I'm looking at Greg's butt.
Just like yesterday.
Looking at Greg's butt.
Looking at Greg's butt.
I'm a butt man, I guess.
It's a great butt. 
I pull out my camera.
Take a picture.
Of Greg's butt.
I love Greg's butt.
Even when we were breaking up, even when he was driving me completely insane and I was yelling that he was so screwed up, I still loved his butt.
"Greg, what's in this box? Gold bricks?"
It's his damn weights. I swear to God, he has boxes and boxes of free weights, he's the gym freak and I'm the one shlepping the weights.
Ughghghghggh, I hate moving. I just moved all my stuff a few weeks ago and here I am again moving all Greg's stuff.
Uggghghghghgh --- another box of damn weights. Where's the stemware box, I wonder.
He sneaks up behind me and pinches my ass. Which doesn't compare to his, but it's gotten a few compliments, still does now and then. Greg teases me by taking the box from me, putting it up on his shoulder and prancing off down the hall.
"Wise-ass," I say real loud, and watch him go.
Watch the booty.
Watch the booty go down the hall.
Suddenly, like a flash -- I want it.
I want that booty.
I move off down the hall after him. After "it."
