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So in response to my impromptu poem that is a rant ABOUT sexual tension, I have been asked no less than four times what the most erotic thing was I ever witnessed that I didn’t do anything about (that is, that I just witnessed). I don’t think I’ve ever been asked the same blog-related question by so many different folks in such a short time.

I’m having a hard time coming up with a single most erotic thing–especially one that I just let go–but one that keeps jumping to mind was also alluded to in my “Open Valentine” posting of February this year. When I worked at the shop, I used to occasionally mildly sexually harrass one of my co-workers. I stand by the statement that it is difficult to sexually harrass a man because virtually no sexual attention is unwanted, but I certainly used to tease him in a way that rattled him a little, which I did mostly because it was entertaining for me (and probably flattering for him). I also used to just love to watch that man on a ladder, although I was much more subtle about that and I doubt he noticed. I promise you all that I did not emotionally scar him in any way. I ended up buying his mountain bike (not the bike in this story, because that one should be enshrined), and we even had tea outside work a few times.

That being said, he was, physically at least, hot (if nowhere NEAR nerdy enough for my taste). Big Todesco bike racer, aqua-colored eyes, and Michaelangelo, our gague of fine posteriors, would simply have fainted in amazement. So one day, he had borrowed a bike from the shop to take to some trail in the mountains. It had rained while he was up there, and he was kind of wet and muddy, and so was the bike.

He opened the garage door in the back of the shop that led out to the alley and ran the hose out there, where he proceeded to hose down both himself and the bike, and I struggled not to be obvious about watching. I realized I had never quite understood the car wash scene in Cool Hand Luke before as he took a soapy shop rag and cheerily mopped the crud off the bike. He was sopping wet from head to toe, slick and glistening all over. His hair was wet and spiky, and as he hosed the flecks of mud off himself, a limb at a time, it reminded me of when you rinse off a ripe peach before you bite into it. The droplets cling to its skin and you taste them for just a split second before the sweet flesh. It was so hot outside, he might have literally even been steaming. He had already been wearing only Spandex, so the water didn’t add much clingyness that wasn’t there before, but some people just look really good wet no matter what they’re wearing. He was one of them.

He worked meticulously at getting all the mud off the bike, sometimes even looking a little comical about it, but something about his focus was very appealing. Plus, there is really nothing like a wet, glistening, nicely-put-together man who is hard at some physical task. I was speechless. In fact, I was so affected by the performance that when he came back inside, I left the room in rather a hurry. I mean, what the hell do you say after that? Nice weather you’re having? Announce that he missed a spot and take off your shirt? I couldn’t have put two words together–I was thoroughly rattled.

With me out of the shop, then, he picked MY stand to put the bike in to dry it off. I came back in the room after taking a minute to collect myself and he was there, still clean and wet and glistening (have him washed and brought to my tent), buffing down the bike with clean shop rags, still with that whistlingly cheery zeal, except now he wasn’t outside, he was right in my workspace. I had some sort of auto-pilot conversation with him, and every time he would step close to me I could feel the heat radiating off his body. The droplets on his bare, freckled shoulders were drying and I very much wanted to suck the remaining droplets from his skin, as if he were a desert leaf I had left out overnight so I could drink the condensation. Restraining myself almost hurt. Instead I probably gave him a sarcastic hard time about something. You know, so he wouldn’t suspect.

How’s that?

Having last week completed the units on blood, the heart, and the circulatory system in my biology class, I am filled with a sense of purpose about how best to help solve the nation’s problems. Namely, Dick Cheney and his lackluster pumporgan. No, I mean his heart. Now, initially, my thought about the difficulty in treating his cardiac problems had to do with the fact that the undead rarely even have a pulse, so where would you begin? But then I figured, nah, that’s really more Karl Rove territory.

Here is my theory:
Dick Cheney’s chest pains are not actually caused by cardiac disease, and that is why the many, many treatments do not seem to be fixing him. (Seriously, isn’t the phrase “a heartbeat away” just a little cruel in his case?) It is instead that he has spent the last decade or so with his hand up Dubya’s ass, making his mouth move. There is nothing really wrong with his heart in the literal sense: the intermittent and worsening chest pains are caused by the sheer weight of having a 180-pound guy pressing down on his shoulder all this time. I understand the puppeteer who runs Big Bird got a wicked crick in his neck from being inside that suit in much the same way.

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