Nuthin' like reminiscing about smut on a lonely hungover afternoon. My bones as still chilled-through from last night and I'm trying to warm them up with memories...
Mmmmm, so there is no longer a hot guy in my AI class. There was, however, a hot guy sitting outside my professor's office yesterday evening, after he'd dropped the course (with appropriate bitching from me about being a quitter), waiting with me so that I could ask her questions about the project that *I* still have to write...
Sitting on the 9th floor of the library building, cross-legged, fingers tangled in a way that I thought only my hair or overcooked spaghetti could.
He had sweaty hands and I had gritted teeth, trying to keep from grasping at other sweaty bits. His soft and dishevelled hair tickled my nose and Ford but I wanted to kiss him...
...in a hallway on the ninth floor of the library building of concordia, in the same corner where I used to sit with my husband while he waited with me for some professor.
We sat there for an hour.
Then I spent an hour draining my already antleriness-enfeebled brain and trying to figure out how to "modularize my rule-base". I *think* I got it...
My AI project is an ambulance technician's science fiction story. I ought to hand that story in as my documentation... If'n I could find it. I wrote it when I was 17... Me an' Rob, the guy who looked good in uniform *AND* in a biker jacket. ;)
Mmmm, then I stumble to the computer lab, try to implement some of that garbled unsemantic hot mash that I'd just been fed.
The only thing keeping that chemical fire lit under my ass is the promise of impending lasciviousness.
Lucky. 8:15 on the fourth floor, before class. (it took 8 out of a 13-week semester to figure out that we have class at the same fucking time...) We're both early birds. We both step off opposite escalators simultaneously at 8 on the .
Have I mentioned that he rarely wears underwear? He's got a delightful arse for a career-student-and-bitch. (we ought to let him do a guest bitch, cf! Then we could take him down... glazed, faraway look...)
Class was idyllic, because I knew I had more butt-cheeks to look forward to at the end of two very long, very patronizing, very superficial, hours...
So I play superficial to kill time and try to figure out the icon of repression that is cf188. There's this icon-of-a-man draped in his chair, always and forever two seats down and two seats ahead, and in an auditorium that gives me the perfect view of his perfect jawline, his dark and sweeping brow, his pale but smooth and delightfully full lips... He is the inspiration from whence came the brooding badboy of any movie (though that's not many) that I've ever seen...
And he has a deep gravelly voice, too. I'm glad I didn't hear what he'd said a few week ago, I was so caught up in his voice...
Why'm I glad?
Cuz.
Cuz yesterday he reast SIX LINES of a poem out loud in class. SIX, perfectly metered, rhythmed, doled out in neat little easy-to-ennunciate-packeted lines - and he read them line by line, expressionlessly.
My illusions were shattered.
The delusions that cf188 so carefully helped me build up... Gonegonegone. That perfect jaw can stay two-across-and-two-down-perfect seats away from me.
Lucky was my heavy-breathing salvation. We walked home. My thighs froze in the winter-has-returned-weather, but I thoughts they were just tingling... Walking intertwined with someone you adore will do that to you.
We talked, we bitched, we bid each other goodbye, standing on the corner of his street- five blocks from mine, my hands in his pants to warm up, my teeth where an earring should be in his ear, his breath warm on my neck...
Or nose to nose, watching his lips and knowing that I'll never kiss them, but glorying in how much I enjoy wanting to.
I just want to lay back and be kissed. Any of you bitches free tonight? ;)
The Horny Beast is using it's antlers to fend away the cold.
But my bones are chilled and my marrow is seeping.