Shadows Of Pleasure

Four of them are working in the direct sunshine to frame the walls of Rusty's extension. When I arrived to work yesterday, there was simply a concrete slab; today, hot, sweating workers are erecting the wooden structure while wiping their forehead with gloved hands.

Maybe I wouldn't whistle at the construction workers in Rusty's parking lot if summer weren't only a few weeks away and if I wasn't already wondering about all the gorgeous males who would soon be vacationing here on Four Points Island.

Nah. I would do it almost whenever.

Since women have been objectified for so long, it's only right that whenever I have the opportunity, I do the same. Not to add, there are some attractive construction workers.

I don't anticipate one of the guys to approach me when I whistle loudly while placing my fingers in my mouth since they seem to be quite busy. I expect them to ignore me, at worst frown, or maybe smile, but the man closest to me, who has the physique of an action hero, sets down his hammer and approaches right away.

He says, "What was that?" as though I said something he didn't fully understand.

I'm in the unusual situation of having trouble speaking; I'm not sure whether this is because he's calling me out or because his face looks like it was carved from a block of granite and his deep-set eyes are ripping pieces of my garments from my body with each step closer to him.

I greet him and let my eyes go over his tough figure, from the gray t-shirt that covers his wide shoulders to the worn jeans that cling to his strong thighs, all the way down to his tool belt. I want to come back as those jeans once I pass away.

I asked you to whistle for me. He takes off his hat and wipes at the perspiration on his forehead in a gesture that seems to be intended to draw attention to the bulge in his biceps, with a trace of a sneer on his lips. His close-cropped brown hair is chopped. That style is not normally mine, but it works for him. His jaw and chin also have a shadow of brown stubble, and everything comes together beautifully.

When I realize I've been biting my lip, I release it. Truth be told, I whistled at you.

His smirk develops into a smug smile. Is that accurate?

I nod. I don't mind that this dialogue isn't progressing very quickly. I could spend all day just staring at this dude from here. I suppose I could if my shift didn't begin in five minutes.

He inquires, "You like what you see?"

A guy like you shouldn't need to look for praises, I think.

"I'm not," he replies. Who are you called?