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March 8, 2001

So I was standing in the Ninth Circle of Hell known as the K-Mart on Third Street. 

Whenever I feel Iíve been very very bad, I like to punish myself by shopping here.  Between circling the parking lot for hours trying to get a space, to the crying babies, and the millions of aisles that you can go down without hearing a lick of English, itís truly an assault on the senses.  Plus I needed to get new bathroom towels.  So Iím standing in line with my two towels, and I notice the guy in front of me.  Specifically, his back.  More specifically, his torso.  Itís long and lean.  And young.
  The guyís standing semi-sideways, I can see enough of his face to realize heís eighteen, tops.  Uh-oh.  Itís my old arch nemesis, the eighteen year old torso.  His shoulder blades jut out.  You can tell he probably just starting lifting weights.  If he keeps it up, his back will start to pop with the muscles, and itíll look like a thirty-two year old torso.  And then I wonít care.  But here it is, long, lean, lithe.  What other L words, Luscious, lovely.  I stare luridly and lasciviously at it.  I am such a sucker for the young ones.  What is it about that back?  Maybe itís because it reminds me of when I was eighteen.  It seemed so much simpler then.  The summer after I graduated high school, there was this one guyÖMichael.  It was me and him and all the warm summer nights and late night parks we could break into.  Feeling that back, those shoulders, the way his hair curled at the back of his neck underneath my fingers.