I have a poetry class that meets once a week. I've posted in the past about how there is a cute guy in that class with a beard who eyefucks me until my orifices bleed. In fact, the title of today's post comes from the title of the poem he wrote and had workshopped yesterday. It's not a very good poem.
I woke up late yesterday. I'd been sick all weekend, and am still taking it easy, more or less. I had trouble sleeping the night before, and consequently hit the snooze button more than I should. 11 o'clock is early.
I rushed to class, arriving with a few minutes to spare, only to find that someone had taken my spot. The bastard.
I had to sit on the other side of the conference table. The guy with the beard and his ugly lesbian friend came and walked through the door, sitting down next to him.
I don't know how familiar you guys are with Seinfeld, but there's an episode where one of them (I think George) dates a woman who only looks good in certain lighting. She and George sit in another booth in the restaurant so that she's nowhere near as garish as she is under less flattering light.
Beard guy is like that.
Sitting next to him, I realized that he doesn't have much of a profile, a hooked nose and a weak jaw. He grew the beard to compensate, which was a good idea, but only emphasized his baby face from the side. He practically cradled his pen while writing, as if he were afraid of breaking it, his pinkie practically lifted in an effeminate tea-sipping motion. He wrote in a flowery script, with superfluous curlicues covering the page to the point where looking over his shoulder, I couldn't make out his handwriting. He clandestinely put his hand down his pants often (at least four times which I saw) to adjust himself, to the point where I felt really weird sitting next to him.
Also, he kind of smelled.
T minus seven days until Valentines.
The rush is on.