Brock

by Rob Armstrong

I have learned to dislike shopping at places where I have to pay and then pick up the goods from a separate warehouse.

So, I had groaned inwardly the Saturday afternoon that my older cousin, David, rang to tell me that his wife had gone into labour earlier that day, two weeks ahead of her due date, and he asked me whether I could pick up their baby capsule from a warehouse for him. It had already been paid for.

He confessed that he had lazily and frequently put off collecting it, and now, when it was needed, said that he wouldn't make it back from the hospital in time because the warehouse, near my place, was due to close in an hour's time.

Also, the place wouldn't be open tomorrow, Sunday. And, Monday was the warehouse's designated quarterly 'stock taking' day. Also shut! He was desperate for help, not only to have the capsule ready for the baby, possibly on Tuesday, but also to avoid a less-than-pleasant argument with his wife. She had reminded him often enough to get it before the baby came!

The only word which had registered on my brain was 'warehouse'. I had asked him to wait while I found a pen (there's never one around when you need it) and paper. He read me all of the details from the receipt which, fortunately, he had in his wallet. I wrote as he dictated.

Of course, I had agreed to help them out! But my mind automatically conjured up the inventory of my past few warehouse calamities and brought them to my consciousness.

I recall one, having selected and then paid for what I wanted, I was given a receipt, with a map, and told to 'take it to the warehouse'! I was lucky that it was just down the road and around the corner, but then discovered that there was nowhere to park, close to where I needed to be.

Also, after ringing a bell, waiting for an available staff member to come to my assistance had been frustrating. And, I remember hoping, fervently, that they would, firstly, give me the correct goods, but then help me either carry the heavy packs to my car or, at least, provide me a trolley.

Another time, when purchasing a multi-pack, extendable dining table, it took the warehouse staff fifteen minutes to locate the last of its five boxes. Aargh!

Anyway, I repeated back to David what I had written so that there would be no confusion, and asked him to phone the place to tell them that I was coming and for them to have the capsule ready. He had been happy to do that.

I began to feel, when my GPS started guiding me to the address via a different route to that which I would have taken, that my warehouse misadventures were about to continue.

As I approached, I could see the place well enough, but it was on the opposite side of the highway and, there was a newly-created median safety strip between it and me. With my GPS pleading ignorance and indifference, and exhorting me ad nauseum to 'at the first opportunity, turn back', I had been forced to continue driving until I could comply.

To add to my irritation, I had also encountered a whole series of newly-installed 'No U-Turn' signs and red arrows forbidding me from accessing any of the otherwise-convenient streets where I might have been able to turn around.

I began to wonder whether I would actually make it to the warehouse before their closing time. But, I wasn't panicking, yet.

Ten minutes, and multiple degrees of frustration, later, I was able to pull into their driveway. But where to park? Oh, underground parking? OK. That seemed convenient.

Not!

A small delivery van was at the bottom of the narrow and steepish ramp, blocking the entrance. I tooted a couple of times, then realised that it was driverless.

I could feel my blood pressure rising!

Then, everything took a positive U-turn.

"Hello. Sorry!" I hear from a very chirpy voice. "The van driver has just ducked upstairs into the shop to finalise his paperwork. Because it was almost closing time, he didn't think that anyone else would come in after him on a Saturday afternoon, so he just pulled up here, right next to the stairs."

I turn, to focus on the source of the voice, a smiling face, which has appeared at the passenger's-side window, at the bottom of a flight of stairs.

Young. And handsome! Maybe still in senior high school, or he could have dropped out early to get a job.

Apart from his engaging eyes, one of his striking features is his short, neatly-sculpted beard. How many days' growth is that? I guess at about two. With expertly-shaven lines from the corners of his mouth towards his ears. And, his neck has been cleanly shaven to another neat line, below his dimpled chin. Plus, he also has no visible tattoos or piercings to detract from his natural features. And, not a hair out of place! His hair, of the same dark brown as his beard, is correspondingly styled.

He could, conceivably, just have come straight from a speciality men's hairdressing salon. Or from a photographic modelling session. He appears out of place in this austere environment.

In my mind I try to guess at his family's origin. Maybe southern Italian. Maybe South American. Maybe eastern Mediterranean. Maybe it doesn't matter! What country doesn't produce its own handsome young men?

"He shouldn't be long," he smiles at me. "When the guy drives the rest of the way in to collect his goods, you can follow him. Is that OK? I'm very sorry for the inconvenience."

