Standing in my front garden in a late August afternoon in Central Texas, I feel sweat run from my face all the way down my body. It was hot and, in spite of a cool beer in one hand and a water hose in the other, there was just no escaping it.
Reduced by the heat to sweaty puddles, most normal citizens try to limit their outdoor activities to a minimum, only those which are deemed absolutely necessary to sustain existence. It seemed that our parched front garden was one that my wife had declared "absolutely necessary" for existence. Our son was excused from these activities because of school activities, so the job of watering was left to me.
"This isn't necessary for my existence," I grumbled to myself as the hot sun beat down on me. Suddenly capturing my vision was what at first appeared to be a mirage. Mirages, to those in the American Southwest, are common in the afternoon sun. They are illusions which appear out of nowhere; then tantalize the viewer briefly, but quickly disappearing.
My mirage appeared as a scantily clad young man straining up the incline of our
street toward where I stood. With his body leaning slightly forward, he was using his arms as pistons to drive his gleaming, muscular form. This mirage did not disappeared.
I gulped at my beer; oblivious to the spray from the hose suddenly hitting my feet.
Approaching me was a ruggedly handsome man. Even a straight man, such as me I thought, could recognize and appreciate physical perfection.
As he grew closer I could see that the man's blonde curls were plastered to his forehead, his dark chest hair gleamed, and a thin river of dark curls spread down from his navel to the waist band of his scanty, white running shorts. Stunned by my own reaction to the sight of him, I stood immobile while sweat formed on my upper lip and my breath become shallow.
The closer he got I could see tiny drop-like beads of sweat covering his shoulders and chest. His pectoral muscles rose from his sculpted torso, each mound capped with a round, dark nipple. Above the waist band of his shorts, I could see his taunt stomach muscles expand and contract with each breath. Between his legs the sleek fabric had molded over a large bulge which rolled from side to side with every step.
"I like the way you think." My mirage spoke. I was startled by the dark resonance of his voice, which was accompanied by a change in his expression from determination to quizzical.
"Huh?" I sounded through my parched lips, more an animal grunt than response. Jolted from my revere, red shades of embarrassment flooded my cheeks. My arm instinctively brought the beer to my mouth as a defense gesture against my eyes, which remained fixed on his crotch.
"The beer," he spoke, pausing directly in front of me. "That looks like a great idea. I think I'll have one when I get home." Then he extended his hand, "I'm Mike."
"Oh," I muttered, my face growing redder, not from exposure to the hot sun, but exposure to his cool, blue eyes. Lifting my eyes to meet his, I stood frozen with only the sound of my pounding heart filling my head. There were beads of sweat on his dark lashes. "Uh, yeah, I'm Don," I finally replied, ignoring the extended hand.
"Well," he said, breaking the silence and flashing an obviously amused smile, "I'd better be off then." One pale blue eye winked just before he turned to continue his jog.
Still in the shock and with rising embarrassment at my reaction to him, I turned my body so I could watch him as he quickly strutted away. The rear of his white nylon suit was pasted to round, shapely butt cheeks, each moving in concert with his legs. One side of his shorts had risen in the crack of his ass to partially expose a tan line across the bottom of a well rounded mound. His jogging costume appeared to have no liner and an obvious wet streak had formed between each butt cheek.
I watched until his image left me. Two blocks down the street he made a turn down a side street and, I was sure, glanced back in my direction. It wasn't until then that I felt the breath rush from my tight chest. Looking down I realized that I was standing in water, my shoes wet from the soaking I'd given them. It was also not until then that I noticed my hardened cock tenting out in my shorts. "Had he noticed?" I wondered.
Slowly turning from the garden, I walked back toward my house while shaking my head in an attempt to clear from my mind what I'd just experienced. But, despite my efforts, images of the young man stayed with me all evening until sleep swept them away.
The next day at my job my concentration continued to fail me. I couldn't contain my thoughts of the young man. I eventually tried to analyze the encounter in an effort to put some distance between the image and my feelings. But nothing was working.
Thoughts that I had suppressed for years flooded from my memory. Memories of a dark night at a lake where a college buddy and I had swum naked together emerged around carefully constructed barriers. Feelings of slippery, wet male flesh touching my own continued to interrupt my day. I remembered the feel of swollen cocks touching together in the water, the uncontrolled excitement of tongues probing inexperienced mouths.
I had walked away from that night determined that one encounter would not spoil the plans I had for my life. A marriage, soon followed by the birth of a son, framed the stable, successful life that I had planned.
As the day slowly passed, I began to hope for another encounter with the stranger in my garden. I feared that, offended by my awkward staring the afternoon before, he would never pass my way again. Then I became afraid that he would come and, like Pandora 's Box, a lifetime of suppressed memories and regrets would be set loose.
