A good friend called me and asked if I had any time to help with a small job. I had a few days to spare so I drove to her place, though it was quite a drive, they had an extra bedroom and I was planning to stay a few nights. It was a beautiful property, near the ocean, and I figured I would pretend I was on vacation; because my kid and husband stayed home. It was just me, and the job was cutting flowers.
Dick, not his real name, was the farmer, and he was a woodsman, and totally into reggae. It was a continual reggae fest for days on end, and I was quiet about my aversion to continual, nonstop reggae while working, but then regretted when I said something because my trim partner, a very large, buff construction worker named Brett, switched the program to sports. I have always had a thing for construction workers, it’s my favorite man fantasy. It began when I moved to Sacramento and was self employed with a home office that faced the street. Road improvement work began at the same time. There was a very good looking, young man that hand dug a giant hole in the street right next to my front yard all day long. I was supposed to be plotting topography, drawing plot plans and designing septic systems, but I was mesmerized by all that dirty digging. When my boyfriend/now husband came home from work he had the nerve to ask me what I had done all day. My desk was clean. I asked him what he would be doing if there was a Victoria’s Secret Fashion show next to his window. Dan is rad, though, and started wearing his hard hat and fluorescent vest home on occasion, “Excuse me, ma’am we have to check on some of your household appliances.” Enough about reality, shortly after, when I was about to get married, my friend, Gayla, arranged a construction worker stripper and his hot black, forgot what his theme was, friend to visit my bridal shower party. The strippers were late and there were at least 20 wild and crazy 25-35 year old women losing their minds and consuming too much alcohol. Mandy hosted the party and we were in her back room. Giant concrete curved steps went up to the kitchen. Luckily the back room was padded with carpet because Jessica took a header off the top of the stairs from the kitchen and dropped and rolled like a professional firefighter. I wish firefighter was the other strippers theme, but oh well, it wasn’t. Jessica was okay, and it was a hilarious sight, and a perfect introduction for the boys entrance. Because they were late, probably getting naked for more crazy ladies on the way, I don’t remember much because alcohol has a tendency to steal my memories. In this case it is probably for the best. I do remember the construction worker swooping up my little cousin and placing her on his bicep while he dry slam-humped Jessica’s dancing butt a few times--hard. Her butt stuck out like a chicken. After he moved on to dry hump more ladies Jessica continued the strange butt bump move, she thought he was still there. That was my most vivid memory of that night. The nearly naked men did their performance well, they were professionals, but the smell of baby oil and whipped cream will forever be “no, no’s” especially in unison. I thought they left. Little did I know they were being hand bathed in the bathroom first, probably to remove the curdled milk smell by a few single girls who may have even followed them out to the car. Is oral considered a good tip? Back to the job at the ocean, with a giant, hot, blond, 28-year old, construction worker cutting flowers in a reggae or sports filled shed. “Woah.” The men had never seen a professional flower cutting travel kit. I had converted a briefcase into a stylish satchel, hot gluing a Burberry type fabric to the outside and filling it with my necessities. The most important piece was the mobile clip light that attached to my chair with a bendable snake I pulled around my shoulders. I also had a giant bag of disposable gloves, two new pairs of sharp Fiskars, a hand painted fancy wooden tray, rubbing alcohol, a myriad of containers (also covered with the Burberry fabric for fashion purposes), and a butt load of snacks. I came prepared. Brett and I were finally alone after Dick decided to beat it because reggae was no longer playing and he had farming to do. “You know Brett is a porno name?” “Yes, I’m aware of that.” “Got any good porno stories?” If you have never trimmed before, small talk is useless. People are brought together in a situation similar to a Freudian couch, where souls are revealed, laughter is the only remedy and friendships are made or broken in a matter of days. I had already shared that I was in the middle of writing a sexy story. I couldn’t figure out the difference between smut, erotica or romance, I guess I should have read one or two before attempting to write one. Brett was impressed with my story, because my heroine was bonking a fisherman named Manuel on his houseboat, and he was from the Azorean islands. “Dick actually has a fisherman uncle named Manuel, who lives here, on a houseboat and he’s from the Azores.” How’s that for research? I’m that good. “Please tell me he’s hot.” Brett said he’s not, but how can I let the sexiness of a character I made up be determined by a giant hetero man? Manuel is young, gorgeous, dark and sexy with a Portuguese lisp, not some dumpy uncle of a friend; thank you very much, Mr. Porno name. Brett’s porno story is so PG-13, because he wouldn’t give me good nasty details; he being a gentleman. He was also bright red and a little embarrassed, but it didn’t stop him from sharing: Brett, my handsome, tall, buff hero, was a jack hammer operator. He had an NFL football player build, very strong, and compact on the top, like a big rig. He was about 6’3” with an all American swagger, light skin, sandy blond hair, and small, bright blue eyes. He was also 25-years old and single. Brett grew up in the Mendocino area and there was always road work to be done, he had worked his way up through the ranks and he was very strong. Brett actually enjoyed manhandling the jackhammer. The smashing machinery was great therapy for a young man. Women always hooted and hollered at him, Brett was their eye candy. He was a bit shy, and it was funny how the ladies reacted to a man smashing through concrete. Brett rarely looked up when the ladies yelled, he was quite used to it. A dark haired business woman in her early 30’s pulled up to Brett and stopped her car. He was in the middle of the street, and she waited until he acknowledged her. He looked up. She was gorgeous. She had wavy, brown hair, and was wearing dark sunglasses. The woman was tan and fit, she could have been a stripper in her day. She hung her business card out the window of her luxurious, black Mercedes Benz. He nails were perfectly manicured and she smelled like she had just left a spa. Brett was dirty, hot, and sweaty. He took the card and stuck it in his pocket. She smiled and drove on. Brett couldn’t stop thinking about the card in his pocket. He was wondering if he imagined it, being out in the hot sun too long, but he could feel it poking him. He knew it was real, and the rest of the work day dragged on. When the workday finally ended Brett rushed home and showered before he pulled the card out and examined it. It was a lawyer’s card, but what he noticed first was the name of the hotel with a room number hand written on the back. Why not? Nervous Brett knocked on the door, and the stunning lawyer opened the door in a silky robe and black lingerie. It was still daylight. They didn’t need to speak. She slowly undressed him and they banged for hours. She was dirty and he was willing. He did whatever she asked him to do. Brett left her passed out on the bed. Brett could have charged good money for those services, but he enjoyed it too much to think deeply on it. I was so ecstatic for such a great clipping fantasy, and thankful for Brett’s titillating company. He was happy to share his glorious tale. The next season Brett was gone, and I was sad to lose a construction working centerfold. A really cool Cajun chef named Dave, took his place so the dramatic adventure continued down an altered but just as interesting path. We swapped cooking stories, and shared some funny adventures. I’ll save them for later because I’m still vicariously enjoying the construction worker reverie.
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