Hotttttt salsa: A Freudian Slip

I dislike hot salsa. Mild salsa's too mild. But medium salsa? It's just right. I invariably chose it over its extreme counterparts.

My wits kind of abandoned me as I watched this guy stuff my taco. As he shoved the lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese in at my command, his arms fascinated me. They were tan. And muscely.

"What kind of salsa would you like with your chips?" he asked.

I looked up. I only saw two delightfully blue eyes, a weakness of mine.

"H-h-hotttttttt," I breathed.

I quickly amended my error, a little sloppily.

"Uh, I mean, medium..." Quick "oops" sort of smile. Direct eye contact with my shoes.

I don't think he caught my little slip. Very fortunate. He's not a bad-looking guy, but I can assure you... My interest in him does not transcend his ability and willingness to stuff my tacos. I don't wanna, you know, give him the wrong idea or anything. Desperation can make you do and say some crazy things.

It's just that my, er, taco needs stuffing. Bahaha. Kidding. But my perverted mind wouldn't let that one go.


Currently listening: Bouncing Souls... various albums and such.