“And my banana,” I agreed.
“Don’t take this the wrong way.”
“I’ll try,” I promised him.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever actually seen you eat a banana before. I don’t even know why we have bananas, aside from wanting to make you a gross sandwich.”
“Potassium,” I told him as he yawned in front of the Keurig. “It’s good for me.”
“That’s what you’re going with.”
“I don’t know what else there could be,” I said. “And I don’t know if I care for what you seem to be implying.”
“Oh my dear, sweet Corey,” Sandy said, lifting his mug from the machine. “If you want to stare at Hot Jogger Guy like the rest of us, all you have to do is say so. There’s nothing wrong with looking.”
I almost squished the banana. “I’m not trying to stare at anyo
ne.”
He rolled his eyes as he came to stand next to me in front of the window. “Of course not. That would just be terrible. I mean, who does things like that, aside from half the neighborhood?”
“You’re all a bunch of perverts,” I muttered.
He sipped his coffee, the steam wafting up around his face. “It’s window shopping. I’m not looking to buy, but it’s always fun to pretend.”
“You’ve already got the Homo Jock King,” I reminded him.
And even though he would deny it to anyone who asked, that goofy smile he got thinking of Darren made an appearance. “I do, don’t I? How about that.”
I had no one to blame but myself. “Gross. Why do you have to sound like that whenever we talk about him?”
He didn’t look ashamed in the slightest. “I’ve tamed myself a wild beast, one who makes the assholes of all the twinks quiver at the mere sight of him. Now they can only be jealous and have sex with each other. And that’s such a sad thing. Twink-on-twink sex is like banging two sticks together to try to start a fire.”
I grimaced. “I really regret asking.”
He patted me on the shoulder. “Eat your banana, Corey.”
I started to do just that.
The problem with phallic food, of course, is that no matter what you do, it always looks like you’re about to fellate the shit out of it. Oh sure, you can nibble on it, taking little bites, but that’s completely pointless. When your gag reflex is practically nonexistent, it’s so much easier to try and stick as much of it in your mouth as possible. It saves time, and you look good while doing it.
There are exceptions, of course.
For example, say that you’re standing in the kitchen near the window looking out onto the street waiting for your hot professor turned hot boss to jog by in tiny shorts. You’ll deny this, obviously, until you’re blue in the face. But regardless of your repudiations, joggers (the sick, desperate individuals that they are) tend to stick to a routine and therefore can be counted on to appear as if from a pitched fever dream.
So there I was! Sticking a banana in my mouth at approximately 6:17 in the morning while staring out the window, when he appeared.
“O muh gurd,” I mouthed around the banana.
“Here we go,” Sandy whispered.
It was porn, pure and simple. Jogger porn, sure, but porn nonetheless.
Jeremy Olsen wore a bright blue bandana around his head, his hair sticking up in tufts out the top. He had a strap on his right bicep with his phone attached. A thin black wire led from the phone to the earbuds in his ears.
And the shorts. The shorts were obscene. The descriptor of tiny didn’t do them justice. They might as well have been briefs. They were white and made of a thin material with slits up the sides that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
“Huh,” I heard Sandy say next to me. “Those shorts are new. He must have gone shopping.”