prove true. He really was just taking a break. He really was watching me leave as I walked out the door. Seeds. Planted. Now all I have to do is go back next week and check on my crops.

Lust – is my FarmVille.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Narcissism.

I like to think laughing at your own jokes only increases the enjoyment in others. It's catching.

RiiighT?!

That, and the self-endorsing capabilities of the screen capture - the how-to knowledge of which I've only recently acquired - has yet to lose its shine.