Masturbator

me: "See, there goes his hand again, but it's not mov- oh! I saw tendons twitching."
Heather: "Oh, I'm just SO glad I came in today."
me: "Marcus is doing stealth recon somewhere."
circ staff: "Marcus went upstairs!"
me: "Oh, he's upstairs, he'll see it all up there!"
manly circ staff: "I'll throw him out if you want."
me: “Thank you, I would love to see you pick him up by the shirt and chuck him out. I'll let you know."
Marc came downstairs nodding, then stalked into the back room to scald his eyeballs with rubbing alcohol. Heather and I pushed and raced out to the computer room and stood right behind the man with the 5 chat windows open, watching him type rapidly with one hand and pretend to scratch with the other. When his biceps got into the action Heather's eyes rolled back in her head and she dropped down to kneel beside him. "Sir, we're getting complaints about what you're doing with your hands. You have to stop. Now." He stared at her, but put his arms on the table.

I was laughing about this while guiding a patron down an aisle. I mostly get hit on by friendly old men, but lately younger guys have used me for practice, posing against the desk with stupid compliments on my typing speed. This guy tried it, using the good old "hey, how tall are you?" line to break the ice. I told him, and he tried to convince me he was a 6' 3" basketball player who likes to go to Oscar parties. Except he was a 5'8" middle-aged man who likes to carry Star Wars toys in his stained pockets. 

Interesting day at the library.