Ennio Guardi stands with his broad, tattooed chest flexed, his dark hair framing a face carved from stone and muscle, his fingers tracing the ridges of his own abs as he leans into the frame. The way his hole glistens under the light, tight, unmarked, makes the air thick with the promise of how he’ll take it. No one else is here, just him and the weight of what he’s about to do.
