QUADRICEPS AFLAME: Part 3 of 7. In which I get shameless.

If this man doesn’t make you think of romance, I don’t know who will.

WEATHER: Steeeeeeamy.

MILES: 11.


WHERE TO: New and exciting areas of Georgetown.

MOOD: Steeeeeeeeeamy.


Chapter 3: A Woman-Sized Hunger

Friday came all too quickly.  Jessica Boudoir woke that morning for her run with more than her usual amount of alacrity, thinking of her fast-approaching carbo-loading date with the dreamiest runner the Potomac had ever seen.  From 6 AM onward throughout her day, Jessica’s mind was occupied with thoughts of Rod Deltoid.  As she increased her pace that morning, passing at a good clip down the National Mall, she tried to shake his presence in her mind. As she passed through the shadow of the great, girthy Washington Monument, thoughts of keeping up with Rod on a 3-hour run on the Appalachian Trail made Jessica’s bosom heave with longing, and for the first time in its short life Jessica’s 34A sports bra felt its capacity truly tested.

In the shower, as she soaped her silken femininity, Jessica thought of him.  As she inserted her Metro card into the reader and it thrust back out, she thought of him.

She even found her mind wandering at work, and the effort to drag herself through the day with thoughts of spending time with Rob Deltoid, his sweating body glistening in the sun, was excruciating.

“Jessica!  Take a memo!” snapped her boss, the great Bartholomew Zuckerman, at 5:57, when she was packing up to leave. “My Post column is due today and I’m just bursting with ideas!”

Jessica sighed and picked up her laptop.  Near as Jessica could tell in her short time working for him, Bartholomew Zuckerman sat around all day coming up with new and convoluted political metaphors.  Whenever he had the germ of an idea that seemed to him like PURE GOLD in the realm of cultural relevancy (roughly eight times a day) he sat down at the computer keyboard and pounded like Liberace.  Jessica had learned a lot about him.  She knew that he spent 15 minutes in the men’s room every morning from 9:12 to 9:27.  She also knew for a fact that he couldn’t keep a metaphor under control, try as she did to steer him in a correct direction.

“So Afghanistan is like a car that is running out of gas,” he said pensively, pacing the room with his head bowed and hands behind his back.

“Uh-huh,” said Jessica, tapping away on her computer.  She considered Rod’s glistening Achilles tendons.

“And the US is in the driver’s seat, munching on a corned beef sandwich,” Zuckerman continued.

“OK, sure.”  Jessica considered Rod’s glistening calves — slightly bulbous and firm.  And Rod had an ass.  He was a runner.  He had an ass. (Which probably glistened, too.)  This was groundbreaking.

“So the US has to take the bull by its horns, right?”

“Great,” said Jessica.  If Rod Deltoid were a fruit, she decided, he would be a mango.  Juicy and glistening, but tender and sensitive.  Ohhhh, yummmmm-

“So there’s a bull in the china shop.  And the china breaks, and the china represents Pakistan, but then the shopowner comes in, and HE represents the US, but the customers in the china shop represent CHINA, right?”  His moustache twitched excitedly.  “But the fox guarding the henhouse is the United Nations, and the hens are the IMF, and when the rooster crows at dawn you can be sure the farmer’s gonna count the eggs before they hatch.”

If Rod were a tree, he’d be a palm tree.  Strong and sturdy and slender and graceful and glistening, with a tough, hard exterior, and now she thought about working in the concept of climbing, but she didn’t know how that would work in this little analogy or if it would be gross.

“A-a-and then Syria picks up its ball and goes home!”

Of course.

“JESSICA!  You and your bony sternum aren’t helping me with the thrust of this argument!  Just go home!”

Thrust indeed.  Overrated pop-politics bosses be damned.  Barely able to contain herself, she stuffed her bag and ran out the door, almost skipping to the Metro, nervously tap-tap-tapping her foot through the ride–the push of riders, the rocking and undulating train, the full car swollen to near bursting–and upon arrival she bustled up the escalator and out of the station.  She arrived at long last, out of breath, at Rod Deltoid’s apartment door.  She was moist with perspiration, and her clothes, oh these itchy, tight work clothes, suddenly felt constrictive.

As Jessica probed in her purse for her lipstick, the door to Rod Deltoid’s apartment opened.  He was wearing a pair of Adidas trainers — the kind of high-tech specialty gear that said to a girl, “Ooooh, honey, this man means business,” — and a tiny pair of sweat-wicking Brooks shorts that reeeeally showed off the goods — aquamarine, likely a size medium, with reflective panels for those nighttime runs…shorts that screamed, “…and it’s business TIME, lady.”

“Rough day at work?” he asked.

She licked her lips and tried to breathe.  She nodded.

“So, are you hungry?” he asked.

Was she ever.  Jessica swallowed hard and struggled to say something charming and sensual.  What she came up with was “…..Guh.”

Rod Deltoid smiled.  “Come on in.  I just was putting the pasta on to boil before I showered.”  He pulled firmly on her hand, leading her to the kitchen, where he dumped a box of noodles into the pan on the stove, already filling the room with steam.  “You know, I find pasta to be the most sensual of all foods,” he mused.  “The heat, the way the pasta starts out firm but then becomes engorged in the water, the way the noodles slide against each other, the way it surrenders when I plunge in my slotted spoon…”

It was at that moment that Jessica lost her mind.


Stay tuned for next time, when we answer the ages-old question: Can I write a tour-de-force of eroticism knowing that my parents occasionally read this?

(Answer: Can I ever.)


5 responses to this post.

  1. Posted by Bear on July 23, 2010 at 11:00 am

    You have really outdone yourself this time!!

    great, girthy Washington Monument (girthy! haha!)
    she soaped her silken femininity (ew!)
    he sat down at the computer keyboard and pounded like Liberace (classic!)
    “And the US is in the driver’s seat, munching on a corned beef sandwich” (LOL!)

    And this, the piece de resistance:

    “You know, I find pasta to be the most sensual of all foods,” he mused. “The heat, the way the pasta starts out firm but then becomes engorged in the water, the way the noodles slide against each other, the way it surrenders when I plunge in my slotted spoon…”

    All I can think to say is “ewwwwwww!” Don’t make my favorite food all sexual and engorged (EW) and slippery (EW EW!)


  2. Posted by Bear on July 23, 2010 at 11:03 am

    Also, uneducated/ignorant question. The guy in the photo (double ew)… Thomas Friedman??


    • Posted by DJ on July 25, 2010 at 12:11 pm


      You know, someday I will probably meet him and be all starstruck and tongue-tied anyway, and will then eat my words. I fully realize this.


  3. Posted by Bear on July 23, 2010 at 3:19 pm

    I’m apparently bored. But this appeared on Jezebel today and it made me think of you and your sexy story:


    I think we need to buy this book and read it out loud amongst friends. It apparently includes these amazing lines:

    “he spewed himself into her”
    “their world shattered brilliantly, as one”

    No comment, except ROTFLMAO!!!


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: