Once upon a time there was a young man who worked in the bank. He had dark, shaggy hair, gorgeously long eyelashes, and a smile that could melt glaciers.
We called him Hot Tim.
Hot Tim was fantastic for Australia’s economy; how on earth could you not want to save all your money with someone like him on the desk? He was even inspiring enough to make one open a whole range of different, unnecessary accounts, just for the excuse of having a moment longer to speak with him.
Not that I ever did.
Now I could give you the long story, but I’ll cut straight to the facts. By some miracle of the non-financial kind, Hot Tim from the Bank noticed me.
To this day, I have no idea how, or why, but he did.
And so began a love story that would never make its way on to the Hollywood screens, (unless perhaps the recent GFC was a direct consequence of the teller leaving the bank; a fact of which we can never be sure) but resulted in Hot Tim, becoming Boatman.
And I don’t think I’ve ever noticed any other guy since. (Insert ‘Awwww’ here)
Now whilst that may sound completely sappy, and impossibly untrue to some, I should point out, that I’m not the kind of girl who goes around scoping out the talent. I don’t watch movies looking at the actors, and I skip past all those pics of burly blokes that pop up in my news feed.
In fact, the only ‘celebrity’ I have even registered as being slightly attractive of late, is Eddie from Chuggington, which says a whole lot more about me, than I actually care to admit.
Not for a particular person, or groups of persons.
A weakness, for a body part.
A particular male body part.
There is something about this stretch of masculine skin that does not fail to excite me. The way it bulges, and pulses and extends into a muscle of pure strength and domination, sets my heart all a flutter, and makes me weak in the ……. Knees.
I have a thing for arms.
I’m not sure when the attraction started, but whenever it was, it has taken a hold. Show me a rippling bicep and it’s all I can do to look away.
Thankfully, for me, Boatman’s job (the one in which he puts Top Gun to absolute shame), has provided somewhat of an overhaul on his upper body of late. Apparently turning a large marine vessel around several times a day is quite the work out, and my husband has got the guns to prove it.
A fact of which he is reminding me every single day.
And a fact of which, I never tired of being reminded of.
They really are fabulous arms.
Under normal circumstances, this would, of course, be the time when I include an erogenous photo of my husbands bulging bicep, but I won’t. On account of his arms being far too attractive to share with anyone voluntarily, let alone the entire Internet. And I am nothing if not fiercely protective of my banker turned boatman, if only because I still don’t know how I managed to score him in the first place.
Instead I will leave you with this pic of the man himself doing what he does best.
Or cartoon character?
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