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Glistening with sweat, displaying their power with every movement - the biceps, the pectorals, the glutes. Appearing through the dust they worked up while performing their task, unphased by the swirl of nature around them, unbound by the chaotic entropy of the multidimensional Coriolis vortex that they themselves stand at the point of, defiant, inevitable. Adorned with bronze, forged from the same Earth they demand fealty of.
What’s not to love?
the smell
Little rills of sweat making temporary clean streaks in the dust, tracing down across the belt of Adonis, pointing to what is hidden but implied… Sorry, where was I? Plowing. Right, plowing, like manly, definitely straight guys.
Plowing.