Elevator etiquette

I made it all 18 floors down on my way out for lunch before realizing that I had forgotten my security badge-thingie required to get back into the building.

I quickly returned to the elevator and was joined by two other men, floors 11 and 20. Me in the back, 11 on the right and 20 on the left.

Floor 20 doesn't face forward (seriously, there are rules against that shit), but leans along the wall of the elevator gazing into the space between 11 and I, stealing the occasional glance at me. Or, mostly, me in my pants.

Floor 11. Ding. Doors open. Floor 11 leaves, probably giggling on the inside of his head. Doors close.

Floor 20 tweaks his entire torso to get a better, uninterrupted, seven-story look. He takes it all in and starts making a strange noise with his mouth, like he is trying to swallow peanut butter. I refuse to make eye contact and talk about the weather, or worse, my pants.

Floor 18. Ding. Doors. Peace.

It's been a long time since I've been checked out by a dude. At least that blatantly. Granted, I do look damned fine in these pants.