I throw a towel over a shoulder and head toward the shower stalls off a hallway behind the men's locker room. My footfalls are light, but still there's a faint echo off the clean tiled walls as I walk, my feet sticking lightly to the tacky tiled floor.
Turning right, I stride in front of the series of stalls that line the back wall of the building. The shower area is secluded. My cock bounces against my thigh with each step.
All the stalls are vacant as I pass them by, looking into each porcelain cube.
Finally stopping at the eighth stall, then glancing back the way I'd just walked, I know I'll have plenty of privacy here, in case I want to do a little more with the soap than just scrub my body.
I consider my favorite move in the shower -- the soap and stroke -- as I hang my towel on the hook by the curtain and turn on the flow.
The water quickly warms and I slip into the 6-by-6 cubicle. Could I get away with it? I do the soap-and-stroke more often than I fuck my wife. I have plenty of practice. Sure, I can get away with it.
I had worked late and went straight to the gym from the office, looking forward to pumping away my aggravation. Aggravation from the job and aggravation from being able to only look, and not touch, the women I work with. Most are married, but don't hesitate to tease.
Tonight I worked much later than usual. There were only a few people in the large, well-equipped gym by the time I finished my workout.
At 44, I have to work harder than ever to stay in shape, to keep the flab away, to maintain some definition and tone. If I had worked this hard on my physique when I was 24, I'd have been on the bodybuilding tour.
The hard work pays off when you find people, especially women, sneaking quick looks at your body when they think you're not paying attention.
Sometimes you don't have to have sex with someone. Just knowing that they'd want to do it is good enough. That is, knowing they would give themselves -- if they could. On the gym floor, however, most of us pose in some fashion. No one ever looks too closely. At least not obviously.
Well, tonight it was back and shoulders. A few sets with free weights. A few sets with pulleys. Then 30 minutes on the elliptical, stepping up the resistance every few minutes until my pores open and the sweat runs off me.
For months I had noticed one guy, maybe 25, but probably younger, who always seemed to make it a point to say hello to me when we were there at the same time working out on the main gym floor. He had done it tonight. I usually respond with a greeting, but I'm not too friendly.
It hasn't been the greeting, which is common, but the look that comes with it. It may be that it is a similar look that I give a woman to let her know I'm available to service her. In other words, the shoe's on the other foot.
He has black hair, sideburns, with sort of an unshaven rough look. The guy's a bit shorter than my 6-1, but seems to work hard and has a chiseled upper body that is not heavily muscled, but well-defined.
My first thought was that he probably has his way with more than a few women.
But now, I'm pretty sure it's not women that he wants. The thought, unexpectedly, makes my cock surge.
The water rolls over my body, washing away the shampoo in my hair. I wonder if my wife has kept some dinner warm for me. It's at least 9. The soap clears away the stench in my armpits.
My eyes are closed and I turn away from the curtain.
That young stud is very attractive. I find myself wondering about the feel of his flesh, the hardness of his cock and the taste of his mouth.
My soapy right hand slides across my stomach and clasps my semi-erect organ, automatically beginning a pumping action. I feel the hot flesh pulse and engorge. Increasing the pace, I decide that I can cum within a minute and shoot my load into the drain on the floor. I've jerked off this way so many times. How easy it will be.
As I aim my pole toward the drain and pump feverishly, my mind races with visions of homosexual lovemaking with the young stud who shows me attention.
