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sweetzer to vermont
A gorgeous boy got on the four at Sweetzer. Really stunning. He was immediately the only thing I could focus on. Jeans, t-shirt and trainers—nothing remarkable, but if you look like that you don’t have to bother dressing nicely. No one but me seemed to notice.
Then an elderly man got out of his seat and staggered over to the boy, who was listening to some hardcore band so loud it was bleeding from his ear buds (and I’m such a sucker I considered that alluring.)
Old bloke said: “You’ve got an amazing set of eyes, son. What do you do for a living?”
“Porn,” said the boy, without turning the volume down.
“Porno, huh?” said the man. “Do you do, you know, private parties?”
“No,” said the boy.
No one but me seemed to be listening.
“Well, if you were looking to get some more work,” said the man, “you know, to make some more money, I know some people, quite important people.”
The doors opened at La Brea.
“Well, this is me,” said the old man. “Take care of those eyes.”
At the front of the bus, another elderly gent got on, this one on crutches and complaining that the driver could’ve pulled up a bit closer to the curb. The driver didn’t reply.
I stared very hard out the window trying to stop looking at the boy with the eyes, but just hearing the sound of the drums seeping out of his headphones was enough that I kept accidentally holding my breath. He got out at Vermont and went underground. I was still blushing at Alvarado.
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