Ravish me, you delectable piece of man flesh.

Hey, baby.  Yes, I'm talking to you, you delicious man with the shiny, shiny hair.   I just wanted to say that you absolutely made my day.  It started out so miserably – I was running late, I didn't have my morning coffee, I forgot to put on deodorant – but you, oh YOU, turned my morning around.

I thought it was going to be another boring ride on the Metro, but I was so wrong.  I saw you, babe, and suddenly, it was a morning straight out of a Disney cartoon.  All that was missing were the little singing, dancing animals.  That's just how AWESOME you were.

I watched you check your reflection out, making sure every hair was in place, that nothing was stuck between your front teeth (or the teeth in the back for that matter.)  You stood so close that I could smell your heady man scent.  Is that Old Spice and AXE body spray, mixed with a dollop of that sweetly fruity Salon Selectives hair product?  It was an olfactory assault:  my nostrils were ravished.  RAVISHED, I say.  My head spun, and I felt lightheaded…with delight, I'm pretty sure. 

If that weren't enough, you upped the hotness ante. I could only watch you, slack jawed with desire, as you pulled out a travel sized bottle of hair spray (I was right! It was Salon Selectives), and applied a very generous amount to your gleaming, shellacked, raven tresses. 

You also very kindly shot some on my hair and shirt – mnnnn, second hand spray is so sexy. 

Unfortunately, the train had arrived at my station and I couldn't continue watching you finish your morning ablutions.   But I wanted to let you know: damn, you are sooooooo hot.

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An open letter to that Tourist Guy on the Metro

Dear Tourist Guy:

Thank you for visiting our beautiful city.  I hope that you enjoyed your stay and found it educational, entertaining and all around excellent.  I appreciate your visit: you, after all, drive the local economy, help pay to maintain the numerous museums, parks and monuments, and keep those dirty dog stands in business by buying $5.00 bottles of water for yourself and your entire family of 10.  Even your expensive day passes on the Metro help keep WMATA afloat.

Yet, I feel that I must point out something that I found utterly disturbing. 

I would ask that you, Sir, put on a shirt while walking around our fair city.  That tank top, I felt, was a little lacking in coverage.

Now, I understand; yesterday was a miserable day – the temperature reached up to 95 degrees, with nearly 80% humidity.  It was gross, it was nasty, and anyone who was foolish enough to go sight-seeing was courting heatstroke and possible death.  Don't think I am unsympathetic to your discomfort: after all, I, myself, was slowly sweating my way through my shirt.

It's not so much that I'm a prude – I do not have an issue with anyone wearing a tanktop, especially on a day like this.

I object because you, Tank-Top wearing Tourist Guy, you and your thick tufts of pubic-hair-like back hair kept rubbing up against me.

At first, I thought it was my shirt tag that was tickling my neck.  Then I remembered I was wearing one of those new-fangled tagless shirts.  I turned around to look as to what was irritating my skin, when I got an eyeful of back hair.

No really, I nearly poked my eye out with your wiry, coarse, at-least-3-inches-long, salt-and-pepper pelt that peeked brazenly over, around, and THROUGH the back of your thin, sweat-soaked  tank top.  (OH JESUS WHAT THE FUCK?)

Even worse was when your wife threaded (THREADED!!! OH GOD!) her fingers through your wooly hide:  It was all I could do not to projectile vomit all over you.

So please, put a shirt on.  Sweet babyJesus and all his Saints – I beg you, please put a fucking shirt on.  I don't think I can handle another 3 hours in the shower, scrubbing myself with a pumice stome.

 

Sincerely,

Lorelei

 

p.s.  But hey, Hairy Tank Top Wearing Tourist Guy with the Pelt, thanks for giving me fodder for a VOX post.

 

 

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Don’t make me come over there and KICK YOU IN THE FACE

I am going to print hundreds of copies of this and pass it out.  That is all.

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I never got off so quickly in my life. EVER.

We looked each other in the eyes, staring deeply.  Your body was pressed up against me, your breath mingling with mine.  I felt a bead of sweat trailing down my back, my heart was thumping hard against my chest.  I know you could see the pulse flutter at my throat.  You shifted, and pressed even closer; I don't know how, for I thought there was no more room between us.  I closed my eyes, my mouth opening to try and gasp air into my starved lungs.  It was so hot, I could barely breathe.  But I knew I was close, just a few more minutes and I'll get there.

Then we arrived at my metro stop, and I fought my way out of the jungle of bodies on the train without a backwards glance.  Oh, fresh air!   Freedom!  This fuckin' commute is killing me!

Oh, and Mr. Commuter? I think you owe me breakfast.

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