He’s leaning over my keyboard, tappy-tap-tap, with his lousy beautiful sideburns and his Right Guard wafting all over the place, and underneath that this kind of wounded musk that tends to make my nipples go boing, and his teeth which I could fucking eat they look so healthy. I have, mind you, already offered him my seat. But he can’t allow that. No-no-no. Don’t you move your pretty little self, he tells me, which is when neighbor Brisby starts snarking away and I’m like, Oh for Chrissakes, why does this obnoxious creature, this dopey slab of masculine grace, whose name is (try not to laugh) Lance, and whom I have taken to calling Lancelot, Sir Lance-me-a-lot, why does this totally throat-lickable hottie have to be such a shitbrain? So I just sit there smelling him and watching his unreasonably defined triceps pulse and unpulse and noticing the blond hairs on his earlobe, like tiny spears of wheat, and the way his firm little rump tenses up when he gets a systems error. And the worst part of it is that he keeps running these lines about how I must be doing something to my machine, my keystrokes must be pretty vigorous—key strokes, get it?—and even though I’m actually kind of impressed by his use of the word vigorous, there’s no way I can flirt back without losing total office cred with Brisby, who’s outright laughing at this point.
What do You think about My Life In Heavy Metal (2002)?
