Mickey pulls his sunglasses down to get an unfiltered view. The wind’s blown a magazine off the table and John’s trying to squat down to pick it up, but he’s struggling to reach the magazine because his beefy thighs and thick calves are expanding and bulging the lower he goes. What a beautiful spectacle of male beauty. John’s Speedo is struggling to contain the density of his cakes and the sag of his balls.
“Good lord,” Mickey mutters under his breath. He has no doubt that John’s solid belly is also getting in the way in the front. John grunts in frustration. Using a chair for assistance, he stands back up and considers the magazine. It’s pages are being mussed by the wind.
John bends over his time instead of squatting, and Mickey has not closed his mouth in minutes. John still can’t reach the patio – so he spreads his feet so his legs are making an A shape, and with considerable groaning, John pinches some pages moving in the breeze and pulls up the magazine. He shuffles back upright and tosses the magazine on the table, and sets his phone down on it with an indignant thud.
Mickey applauds. John turns around. “You enjoy watching that?”
“Very much. You should have charged for tickets.”
John flips him off. Mickey laughs. “Hey Daddy can you grab me a sparkling vodka thing please?”
“Sure thing, babe. I want a Diet Coke anyway.” He disappears back into the house.
Mickey splashes some water on himself from the pool and fans himself with his hand. He now has a full understanding for why it feels like he’s being fucked by a train when they’re in bed together. Getting John’s number instead of writing him off as a one-night stand was a “no duh” moment. Mickey hoped John gave him one of those power fucks before he left today. God, did he love feeling tender and drained from it afterward.
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Captions are fictional.