Randy is unable to shake his doubts but puts them aside long enough to offer himself to his young lover.
Thanks to LarryInSeattle.
Enjoy. If you have the time let me know what works and, just as important, what doesn't.
Thanks.
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I do my best thinking working on the bag. It's like meditating. Your body falls into a rhythm and your mind is free. You shouldn't be thinking, not about boxing, or hitting the bag; you don't have time to think. Boxing is about doing and responding. The thinking had better be completed before the bell rings.
My hands move but I'm not thinking about the bag.
I'm thinking: does Frank's have security cameras?
I'm thinking: that was so fucking stupid.
I'm thinking: yes, but I want to do it again.
I'm thinking: why Matt's interest now? Matt had barely said a word to me before contacting me about taking his picture.
I'm thinking: I always avoid people I was crushing on, why wouldn't he?
I'm thinking: Why didn't Mary Beth call to tell me Liam was coming home? She wouldn't have done so out of concern, at least not based on past experience. But she's never passed up an opportunity to accuse me of turning him against her.
My hands hit the bag.
No one asks me to spar. That's fine. It's a great work out when I'm asked but it's a rare occasion that I'm asked. I shouldn't allow myself to come to expect it. I do a circuit on the weights and hit the shower.
My shorts are wet and damn near see through. No one here gives a shit. I toss my towel in the hamper and get dressed, jeans and a clean tee shirt - and underwear this time.
"Yo, Randy, what's up?"
I pause at the chest high counter that serves as the gym's desk.
"Not a damn thing, Max. How 'bout yourself?"
"I'm doin'," he shrugs. "But I'm not doin' great. World is goin' right down the goddamn shitter, if you ask me, which you didn't but I'm tellin' ya anyway."
"Sure seems that way some days, that much is surely true," I agree. I turn to leave.
"You okay, Randy?"
"Sure, Max. Why do you ask?"
"You've never come in here without at least tossing me a wave. Most always you stop to say hi and ask about the missus. Today you walk in like you's in a goddamn trance and beat the shit outta the heavy bag. Your hands are gonna be sore, my friend." He snorts and pauses to spit a stream of tobacco juice into the old coffee can under the desk. "Hell, your whole damn body's gonna be sore. I haven't seen you go at it like that in many a year." He gives me a look. "Not since you got out from under that wife of yours, anyway." He shrugs. "Just wonderin', that's all."
"Thanks, Max. Appreciate it but I'm fine. I got some things on my mind but nothin' major."
"If you say so. Take care." He smiles. The few teeth he has left are stained from years of chewing tobacco. The real stuff, Redman, none of that 'sissy shit in a can' as he'd say. "You one of the few white people I can stand." The smile fades. "Let me know if you need anything, Randy. Understand?"
"Sure, Max. Like I said, I appreciate it." I nod my good bye. "I'll see you Monday or Tuesday."
"Only if I ain't dead by then."
I shake my head and push the door open. The sun glares does nothing to lighten my mood.
I run a couple more errands and head home.
***
I'd stopped at home, after my little adventure at Frank's, long enough to unload the groceries. I'd also thrown the sheets in the dryer. I add my shorts and tee shirt to the pile. In the back of my head my mother's voice tells me I'll over load the washer. I've given up on the idea that one day I'll be old enough that I'll no longer hear my mother's commentary on my life. I decide it's not too big a load for the washer and dump it all in. I'd showered at the gym. Hot water is not a concern, so I use warm water. I don't have anything new enough, delicate enough, or not already faded enough, to worry about colors bleeding. It all goes into one big load.
I power up my laptop. I connect to a site I particularly enjoy. I stare at my phone, lying beside the computer. I've never considered uploading a video to a porn site before. I watch the video. It seemed like I was in Frank's for hours. In truth, it was less than thirty minutes and fewer than five of those were captured on my phone. What the fuck was I thinking? What if I had been caught? I remind myself that maybe I was. I have no idea if Frank has security cameras in the store. Most stores around here do. Frank will know who I am. I've shopped there since Liam was in diapers. Frank is old-school, a cranky old fart who cares about the neighborhood and hides his despair behind his crankiness. Clint Eastwood would be fucking perfect to play the part of Frank. Would Clint Eastwood stoop to spying with hidden cameras? Or would he protect his store with his wits and toughness. I hope the answer is the latter.
For having cum twice in the past thirty-six hours or so, I shot a decent load onto the floor of Frank's. I feel a little guilty about that. Someone could slip and fall. Someone will have to clean it up. The little camera flip, showing the other dude rubbing his crotch and watching, makes the video especially hot, in my opinion anyway.
I'm appalled at the risk I took. At the same time, I'm sitting here watching my phone with a hard dick in my jeans. I shake my head. I take a breath, plug the cable into the phone and read the instructions. It seems easy enough. I click on "upload file" and watch the bar fill in. I click on the main menu, select "Recent". My upload has already been pushed down to number two. Christ, how many dudes are out there posting videos?
I click on mine. There it is, it being my cock. I watch the video through again, resisting the urge to pull my dick out and jerk off. I watch a few more clips and "follow" a few posts by guys (apparently I'm one of them) that have a thing about public jerking off and/or bulges. This is an arena of porn I've never sampled.
I delete the video from the phone. I'm a better-safe-than-sorry kinda guy.
I watch a few public jerking clips. I make myself stop and log off before I get so wound up I'll end up jerking off again. I don't want to cum, not right now. I have a better idea about how I'd like to cum next. I've reached a decision. I rummage in the bottom, biggest, drawer of the dresser and head into the half bath. I run the water until it's warm and then fill the old-school enema bag I bought online. I hook it to the shelf above the toilet, lube the tip of the hose with a little soap and slip it into my ass.
I don't do this very often. Up until this past year, I rarely had the privacy. Also, there's been no need lately. I thumb open the clamp and feel the warm water flow into my guts. Soon, the ache begins, though the bag is barely half empty. This old bag comes from a time when enemas were felt to be effective only if they were: "high, hot and a helluva lot".
When it's finished, I pull the tip out of my ass and wipe it off with a bit of toilet paper and let it hang down, clamp closed, beside the toilet. I force myself to hold the water in my gut until I have refilled the red rubber bag with it's hard bone yellow-colored stopper. I hang it back up, grabbing my stomach as a cramp hits me.
I drop to the toilet just in time. There's a rush of water and more. My guts clench a few times. I wipe and flush.
Then I re-insert the tip. I do this a second, then a third time, before the water filling the toilet is clear.
