Africa

I have a crush.

I have several crushes.

Every time I look at a guy who is a little taller than I am and in good shape, my sex salutes.

I think I'm a whore....but only in my head....no....what I mean is .....

There's this guy who comes in the library to check out books. I happen to work in the library.

What I'm trying to say is...

He's taller than I am which is nice...no, its fantastic!! He's also dark and big...and built strong like a workman, like Africa...so in my thoughts, that's what I call him, Africa. When he speaks, like when he asks for the return date on his books, I listen. I listen longer than I should because I'm echoing his words over and over in my head, swishing them this way and that until I can hear my name in his voice. Whenever he comes to the counter, I can't believe he's speaking to me. I'm actually a little flattered every time. Silly, considering I'm the only one at the circulation desk.

What am I trying to say?

When I get home, I day dream of sunsets on the beach, of the sound of the ocean rushing up on smooth wet sand, of raging wild unbridled put-me-in-a-headlock-and-rip-me-in-half kinda sex; and after dinner, If the mood is just right, If Ms. Patterson downstairs has put her howling bitch of a mutt out for the night, I put on L. Vandross. I turn the lights out, lay back on my bed, get out the KY lube from my bedside drawer and treat myself to a sensual evening courtesy of pleasures only Africa can bring.


I'm trying to say...


I'm still horny and now accepting applications!!

PS

Forget the applications. You qualify. You're accepted. It's yours, now RIDE IT!!!