My sister has gotten married and moved out, the last of the kids to do so, and my parents are taking advantage of the newly-empty house by remodeling. Her bedroom will become a tv room. The kitchen will get new cabinets. There will be a shower in the bathroom.
First up: the kitchen. For the next five days, we'll have to eat out for every meal.
But it will be worth it: the contractor is a buffed, tanned demigod named Tyler: about 30 years old, with a handsome model-face: black curly hair, blue eyes, square jaw, unshaven scruff of a beard. He's wearing a blue muscle shirt that reveals massive shoulders, a hairy chest, and thick veiny biceps.
His tight jeans reveal a bubble butt and an enormous bulge on the right side. I'm guessing a Kielbasa.
I try starting a conversation. He speaks mostly in monosyllables and grunts, but I gather that we went to high school together -- he graduated two years before me (which makes him 31). He has a live-in girlfriend.
I quickly closet myself, saying that I live in "Los Angeles," not "West Hollywood."
That night I look Tyler up in my old yearbook. He was a jock, a football player and a wrestler. I worked as an athletic trainer, so I must have seen him in the locker room. I must have gotten a sausage sighting.
But that locker room was wall-to-wall beefcake. I don't remember Tyler, or his sausage.
Well, maybe I'll get the chance now. He'll be here for a week -- he'll have to use the bathroom sometime.
The full post, with nude photos and sexual situations, is on Tales of West Hollywood.