On a soggy, blasé work-Monday past when I was still head-whining about not winning the lottery again, I spotted the dapper and delectable actor Idris Elba on the cover of GQ magazine.
For those of you, who haven’t had the privilege, here’s the sexy face that turned my morning up.
You feel me?
I stood there, in the drugstore, captivated by his smoldering eyes, with a fading recall of why I was there in the first place. Oh, picking up pictures. That’s why I’m being paged to the Photo counter, came a faraway thought.
Don’t drink coffee, no time for a.m. jumping jacks, but courtesy of Idris, I still got a pick-me-up and I felt more alive. I nestled him back into his spot on the magazine rack with a grateful nod, got my pictures, power-walked to the office, greeted the sad sacks there with a peppy smile, and dug right into a stack of paperwork like I meant business.
It’s not often that I have this sort of, um, energizing physical reaction just looking at a man, but on a scale of one to ten, Idris is a twenty. If there was a pill I could take to get the same buzz, I’d pop one a day right along with my multi and fish oil.
Like the legions of women who lust after Idris, I have no clue if he’s a good person, values humor and thoughtfulness, has a special someone, or whether his favorite role was starring in Thor, Takers, The Wire, or Luther for which he won a Golden Globe, and none of that matters because my brain’s not in it.
It’s a raw, animal attraction to his dark, piercing eyes, chiseled chocolate features, sexy scruff and the way he nonchalantly wears The Hell out of a suit and black boxers (rent Takers for this reason alone).
My desire isn’t to get into his head, heart, or bed. I just like to look at him. Then pour that energy into whatever is before me with more spring in my step the way some use coffee and other mood-altering drugs. Nothing I could get arrested for or addicted too and over the years there have been no negative side effects.
The temp massage therapist this summer gave me a similar rush. Tall, handsome, hot Greek-Godish body. Not kidding. At first, even with the quieting New Age music, the massage was the opposite of relaxing since I was, um, overstimulated. Fortunately I do not blush and had my eyes closed the entire time, so either he didn’t know the lust-force had overcome me, or he is a consummate professional. His massage was top shelf, but, for reasons stated, no way could he be my regular masseuse.
Single or dating, truth is I prefer the detached simplicity of lusting after strangers. No expectations. No relationship-building pressure. No disappointing reality. No talking. Just a few delicious moments of deep appreciation for the male form.
Some might judge my sporadic guilty pleasure, but I don’t intend to pinch myself off from this harmless pastime. A friend once rationed her indulgence in chocolate this way: “If a little bit every now and then makes me happy and I’m not hurting anyone, what’s the harm?”
Too, it sometimes eases the drudgery of marathon errand running to spy random good-looking-to-me-strangers-at-large. Taking in a hottie at Jiffy Lube or the dry cleaners with a slick, sweeping appreciative glance breaks up the monotony, and I know I’m not the only one having these quiet, public moments of lust. Just be discrete, I say, and enjoy the view.
Better For That 