One evening last week, I invited a friend up to my apartment to watch a ball game, drink some beer and, hopefully, play around a little.
Darren is a personal trainer at a local gym and has the body to prove it. We'd enjoyed each other a time or two before in the shower at the gym and I wanted to get to know him better.
I had already showered and met the handsome, green-eyed Darren at the door wearing a pair of cut off jeans and a smile. It looked like he had come straight from the gym wearing workout shorts and a t-shirt that did little to hide the fact that he was an avid weight lifter. I could hardly keep my hands off of him, but somehow I managed.
We shared pizza and talked while the game was on. Then Darren started telling me about his newest client.
"This straight-laced dude comes strolling into the gym and asks for me by name. You can practically smell the money on him," he said with a laugh. "You know the kind."
I nodded. I knew exactly what he was talking about but my thoughts were really somewhere else.
"Anyways, he tells me that he wants me to come to his house and work with him about three times a week and he doesn't care what I charge. So I doubled my price and he didn't bat an eye," Darren said, still laughing. "Wrote me a check for the first month right up front."
"Good for you," I said, wondering if I was going to have to write Darren a check to get what I needed from him.
Then he told me the "rich guy's" name and I almost fell off the sofa.
"Man, that's my boss. He lives in the big house...," I pointed in the direction of the house.
"You're shittin' me," Darren scoffed.
I shook my head. "No, really. I'm his gardener."
