BEBE: ONE

 

I was wedged halfway under my bed, trying to snag a grapefruit-sized dust bunny with the tip of my just-in-case-of-another-bat tennis racket when I heard it. The rumbling sound that made my day, every day. Rain or shine, and usually right around three o’clock. The noise got louder, and my lips curled in giddy anticipation. Oh, yeah, it was coming. That big, dull-green delivery truck with its fine, fine driver.

The one I’d recently (and quite cleverly, if you ask me), coined the Hunk O’ Fuck Truck.

Squirming out belly-to-floor, I banged my noggin on the edge of ye olde secondhand bed frame in klutzy haste, seeing stars.

Shit, that smarts!

Shaking it off and throwing my trusty weapon against the paint-splattered wall, I brushed huge clumps of fuzz from tube top-squished boobs as I dashed down the hall to the front bay, where I skidded to a cartoon-like stop, breathless and filthy.

Peeking through the slats of my spiffy, brand-new wood blinds (weathered winter white, a 10 percent upcharge but totally worth it), I blew out a relieved breath, smirking.

Thank you, Sweet Baby Jesus… I hadn’t missed him.

Mister Man was just across the street, kitty-corner a couple houses down. Getting into position, I settled in for the show, thrilled to pieces it was only June. Yes! I had at least three, if not four more months to gawk at those thick, muscular legs encased in their standard khaki shorts until it was back to pants. Feeling loopier than a barrelful of Hula Hoops, my grin widened a raunchy notch.

Yeehaw! Was I a lucky duck to work from home or what?

As I watched Tommy heft big boxes out of the truck with his brawny arms, I made a mental note to order a few more unnecessary supplies on Amazon Prime this afternoon. By three-thirty at the latest. Darn tootin’, by three-thirty. That sweet, two-day guarantee of theirs meant come this time Wednesday, yonder studly specimen out there would be ringing my bell.

I dimpled deviously, mentally clarifying. Well, the beat-to-shit brass button dangling next to my decrepit front door, that was. Cuz Lord knows he was already ringin’ my other little bell. The one down there under my raggedy cutoffs and Hello Kitty thong, to be precise.

I squeezed wobbly thighs together, ruefully acknowledging a mandatory one-on-one later on, starring You Know Who.

Five eager-beaver fingers twitched. Not that I couldn’t get busy with that naughtiness right now, watching those boulder-like shoulders flexing and bunching all over the gol-dang place, but throw me a boner here. I did have some discipline!

And a whole shitload of things to do first.

Number one, I needed to finish that disgusting bedroom floor. Then, I’d slap a few more potential paint colors on the wall above my bed, where the light was best. Seeing that last batch of putrid greens was most definitely not cutting it. My nose crinkled in distaste.

Avocado Adventure? Spare me.

After that, I’d sit my butt down at my one-quarter-varnished desk and finish today’s blog, “Restoring Your Original Door Hinges on a Dime.” Beyond riveting, right? I gusted out a dramatic sigh, not feeling creative in the slightest. Well, hopefully, I’d be able to dredge up something halfway decent, once I put my mind to it.

“Hopefully,” was right

I ran a dubious hand through latex-speckled hair, lecherous eyeballs boring twin holes of lasciviousness in that taut, khaki-drab butt.

Yeah, had to admit waxing poetic over century-old hardware wasn’t exactly cranking the ol’ gears today. Not on your nelly. No, I had way better things to think/drool about. I licked hungry lips, my dual laser beams practically singeing Tommy’s shorts clean off his magnificent tush.

Blog, schmog. Thank God I’d skipped Half-Price Margarita Sunday with Chuck and eked out a couple paragraphs last night, was all I had to say!

The nanosecond I got that sucker finished and uploaded, I’d switch screens and order the crap on Amazon, posthaste.

I figured after all that was done, me and my smutty fingers could have us some quality “alone time”, before I had to face the music and deal with those six heaping baskets of neglected laundry moldering away downstairs, boo frigging hoo.

Picturing that crime scene, I frowned sadly.

Man. I sure wished I’d stockpiled a few more columns last week, so I could take the extra cash and all those dirty duds down to Let Us Do It Cleaners, instead of having to slave away in my creepy, cobwebby basement all night like some destitute charwoman.

Another regret-tinged sigh. Well, that’s what you get for being a spineless pushover and caving in to four happy hours out of five, I guess.

Tommy was walking up Mrs. Schmitt’s unending driveway to her side door now, laden down with packages. Watching closely, I grinned like a lust-struck fool. Boy, was I glad that old biddy was getting that enormous front porch of hers gutted to the studs. Talk about perfect timing!

My eyes perused the messy construction site across the street with supreme satisfaction. Not only did it appear to be a really complicated, summer-long project, Schmitty just so happened to be more of an Amazon junkie than I. And that driveway of hers was reeeeally long.

Quite the runway, if you will.

Oui, très chanceux! It was a rare occurrence when that noisy truck didn’t stop at her place daily. A rare occurrence, indeed. And considering the Materialistic One was eighty-five if she was a day, I’m pretty sure it didn’t have anything to do with Tommy Branson and his brooding khaki fineness, either. I reckoned the lady was just a bonafide shopaholic, and too rickety to go about it the old-fashioned way.

