The Lusty Month of May continues...
Arriving home tonight I notice a cute guy sitting in the lobby (I guess the doorman didn't let him in?) Between his legs is what looks to be a massage table. I mean what else could that be all massive, folded up, and square?
The wait for the elevator is short. My mind wanders quickly. Maybe he'd offer me a special rate --being here in the building already? Maybe the intended recipient stood him up and he'll have to carry that load back to his tiny apt somewhere on this heavily populated island. He'll have no money to show for his trouble (poor thing). Maybe in my building somewhere is some divorcée as cool and self-actualizing as Holly Hunter in Living Out Loud--I mean, in that movie she had the jonezin' for some bodywork and called the guy right up, didn't she? Not that this guy was Eddie Cibrian or anything but he certainly didn't hurt my eyes.
It's an hour later and I'm still thinking about the massage that couldabeen. Know any good masseurs in Manhattan? Preferrably ones approximating Cibrianic hotness? That don't charge a small fortune for an honest hours work?