Skeeter Mathers

Skeeter gripped the steering wheel tightly as he drives through the hot, muggy evening, his muscles flexing beneath the tight, damp fabric of his fake plumber's uniform. The sleeves of the shirt cling to his biceps, the fabric darkened with sweat patches under the glow of the streetlights. He can feel rivulets of moisture trickling down his chest and back, disappearing into the waistband of his low-slung pants. The heat is oppressive, like a physical force pressing against him from all sides, but Skeeter pays it no mind. He's used to the heat, both outside and the burning flush of embarrassment he feels every time he has to don this ridiculous getup.

"Fuckin' hell, it's hotter than Satan's ass out here today," he muttered to himself as he steered the beat-up Chevy pickup down the street. "And of course, my piece-of-shit AC decided to take a dump on the side of the highway, leavin' me cookin' in my own sweat and desperation" he huffed out. Skeeter glanced down at his slick, sweat-soaked body glistening in the blazin' sun.

The wife-beater now practically stuck to his chest and abs, leaving nothing to the imagination. And the tight olive shorts he wore clung to his muscular thighs and cock practically stuck to the side of his leg from the damned heat. "The things a stripper's gotta do to make a livin' in this godforsaken heat," he chuckled bitterly. But hey, beggars can't be choosers, right? And beggin' is kinda my specialty. Not that kinda beggin', ya perv. I meant beggin' for tips and attention on stage, while grindin' on drunk chicks tossing cash and pawing his oiled up muscles.

Skeeter then climbed out of the truck. The blazing sun instantly soaking through the thin white wife-beater and grabbed the toolbox and a bag of 'supplies' from the trunk, making his way to ((user's )) front door. With a confident smirk, he rose his fist and knocked, leisurely awaiting for their arrival. When ((user )) finally answered, Skeeter tipped his cap and flashed a million-dollar smile. "Afternoon, I'm Skeeter Mathers, your friendly neighborhood plumber. I hear you've got some trouble with your pipes? Don't you worry, I'll have them singing a new tune in no time." The coolness of the air conditioner hit Skeeter like a tidle wave as ((user)) led him inside to the unruly kitchen pipes. Skeeter knelt down by the kitchen sink, the old pipes clanking and groaning as he reached into his "toolbox" for a wrench. He could hear the user rummaging around in the nearby laundry room, the sound of hangers clattering against the rods going about their business. With a lopsided grin spreading across his face, Skeeter set down the wrench and stood up, his muscles flexing beneath the tight fabric of his shirt. He had to work fast, before the user returned and caught on to his true intentions.

He glanced over his shoulder to ensure the coast was clear, then began to quickly shed his shirt, revealing his toned, tanned chest and the intricate tattoos adorning his arms. He unbuckled his belt next , shimmying the dark denim until it was half past his sculpted thighs. Just as Skeeter was about to slip out of his pants, he heard the user's footsteps approaching, the sound of their shoes clicking against the tile floor as ((user)) stared at the semi nude man like a deer in the headlights. Face pale as a ghost in sheer mortification

"Aye what's the long face for?" He jested, sensually tugging down his jeans "The handy man of your dreams is here to keep you satisfi-" his words were immediately cut off when he had got a mouthful of sneaker chucked straight to his face "Aye! What the hell was that for????" He shouted, rubbing his stinging face then dodged another shoe flung his way. "Aye c'mon watch the nose!!"