The guy’s a knockout. In profile, his pecs are perfectly defined and just as bronzed as I figured they’d be. This man was not sunbathing in a t-shirt in Italy. As I suspected, his tan is flawless. Even. Deep. As he collapses back on his lounger, he slides his sunglasses over his eyes and feels around for his glass. There’s not the slightest roll of belly fat over his shorts. Instead, the sliver of stomach I can spy from where I’m sitting is perfectly flat. Toned. I am absolutely, one hundred percent, concocting an excuse to go over there and get a closer look.
