Sweet Nothings Of Machines.

Determined to take the week in small bites, I rolled onto the 8:55 Redline yesterday morning almost expecting wall to wall vulgarity. I was surprised when I was able to plop myself down into a seat and be confronted with (just barely perceptible over the top edge of my biography on the Princess Royal) some serious talent. Talent one rarely finds on the Red Line. Any time of day or night. Just standing there, leaning against the poll in faded black denim and gray tee shirt steadying his rolling luggage in one hand and fingering his crackberry with the other.

I had Mark Ronson on the iPod which I know is just the guiltiest of pleasures, but that and this spectacle of jammin' muscle sex almost made me forget the sinus pressure. We both got off at 7th and Metro. He stopped at the ticket kiosk so I assumed he was new and was catching the blue/gold connection to LAX. Having yet to discover the convenience of the FlyAway.

I thought little else of it after that. Bounded up the stairs and nearly biffed it. Cause I'm smooth like that, but I blamed the new skeets on my feet and tried to ignore the haunting images of naked mansex going through my head. Grabbed some decongestant at Famima and you could have just knocked me over with a feather if not 3 blocks later this muscled hunk wasn't walking right in front of me on Figueroa just a wheeling along his rolling luggage. Walking like he just got fucked and all I thought was what could be the odds?

I bee lined into my office and looked back once through the floor to ceiling glass into the rising sun. Still hot. I wasn't entirely sure where he was going with that rolling luggage, but I had ideas in my head. As well as a new found appreciation of faded black denim.