He Shoots, He Misses

Sorry about the gap in my blogging. I have been working on a project for work that has me directing a team from 4AM until 2PM.  After work, I have been taking an hour nap, then heading off to the gym, before school. The project ends this week, so I just might get my life back. During the small slices of time that I haven’t been working, texting Pac, attempting to stay awake in school, or just passing out, I have become addicted to filling up the remainder of my time watching British Football on YouTube. God I love British Football.

I showed up last week to start my work project to find an amazingly hot, sexy, oh-my-God-I-want-to-lick-you guy assigned to my team from another unit. Being a responsible adult, and with my gaydar bleeping in full tilt, I immediately started my reconnaissance work to find out his story. Single, gay, and goes to the gym regularly (which was obvious due to his solid arms and beefy wrestler frame) he plays on a soccer team, and also attends the same college as me.  Score. We chatted. He touched my arm. We flirted. He gave me his number so we can “hit the gym” together. 

He’s seventeen.

Yeah. He goes to my college in a “transition from high school program” due to bullying. The same high school that my bud, Jerrod’s daughter graduated from last year. So… and I am not making this up, the reason I found out his age was due to the greatest hits of the eighties.

“What is this lady singing? Zan-a-doo?”  The beefy wrestler-turned soccer player asked. “It’s not a lady, it’s Xanadu. Ya-know, the muse to open roller discos.” I said as if I was explaining a common fact like cheeseburgers, or piston engines. His left eyebrow moved up a little.

“What year were you born?” I asked.

“1995.”

Olivia's voice wistfully floated through the ether...  ...Xanadon't... As I turned on my heel, I mumbled, “I’ll be in my office” for the rest of my life.