Coming back to the locker room, sweaty and exhausted from working out, I could hear through the door the running water from the shower. It is a sound that always excites me as I enter the locker room, the sound serving as notice that skin will be on display, that in the cramped locker room, there will be someone showering in the doorless stall right next to the lockers. Opening the door to the locker room, seeing who was in the shower, I immediately had trouble controlling my eyes, keeping them from being too obvious. It was this man that was in there a month or so ago who I thought was so incredibly sexy then and thought so on the train ride home and thought so when I got home and was able to masturbate to recalled images of him. That time there was no one else in the locker room and so it was far easier to peek at this man, his back to me, his lovely ass and muscled back. That time he had been showering in a pair of soccer socks, which I found very perplexing and wanted to understand. I found it even more perplexing (but certainly no less stimulating) when he slowly, almost as if it were a show for me, took off each soccer sock, continuing to shower, and soaping up his legs.
There was something painful about that last encounter, how again I was closeted, how I was in this straight setting, the city gym, and here was this gorgeous man, probably straight basketball player, who I wanted to touch, to lick. The desire was so overwhelming, probably even more so because it was in a setting where I had to hide it. The white suds from the soap dripping down his black muscled body was such an engrossing sight, so much that I was in a trance, unable to quite staring, taking my sweet time in the locker room, untying and then retying my shoes just to steal some more glimpses.
And so today, to see him again, naked again in the shower, soccer socks next to him, apparently already having been showered with again (for what reason?) and taken off, made me feel crazy. This time there were other people in the locker room changing and so I could not just stare when his back was to me, but had to be aware that there were other people around me that would notice me staring. I cursed their presence, wanting the ability to look at this man some more. He turned around to wash off his backside, faced the locker area, his dick only partly covered by his hand, the thick top of it saying hello, me having to keep in check my naughty eyes that wanted to say hello back. He turned back around, soaped up some more, and to see a person soaping themselves up should not be nearly as sexy, as arousing, as it is for me sometimes, as it was today. He was again in the shower forever, his confidence in his body, his complete lack of shame, and his comfort (perhaps even pride) about being naked in this locker room was the source of my arousal, my attraction, my envy.
For a second, I was fearful, recalling that I had published a Missed Connection about him the last time I saw him, was worried that he had read it and would have remembered me as this lecherous fag, would kick my ass. That fear morphed quickly into fantasy, the original fear turning into something else, turning into an erotic thrill, an imagined scene of locker room bullying, of sex. I washed my hands and face in cold water, cooling off the sweat, stole one last glance in the mirror above the sink at the reflected image of his beautiful backside, held it, and then headed home.
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