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Erotic Story:
The Laundromat
I sat on the folding table swinging
my feet and watching my laundry whirl around in the dryer and figured I'd hit
bottom. Please...this had to be the bottom. It was Saturday night, and I was
sitting in a Laundromat watching my shorts whirl around. I sighed again, one of
the really big dramatic sighs, and started to eat a chocolate bar I'd brought
with me. I didn't even bother to look up when the door made the "ding" noise
that meant someone had entered. I did look up when the cologne slid under the
smell of the detergent and fabric softener. Spicy. Masculine. I nearly gagged on
the chocolate bar, and had to take a fast drink of cola to wash it down.
He was about my age, but had really
made better use of his time. He had the muscled body of an athlete. Short,
nicely styled brown hair. Big eyes, high cheekbones, perfect teeth. Tan. Made an
old T-shirt and shorts look great. Long corded legs descending into white socks
and some kind of activity shoe. I groaned internally. I didn't need Mr. Perfect
tonight. Well, actually, I did need him, but knew damn well I wasn't going to
get him. I watched him put his laundry in the machine. Some kind of uniform,
probably softball. Tight biking shorts and shirts. All sorts of sporting
clothes. And very hot silk underwear. Mr. Perfect had a life. An active life. I
sighed and looked away. After a while, I felt eyes on me. I turned, and Mr.
Perfect was leaning on the folding table staring at me. Openly staring. It was
irritating, but I couldn't think of a damn thing to say. He could. "You know,"
he said softly, "I'm washing a perfectly clean load of clothing right now.
There's a washer and dryer in my apartment. So the least you could do is talk to
me."
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