The cold water was both a shock and a familiar sensation as I dived under the water into the pool. The sudden quiet was a relief, albeit short-lived, after the noise of the aquatic centre. Even on days like today, when barely anyone was here, the noise seemed to amplify.
I swam under the surface as far as I could, my skin prickling as I adjusted to the sudden change of temperature. The escape was blissful. My mind cleared. I was only physical sensation.
My lungs began to burn as my oxygen stores ran out. I felt my body breach the surface, turning my head just long enough to gasp a new lungful of air, careful not to break my stroke.
The artificial blue of the pool lining filled my vision through my goggles. Briefly I wondered why they always used that same colour. Was it just one person's idea of the perfect pool shade, that then got perpetuated as the standard?
I shook the thought out of my head again. My attention returned to my strokes. One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe.
I was never a sportsman, but in the pool I felt alive. My body seemed to slide through the water like a seal. I felt a gracefulness that I never experienced out of water.
I burned through the laps, turning at each end, counting them in my head as I went. I had been swimming here for 6 months now, at least twice a week, and was slowly increasing my lap count.
At the halfway point, I allowed myself a quick break. Leaning over the side of the pool, I caught my breath, watching as the other patrons wandered between pools and change rooms.
A man caught my eye as he walked past, holding the hand of a small child. His daughter perhaps? He was tall, muscular, well-built. Gym fit, but without the tell-tale broad shoulders of a swimmer.
The footy shorts he was wearing gave him away as well. He was new to the pool, maybe coming for a first swimming lesson with his kid. I watched him for a minute as he tenderly, but somewhat awkwardly, got the child ready to get into the pool.
He was somehow familiar, this tall, dark man. Did I know him from school those years ago? Maybe from a local café?
I gasped a little involuntarily as he stripped off his shirt, hairless chest sporting tattoos, extending down one arm into a sleeve. A faint line of dark hair drew a trail from his navel to the top of his tight shorts.
As he picked his daughter up, he glanced in my direction, our eyes meeting for just a second. He held my gaze for just a moment, but just long enough to be noticeable, before turning to slide into the recreation pool to join in the class.
Shaking my head a little, I turned back to continue my laps. Alone in the lap pool, I swum at my own rhythm, immersed now in thought. The power of eye contact never ceased to amaze me. There was something so significant about locking eyes. It seemed to trigger some deeper instinct. One innately knew if a gaze was even a millisecond too long, or too intense, or just suggestive.
The laps melted away as I swum, oblivious to the passing of time. The image of him stripping off his shirt, his muscular arms flexed as he reached above his head; the brief glimpse of under-arm hair before it was hidden again.
I could feel a semi pushing against the front of my speedo, and to avoid the embarrassment, I quickly brought my thoughts back to the line at the bottom of the pool. I was grateful my wet bathers would hide any telltale wet spots.
I finally completed my quota, and leaned on the edge of the pool again, my chest heaving. The swimming class had finished now, one group getting out as the next group of toddlers got in.
My tattoo man seemed to be the only dad in attendance. I looked over as he walked his daughter over to a woman sitting with a pram by the side of the pool. She wrapped the small girl up in a towel, pulling her up into a warm, fluffy embrace.
Having handed over his charge, the man grabbed his towel and bag, and headed for the change rooms. The glance over his shoulder in my direction was brief but unmistakeable.
I spent a couple of minutes cooling down in the water, my burning muscles slowly loosening again as I floated in the water. I loved the sensation of peace after exercise. The combination of fatigue and renewed energy was exhilarating.
Still, the mystery of the change rooms called, and with an effort I pulled myself out of the water and grabbed my towel and bag from the bench by the pool.
The steamy room appeared empty but for the shower running in one cubicle. As I hung my bag on a hook above the bench, the water turned off and the tattooed man walked out, a towel wrapped tightly around his waist.
He glanced at me once again, holding eye contact just a moment too long to go unnoticed, but not long enough to be a direct message. Wordlessly, I turned to my bag, rummaging for the body wash I always kept in there.
Having found it, I turned to walk to a shower cubicle. The tattooed man stood at a bench between me and the shower cubicles, fully naked now, his face obscured by the towel drying his hair.
Again, I marvelled at the human capacity to communicate without speech. Here, he was rejecting the unspoken convention of the straight male locker room to seek a space away from the nearest occupant, to avoid line of sight, and most importantly to face away when naked. It was generally accepted that one should appear to be quite casual in one's nudity, whilst also minimising the exposure. And always, showing arse rather than cock.
Here he stood, in full flight before me, standing in my way despite the otherwise empty locker-room. It said something for sure, but was it enough for me to take action or was I over-interpreting. My self-doubt was overwhelming sometimes.
His body was amazing. The chiselled V of his lower abdomen drew the eye directly down towards his dark bush. The hair on his pubis, sometime since it's last trim, glistened with water from his shower. His weighty cock and hanging sack swung pendulously back and forth as he dried himself, the motion near hypnotic.
I struggled to keep myself from falling to my knees right there before him to bury my face in his gorgeous crotch.
Dark hair covered his thick thigh, ropey muscles moving beneath the pale skin, his tattoos continuing down one leg to his ankle.
His hair dry now, he moved the towel down to his chest, his unobscured gaze now catching me admiring his body. We locked eyes again, his face expressionless.
I blushed, caught in my ogling but did not turn away. He stared right at me, slowly rubbing the towel over his chest and belly, sliding it up under one arm and then the other.
His message was as clear as it was ever going to be.
My body moved as if under someone else's control. With my towel over my shoulder, I walked towards the showers, passing right beside his incredible naked body. My eyes held his gaze, and before I could think, my hand reached out and grabbed a hold of his soft cock, giving it two squeezing strokes as I passed him.
