On the drive home from work today, I found that I have a rather healthy obsession with men in uniform. It used to be just Military and mechanics, but now I’ve added something new to the mix of this particular cocktail.
I was sitting at a light, minding my own business when the hottest cop I had ever seen, pulled up next to me on his motorcycle. I casually looked over–after surreptitiously looking in the mirror and playing a bit with my hair–and…
W.O.W.
Shiny black boots, then a crisply pleated pant-leg that, when glimpsed further up, molded to the bulging muscle of his thigh. His belt was cinched tight around a stomach that–when viewed via my now X-ray vision–was about as giving as a tree. His high-riding bomber jacket wasn’t quite big enough, and bulged encouragingly. The jacket was slightly open, despite the snow falling all around his majestic form, and when I looked up into his face…
I gave some thought to speeding off the line like a drag racer, and almost did. Thank god I had looked at my bank account before I left work. Having to explain to your father that you had to borrow $500 to pay off the speeding ticket you got for doing 50 in a 30 because you were trying to catch the eye of the cop, probably wouldn’t go over too well for me.
So the light turned green, and I looked on, watching that orgasm on wheels rev his engine, look over, smile at me, and drive off into what would have been the sunset, if it wasn’t seriously overcast today.
(I think the light turned yellow again before I could shut my mouth.)
Ahhhh…
Now, I thought I had a thing for Military Guys–especially Army Rangers. And what girl wouldn’t want a grimy, sweaty, hot guy to throw her on the hood of some refurbished wet dream, in a sweltering garage and to the nasty? Who, I ask you?
But this little episode got me thinking: Cops get better accessories… I guess it’s just too bad that God invented Donuts.
OH YEAH BABY!
(My teeth just turned yellow and I sported a union jack cravat!)
Men in uniform are pieces of art, there to be appreciated and observed in all their natural beauty. Even MOUNTIES. They almost offset the idea of eating tarantulas!
OOOOOO Mounties. The name just makes them want to be my naughty naughty boys…
… and then, you just had to bring it up again…
Oh God. Crunchy… and sweet. And fried. wWth 8 leggggggggs. Oh god. I think I just threw up a bit in my mouth.
I have always stuck to handcuffs made of donuts, and while no woman has ever looked me over and thought any of those things, I stand by my decision. Sit, actually, because standing hurts my legs at this point. But when I’m pulling away in my Rascal, you’ll know you missed out on something, too.
The main reasons to like a man in uniform: you know they have a job, and you know you’re smarter than they are.
Ok… I had to edit my edit. You’re right. I might be smarter, but chances are, they’re making more money than me. And since I’m smart, I’ll stick with my fantasies of better-off-than-I-am-uniformed-men. And I’d probably look at you weird if you tried to tie me to your bedpost with a donut. Especially since you’d get distracted with licking the glaze off your own fingers, and muttering about how much better it would have been if soaked in a good whiskey first.
Don’t you make me choose between sex and donuts. But point taken.
Still, who can afford bedposts?
My mother bought me my bed when I got my first place up here after college. My father wasn’t all that thrilled with the wrought iron headboard, and couldn’t find a way to tell her it wasn’t a good idea without offending her delicate sensibilities. He did, however, tell me that he spray painted it, and if there was so much as a scrap of paint missing the next time he came to visit, he’s invoke the privileges ‘pater familias’ and kill me publicly.
Needless to say, my roommates are probably both wondering why there are so many kinds of black spray paint in the basement.
Oh, dear. Violent dad and gun skills? I prefer alcoholic dads who are too far gone to threaten me.
What can I say? I’s virginian, after-all! That’s a thin line you draw, sir. A drunken father with a shotgun full of bird shot… OUCH. He doesn’t need to aim, just to point in your general direction.
To you I ask, does a FedEX uniform count? Haha, it is a “uniform.” The man wearing it is also the most exciting eye candy that I have working in an office filled with self-righteous, menopausal women.
I have a bed post as well…and my own set of handcuffs…should I just stop there?
Damnit, Dell! My prurient fantasies should not involve the bedroom antics of my brother’s girlfriend! EUCH!
(Unless she wants to pass on the FedEx hottie. I’d make it so he forgets that there is a world, let alone getting there on time!)