Prying slats wider with two fingers, I salivated as T.B. bent and dropped the boxes, showcasing his wide back and those bulgy tan thighs to perfection as he stood there waiting. I pressed closer to the pane, sighing happily. Another thing I adored about the old girl: it took her freaking forever to get her geriatric bones to the dang door.

All the better for me and my little peep show, thank you very much.

Tommy was scowling with that dark, sexy face down at his watch. Squinting for better detail, I watched him pound an impatient fist against the side of one delicious flank while he stretched the other arm holding that signature thingie high against the brick wall. Eyes wide, I quietly dribbled.

Jeez, he had great guns. Did he get all those yummy muscles just from hauling shit in and out of that truck all day, I wondered? Practically kissing dirty glass, I stared harder. Nah, no way. By the looks of those babies, he had to lift some impressive weights, besides.

Often.

With lavish detail, I pictured him straining and grunting under a stacked deadlift bar, and I moaned, getting damper. Narrowed eyes shifted sideways to the trashed hallway leading to my bedroom.

Mmm… Maybe I could sneak in one tiny quickie with that tasty image for ammo before I finished that stupid floor? I bit a downturned lip, conceding I was never “quick” when I got going with that hunk o’ hotness out there for fantasy fodder. With no small effort, I kept itchy fingers right where they were, and out of my skivvies.

Discipline, Anderson, discipline. Stick to the script; work before pleasure. That damned column needs to get submitted on time. You want to be able to eat this week, dontcha?

The Schmittster was at the door now, and Tommyboy was doing his thing—lifting and bending and stretching and heaving, tossing bulky cartons into her hall like they weighed next to nothing. My pulses pounded hotly as I goggled.

Well, maybe they did weigh next to nothing. Maybe they were stuffed 90 percent full of that annoying popcorn pellet crap, but I preferred to imagine they tipped the scales mightily, and all that powerful testosterone was being tested to the absolute limit.

Note to self: make sure to order really heavy stuff later on.

Continuing to stare greedily, I contemplated for the umpteenth time since my obsession began that Mr. B. was definitely not your stereotypical delivery guy, all chipper and cheery and chatty. Fine with me; it just added to his allure. Who the heck wanted some yakking cornball when you could have a moody brute like that for your imaginary playmate? Certainly not I!

Trying not to blink, I watched him shift around on beat shitkickers, his messy hair tousled and head bent as he waited impatiently for Schmitt’s chicken scratch.

Not smiling, not conversing, not nothing.

Just towering there in her drive like a huge, sweaty sexpot, jonesing to get back to his wheels and the rest of his haul. Most definitely not in the mood for any neighborly chitchat, no siree Bob. Truthfully, I almost felt sorry for the old spendthrift as she attempted to extract a few words out of him, her brittle, shop-happy bones withering in the hulking shadow of that mute monolith.

My unsteady fingers trembled on the blinds, squeezing them closer as Tommy finally got his sig and started striding back toward the street on those gorgeous, manly legs.

Wow, what a sexy walk. I swallowed dryly, heart thudding like mad beneath my ancient tube top as he stared dead ahead, straight into the bay where I lurked in the gloom like a perverted headcase. Stealthily, I pinched whitewashed slats tighter, barely allowing a crack of light through as he kept looking my way.

Actually, I couldn’t be completely positive the Mighty B. was looking my way, on account of those rad black shades he was sporting, but it sure as heck seemed like he was pinning me right where I stood; quivering in my little puddle of drool. I began to hyperventilate, panting shallowly.

Shit, maybe he could see my silhouette or something. Where the frig was the sun right now? Panicking, I dropped my hand, quickly stepping off to the side.

That only lasted half a shake though. I wasn’t about to waste my daily eye candy fix on simple paranoia, for crying out loud!

Giving Hunkasaurus enough time to get back to his ride and grab more stuff, I selected two different louvers, lower and on the other side. Crouching down, I grinned gleefully. Man, I freakin’ loved Mondays. Always so many deliveries after the weekend consumer-frenzy glut!

I peered across at the truck’s jampacked interior, counting cardboard. Yep, from the looks of it, my neighbors sure had been busy racking up the ol’ credit card debt the last couple days. Discerning eyes scanned the veritable mountain of cartons heaped floor to roof with unbound pleasure. Very busy.

Translated: Tasty Tommyboy definitely had those big hands of his full. Yippee for me!

He was back behind his rig now, hauling out a passel of more shit. Oh, good, that meant the Walkowitzes were next. Those slobby couch potatoes were pretty dang loose with the cash, too. My smirk stretched wider as I watched Mr. Hotty Patotty struggle with what appeared to be a gigantic flat screen, hunks of shaggy hair flopping in his rugged face. I sighed lustily, transfixed.

Boy. I’ll bet anything he was swearing under his breath, manhandling that huge, awkward box. Wicked, filthy words.

Dreamily, I wondered if he used words like that when he was fucking.

Then, I wondered if he had any more ink under that sweat-stained shirt to match the fierce American eagle I already knew was stamped on his cut, left biceps.

Then, I wondered how big his cock was, stuffed behind that battered leather belt.

Twenty minutes later, as I lay gasping and writhing in the middle of my crappy, unmade bed, I wondered one more thing.

Why the hell I had such appallingly pitiful willpower.