That's part of your incredible charm, the fact that, as much as the Manic Panic, body paint and everything else screams for attention, you really don't understand what all the fuss is about. You'll flip back your colorful hair, emerald eyes confused, and shrug it off, not getting it at all.
I'm watching you now. I watch you a lot lately. God, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, how can you *not* be aware of your own appeal? You stand there, on the other side of the locker room, ruffling through your duffle bag with the cutest little frown creasing your brow.
Your hair is ice-blue today, with a single platinum shock from your temple back. It's getting long again...I'm glad, I miss seeing you flip it back, the rainbow-hued, baby fine strands flying behind you as you streak across the ring. Your body paint, already applied, matches your hair, blue and white swirling over your throat and shoulder and upper chest, your entire left arm streaked with it in a design that *looks* haphazard but I know probably isn't, probably means something to you. I wonder what.
Your nails are painted ice-blue as well, and I decide I like this blue theme you have going tonight. It's a good color on you. The dark blue stripe across your eyes is my favorite, because it emphasizes the intense emerald of your beautiful eyes.
You've found what you're looking for, whipping out a pair of your arm-sleeves with a triumphant "Yes!", grinning as you flop on the bench and begin to put them on. First the solid white one on your right arm, a loop over your thumb holding it in place, then the electric blue sleeve, over the white one, full of cutouts so the white shows through, this one looping over your middle finger.
Your shirt, a tight black wife-beater, lifts to show a bit of your tummy as you stretch out, preparing for your match. That tummy just begs for my tongue. Flat and sleek, but not ridged with muscle...tight but not exactly ripped, the turquoise jewel of your belly ring winking temptingly at me from the seductive hollow of your navel.
I never knew how sexy belly button rings could be until the day you bounced into the locker room, all grins, lifting your shirt and showing everyone your newest accessory. I almost choked when you pounced on me, dragging your shirt up and grinning. It took me a few seconds to realize no, you weren't offering yourself to me, and I'd smiled indulgently, nodding, giving in to a small temptation and letting my finger lightly trace your navel. If you saw my desire, you didn't say so, just laughed and bounced off to the next person to show.
If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were torturing me on purpose...watching you bend and stretch across from me, body so long and sleek, graceful lines and tempting curves...promising an intoxicating combination of heaven and hell to any brave enough to take the ride. I'm brave enough. I think.
I can't stop staring, drinking you in like a drug, your baggy black jeans snug on your narrow hips, a white, silver-studded belt looping them low, so that there is a good 2 1/2 inches of perfect, smooth, golden flesh bared there, and again my tongue simply aches to taste it.
Suddenly, I am caught, your pale, almost cat-like green eyes catching mine mid-ogle. A tiny smile curves your perfect, lush lips, one winged brow arching curiously, asking the silent question "What?". I shrug, letting my eyes roam your full length before returning to meet your gaze, arching my own brow. I swear I don't know what made me do that.
You can't mistake the meaning of that look, and you don't, realization lighting in your eyes, and I'm surprised when, instead of the shock I'd expected, your smile grows...all seven of the deadly sins in that smile. You're so beautiful when you smile, it eases the permanent scowl between your brows and smooths the harsh angles of your face and I find myself drowning in it.
You look as though you are about to cross the locker room to me, but then one of the backstage managers grabs you, saying it's time for you to head to the curtain. You glance down at him, then back at me, and give me an apologetic cock of the head and slight shrug. I nod and you flash me that 10,000 watt grin one more time before sprinting from the room, hair flying.
My heart is pounding hard, wondering if I'd imagined that whole, silent exchange. I don't think so. I'm pretty sure that, without saying a single word, Jeff Hardy and Adam Copeland just told each other how they feel. Whoa. Well, we've neither of us been very big talkers, so it kinda makes sense.
Now I just gotta figure out what happens next and try and get through my next match without putting someone's eye out with the hard-on that won't go away.
