Just plumbing help . . . maybe?

After the guests have left, I walk down the street to the Sanders’ house. I ring the doorbell; Mrs. Sanders answers the door in a tight white T-shirt and even tighter jogging shorts. Is it my imagination, or are her nipples hard? I ask myself. They’re certainly plainly visible points in her shirt. “Chris, thanks for coming! The master bath is this way. I have all the tools up there already.”

“Do you have Teflon tape, too?” I ask. “You’ll need it for the showerhead.”

“Yes,” she responds approvingly. “That’s up there too.” She turns and walks away. Is she wiggling her ass at me? I wonder.

When I get up to their bathroom, I realize there’s more than just the showerhead to do. There are several grab bars in the oversized stall, and at least one of them needs to be replaced, because it’s rather badly bent. From the looks of it, it may be necessary to put new anchors of some sort in the wall, as well, because the screws may have started to pull out. That’s odd, I think. Mr. and Mrs. Sanders are perfectly healthy, and neither has had surgery recently. Why do they have grab bars in the shower?

As I replace the showerhead and two of the grab bars—another one is bent as well, but fortunately, neither has pulled out of the wall at all—we talk about various things. We discover a shared interest in science fiction, and spend a while discussing favorite authors. To my surprise (and moderate discomfort), we also end up talking about sex. “Do you have a girlfriend, Chris?” Mrs. Sanders asks. “You’re good looking and you obviously work out; you must have several girls chasing you.”

Somewhat bashfully, I tell her there are a couple girls who seem interested in me, but I haven’t gotten very far yet. She wants to know what they look like, so I do my best to describe them. Then she starts asking what I find particularly sexy. “I bet you like big tits, don’t you, Chris?” she asks. “All young men seem to like big tits.”

I’m a little shocked to hear Mrs. Sanders talk like that, but I don’t want to chicken out. “Well, yes,” I admit, “but not just that. One of the hottest girls in school, our head cheerleader, has small enough breasts that she only wears a bra because the school requires it—I’ve heard her complain about it. But she has a tight, toned body and she’s very self-confident. She’s not full of herself or anything, but she knows she’s sexy, and she doesn’t feel the need to prove anything or to try to be anything she’s not. That’s really hot.”

A small smile plays around Mrs. Sanders’ lips. “I like the way you think, Chris.” Her nipples are definitely hard now—they’re tenting her shirt—but she seems completely unconcerned. She reminds me a lot of that cheerleader, actually.

“Thank you, Mrs. Sanders,” I say.

“Please, Chris,” she responds, “we’ve been working together, we should be on a first-name basis. Call me Lauren.”

“OK . . . Lauren,” I say. She smiles.