"I guess that's all right," I say. "Just as long as I can get what I need before you close up for the night."

Looking directly into my eyes, riveting my attention, he adds and asks "That won't be a problem. I know that you should usually see the people up in the shop first, but maybe I can help you. What is it that you are after?"

Having earlier wanting to be angry at somebody, it's impossible to project any annoyance towards this Adonis who is trying his best to be helpful.

"My cousin's wife had the baby a few hours ago and they need their capsule," I explain to him. "It's already ordered and paid for. I'm just here to pick it up." I offer him my sheet of paper with all of the details.

"Oh, yes. The shop staff have already asked me to check that it was in stock. Why don't you come with me?" he suggests. "And we'll get it from the store room. You can make sure that it's the right one and, that way, you won't be held up any longer than necessary."

"What about the delivery driver?" I ask. "My car is now blocking the ramp behind him."

"He'll blow his horn when he wants to leave," the guy smiles at me. "Don't worry about him. Anyway, I'll have to get whatever he wants from the store room before he leaves."

I get out, lock my car and head off alongside the storeman. He half-turns towards me and offers his hand. "I'm Brock, by the way."

"Rob," I tell him, reciprocating and intensifying his sturdy grip.

"Now that's a real man's handshake!" he comments. "What do you do for work?"

I explain that I'm a massage therapist, and that my strong hands are probably a product of the multitude of deep tissue massages that I perform. And I give him a brief overview of the professional services that I offer.

"Never had a massage!" he replies, stepping ahead of me towards a padlocked sliding security door, fishing for a key amongst the bunch that he is holding.

I watch his body movements. This is such an integral part of what I do professionally, that it has become automatic.

From behind, and accentuated by the tight work pants that he is wearing, I watch his firm glutes contract alternately with his final few steps. Mesmerising! His leg muscles and slim waist don't escape my attention either.

It's only when he slides the door open and turns to speak to me, fully front-on for the first time, that I take in the rounded bulk of his pectoral muscles and the flatness of his stomach, highlighted by his body-hugging shirt, perhaps one size too small.

He sees me eyeing off his body and laughs, "Yeah. I work hard at looking like this, usually heading off to the gym or to soccer practice straight after school on non-work afternoons. Right now, it's school holidays, so I get to work multiple days. Later today we have an actual game, and I'm due there in…" (checking his watch) "…35 minutes, now."

I don't know why he shared his working-hard-on-his-body information, but I comment, "I've seen a lot of toned bodies, and yours is up there with the best."

Honest compliments are usually well-received, even if he did seem to be fishing for one.

He smiles, but I wonder whether I have slightly overplayed my interest.

"Yeah. Well, A single man's gotta look his best, hasn't he?" he adds, and winks.

A few things run through my head. Single man. Toned body. Neatly groomed. Body-enhancing clothes. And I wonder about his private life. Chick magnet, or gay?

"And you've never needed a massage, after all the work that you do, here and in the gym and at soccer?" I ask.

"No. I always use the correct lifting and exercise techniques and I don't push myself beyond my body's capability," he tells me. Then he adds, "Apart from sport at school, I have soccer training twice a week and usually a game on Saturday or Sunday. When the opposition is tough, I have sometimes ended up with a few aches and pains after a game, but a hot shower and some heat gel normally takes care of them."

"You do know that heat isn't always good if you have an injury?" I ask, genuinely advising him. "There are times when an ice pack or a therapeutic massage can be more helpful."

He continues. "Actually, I did have a kind-of massage once, but not like what you do. After the final game last season, the coach took us Under 18's on a trip to Thailand."

"One of the guys suggested that we all go and have a 'special massage'. He said that he had been there the previous year with his older brother and knew of a good place. Being my first trip abroad, I actually didn't twig, at the time, to what kind of place it was."

He then shares with me, "I was led to a small private room and told to take off my clothes. I removed everything except my Speedos, and I wrapped one of the two towels which I could see around my waist. With no experience and with nobody advising me, I imagined that's what people did."

I don't have to ask any questions, because he goes on. "The young female masseuse who came in obviously didn't speak much English. She just pointed to my towel, said, 'Off' and indicated with her hand movements that I should remove it. I did. Then, seeing my Speedos, she frowned and gave me the same indication about them. I wasn't sure what to do, but I thought, 'What the hell! I'm on holidays!' So, I took them off too, and quickly lay myself face-down on the table."

