That radio-active something - my kryptonite - that really makes me weak in the knees.
Which evidently leaves me gaping agog over a dinner table with my wine glass in hand, the entire conversation forgotten as I stare transfixed.
At a man's arms. Call them whatever you want - biceps and triceps - but yeah, a pair of really great guns really gets me going. And like the eyes of a trained predator, I can spot sculpted gym-bot arms from at least a hundred metres away on a busy mall floor. Whether guy has a bald pate, a straining paunch or a face like the back of a bus, all that comes in secondary since I usually zero in on what's under his sleeves first.
Now I'm ready to carry those bags...
And not what's under his pants - get your minds out of the gutter :p
Paul : I almost bought that CD at the fest when I....
My ISO : Paul? What are you looking at? FUCK.
Paul : What ... what?
My ISO : Stop staring. You're drooling over the waiter's arms again.
Paul : Well he flexed when he picked up the plates. Sorry for noticing.
My ISO : Look at mine then.
Paul : Nice but you're wearing long sleeves. I need upgrades on my X-ray vision.
Seriously. Nothing better than the curvaceous swell of hard muscle under cotton sleeves with the long line of vein that you just wanna lick. My ISO claims it's some subliminal Freudian obsession to have a guy who'd take care of me by shouldering my heavy shopping bags. Hence the muscular arms.
Kinda makes embarassing sense actually. Especially judging by my weighty hardcover purchases at the bookfest today! Easy enough to claim that my income tax rebate for books has been well exceeded since March. Honestly, a measly thousand wouldn't cover a tenth of the books I buy.
BTW if you were wondering about the CD I almost bought ( and weren't irresistibly swayed by the sweat-soaked vision of a man's beautifully sculpted arms! ), check this out. It'll have you begging for mercy for sure.