He is trying to impress me. I can tell by his always halfway-open eyelids reinforcing his cocky way of letting the words come out of his mouth; it is all part of his mating technique.
He knows from the start he can’t actually ever have me, so he avoids, as best as he can, wanting me. Still, I can see through the smoke he insists on blowing; he wants me. Or at least, he wants me to want him. I have fun watching him playing me. He complains about my proximity but keeps himself around at every possible occasion. He disdains out loud the things he is secretly compelled about me. He stares when I’m not looking. I’m looking. I make him nervous; he moves faster when I’m around and often makes clumsy moves.
I enjoy the twisted power I have over him. I let him believe he owns me. I almost wish I were into him just so I could fall into his amateur trap and fulfill his macho fantasies. I wish I could build him, but I’ve been over that “saving men” part of my life for a while. I’m not into him, but I like being the obscure object of his desire. It takes me back to my younger days when men were admittedly boys and I was naive enough to believe I was smart enough…just like now. We never are smart enough.
He throws angry elaborated sentences out in the air totally uncalled for. He moves things around in the truck and shifts his balls from side to side consistently. He lights a cigarette intensely and blows the smoke slowly, looking into nowhere. He’s choosing his moves. He feels rough. He busts out a blazé attitude not convincing enough to overshadow his concealed enthusiasm. He asks things about me indirectly and every comment I make echoes in his brain; he keeps bringing them back.
He picks up a six-steps ladder from the gate of the truck and throws over his left shoulder in a quick move; the lit cigarette is mounted on the side of his mouth, smoke coming through the other side straight into one of his eyes, which is now squinting. He holds the ladder with his left hand, squeezing the cigarette between his right hand index and middle fingers while pulling it away from his lips. He rearranges the ladder on his shoulder and about two inches of his midriff sneaks out of the shirt. I can see his pubic hair running up into his abs. I keep checking him out through his whole train of actions. I know he knows I’m watching. I allow him to know. I like feeding him.
- I’m used to this kind of shit…
- Showing off to chicks?
- Caring ladders.
- Fireman?
- ACs installations, had to carry a lot of heavy crap.
- Oh, wow… – I chuckle within.
- Yep... I’m a cop though…I mean, I could have been.
- How did you end up on a movie set?
- I went to the Police Academy, you know. - The words "Police academy" announced in surround sound - I did it for over six months… I almost finished...three months and I could have been done.
He starts carrying the ladder away to set, and right before disappearing
behind the working trucks he shouts:
- And I was a Boy Scout too!
