Put on Blast

I was chatting with my coworkers when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turn around and it was such a beautiful site. It was Mr. Sexy himself. (He works at the arena in which I work at. Read about him in this previous post: "Where's my wheelchair?")

“One of your coworkers put you on blast!” said the sexy specimen.

He quickly left the scene before I got to say anything substantial other than “what?”

I did not know what blast meant. I thought he meant that one of my coworkers said something over the speaker at the arena and the entire crowd heard it. What do I know? I am just a white girl living in da hood. I have a lot to learn.

I was impressed that he had the (huge) balls to say that in front of my coworkers. I am mad that this coworker, Cove, told Mr. Sexy that I dig him, but he probably said it in a far dirtier way. Cove, I can get my own men myself! I don’t need help!

“One of your coworkers said you want my number,” Mr. Sexy said with his hand on my back.

I love when he puts his big hands on me. I bet he can do wonders with those long fingers.

“My coworker?” I said, putting my hand around his back, too.

“Mhmmmm…” He mumbled, smiling.

My goodness.

“I’ll have to get it later then!”  I said with the biggest smile.

I can just imagine what Cove told him. Anyway, I don’t know what to do now. The next time I see him, we will most likely exchange numbers. I am sure he just doesn’t want to hang out. I do not know if I would do anything sexual with him. First of all, it will hurt like a mofo. Secondly, I don’t know if my fascination with him is solely sex for my eyes. I love looking at him. I am not sure if I want to bang him. But then again, I am curious.

Eh, I live once.

Keepin’ it real,

   Realist