"How did you feel about that?" I ask.

He continues without any reservation or embarrassment, "Well, I don't mind getting my gear off in the showers at school or at the club after a game. However, it didn't take long, with her gentle rubbing of my back, glutes and thighs, for something to get hard underneath me. You know what I mean."

"Yep," I answer. "It happens to us guys, frequently."

"It was only when she indicated for me to turn over," Brock says, "that I was worried. Embarrassed actually."

"It's natural," I say. "When the blood-flow to that region of the body is stimulated, something is bound to pop up!"

"Yeah. Well it wasn't fully hard when I turned over," he tells me, smiling broadly, "but it didn't take long to get that way! She made sure of that."

I don't ask. I don't have to. My expression says it all.

"It seemed that, for her, it was all about giving me a happy ending!" he smiles at me. "And that is the sum total of my massage experience."

"And a very pleasant experience, by the sound of it," I smile back, attempting to be empathetic, while exhibiting a bit of professional self-control.

"Yep," he says. "So, I suppose that wouldn't count as a 'professional massage' by your standard, which, again, I've never had."

I take a business card from my pocket. As I hand it to him, and bearing in mind what he told me about his end-of-footy-season Thai massage last year, I comment, "Just so you know, occasionally, some of my clients actually don't want me to stop after they've had their 'professional' massage."

He looks at me. Weighing up my words. He smiles. I grin back. He's not offended at all. In fact, I see a knowing smirk.

I add, "But, I always give them the therapeutic massage that they pay for, before any 'extras' that they've either hinted at, or asked for directly."

"Sounds good," he says, scanning my card again as if he's looking for something that he could have missed. He won't see printed, anywhere, 'you can always ask for a bit extra'!

In my mind, I'm thinking, actually hoping, that this handsome young Brock is going to end up booking in for a professional massage and will hopefully want a happy ending as an 'extra'. The tightness that I feel in the front of my pants hints at a bit of potential pleasure for me too.

"This is it," he tells me, laying one hand on a surprisingly largish box. He hands me back my paper and I match up the printing on the box with what I had written down.

"OK. Thanks," I tell him.

He extricates the box from the stack and hoists it onto his shoulder.

"You OK with that?" I ask.

"This is what I'm paid to do," he laughs. "It's my total source of income, Wednesday and Thursday afternoons after school and any Saturday or Sunday if I don't have an early soccer game. The boss is pretty good about giving me the hours that I ask for.

As we walk back to my car, I don't want to push him any further about coming for a massage, but I do ask, "So, do you live locally?"

"Not too far from the address on your card, actually," he says. Then he asks, "Did you get caught by all of the new roadworks and signs? Or did you come the other way?"

"Caught!" I tell him. "And it took me more than fifteen minutes to find my way back."

"There's an easier way, if ever you need to come back again," he says. "I can draw you a map, if you like."

"Very unlikely," I tell him. "I certainly won't be needing one of these things for myself."

"So, not married then?" he asks.

"Nope," I say. "No trouble and strife."

He laughs. "Yeah. No wife! I'm one of those too. Not even a girlfriend. My brother is always complaining about his."

I wonder how much like me he might be.

He deposits the box in the back of my SUV and I re-lock it.

"Come upstairs," he says. "Let's get your paper work completed. You'll only need to sign that you've taken delivery of the capsule. Not much more, seeing that it's already paid for."

We walk up the stairs and encounter an argument going on between a guy (dressed in khaki, who is obviously the driver of the delivery van) and a member of staff. As far as I can ascertain, whatever the guy was supposed to pick up appears not to have been delivered to the store as anticipated, even though they rang and told the customer that it would be here today.

Brock, attempting to ignore the driver's hand-waving and raised voice, guides me around them to a POS terminal.

The paperwork is printed. I sign one copy, and put the folded duplicate into my pocket, for my cousin.

Brock says quietly, "It may be wise not to ask the guy to move his van just at the moment."

I concur. He leads me downstairs again.

"I hope you don't mind waiting until they've got that sorted out," he says, again apologetically. "The manager will probably offer a similar but more expensive item at no extra cost. The driver can check with his customer. Most people accept that kind of compromise. It won't take long. Besides, I wouldn't recommend that you back up that ramp and out into the Saturday afternoon traffic."

