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Don't Call Me Kevie

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Skin - Soft. Body - Flexible.
Life. Love. Arithmatic
erika_sanely
And that's how my friends are describing the young boy who they believe wants to make mad-passionate love-making monkey sex with me likes me in that special way.


Ah yes; I am in the beginnings of a full-blown crush. Which may be mutual. Let us pause in awe of that fact.

/ends pause.

I don't think I've ever truely explained the 15-car pile-up, news at 6 love life I have. And I'm not going to now because this makes me happy and is a much better story at this point (though I do warn you - one day in the future when I've had four too many red wines you may be most unfortunate to get the details. Red wine makes me sad. My lack of joy with the men-folk makes me sad. So they join forces and make me one of those crying drunks everyone avoids like seven-day old tuna mornay.)

Where was I? Ah yes! The boy.

And he is a boy. His face is smooth - I doubt he even owns a razor, let alone shaves regularly.Jackka has even asked out loud if 12 year olds are allowed on-site. But he smiles when he sees me, and I smile back and trip over my tongue. We talk for the scant minutes it takes for him to sign the samples he's dropping off, and then we smile and he leaves and I do the work. And the girls I work with wait until he's left the building before swooping into the room and asking me what me spoke of. And then they usually beat me over the head for being so obtuse.

I don't see the mutuality of the attraction. They see him leaving the room, and when my back is turned he stops and looks back at me and smiles and then goes on his merry way. I say he's smiling 'cause I'm an idiot who is most likely singing Buck's Fizz songs under my breath and he thinks it's funny. They scoff me, leave and come back half an hour later to scoff me again.

And they expect me to make a move on the boy. Me! I, I am loathe to say out loud, the world's worst flirt. I do so hate having to talk to strangers, and part of flirting is that whole "You're a sexy beast" kinda of innuendo-laden chat you have with people you've never met, but want very much to see their bouncy bits. And there's the making conversation that you have to do after someone's eye has been caught. I am good at talking, and am a bit of a master when it comes to witty banter and quick quips and comebacks. But put me in a room full of strangers and I have a stunning Marcel Marceu impersonation that would make the man himself weep.

An example of my flirty banter: "Hey."

And I don't even mean the 'hey' mafia-like pimp types say that includes adding an extra 7 syllables to the word, and dropping 4 octaves in the course of saying it. I mean like "Oh! That's my plumber walking towards me. I should say hello." 'Hey.'

If I'm serious about the gentleman I'm trying to impress with my gift of the gabber, I'll throw in a quick head nod, maybe half-lift both eyebrows as well. Oh yeah: I'm a love-machine.

So anyway, apparantly the boy is interested. And I'm interested. Which in a Meg Ryan film would mean after I somehow end up with a bowl of butter chicken over my head, we would kiss, argue over a crippled cat, and then kiss again and end up in a darkened bedroom.

If I'm the one in control, I should have a positive up-date and a step towards the darkened room in about :counts on fingers: six, seven years time.

Here's hoping that if the boy is interested, he's got more balls than me. No pun intended. None at all.