Each morning at seven the workers would come to the construction site beside my Athens apartment. It was April and the days were beginning to get hot. By noon the workers were stripped down to nothing but cut-off jeans and construction boots. I watched them from my balcony as they hoisted wheelbarrows full of sand onto the unfinished floor directly opposite my apartment. When the hum of the pulley motor became silent I was now trained, automatically turning to watch the muscles dance across their broad tanned backs as they pushed the wheelbarrows away from me. I was drawn to one particular worker because he seemed more dangerous than the others. I had learned at a young age how to incorporate danger into my sexual fantasies. Each time I smiled at the worker he returned my smile with an even broader smile. He seemed dumb and sexy, like a football jock who gets all the cheerleaders because they are hopelessly drawn to his muscular physique. The entire construction crew was from Albania. The Greeks had added to my feeling of danger with their myth about Albanian workers. They had warned me that an Albanian would slit your throat and steal all your possessions if you turned your back on them for one moment. I loved the dangerous erotic feeling of making myself vulnerable to dark exotic men who reeked of sweat and grime from hard labor.

One day as I stood at the entrance to my apartment after exchanging greetings with my fantasy lover, I heard the sound of someone jumping onto my balcony. I turned to find my fantasy friend standing before me. He was sweaty and dirty from his work, which added a masculine sensuality to his appearance. The cut-off jeans were greasy and seemed to fit too tight. I could see the tiny purple veins that crossed half one testicle which was forced painfully outside the left leg of his shorts. He spoke with confidence as though I understood his native tongue. I could understand from the body language and intonations that he wanted something from me, and I allowed my imagination to run wild. I noticed how perfectly masculine his features were beneath the grease and sand. I imagined washing the carpet of soft black hair on his stomach as he faced me in my shower. I could smell his masculine odor as he raised his arms to accentuate his speech. It was an aphrodisiac that suggested clean sweat from recent hard labor. I imagined burying my nose in his armpit in a mad moment of passion. My heart was racing as I tried to imagine the reason for his intrusion.

He reached over to touch my left shoulder, rubbing his fingers across my tattoo. I drew closer to him in this moment ripe for opportunity. He repeated, "prison, Moscow," three or four times. He began to unzip his cut-off jeans as I felt the throb of my heartbeat pulsating in my ears. My face became flushed and seemed to swell twice its size from the sudden rush of blood throughout my entire body. He pealed back the left portion of the shorts exposing pubic hair and part of the shaft of his penis. It was just enough to tease me, pushing my imagination to unseen limits. There on his left thigh was the tattoo of a small cartoon character. He rubbed his fingers across his own tattoo as he repeated the words prison, Moscow. He reached over, took hold of my wrist and pulled my own hand toward his crotch. He then rubbed my fingers across his tattoo, repeating the same words as we laughed together innocently. I felt an enormous amount of manipulative power in that moment, but was overcome with an overpowering sense of responsibility. I was now attracted to him in a way that transcended anything as superficial as my fantasies had been. Still a small voice wondered if perhaps he was testing me and wanted me to make the first move. But some fantasies are never meant to be realized! What he actually wanted from me was a bottle of ink so he could make a new tattoo. I gave him a bottle of black India ink and sent him on his way.

The next morning as I watched him push the wheelbarrow away from me I imagined that we had shared a prison cell together in Moscow. He had protected me with his brute strength and made love to me in the darkness of the night. As I watched the muscles dance across his back he turned to face me. He reached inside his shorts slowly rubbing his crotch as he looked up at me smiling. "Prison, Moscow," he repeated twice. I winked and repeated those endearing words back to him.