the fuckable face

Like in any other afternoon, when the sun is out and he is somewhere in the city, stuck inside a cab for example or surveying the metropolis from a fast moving train, his mind wanders. Right at this moment, his eyes are wandering inside the cramp train looking for something interesting. Most of the time, he likes looking at people’s faces and there is a particular face that he again and again searches for. The fuckable face. He thought of this phrase one sublimely beautiful morning while waiting at the station. From his point of view, all he could see were silhouettes of people impatiently waiting for the train to arrive when, out of nowhere, a man’s face began to take form. He had a beard crawling across his jaw line, glistening under the sunlight. His short curly hair appeared wet and his skin had the luminosity of a freshly bathed man. He wasn’t aware that he was staring at him until the man turned his head and their eyes met. Quickly it sent a chill, with equal parts embarrassment and excitement, coursing through his body. He averted his gaze and turned to the incoming train, rushing across him like a knife slicing through his consciousness, threatening to pry open his most intimate thoughts to public. He felt at once guilty and ashamed.      

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