He isn't. He's a lad about town, perfectly attractive in a manual tradesman sort of way. His hands may be a tad callused but his buns and package are ...lways enticingly displayed. He favours classic shirting and seems to have an inexhaustible supply of new bright white trainers. He's charming enough in an 'I like to have a kick around with the guys on a Sunday morning' sort of way and I just know that Mummy and Daddy would have been much happier if, twenty years ago, I'd brought him home rather. As arranged, when I got there, Vince was seated at the picnic table, wearing only the tiniest cotton men’s bikini underwear, and a construction hard hat. Nothing else. There was a bowl of corn flakes on the table, and a small container of milk at the far end of the table from him. I was in a construction helmet and a big, shapeless, baggy winter coat. One that completely disguised my curves. And baggy jeans that also hid my feminine shape. As arranged, when I arrived, Vince got on his knees on. More

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