Two days ago I was walking through the lobby of the building where I work and saw the most beautiful male specimen. The specimen was so well-muscled and immaculately groomed, that I decided to further study him. I examined my specimen from head to toe, but primarily focused my examination on the subject's torso. I walked by several times and noticed that he was speaking to one of my co-workers in a language that is foreign to me. The topic was possibly construction or digging or some type of manual labor, because my specimen's biceps flexed as he made extremely manly rugged sexy gestures.
There are a limited number of reasons to linger in the lobby. First I pretended to listen to voice mail on my cell phone while trying to hide the lust manifesting itself in my eyes and one other place. Then I strolled over to the stamp machine a few feet away and simulated window shopping for postage stamps. I contemplated the myriad of choices in the stamp machine and tried to seem as if the decision-making process was baffling me. I reached into my pocket for change, making some minor adjustments while I was down there, and proceeded to count out money for stamps.
The two men were still talking, and my beautiful male specimen stood in a very macho stance, legs apart and t-shirt straining against his pecs. My specimen continued talking about digging or building things or, possibly, the idea of wrestling me to the ground and making me submit to his will. I knew my charade had gone on for far too long, so I left the lobby. I only glanced back seven times as I headed for the elevators.
If I were capable of subtlety, the entire examination could have remained completely undetected. Nobody would ever know of my obsessive interest in the beautiful male specimen.
Today in the bathroom at work, I chanced upon the co-worker who had been chatting with my foreign muscleman. That is a complete lie. I was walking to the mailroom, saw the co-worker going into the men's room, and followed him in with the sole intention of finding out more about the guy he was chatting with the other day.
"Hey, was that your brother you were talking to the other day in the lobby?" I asked nonchalantly, wiping drool from my mouth. I had that question planned two days ago when I made the decision to research my subject further.
"No, he is - - "
I interrupted my co-worker in an attempt to seem like I had a reason (other than lust) for asking the question. I didn't want to be too obvious. "Oh, I thought he was your brother. Because he kind of resembles you. And because I heard you both speaking - what was it - Russian?"
"It was Romanian," said my co-worker.
I then started asking random questions about the origins of the Romanian language, listed a detailed description of my own passing familiarity with Swedish and French, and tried to figure out how to get to my point: Who is this beautiful male specimen!?
I washed my hands, but I couldn't leave the bathroom without answers. So I actually started preening at the mirror like a Hollywood starlet in a 1940's film. I brushed my hair back from my face, ran a finger across my eyebrows, and then brushed my hair back some more. It was as if I were sitting at a vanity in a black and white movie talking into the fake mirror that is really the camera. All that was missing was cold cream and a towel wrapped on my head.
I had already completely messed up my chances of getting back to the subject of my beautiful male specimen with my inane talk of foreign languages. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I backpedaled.
"Anyway. He looked like he might be your relative or somehow related to you."
"I know him from church," said my co-worker. I choked back a sob and left the bathroom heartbroken. I knew that asking if I could go to church with my co-worker sometime would be, well, a little too transparent. As if I weren't completely see-through already.
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