– Horny Scene V: At the Curb –

This first time I see you, you are getting out of your Tesla. It’s hot. I’m prying up chunks of macadam beside the sidewalk so I can plant mums. You have horse bit suede loafers on—tanned ankles showing from beneath your skinny jeans, and that white-banded watch that stands out like a halo from your inked arm.  You nod to me.  

After that it’s from the window.  Regularly. First from behind the leaves of the potted dracaena, then in the open before the large panes when finally I get a clue that you don’t seem to have one. Sometimes you have sneakers because you’ve come from the gym.  Other times it’s the wheat-colored Chelsea boots. They’re zippered. I come in the shower one night just thinking about slowly unzipping them.   

Then the Adidas Foam Runners become my new favorites. Not because they’re attractive. They’re not. But they’re expensive as fuck like that ride of yours, too hideous to ignore, and it’s like you are unwittingly asking me to stare at your feet as you walk the charging cable around the back of the car. You are wearing bright orange crew socks the first time I see you wear them. I spot glints of them, like candle flames, through the holes of your shoes. I think about my fingers pushing through them.  

Now I only need see your car parked at the curb, and I feel the burn in wondering what you wore that day. God, I’d bet it was those Adidas. The thought revs me like nothing else. 

Until now. 

I’m shoveling snow.  You step outside to clean off the car. I scrape the same square foot of sidewalk as I watch you round the Tesla. Your bright, aqua-colored neoprene deck boots cut through the ridges of slush on the street left in the wake of the snowplow. I can see the packed snow clinging to your white rubber soles as you begin to brush the layers of fine powder from the roof. The pull loops on the boots hold up your wrinkled gray pants so that I occasionally see your dark socks. 

I’m not staring.  But I’m so close—almost as close as the first time I saw you, five months and seventy degrees ago. I focus on the large crumbs of snow that glide off my shovel, but I’m imagining I am inside your car, watching your crotch rub against the window as you stretch to push the next swath of snow crystals to the ground. I steal another glance just in time to witness a clod of slush drop from the car door and onto your pants, where it tumbles into the gaping mouth of your boot. I see you look down, hear you swear. I feel a drop of something cold begin to seep between my legs, like a sympathetic response to you having a soggy sock in your boot.  

This will more than do until the next time you’re at the curb.