Writer Problems #2102
Others, writing: I back up and he’s right there – all six foot two of him. Crowding me with his grizzly-bear size, and grizzly-bear strength, and – no, he doesn’t quite smell like a grizzly bear. Sure, he’s got that fresh, earthy scent going, but he’s been helping out at his dad’s auto shop and smells like motor oil, hot metal and a hard day’s work. If the stars would just fucking align, I bet he would ride me just as hard. Almost toppling over, I grunt as he pushes into me. Except it’s less of a grunt and more of a groan because he’s pressing against me in all the right places. His chest is all built and buff, but not in the kind of way guys get because they’re pumping iron or popping pills; when he’s not looking under a hood, he’s hefting concrete at the construction site two blocks over. His breath is hot and heavy against my ear and I wish it wasn’t just because I’m light on my feet and a decent shot.
Next thing I know, the ball isn’t in my hands and he isn’t at my back. Instead, he’s charging towards the hoop, only it’s more of a prowl, and when he jumps, it’s a pounce. As he dunks the ball, he almost takes the basket down with him. He walks up to me after, with the kind of grin on his face that often features in my R-rated dreams, and he ruffles my hair with his bear-paw.
“Get your head in the game,” he growls.
My head is in the game. We’re just gunning for different goals.
Me, writing: We play some streetball and I pop a boner. Fuck.