I watched his weather forecast with quiet fortitude, blinking once or twice. I was patient. I could wait. I studied him as he pointed at a blank screen, weather patterns in space. Standing in front of the blue screen, his eyes seemed unreal, like splashing lakes or foaming oceans or a swimming pool with way too much chlorine.
Outside thunder rumbled and clapped as Jack pointed to the map like he had the inside scoop to the gods. "This line of thunderstorms is moving west, producing high straight-line winds and hail." And then another bang from mighty Zeus (or maybe the Flying Spaghetti Monster) shook the faux walls of Channel Six's set.
I wanted to produce some whipping winds. Shake him up. Maybe create a torrential flood. With him.
I loved the way he moved. Loved the way he spoke. Those lips. Those long legs. Tight ass. I was in instant lust. I loved watching. Voyeur Ennis, that's me. And was that a divining rod or is he just happy to see me? Yes, nothing hotter than a gay broadcast meteorologist with a hard-on for one of his colleagues-- especially if I'm on the receiving end.
The more I watched, the more I wanted.
After the news wrapped up, I still waited. The rest of the evening was long. I checked the doppler. The storm line looked to be dissipating. I hoped he wasn't. I checked the room-- he leaned against the director's chair, arms crossed, eyes dead on me. Yes, I'd caught him watching me. Turned me on-- more.
When he thought all was clear, he moved swiftly to the men's room, and I followed nonchalantly, but it was like the floor of Congress in there: all these men pissing, crapping and debating about world news. Geez, you'd think we worked at a news station or something.
Finally the newsroom dwindled down, but still too much of the crew was there. Jack nodded his head to the stairs.
He left through the door to the stairwell; a few minutes later I did too. I opened the old iron door, and it shut with a clang. His footsteps echoed above me. I followed. Another door groaned open.
He was on the roof. I got to the top and opened it to damp night air: the rain had let up. A lull. Just a drizzle.
He stood next to one of the big dishes on the roof, hands cupping his crotch. I took the invitation. We never knew about the short-fuse warning-- never knew.
We were prone on the dish, bodies rutting together when the bolt of lightening struck.