"It's all good," I say. "It's not as though I have anyone at home waiting for me."

There is a pleasant, acknowledging chuckle and he says, "Well, I may as well save a bit of time and get changed for my soccer game now, so that I'm not just standing around, waiting to close up, either. You can come with me, if you like," he says, "and we can keep talking."

The few remaining cars in the carpark obviously belong to the staff members upstairs. We step across to a white Honda Civic, with a red 'P' plate indicating that this is his first year of having a driver's licence, and he takes out his sports bag. I note the crest on it as being from the local high school. We continue back into the store room and he takes his full soccer kit out of the bag, then proceeds to strip off, just as though he is in the team locker room. No inhibition.

When he gets to the point that he is only sporting two white socks and a pair of well-packed Calvin Kleins, and observing that I'm watching, he asks, "Well, any comment?"

Without gushing superlatives or using positive expletives, I say, "Nice. Turn around."

He not only complies, but puts on a bit of a show, to demonstrate the definition of his muscles.

"I'm impressed. Excellent muscle tone," I tell him. Then I add, "If ever you need any of them massaged, you know where to come. You have my card."

"Thanks, I'll remember that, if I need any relief here," placing his hands on his athletic glutes, "or here," indicating his lower back. "What about here?" he asks, grasping his crotch. "Any chance?"

"Can do," I reply. "Whatever you need."

"Excellent!" he says, bundles his work clothes into his bag and pulls on his tight soccer shorts and shirt. "I'll put my boots on when I get there," he comments, slipping his feet into a pair of casual shoes.

We hear the van horn toot. Actually, more of a blast than a toot! "Perfect timing," he says.

We exit and he leaves the store room unlocked. He drops his bag behind the Civic and proceeds towards the van. I walk behind him, enjoying the view, but at a respectful distance to allow him a private conversation with the van driver, who hands him a piece of paper. I can tell from his gestures that Brock is indicating for the driver to pull over next to the store room.

"It was nice to meet you, Rob," he says, turning and shaking my hand, then adds, grinning, "I have your card!"

"I take that to mean that I might be hearing from you, Brock" I say.

"Wrong!" he says. "You can take that to mean that you WILL be hearing from me."

He smiles, and turns back towards the store room.

I follow the van in and turn around. I wave to Brock, who is standing, watching me, then I drive up the ramp.

Heading home is a lot easier than it was getting to the warehouse! And, this particular experience wasn't at all regretful!

I smile to myself at the prospect of a bit of enjoyment, massaging Brock. He has my card.

Then, I berate myself for not asking for his phone number to call him if I haven't heard from him in a week or two.

I needn't have worried.

Monday afternoon. My mobile rings and I see an unfamiliar number on the screen.

"Hello?" I answer. "This is Rob."

"Hey, Rob!" I hear. "This is Brock. Do you remember me?"

There is a mischievous lilt in his voice, so I play along. "Do you mean Brock, the super athlete, who spends every day in the gym or playing soccer and who moves boxes of baby capsules and cots and other furniture around, just for fun?"

"Well, you got most of it right, except for the last bit," he laughs.

"How did the game go on Saturday?" I ask.

"One player short, but we still won," he tells me. "I had to do a lot of work, both attacking and defending."

"Terrific! So, what else is happening?" I put to him.

"Well," he starts. "We worked solidly during our stocktake today and finished early. I was moving boxes constantly, and my arms, shoulders and back are pretty sore. Any chance you can fit me in for one of your professional massages?"

"Certainly, sir," I say. "And would you like fries with that?"

There is a moment of silence. "I might pass on the fries," he says. "Don't suppose that you have anything else on the menu that might be more to my liking?"

"Tell you what," I say. "I can fit you in any time now, if that suits you, and we can talk about what else you would like while I have you face-down."

I hear him laugh.

"OK. See you in ten minutes," he chirps. Then he adds, "Remember, I'm new at this. What should I wear?"

"Whatever you can take off," I joke back.

"Copy that!" he says. "I just got out of the shower and think that I might already be overdressed. But I can lose the towel!"

The energy that I feel, bandying words with young Brock, is exciting!

Ten minutes later, on the dot, I hear a car pull into the driveway. I like a guy who is punctual. I was going to say, '…who comes on time', but I let that thought pass.

I have a private entrance to my house, specifically set up so that the massage room and ensuite are isolated from the main living areas and my parents. So, I walk out to greet the new arrival to usher him to the correct door.

