So a couple of weeks ago I was walking home and, as I often do, I pulled the keys out of my pocket early so as to be prepared. On the way out of my pocket, said keys made a little jangle and a rather attractive latin man turned around and looked at me to which I gave him a rather unattractive “WHAAAAAAA?” face and subsequently overtook him on my walk down Davie Street. Then upon heading around the corner onto Broughton Street I heard the familiar sound of keys jangling behind me and as I went to go into my apartment building said individual was waiting at the bottom of my steps giving me sexy eyes.
SUCH IS THE POWER OF MY SEXUAL MAGNETISM THAT I NOW ACCIDENTALLY PICK UP RANDOM MEN ON THE STREET SIMPLY BY JANGLING MY KEYS!
Seriously, this dude wanted a piece but I was so taken aback that I just scurried into my apartment building leaving him frustrated and alone. My friend Jasvir helpfully pointed out upon my retelling of this story that I totally fucked the guy off and may have gone so far as leading him on.
Upon further reflection with another friend (Jo-Ann) we decided that neither of us are relaxed enough as people for hook-ups quite as casual as this – Jo-Ann hypothetically as she is married. Besides the whole complete stranger aspect, I was on my way home from work and had just eaten a rather large plate of Greek food, consisting of little more than a bit of pork souvlaki and what must have been an entire raw onion. Read: not sexy times.
Later that week I went to the library in search of literary pastures new and upon not finding anything specifically that I wanted to read I simply headed to the fiction section for the ever popular point-and-grab approach. After already pocketing a pleasing account of the life a pupil barrister I happened upon a charming gay novel about an architect and contractor.
Or what I thought was a charming gay novel about an architect and a contractor.
TURNS OUT I BORROWED GAY EROTIC FICTION FROM THE LIBRARY!
Ugh. To be fair the signs were totally there and I just didn’t see them – the title, vague cover art, the overly simplistic story description, however in my defence the book is written by a woman. A WOMAN!
Sweat glistened over the dips and swells of the well-defined, heavily muscled body. James longed to reach up and lick the moisture from the man’s bronzed chest and taste the ripe tawny nipple buds beckoning to him just inches away.
So, to conclude, in the space of a week I picked up a random man on the street and borrowed erotic fiction from the library, all without my knowledge. Well done me.
*To be fair, and very clear, I feel the need to point out that neither of the above described activities – rooting strangers or reading erotic fiction – are actually perverted in the slightest and I do not judge those who partake in them. Rather, it is the accidental nature of engaging in these activities that I wish to highlight here and I think we can all agree that “The Accidental Erotic Fiction Reader and Street Picker-Upper” is a far less catchy title.