Having decided to re-stucco my entire Palm Springs home, I spent several weeks feeling imprisoned in the home. Everyday a large crew of workers showed up and seemed to be everywhere in my front and backyards. I had virtually no privacy. I kept telling myself that this, too, would pass.I had taken to closing curtains and pulling down shades to avoid feeling like I was under a microscope. I did sneak glances at the workers from time to time. Several were Latino muscle studs who worked in tank tops or shirtless. I admit I got horned up seeing their ripped physiques—perspiring in the hot sun–with smooth cinnamon-colored skin. One afternoon, an especially muscled Latino with longish black hair and sleeve tatoos on both arms winked at me as I entered my home. What was that about, I thought. I had learned his name was Manny. He seemed to have a buddy who was even more built and tatted. His name was Javier. He had wavy black hair that fell about his handsome face. While Manny had a thick patch of black armpit hair, Javier, I noticed, seemed to be entirely hairless. I wondered why he shaved his pits. Maybe he wrestled in some independent league, I speculated. Given my wrestling kink, I hoped I was right.On about day 17, I needed a release. I closed the curtains to