Yes, it's Brock!

And, his body-clinging, light grey tracksuit pants and white microfibre T-shirt don't leave anything for my imagination to fill in. He looks stunning.

I'm glad that I'm wearing tight underwear and loose sports shorts, or, stimulated by the sight of him, a particular part of my body might suddenly become unprofessionally too obvious.

"G'day, Rob," he greets me as we shake hands.

"Hey, nice grip," I tell him, thinking of our meeting on Saturday. We both laugh. "Come in. This is my private entrance, where clients can come and go without being seen by the neighbours."

The small, tiled entry, is perfect for people to remove wet shoes if it's rainy weather, and to hang any outer garments on the set of brass hooks. Off to the right is the ensuite – shower, toilet and hand basin.

I close the entry door behind us, and usher Brock through to my massage room. I have the aircon already set to a comfortable temperature with the fan set to a noiseless, low speed. I have some relaxing music playing. My framed credentials are displayed on the wall so people can see that I have 'real' qualifications.

I motion to Brock to take a seat to the side of my desk, while I assume my normal office-chair position. "Little bit of paperwork and then we can chat," I say.

"We don't ever escape paperwork, do we?" he replies, smiling. "It's either at work, or at school – homework and assignments!"

Putting the simple form in front of him and handing him a pen, I tell him, "This just serves as a record of issues and treatments in case some people have a Workers Compensation Claim at some time and I'm asked to provide a few details to an insurance company."

He takes less than a minute to record the essentials, then turns it around for me to read. I note his address. He does live close by! Very convenient!

I scan the rest of it, thank him and smile, "With all of my clients, I maintain the strictest of confidentiality. What happens in the room, stays in the room. You don't tell. I don't tell. Understand?"

"Perfectly!" he replies, and we bump fists on it.

"Good," I comment. "Now, tell me where your body hurts."

Recounting his reaching, lifting and carrying activities of the morning, he points to areas of discomfort while I make brief notes, and mark the front/back body diagrams on the reverse side of the form.

I am about to comment, when he adds, "Oh, and my legs are still protesting a little from all of the running that I did on Saturday afternoon." I note it on the form.

I explain that, with him face down to begin with, I'll work on his neck, shoulders and upper back before getting to his glutes and hamstrings. Then, when he turns over, I can do more work on the complementary muscles on the front, like pecs, abdomen and quads.

"This is my first time, remember?" he reminds me, jovially. "You will be gentle with me, won't you?"

He sounds like a virgin in a brothel! But, I say, "Of course." He sighs, then I add, "But, if I find muscles that need remedial work, I can't guarantee 'painless'. Understand?"

"Yeah, yeah," he says. "No pain, no gain! We hear it from the coach all the time."

"So, let's show those muscles the light of day, shall we?" Then I ask, pointing at his tracksuit, "Are you wearing underpants under there?" I have my doubts.

"Umm. No. Was I supposed to?" he asks, looking a little nervous for the first time.

"No," I tell him. "Just checking what else you would need to take off. However, we will need to lose the track pants if I'm going to work into those areas that need attention. Especially with oil."

"Then there's no problem," he announces more happily, and proceeds to strip off. Shoes. No socks. Shirt. Trackies. Naked.

"Nice!" I comment. Then, without lingering on the sculpted beauty that I can see, I say, "Turn around, so that I can check the structural alignment of everything."

"Hey, you sound like you know your stuff," he comments.

"This is what I'm paid to do," I say, again parroting some of his words to me from the other day.

He remembers, and laughs.

I check his 'structural alignment', but not too quickly, while I check out other things.

"OK. So, your face goes in the hole at this end of the massage table, and your feet over the bolster that end," I say, matter-of-factly.

He handles that well, for a beginner. LOL.

I begin with his neck and shoulders. Then I spend a lot of time remediating some issues with his upper back. Lower back and glutes. Hamstrings and glutes. Inner thighs and glutes.

"OK," I say. "Turn over and let's see what we can do on the front side."

There is no hesitation. He turns over, glances at his erection and then smiles at me. "Well, what did you expect for a guy my age?" he asks me. "With all of the time that you spent rubbing and squeezing my backside!"

"Yeah. And I'll get to that stiffness for you," I tell him. "But professional remediation first, remember?"

Again, I start at the top. Massaging. Remediating. Relaxing. Soothing. Neck, shoulders, upper arms, pecs, abs, hips, quads.

