Firstly, the writing on the walls the girls at work did for me worked a charm. Almost. I had been going around all day saying “Hello.” ”Hell-o” and “Hi. How are ya?” I was ready. I was more than ready. I was … prepared.
Jacka was working in the waters lab that day and she walked back into the refinery lab with this cheeky grin on her face. The kind of grin that's a cross between a “I just farted and the dog got blamed”, and “I found that lottery ticket you lost last week with the winning numbers on it.” I asked her what was going on, and then The Boy walked in.
I said “Hello.” Please cheer and high five me for that. Let me bask in glory before I go up in flames And then my face turned red like vat of exploding cooking tomatoes. So. Seriously. Red. Jacka stood around and just enjoyed getting a tan from the heat coming from my blush. I stumbled through a few words in passing, and when The Boy left she squealed in laughter. I banged my head against a box of latex gloves. Repeatedly - and came close to losing an eye.
But! Since I passed the “Hello test” with flying colours I was feeling saucy and brave and grabbed some acetone and wiped the Hello prompts from the wall. That was a mistake. Get your live tunas ready to plummel me over the head.
Four days later (so we're talking Monday 2nd) The Boy (Let's call him T.B. from now on.) bought me some samples in and the first thing out of my mouth? Do you wanna guess? Yep, it was the dreaded “Howdy!” Crusty came out of the waters lab and since the last time I had said “Howdy” I had begged Crusty that if I said Howdy again he was to come into the room, put up his hand and say “Excuse me, that was pathetic. T.B., go back outside, and come in again. Erika, I know you can do better than that” I was petrified he was going to do that very thing. But he just stood there waiting for something more stupid than Howdy to pop out of my mouth. Nothing did. So, another Yay! For me please. Crusty did laugh - well, giggle like a 3 year old girl - at me after T.B. left and has gotten his John Wayne “Well, Howdy Pard'ner” down cold.
I am pathetic. Start the beating me over the head with the tunas.
C also found out more about T.B. She knows a guy who works in the same area, and she got talking to her friend about him. (Her words - “Who is the young guy who's got all the girls in the lab in a tizz?!”) And T.B's age - he's 18.
Now, I've always said as long as a guy is legal, straight, single and not in a coma (negoigiations for those in iron-lungs) he's my type. None of this tall, blue-eyed Adonis-type lists for me. Legal. Straight. Single. Alive. That's my type. Which, in theory is a damn-fine list of credientals to go by, but in practise -? Not so much.
18, my friends. I think that I should change my list to “No longer a teenager.” There's ten years difference in our ages. A whole decade. When I was 18, he was 8. When I was 8, his parents probably hadn't even met yet. C says I should not let a little thing like a decade get in the way. He's young, yes, but he's fresh. He more than likely doesn't have any hard and fast technique. (no pun intended). If anything, his age (or so C says) should be a bonus. I can teach him. Mould him. Put the kink into him so to speak. Which, I admit, would be fun.
And speaking of kink…..
This kid is making me insane. Normally when I've liked someone but have done nothing I've had random, non-specific thoughts about them. “I wouldn't mind a bit of that.” “I woouldn't kick him out of bed.” “I wonder what he looks like nekkid?” that sort of thing. But this one? I'm thinking in vivid detail about him. Which I won't go into detail here - some things should be left unknown between friends. But at the moment when I read a really well-written slash fic I'm taking notes. “Oh! That position sounds interesting and do-able.” “I wonder if I can get my tongue to do that?” that sort of thing.
And! I'm blaming all of you wonderful writers who have helped me to discover this language kink I never knew I had. All those fics with Ezra Standish and Daniel Jackson and Benton Fraiser speaking so beautifully yet dirty have tainted me. T.B. walks into my lab to drop off the latest 6240 sample and I have to clench my hands so hard my pathetic attempt to grow nails almost leave marks. I have this incredible urge to beg him to stand behind me and whisper rude words in my ear. Fuck. Cock. Suck. Blow. Even the dreaded 'runt' word. And that's all I want him to do. Stand so close to me I can feel his body heat. No part of our bodies touching. And just swear in my ear. If he did that I'd spontaneously combust and you wouldn't be able to pry me off the ceiling for a month.
I think I need a cigarette just thinking about it.
I'm even thinking of asking him out. Which is not something I've ever done. I don't know if it's just the towns I've lived in or if it's an Australian thing, but going on a date isn't really something that's done. You go to the pub, meet up with someone, go home with them. And if you still like them in the morning, you progress from there. (I remember reading a survey once Australian's are most likely to have sex on the first date. But apparently we're the worst at the actual sex thing.)
But the asking out will take more bravery than I have at my disposal. And, I still don't know if he's got a partner or not yet. Or if he's even really interested. I might just wait and see how the saying “Hi” goes for a little bit longer.