Dirty old lady

This morning my hot coworker, M (rescuer of the Christmas robot) came into my office and asked if I had scissors. I confirmed that indeed I did, which surprised both he and I given management's attempts to keep all sharp (and blunt) instruments away from me. And glue, too. He wanted to cut the tag off of the inside of his shirt (not the one at the back of the neck, but the one on the side). I gave him my scissors. He proceeded to pull up his shirt, exposing some flesh and cut off the tag. He was standing up, I was seated. I could have leaned forward six inches and kissed his side. You know, I should've. That just would've been totally awesome. He hands the scissors back and then notices there is another tag, pulls up his shirt again, holds up the tag and wants me to cut it. It was a bit too much. I started to cut it and then he was like, "T-! What are you doing?" and I thought, "Oh shit, I've cut his shirt", but instead I hadn't cut it close enough to the shirt and he was simply chastising me. He took the scissors, hiked up his shirt further and did it himself. You'd think he had taken his entire shirt off, or that I'd never seen a naked man before or something. I was riveted. I am a dirty old lady.
Then we joked about a couple of things and he made a comment about taking me out for dinner. This stemmed back to a conversation that we had had about an hour earlier: I went in to ask him something and I had a cheque in my hand. He said, "is that for me?" and I said, "no, it's not" and he said, "that's too bad" and I said, "it is too bad" (yeah, yeah, it gets better) and he said, "if it was for me there could be a dinner in it for you" and I laugh and say, "oh, so I need to commit fraud for you to take me out for dinner" and we both laughed. It was odd that he would then bring it up again. Oh, and even earlier in the day (you know, looking back on this blog I really ought to have done it chronologically instead of going further and further back in time) he complimented me on a jacket that I recently bought.
He's so hot. Rrrrrr. We're all going for drinks after work today. I'm going to try and sit next to him and fawn and touch his arm lightly while giggling at everything he says. Realistically? I am going to sit miles from him and scowl, while watching golf on one of the sixteen t.v.s designed to distract you from all intelligent conversation. Yay martinis!