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.

Rumble, rumble, rumble…

The rapturous, reverberating 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.

Please, please, with sugar on top…

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 barrel of Hula Hoops, my grin widened a raunchy notch.

Yeehaw! Was I a lucky ducky 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. ʼCause 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.

Squeezing wobbly thighs together, I ruefully acknowledged a mandatory “one-on-one” session later on, starring You Know Who.

Five eager-beaver (har) 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 shazitload 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

Seriously doubting the writing chops of my alter ego, “Mizz Moneypitz,” I ran a dubious hand through latex-speckled hair, two lecherous eyeballs boring twin holes of lasciviousness into a taut, khaki-drab butt.

Ugh. 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 TB 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.


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