At The Construction Site
By Robbie,
The Gay Narrator

I work for a firm of Chandlers. Yes, I know that originally meant candle makers, but I am using the modern meaning, that being anything to do with ships, yachts, boats and the like.

We had supplied eight large mooring fenders (each one 75cm thick by 100cm wide by 100cm deep to a new office block, which was being built on the north bank of the River Thames just outside London. It was a prestige building and it was their intention to ferry their VIP visitors by river from the centre of London to their offices. We were given a deadline for delivery, which we had bettered and delivered two weeks early. Unfortunately due to a spell of bad weather completion of construction had been delayed and when it came to finalising the moorings the new fenders had gone missing on site. My company had received payment for them and they asked me to make a site visit to see if I could locate them before we set about making replacements.

I was extremely impressed as I pulled up outside the building at 11am on Friday morning. It really was magnificent and I could see that no money had been spared in fitting it out.

The new owners were due to take possession in a few days time and there were only a few construction workers still on site. I went to the prefab marked “Site Office” and the Site Manager assured me that the fenders were not on site but I was able to show him a copy of the signed delivery note, which bore the clear signature “R. Berry”.

The Site Manager (Derek) recognised the name but, of course, Mr. Berry was no longer on site so our only hope was dashed.

“Not to worry,” said Derek, “I'll get one of the lads to show you around and you can poke about here, there and everywhere.”

He spoke into his radio and shortly afterwards a young Irish man named Ciaran was detailed to show me round the site. Ciaran was in his early twenties with bright blond hair, a ruggedly handsome face and muscles where I'd never seen them before. He wore a hard hat, a tee shirt full of holes covered by the obligatory high-visibility jacket and a pair of tatty old shorts with THE MOST ENORMOUS package at the crutch. His legs were very hairy and rather grubby (as he was all over) and he wore dirty white socks inside his Caterpillar Work Boots. Now I don't normally go for the muscular type, in fact, I usually like my men to look like boys (and, truth to tell, I like teenage boys best of all), but there was something about Ciaran that attracted me to him. It could have been those Irish eyes or it could have been the size of the package - I really don't know.

I was issued with a hard hat and we started our tour on the top floor (of three) and he showed me everything there was to be seen, including the magnificent views over the river.

As I followed him down the stairs his body smell wafted up towards me. It was not altogether unpleasant and I found myself starting to stir “down below”.

We searched the next floor, and by this time I was starting to give up hope. I know that things go missing