Working in the CBD, in corporate, there is one advantage, guys in business suits. In the street. In the foyers. At the lifts. On some of them, you can see it all, in what I can only assume, boxer shorts. I watch their cocks moving around in their pants, as they walk towards me. On some of them, you can see it as plain as day. There was a guy walking across Bourke Street tonight who clearly had a fat, as he talked on his phone, presumably to his girlfriend. It looked good too, pointing down across his thigh.
That’s not even mentioning how wool trousers fit to their often gym-tone arses and such a snug way. Watch a group of them walk away, and tell me you are not gay.
You gotta love working in the C.B.D. Even if you don't have a guys-in-suits thing before you started there, you can't help but have enthusiasm afterwards. You'd have to be dead. Some are unbelievably handsome. Twinkle in the eye. Curve of their thigh. Bulge of their shirt around their chest. Standing nonchalantly at their desk. In groups heading out to lunch. Picturing them at the gym doing a crunch. Taking their clothes off in your room late at night.
You wonder how many of them struggle in the world in which we all exist,
this awful corporate world, servicing the rich,
with their perfect hair, and their perfect smiles,
You wonder how many of them go home and want to cry,
because of all the alternatives in their lives they let slide?
You wonder if they are all having perfect lives,
Like it looks like they are? With their perfect suits, and perfect style.
And then I laugh at myself being dramatic, splash some water on my face, roll myself a joint, and gaze out the French doors into my beautiful garden and think, Jasus Christian, of course they are all desperately unhappy. And I chuckle to myself and I run my hand through my hair in my reflection in the window.
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