It's a Sunday morning and while many gays are at Roseland's Black Party dancing in poop, my laundry is in the dryer. There's this guy with a really sweet ass unloading his freshly washed garments. The only question in my mind is whether he's tappable or not.
He wears a jeans, a Mets hat, black tee with the words Hancock Finance. It's not the cock reference that interests me though, it's the word "finance". My taste leans to hardcore business types. Serious-minded guys that can have a conversation bereft of Whitney or Britney are my bomb. (Perhaps it's telling that I had to google Spears' name after having a notion that it wasn't spelled Brittany.)
Anyway, clues are sought regarding the prey's homosexiness. The clothes are mostly greys and blues and whites. There is no underwear to be seen as a clue. (Gay boys tend to buy the better brands. Maybe he's a commando queer? Yes, I'm convinced he is!)
Then my own laundry is examined to see if (other than my over-often staring) he can be won by my washables. Maybe the most telling are the 2xist No Show Low-rise Briefs. But the boxers are blocking them, and they aren't going to be rearranged for display. (See picture above, which I've just realized is upside-down, but lunch with EB is waiting, so there is no time.)
Eventually, his towels dry. They are sea-foam green. Despite the sweetness of the booty and the nice arms and chest and face, this is a deal-breaker. Oh. And he's started to chew gum. Double the deal-breaker. My attention wanders back to properly fold a duvet cover, my phone rings, and that butt bounces out, laundry in tow.
He's gone, but there will be other dudes at the laundromat (as always) and their dealbreaking duds as well.
