Lawn Service
The noise was deafening. The big lawn mower was criss-crossing the stretch of grass between the house and the pool, carving even stripes into the blue-green fescue. It had been a long winter, cold and gray. This was the first really beautiful day of spring, hovering at 78 degrees. My blonde hair had gotten dark, my flesh white and pasty. I longed for the caress of summer. The sun was warm and felt good on my naked skin. I was trying to get some color. I watched the guys from the lawn service swarm over the property like ants, trimming and edging as the mower moved across the green. Dust rose into the air, and I felt it drifting down onto my oiled skin. I thought, maybe I had better move indoors for a while until these men finish their work.
I had used this service for several years. The guys were different every season. I guessed they got paid minimum wage, and cutting grass is not a career, after all. In any case, the gang of Latin dudes working on my lawn were all strangers to me, except for one man who seemed to have been on the team since I contracted with them five years ago. His name was Manuel. I assumed he was the lead worker, supervisor for the rest of the motley crew. He was a big man, maybe 6’4”, about 28 or maybe 30 years old. His head was typically wrapped in a blue bandanna; his dark oily hair pulled tightly into a pigtail that ran down his neck and stopped between his shoulder blades. Usually shirtless, Manuel’s back and shoulders were tanned a deep, rich copper color. His broad, heavily muscled chest was almost hairless except for curly black tufts that grew around each of his tits like little black halos. His belly was well defined, abs rippling down to his belt. I could see a strip of paler tan skin at his waist, where the band of his plaid boxers blocked the tanning rays of the sun. He was always sweating, glistening drops beading on his forehead and rivulets of salty perspiration streaming down his thickly muscled back, staining the back of his pants dark.
I usually offered them something to drink, so I figured I might as well go inside and get them a pitcher of lemonade. As I passed the guys, I felt them gawking at me, staring at the tall blonde man from an entirely different world than theirs. They had me figured out, I guess. I could feel their eyes on me, smirks on their macho brown faces. God, Latin guys are very sexy! Manuel was saying something, but I couldn’t hear him over the mower’s powerful exhaust. He stopped the machine.
“Hola! How’ve ya been, Mr. Gordon? Your lawn needs . . . . .
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