Tell Me It's Real(30)

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.”