Metal Machine Music
Have I mentioned how much I love going to the gym?
For me, everything at the gym is erotically charged. Men walk confidently, chests pumped out and asses swinging out behind them, they bend over to take a sip of water and I'm dreaming of being the water spout. Or behind them. Most of the time, we try to keep our obvious sexual prowling in check, but the gym is one of those places where our dicks are hanging out, and there are no apologies or questions.
Today I saw a boy who I've become obsessed with, once again doing his resistance training in his red baseball tee and long, dark blue Dickies shorts. He always keeps his dark hair buzzed short, his quizzical thick eyebrows curling ever so slightly when he makes quick eye connections with me that last a half a second at a time.
For a second I fantasize that he is a young monk that leads an ascetic life, he comes to the gym secretly for vain purposes, to gain mass that his solitary training at the monastery can't provide. He wants to pursue the pleasures of the flesh despite all his years of devout study. When I see him leave twenty minutes later, his simple cloth bag further cements my daydream.
It's not just the guys that turn me on. The hard plastic handles of the machines cutting into my palms, my ass pressing firmly against the plump, cushioned vinyl of the seat while I breathe in loudly, pulling down and the veins in my neck and arms pulsing out visibly under my skin. Then the release, my breath escaping like a popped balloon, the muscles in my ass relaxing too. And starting all over again, the clanging of metal amid the groans of the people around me. My toes curl almost the whole time, and I drip steadily from my half hard-on into my jockstrap.
And then, going into the locker room sweaty and relieved to be done, stripping off my tight sweaty clothes like a wet banana peel. The first moment when my ass and free swinging cock hit the damp air is always my favorite. I almost regret putting the towel around my waist each time, and as I walk over to the showers I can see in the mirrors the outline of my cock cutting into the thin terry cloth of my towel.
A quick rinse, and then to the sauna. Sitting there with my towel loosely draped over my crotch and my legs spread wide open. Dripping sweat from the back of my ears, the small of my back, the edge of my collarbone, the slight concavity inbetween my pecs, the crack of my ass, under my balls. In the sauna I can't help but steadily harden, even when (like today) I'm sharing it with a giant fat man scratching the hair on his back in yellowed department store briefs. When I get up to leave, the pocket of sweat in my bellybutton spills out, and I leave a wet mark on the bench shaped like me.
The final shower is a luxury, lathering up slowly with peach smelling gym soap, resisting the urge not to pee in the open tiled room. I run my hands all over my body, wanting it to be tighter but happy with it nonetheless, spending extra time on my crotch: my half hard cock swings up onto my stomach as I lift my balls up and lather underneath.
And then it's over. Drying off and putting my clothes on in a daze, I'm a little sad to leave. I walk out, past other people just starting to run on the treadmill, the whirr of fans and ellipticals. I always kind of swagger a bit at this point, feeling accomplished and ready to take on anything, waving goodbye to the cute boy with a sleeve tattoo that works at the desk.
On Wednesdays I grab a weekly on the way out. Not to keep current of local events, but to check my horoscope. It's the only time I feel prepared for what fate has to offer me, because everything seems to make sense when my limbs are comfortably aching and a trickle of sweat falls from my pit, skin still heated from the cedar-lined, moist rage of the sauna.
For me, everything at the gym is erotically charged. Men walk confidently, chests pumped out and asses swinging out behind them, they bend over to take a sip of water and I'm dreaming of being the water spout. Or behind them. Most of the time, we try to keep our obvious sexual prowling in check, but the gym is one of those places where our dicks are hanging out, and there are no apologies or questions.
Today I saw a boy who I've become obsessed with, once again doing his resistance training in his red baseball tee and long, dark blue Dickies shorts. He always keeps his dark hair buzzed short, his quizzical thick eyebrows curling ever so slightly when he makes quick eye connections with me that last a half a second at a time.
For a second I fantasize that he is a young monk that leads an ascetic life, he comes to the gym secretly for vain purposes, to gain mass that his solitary training at the monastery can't provide. He wants to pursue the pleasures of the flesh despite all his years of devout study. When I see him leave twenty minutes later, his simple cloth bag further cements my daydream.
It's not just the guys that turn me on. The hard plastic handles of the machines cutting into my palms, my ass pressing firmly against the plump, cushioned vinyl of the seat while I breathe in loudly, pulling down and the veins in my neck and arms pulsing out visibly under my skin. Then the release, my breath escaping like a popped balloon, the muscles in my ass relaxing too. And starting all over again, the clanging of metal amid the groans of the people around me. My toes curl almost the whole time, and I drip steadily from my half hard-on into my jockstrap.
And then, going into the locker room sweaty and relieved to be done, stripping off my tight sweaty clothes like a wet banana peel. The first moment when my ass and free swinging cock hit the damp air is always my favorite. I almost regret putting the towel around my waist each time, and as I walk over to the showers I can see in the mirrors the outline of my cock cutting into the thin terry cloth of my towel.
A quick rinse, and then to the sauna. Sitting there with my towel loosely draped over my crotch and my legs spread wide open. Dripping sweat from the back of my ears, the small of my back, the edge of my collarbone, the slight concavity inbetween my pecs, the crack of my ass, under my balls. In the sauna I can't help but steadily harden, even when (like today) I'm sharing it with a giant fat man scratching the hair on his back in yellowed department store briefs. When I get up to leave, the pocket of sweat in my bellybutton spills out, and I leave a wet mark on the bench shaped like me.
The final shower is a luxury, lathering up slowly with peach smelling gym soap, resisting the urge not to pee in the open tiled room. I run my hands all over my body, wanting it to be tighter but happy with it nonetheless, spending extra time on my crotch: my half hard cock swings up onto my stomach as I lift my balls up and lather underneath.
And then it's over. Drying off and putting my clothes on in a daze, I'm a little sad to leave. I walk out, past other people just starting to run on the treadmill, the whirr of fans and ellipticals. I always kind of swagger a bit at this point, feeling accomplished and ready to take on anything, waving goodbye to the cute boy with a sleeve tattoo that works at the desk.
On Wednesdays I grab a weekly on the way out. Not to keep current of local events, but to check my horoscope. It's the only time I feel prepared for what fate has to offer me, because everything seems to make sense when my limbs are comfortably aching and a trickle of sweat falls from my pit, skin still heated from the cedar-lined, moist rage of the sauna.
posted by themerrygo at 5:41 PM
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