Eric watched him the whole way. Last descending steps off the ladder, onto the grass, then to his left and up the two tiers of terraced flower beds, before finally a tall, long step boosted him up onto the wooden deck. Eric watched his approach through the open blinds covering the pair of French doors, and just when the man was about to knock Eric opened the lefthand one, metal jalousies jangling.
"Hi," Eric said. "What's the verdict?"
The roofer glanced off to his left, into the backyard and the lake beyond, then back. A sly grin had formed. "I saw you just now," the man said, rather than answering Eric's question.
"Huh?"
"Before I went up on your roof. Through them windows..."
There were six of them, large, three sets of two, the bottom ones capable of opening. Together they formed a segmented plate-glass view of Eric's jungle of a lakeview backyard. Currently, in middle windows' center, stood a sturdy extension ladder reaching to cathedral ceiling's steep roof.
The grin had broadened. A thick finger dipped, pointing. "You wudn't wearin' them drawstring pants like now, or a shirt. Just...," the grin seemingly maxing out, "...little panties."
Eric's mouth closed. He swallowed.
"Looked cute in 'em," the roofer added. "Cuter 'an my damn wife."
"It was...it's hot," Eric said by way of feeble excuse.
"Tell me about it," said the roofer, resentfully. "Just came down offa your damn roof. Cute," the man added, however, dark eyes drifting down Eric's slender body to the waistline of his pants, and slightly below.
The roofer, Eric decided, was probably in his early forties, Eric's own age give or take a year. However, years--decades--of being on roofs out in the torrid Florida sun, especially in summer, as it was now, had prematurely aged him. His face and neck and muscular arms--the visible parts of him--were darkly tanned and his face was lined with old man's crow's feet and wrinkles. His breath smelled vaguely of stale cigarettes, and there was an open pack in the breast pocket of his sopping-wet teeshirt.
Above the pocket, in a faded, ironic script, it said: Sprinkler's Roofing. This, Eric decided, must be Sprinkler himself.
"It's hot out," Eric heard himself blurt. "You want a cold beer?"
"Love one," the man said, taking a booted step forward. But Eric blocked his path. He pointed to his left, back across his livingroom.
"There's, um, a secluded area on the west side of the house. Privacy fence. Nobody can see in."
Eric continued, after a nervous swallow: "There's a hose there. You can take your wet clothes off...," quickly adding, "if you want, and rinse off. There's a chair, a folding chair, um, beach chair...you can drape your clothes over that if you want so they can, um, dry off. I'll...
"I'll," Eric concluded, "come through the garage and meet you with a towel." Adding, a second to last time, "If you want."
"You be in your little panty?" the roofer wondered.
"If you want."
"I want." And the man reached out and gave Eric's swelling penis a squeeze through two thin layers of clothing, the outer one light grey, cotton. "See you there," he said, turning, preparing to descend.
Eric watched the man for a moment before realizing he was holding his breath. He let it out, audibly, then closed the French door and headed for the upstairs linen closet.
Goddamn, Eric thought as he climbed the carpeted stairs, taking them in twos, I might get a blowjob out of this. Or a fuck. Or both.
The roofer's cock was thick like his fingers, and it pointed straight out--out not up--at Eric, who waited for the man to step up into the garage through the open side door. He was dripping wet. Chilly hose water. He glanced to his right as he began drying himself.
"What's under the covers?"
"Cars."
"Must be expensive."
Eric didn't like talking about his wealth, his minor, mostly inherited wealth, to strangers. "Not so much," he parried.
"Covered up? In a garage?"
"Well I don't drive the little one all that often," he explained. Or rationalized. "And I have cats."
"Cats?"
Eric nodded. "Outdoor, um, cats."
With the man's elevated penis out of the way Eric had an uninhibited view of his balls. They were monsters. One of his the size of both of Eric's, now nested nicely in panty's narrow crotch. With his backside still wet the roofer handed Eric back the towel with one hand while reaching out to fondle him with the other.
"Nice," he repeated, a little breathlessly. "Silk?"
Eric nodded for some reason. "Microfiber."
"My fuckin' wife...," the guy began. "Nuthin but cotton."
Eric started to say something; then stopped. Then dropped the damp towel to the concrete and, without waiting for an invitation, fell to his bare knees on it. He leaned forward and took the man's penis in his mouth. And once his head began to bob, in slow rhythm, reached out and fondled those amazing balls. The sack was thick, and smooth.
"Another thing my wife don't do," the roofer said. And Eric couldn't help but wonder what she thought about her husband's shaved balls.
"Isn't that a gay thing?" he could almost hear an annoying, high-pitched voice saying. With acrimony.
The third, and then the fourth time Eric gagged on the circumcised length, the roofer said, "What about that cold beer? I'm parched."
And Eric pulled back, as the penis in front of him rose up, fully erect now, wiped his mouth on the back of a hand and clumsily got to his feet, steadying hand on the nearer of the two covered cars.
"Let's go inside," he told the naked roofer. And a moment later he was pulling a can of Mich Ultra out of an open 24-pack case. The roofer grinned again as Eric poured the beer into a bulbous wine glass designed for Chardonnay.
