This weekend my cousin invited me to her place for drinks. I anticipated nothing more than a night of heavy drinking (punctuated by an increasing number of slurred proclamations starting with the words “in life…”), followed by a morning of deep regret.
However, before I could get to my second drink and un-buckle my “drinking jeans”, the loud engine of a work-van parking in the guest-house garage brought my attention to the finest product of South Africa I’d ever laid my eyes on. My jaw dropped (but not my drink…never my drink) as I watched a man so gorgeous that his muddy jeans and rolled up sleeves looked like they’d accompanied him straight out of a 1970’s romance novel titled “[the afrikaans version of] The year Hans, the tractor-mechanic re-awakened my desires” (or something), walk out of the van. His piercing eyes and confusingly arousing uni-brow shot sparks through my body and I immediately decided to seduce this man even if it meant my advances would have to be lubricated by the tears of my ancestors.