There’s this new intern at the office place. Let’s call him ‘Justin’ because even though that’s not his for reals name he’s one of those 80’s babies with a similar sounding name that will surely date his generation as much as ‘John,’ ‘Michael,’ and ‘Anthony’ dates mine. He sure is young-looking. I can’t remember ever looking so young and fresh.
I’ve not chatted him up or anything like that. We did exchange mutual ‘good mornings’ in the shared kitchen. Ours is much more like the two-ships-passing-type office affair. He walks back and forth in front of my office daily, sometimes hourly. Mostly I ignore his lean, tall, youthful perfection but I’m not so sure that he is ignoring my sphinx-like fat ass planted in front of a Mac banging out crisp advertising copy. At first I thought I imagined his stealth glances but there were a few times where our eyes momentarily laser locked. He quickly dropped his gaze, picked up his pace and his tight-across-the-ass khakis and powder blue oxford cloth button-down blurred into the horizon of tan file cabinets and really fake plants.
He’s probably all of 22- or 23-years old. A mere youth contrasted to my cut-me-in-half/count-the-rings mature age. Sometimes I think about being that young and remember that I was starting a career in advertising and had one year of a 25-year relationship under my belt. I thought I was the shit. So I sorta’ get his confidence; we’re all cock of the block in our early 20’s. It doesn’t occur that the sun that rises also sets.
A coworker has also noted his interest in my office space: “…he is definitely checking you out.” But I attribute that kind observation to how folks slow down to look at a wreck alongside the highway. We glance and mutter silent prayers that it never happens to us and then speed up to prevent any residual nasty accident karma from attaching to our open souls.
I think his pink balls are fairly tight. I imagine they’re fuzzed in strawberry blond hair. And while I believe he might be the type that sports a brassy-haired treasure trail leading to a stiff, purple-headed cock I’m almost certain his rim job dreamy asshole is bisque porcelain smooth. I imagine he probably gets all flushed and red-faced right before he shoots his load with two of my daddy fingers jammed righteously up his boy ass while our mouths are lip-locked for any oxygen left in the room. But this is all I can imagine while reaching for the towel beneath my bed.
Maybe he’s not interested much at all. Maybe he just slows his gait a bit to look at an unfortunate wreck. Or maybe he truly is looking for something to tinker with on the weekends. If he’s handy with his hands I’ve still got a few good miles left in me.