Sexy photo and yet....it makes me giggle. The office I work in is the most un-glamorous place on earth. The sexiest thing about it is a photo of Brad and I dancing in the desert pinned to the beige cubicle wall.
My thoughts and fantasies almost always take me outside, out of clothes, away from walls and pretenses and office politics. Right across the street is a gym where I go for "recess" during my lunch break. Throwing punches against the heavy bag and playing with kettlebells keeps me sane. It's a routine I've had for more than six years now....and it works. Running along the river path keeps me sane, too. Writing keeps the breath in my lungs and my heart full of blood. My work is rewarding, but it is the sky I want. Earth, sky, skin, wind.....freedom. Of course, if you are all decked out in your pinstripes and you have to play the game, might as well have a beautiful woman sitting on your face. I ramble. Here's what I'm talking about. A taste of that old thing called freedom.
Build it and She Will Come
He forbid me from going into the garage while he was working on the project. He’d smooth the back of my shirt and pat my ass, then squeeze my cheeks hard when I asked about it.
“Oh never mind, you,” he’d whisper, low and rough, into my ear. Then his naughty dimple would leap into the corner of his right cheek and he’d say, boldly “I have plans for you.”
Those words, “I have plans for you,” make me hornier than a goat with three horns. I wanted to peek but didn’t dare. I thought I heard some sawing and sanding but wasn’t sure. The pounding and grunting got so loud and made me so hot one night, I had to crank the stereo to keep myself from creaming my shorts while I did the dishes. He mostly worked when I was out of the house, though. I tried to put it out of my mind. I never really could, but I tried hard. I have about as much patience as a falling rock. Still, I have to admit that the anticipation, though maddening, can be a fuckload of fun.
The day finally came when he loaded the mysterious project up on top of the car. It was covered in a heavy blue plastic tarp – an odd, unrecognizable shape and lumpy in places. I thought maybe he disguised it with pillows and bags but I wasn’t sure.
Off we went, into the warm August morning, heading east, deep into the basin & range country where we would wear nothing, not even our fur, and rage and dance and leap across the earth like jackrabbits on fire.
On the second day we camped out on the vast, white windswept playa. He left me alone at camp and didn’t return for hours. While he was gone I drank whiskey and jacked off beneath the sun shade, wrote bad poetry and hunted for Indian relics out in the sage.
When he at last came back, sweat dripping down his torso and a smile wider than God’s ass on his face, the tarp-wrapped object was gone. I popped a cold beer for him and felt myself getting giddy while he guzzled it. “Damn, boy,” I said. “You were thirsty.”
“Not as thirsty as you’re going to be by sundown,” he said. “Get in. Let’s get this show on the road.”