Meet the New Neighbor; Yes, Please
SUNDAY, may 8, 2022
WTF? Nobody rings my doorbell! I live in a posh, gated community, complete, with like... SECURITY and everything. So like I said, no one rings doorbells around here.
Yet, I did realize that it is customary, when the bell rings, for one to get up and answer it. I know, because it was something of a Pavlovian reaction in me at that very moment.
I sprinted to the door (certainly pushed by fate) and flung it open in haste, not even availing myself of the little peep hole.
You would NOT believe the physique that was standing on my front porch! The man was fucking JACKED! He wore shorts and a white T-shirt with a screen-printed: "Adventures begin with muscle sex." And the man was just... I mean... 110 percent muscle. You know? Arms that could bend metal I-beams... Pecs and shoulders out to here. And fucking legs like the Queen Mary! (I have no idea what that even means, but you'll forgive me if my analogies [ANAL-ogies, heh heh] get a bit convoluted. It happens. 'Specially when Mr. Please-Read-My-T-shirt-And-Then-Have-Muscle-Sex-With-Me interrupts my rutabaga omelette, okay?)
My knees failed, and I had to grab onto the door jam to keep upright. I totally nearly slid down said door jam like a smitten sixth-grade girl just seeing her first muscle man. Just looking at this guy was more torture than I could bear at the moment.
"I'm sorry to bother you," the body said, "but... well... aw shucks... and golly... I'm your new neighbor next door, and well... I just made my coffee and well... I don't have any cream. Do you think I could use some of yours?"
Use... some of my cream? Exactly what would that entail? Was this the Double Entendre Wizard at my door? I mean, fuck! I would love to share my cream with this man. And the fresher the better, you know?
Adventures begin with muscle sex? What the fuck was IN that omelette I'd been eating (besides, of course, rutabagas)? This wasn't... not even remotely possib... could it be?
"I'm sorry," the guy's face was red now and he shuffled his flip-flopped feet on my Spanish Clay Tiles that cost, like $1,000 each. Or something. "I apologize," he went on, "It was presumptuous of me to ask for your cream. I'll just be going."
He turned and walked toward the gate at the far end of my posh, expensive, manicured yard (manicured, except for the weeds you can see at the side of today's picture. It's hard to get reliable help anymore, you know?) and lifted the hook on my posh, expensive gate.
"I don't have any cream," I blurted out. "I mean... I actually have a lot of cream." [Please note: this conversation was the most confusing interaction I have ever had with another entity. I was... I dunno....]
He froze—his muscles tight with anticipation (I'm just sure they were!), then slowly turned to me. He gave me a wan smile and said, "That's okay. It's just that... well, I saw you mowing your lawn the other day and..."
I inwardly shuddered. [The CWS needs to know that I do NOT DO manual labor. It's the lack-of-reliable-help thing that made me mow, you know? So any conclusion that the aforementioned Curious Web Surfer may conclude, regarding my wealth (and my ability to retain good help—not to mention my elite social status), shall not be concluded, okay?]
"...and well, when you were out in the yard with your shirt off, I couldn't help but conclude that you are fucking stacked—if you'll excuse my French." (Of course the man spoke French. The fucker. Could he be any more perfect?) He closed the gate and re-approached me. "It's Seanny, isn't it? I mean... I saw your flowery little name card on the mail box. I like the paisleys, by the way." He gave me a smile. His short beard was not able to hide his adorable dimples. His perfect, glaring teeth made my brain frazzl wi0923n, sid;,weik shsiahe3iog.
I recovered gracefully, despite my momentary disorientation: "Yes, it's Seanny," (you brute).
"Nice to meet you. I'm Brutus. I just moved in last week."
Thankfully, we were still standing far enough away from each other that a hand shake wasn't, at the moment, possible. Had actual physical contact been made between us, I knew I could not be responsible for my subsequent actions. Instead, I nodded—undressing him with my eyes for the 100th time.
"And anyway, when I saw how muscular you are... well, I thought to myself: 'Self? That new neighbor Seanny must certainly have a lot of... er... cream.' You know?"
I actually do happen to have a lot of... cream. It's on the Keto diet, you know? I batted my eyes: "Oh, why thank you."
"So... can I?"
"Taste it? Your cream?"
I lifted one eyebrow.
He just stood there, holding his coffee cup.
"Actually, it sounds like an... 'adventure'!" I smiled.
I stepped back and made a broad waving motion. "Well, come in then... I'll have to actually make the cream, though. Perhaps you can help me."
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OH, AND BTW, Chapter 11 of THE CAPTAIN AND HIS PRIVATES is up! We're giving this chapter the subtitle: "O Captain! My Captain!" Read it, and you'll see why. :)
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