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March 8,
2001
So I was
standing in the Ninth Circle of Hell known as the K-Mart on Third
Street.
Whenever I feel
I’ve been very very bad, I like to punish myself by shopping here.
Between circling the parking lot for hours trying to get a space,
to the crying babies, and the millions of aisles that you can go down
without hearing a lick of English, it’s truly an assault on the
senses. Plus I needed to
get new bathroom towels. So
I’m standing in line with my two towels, and I notice the guy in front
of me. Specifically, his
back. More specifically,
his torso. It’s long and
lean. And young.
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The guy’s
standing semi-sideways, I can see enough of his face to realize he’s
eighteen, tops. Uh-oh.
It’s my old arch nemesis, the eighteen year old torso.
His shoulder
blades jut out. You can tell he probably just starting lifting weights.
If he keeps it up, his back will start to pop with the muscles,
and it’ll look like a thirty-two year old torso.
And then I won’t care. But
here it is, long, lean, lithe. What
other L words, Luscious, lovely. I
stare luridly and lasciviously at it.
I am such a sucker for the young ones.
What is it about that back?
Maybe it’s because it reminds me of when I was eighteen.
It seemed so much simpler then.
The summer after I graduated high school, there was this one
guy…Michael. It was me
and him and all the warm summer nights and late night parks we could
break into. Feeling that
back, those shoulders, the way his hair curled at the back of his neck
underneath my fingers.
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