"Hey, Rob," he says, lifting his head. "Didn't you miss something on your way down?"

"No, I don't think so," I tell him. I run my fingers, much more lightly this time, all the way from his neck to his quads again. "Nope. Didn't miss anything."

He looks at me again and frowns.

"I didn't miss anything," I tell him. "But I deliberately avoided a couple of things though. For the moment."

He smiles, lays his head back down and closes his eyes.

I work a bit more, then interrupt his day dream. "So how does the body feel now?"

He flexes a number of muscles then says, "Pretty damn good and relaxed, actually. Apart from the bit that you missed!"

"OK. I'll fix that, now!" I tell him, reaching for my bottle of oil.

I drizzle it on his abs, his now-rigid cock (which jumps) and on his thighs. He sighs deeply, expectantly.

I spread the oil on his abdomen to prevent it from running off and onto the towel.

I massage one of his thighs, working from his knee up to his groin.

The first time, I lightly brush his probably-shaved, hairless balls as I pass them, and run my hands across his oily abdomen and up to his ample pecs.

The second time, I touch his kid-leather-smooth balls more firmly.

The third time, I fondle them.

He groans, with pleasure. His cock jerks. "Oh, yeah!"

Now that his body knows what's coming, I repeat everything on his other leg, to the point of eliciting another 'Oh yeah, Rob.

On a fourth pass, my hand encompasses his stiffness, works up then down, and rests with his balls in my hand. "Oh, shit!" he says. "That feels amazing. Much better than in bed, or in Thailand."

I continue to massage his thighs, pressing on each up-stroke into his perineum and I watch as his body responds by exuding a copious amount of pre-cum, pooling onto his abdomen. I press; he leaks.

I notice that he has lifted his head to watch.

As another ooze adds to the pool, I comment, "Somebody's excited."

"This is fantastic, having another guy do it for me," he says.

"How long has it been?" I ask him.

"Like this? Too long!" he rasps as we both observe the smallish puddle grow.

I rub from his pecs and nipples to his thighs, up and down, ensuring that his stiffness receives the attention that it had been denied earlier.

When his hips start to rise, pushing his cock into my oily hand, I focus on it exclusively. I vary from firm to soft, slow to rapid, straight to twisting.

I see his balls draw up and I know that he is close.

"Do you want me to edge you, or do you want to cum?" I give him the option.

"Not just yet," he replies. "I'm loving this."

I comply, varying my pressure and backing off to help him last a bit longer.

Then he starts to moan. "Oooh! So good! Rob! Mate! Yeah!"

I can tell from the expression on his face that now he wants to blow.

I cup his balls lightly with one hand, then stimulate their sides with my fingertips. At the same time, my other hand gives his steely cock a few solid pumps, from the tip down to his neatly-trimmed, and shaped, remnant of pubic hair.

"Faaark!" he groans and the first of his ejaculates punches him hard under the chin. And it continues to pump out while I hold him. Body spasm after body spasm. Spurt after spurt. I count seven.

Then his white-streaked body slumps. He's done!

I let him rest to savour the after-glow, then, when his breathing is back to normal and his eyes open, I take a hand towel and clean him up.

"Amazing! Thank you!" he says softly.

I say, "You can probably thank my procrastinating cousin for this."

"How's that?" he asks.

"Well," I explain, "if he hadn't kept putting off picking up the baby capsule and then needing me to collect it when his wife suddenly went into labour, we might never have met."

"Would you give him something from me?" Brock asks, getting up off the table.

"What?" I ask.

He grabs me in a hug and thanks me again, pressing his naked body against the front of my track pants.

"Hey!" he says. "You're hard!"

"Yeah!" I say. "It was a bit too exciting watching you and feeling you and hearing you get off, for me to stay soft."

He has a playful feel of my erection. "Nice! Would you like me to fix that stiffness for you?" he asks, hinting at adding massage therapy to his multiple skills.

"Maybe next time," I tell him. "And, hey, if you like, after we've completed the professional stuff, l could get naked as well."

"Hell, yeah!" he says, and we cross-check our calendars for a next appointment opportunity. Soon.

We support Ukraine — Мы поддерживаем Украину — Ми підтримуємо Україну

We support Ukraine — Мы поддерживаем Украину — Ми підтримуємо Україну

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Brock

by Rob Armstrong