Rye at House.

We on a frequent foundation hear from you shapely readers with a repeated, pressing request: MORE RYE, NOW!

So when we’re each and each at home and he is strolling around the house, doing chores in boxer briefs that abet making their diagram under his ass, deciding on out records while assuredly giving me the fat present, how am I NOT supposed to photograph that?

Oh, the abet of those legs.

Oh, that ARM.

Is that the ticket of a lingering tan I watch?