“What’s up sweet cakes? Who’s hip anyway? Earthgirls are easy. What you gonna do lil’ buckaroo?” – Ask DNA, The Seatbelts
We’re coming out of the elevator to one of UB’s many catwalks, and I see him sitting down at a table and he motions for me to come over with my friend…he has jet black hair, that drapes perfectly on his face, black stubble which while he’d deny it, he clearly makes sure is in the right shape each day to match his chiseled, face…while he’s sitting down at a table in the walkway, my head comes level with his…until he stands up, and you can see his tall, lanky (yet defined) frame driving me about as mad with hormones as does his equally attractive, arrogant, cocky personality…and what he doesn’t know is that when I said I’d be more than happy to show him a good time the other day and he said to be careful what I wished for, ’cause I just might get it, was that I know, that he knows, that I know he wasn’t kidding.
As I approach him, I smile, a wry grin creeping across my face as this mating dance progresses to a whole other stage…and he thinks I’m smiling because he’s acting like an ass towards one of my friends…and I’m smiling ’cause I’m looking at his face, at his stubble, down to his neck…his adams apple, down to his pecks…and listening to his voice and I’m letting it drive me wild…’cause I’m about to enter a three hour long class, with a painfully monotone instructor…and I’ll be able to ride this wave of hormonal stimulation for at least an hour and a half…and I’d like to ride him a lot longer than that…if things work out the way I hope they do.
And this, ladies and gentleman, is what we call the mating dance…and of course, this indeed would be an ideal relationship: in thirteen months I’m in Israel and he’s shipping off to Japan to further his studies of the Japanese language, and his other academic pursuits…and a mutually beneficial relationship of pleasure with a logical end of friendship, could be created.
But we’ll see.
“See you soon Space Cowboy.”