There’s nothing sexier than a guy with a firm and rounded rear end, is there? Have a look at the guy to the left. If he were my boyfriend he’s never wear anything around the house so I could gaze at his beautiful rear all day long. I wonder who took the photo, anyway? Lucky guy … 😉
I rose around eight AM today, but although the sun was shining, the temperature was chilly and a very stiff breeze blew form the north, not good conditions for walking the shore. So, I had my breakfast and then I got busy working on my novel-in-progress. I wrote new material for about two hours, and then I took a break, to take care of correspondence, shave, and then make our bed. My boyfriend’s in classes today, so I won’t see him until this evening, after he works out at the YMCA. Certain days we don’t go together, and this is one of them.
Have a look at the photo to the left. It’s one of a series floating around on the Internet. Some of the photos are frontals and I can assure you the young man is both handsome and well hung. I wonder where that beach is? Do you think he’s there now?
Okay, did everyone enjoy the excerpt from my story Dream Boy that I posted yesterday? Here’s the second excerpt for your reading pleasure:
Caveat: Dream Boy contains explicit content involving sexual activity between adult gay males. If this sort of thing offends you then you shouldn’t read excerpts from Dream Boy.
Dream Boy, copyright Martin Delacroix 2013
The YMCA’s fitness center offered free weights, Nautilus equipment, dip bars, squat racks, and weight benches. Treadmills, stair-steppers, and so forth. On a Monday afternoon in late October, I lay face down on an incline bench, performing dumbbell flies while my friend, Robert, chattered away.
“You should’ve seen this size of this guy’s cock,” he said, only lowering his voice when a woman on a stationary bike looked in our direction and scowled. “It looked like a
goddamned flashlight; I barely got it all down my throat.”
Robert was a bathhouse enthusiast. Every week he packed a gym bag. He’d drive to Tampa on Saturday nights to visit a place called The Gatehouse, not returning to
Sarasota until Sunday afternoon. Petite and prematurely balding, Robert wore thick eyeglasses, and I often wondered if he exaggerated the extent of his luck at the
Now, in the fitness center, he said, “You should come with me this weekend. I know you like chicken, and there’s a student special on Saturday.”
I looked up from my efforts. “A student what?”
“A special. Normally you have to be twenty-one to get in, but every few months, they’ll admit boys between eighteen and twenty at a discount.” Robert winked at me. “It always draws a crowd.”
I looked at Robert and worked my jaw.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
I stood at my kitchen window, watching Josh trim Bob Hafner’s podocarpus shrub with hedge clippers. Josh’s back and shoulder muscles flexed; his skin shone with sweat. Moistening my lips, I slipped a hand inside my boxer briefs. Already, my cock had stiffened and my pulse raced. I thought, Oh, Josh. You’re so—
Then the phone rang.
I ignored it at first. Let voice mail get it. But then someone called a second time, and I thought, All right . . . all right. Pointing a finger at the window, I whispered, “Don’t move, Josh.” Then I picked up the receiver.
“I knew you were there,” Robert said.
“Sorry; I’m in the middle of something.”
“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
Robert giggled. “Have you made up your mind?”
“The bathhouse, sweetie. You haven’t forgotten our discussion at the gym, have you?”
In truth, I had forgotten it. Pulling at my chin, I tried to think of a gracious way to tell Robert I wouldn’t join him. “Look,” I said, “I’m—”
Robert hissed. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out.”
“I never said I would go.”
“Keith,” he said, “it’ll do you some good. You spend too much time at home.”
I ran a hand through my hair. When was the last time I’d gone to a bar or a nightclub? And when was the last time I’d been laid? Nine months? A year? Perhaps Robert was right. Instead of jerking off to Josh, maybe I should try getting my hands on some real flesh.
“Keith, are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
The Gatehouse stood in a Tampa industrial park, sandwiched between a cement-mixing plant and a cold storage facility. Robert and I arrived there around ten P.M. and already a line stretched out the door—a dozen or so guys of varying ages, all clutching backpacks or gym bags.
I’d fortified myself with three glasses of Chianti before Robert picked me up, but I still felt nervous. Dampness gathered in my armpits as I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, gazing at our dreary surroundings. This probably wasn’t smart, Reinhardt. You should have driven yourself, at least. Now you’re stuck here until Robert wants to leave. That could be hours from now.
Of course, Robert had assured me, on the way up to Tampa on I-75, we would depart the bathhouse any time I was ready to go. “But you’ve got to give it a chance,” he said. “Someone’s not going to grab you the moment we arrive.”
A bearded guy with tattoos on his arms, wearing a leather vest and motorcycle cap, staffed the bathhouse’sreception desk. We each paid twenty-five dollars for admission and a cubicle rental. The bearded guy handed us towels, keys on elastic wristbands, and a bumper sticker: a rainbow with The Gatehouse logo on it.
“Have fun, gentlemen.”
My cubicle wasn’t much: a six-by-nine rectangle with a twin mattress and pillow resting on a plywood platform, a ladder back chair and a side table. A wall fixture with a purple fluorescent tube highlighted lint on my T-shirt. The plywood partitions, painted black, didn’t
reach the ceiling, and already I heard slurping sounds coming from the cubicle next to mine.
For half an hour I lay upon my bed, wrapped in my towel with my back propped against the wall. I stared into the hallway with what I hoped was a fetching expression on my face. Dozens of men passed my open doorway, often looking in, but so far, only two had shown an interest: a balding fellow with a gut the size of Detroit, and a rail-thin guy with greasy-looking hair. Several college-age kids cruised by with towels wrapped about their waists, showing off their slender physiques and cute faces, and I made eye contact with a few. But none showed an interest in me, and I quickly realized this wasn’t going to be easy—not if I wanted someone decent.
Come on, Reinhardt. Get off your ass.
Okay, guys, that’s the second excerpt; I hope you’re enjoying the story so far. I’ll post another excerpt either tonight or tomorrow.
Right now it’s almost lunchtime. I’ll fix something simple, maybe a bowl of hot soup, and then I’ll drive into the city for my own workout and lap-swimming session at the YMCA. Even when I go alone it’s always fun because I know so many people there.
All right, everyone, have yourselves wonderful Wednesday.