Lawn Boy

As it so happened, I was working at home, something I could’ve been doing for a long time, but had chosen not to as I hadn't had the desire to spend any more time there than I needed to. This should have been an indication to me that perhaps this marriage wasn't for me, but of course it wasn't. So that's where I was, sprawled comfortably in my den, casually attired as those of us who are home-commuters tend to be—why dress up when you're the only one there? Sloppy shorts, an old Janis Joplin t-shirt, barefoot—blasting The Doors on the stereo, and compiling statistics for a report like there was no tomorrow. I almost didn't hear the doorbell, but the dog did—yes, she left him behind. I guess because she found a new plaything—a large unwieldy Doberman with the horrible appellation of Spike. He went into high gear, blasting out his vicious attack warning, as he aimed himself at the door. Spike is purely bark though, no bite. Which fact I hastily made sure to tell the person on the other side, lest they decide to sue me or something.
And when I opened the door—there he was. I found myself standing there, staring at him like some sort of idiot, slack-jawed to the max. He stood about five foot eleven or so, a few inches shorter than myself. Sun-bleached blond hair. Bright blue eyes, once he peeled off his Hollywood shades, the same hue as the water in my pool on a summer day. Tan skin, unblemished, that stretched as far as the eye could see. He wore no shirt, and I could see the breadth of his shoulders, not overly broad but wide enough, tapering down to a narrow waist, firm pecs, and a six-pack I'd have died to possess. I was no slouch in that department myself, but certainly no match for this veritable Greek god before me. Gravity will work its magic, after all, on all of us, at some point. Flat stomach with soft blond hairs which formed into a line which headed down toward… and when I caught myself looking at his crotch, I pulled myself up sharply. What the hell was I doing, anyway? I forced myself to look back at his eyes, and they were definitely twinkling with bemusement, at my expense. I flushed under his scrutiny. What was he? All of twenty-two, three, maybe?
Then I became aware of the cap on his head, an absurdly garish thing, in some sort of neon green, with the simple embroidered inscription—LAWN BOY—in tangerine. What kind of cheesy name was that, I wondered. "Mr. Sherman?" he asked. "Roy Hudson, Able and Willing…” My heart skipped a beat unexpectedly, even as my cock hardened, and I had to mentally tell myself to calm down.