I would like to direct you to this blog: Joe. My. God. Read it. Its all that I wish I was as a blogger. Sometimes maudlin, always funny. And he’s a sexy motherfucker too.

Okay…other stuff:

Im in “Out on the Street” looking for my new fave lube, standing in front of the display not seeing the phallic bottle, vaugely embarassed yet determined. This lube is good, folks. If it allows a dork up my shoot then its worth standing there in front of the lube display having 50s housewife shopping anxiety. Out of nowhere an arm shoots past me. Time halts like a slap in the face:

The arm is sleeveless up to mid-forearm. The forearm has rivets of muscles under the skin, shooting out of the shirtsleeve. Its covered in a light brown hair. The hair trails down to just above the wrist. The hands are wide. Meaty. Fingers are hairy to the first digit. The nails are intact. My eyes travel up the arm…

Hello.

Eye contact. Time starts normal again. Actually time seems to speed up like a bastard since it took a few moments off.

He’s grabbed the lube Im looking for.

Holy. Shit.

Porno scenarios are playing out in my mind with fractal clarity. I grab the lube and make my way to the counter. He’s signing his credit card reciept by that time and his stroke is firm and short.

I smile. I put my lube down on the counter as the clerk bags Mr Nice Forearms’ lube. I am smiling like a dork. Both clerk and Mr Nice Forearms look at me. Smiling like a dork.

“Cant keep this stuff on the shelf!” I offer. Like a dork.

Shoot me.