THE SEDUCTION OF ROGER CH. 01 by K. Nitsua. Copyright 2020 by the author.
Every gay man at some point in their lives runs into someone who provokes lust at first sight. Someone who is just their type, handsome, hunky, hung—and straight. Usually that's the end of the story for me. I'm good enough looking and comfortable in my skin. I have a busy enough social life that I don't feel the need to go chasing after men who don't play for the same team.
This particular man, though, was so irresistible that I had to make an exception.
Seducing Roger—I didn't know his name for a long while—did not get off to an encouraging start. I began to notice him after I'd been going to the gym, where we both still have a membership, for a few months. I'm serious about keeping fit, though I neither think or look like a gym rat. I was one of the regulars, a group of maybe a dozen men and women I saw at least once a week, sometimes more. All of us were past the age where we were interested in becoming models. We were just hoping to postpone our decrepitude a few more years.
Some of us were friendly and made small talk when we happened to run into each other in the locker room or at the pool. The man I picked out of the crowd was not. In fact he was definitely standoffish. Handsome men often are, especially if they perceive that you are giving them the eye. I thought I was being discreet, but at some point I must have given myself away.
His schedule was like clockwork, Monday and Thursday afternoons. He'd spend at least half an hour and usually more doing cardio, either the treadmill, stationary bike, or elliptical, serious endurance work. After that long most people would come back on an alternate day to do their resistance work, but after toweling off and getting a drink he would be back at it on the weights for another forty minutes or so.
It all paid off, which is why, try as I might, I could not keep my eyes off of him. It wasn't that the guy was fitness model material. He was beginning to lose his hair on top and his stomach, though trim, was not a six-pack. There wasn't an ounce of excess fat elsewhere on his body, though. His shoulders were broad, his biceps bulged, and his forearms, corded with muscle, ended in large, strong hands. His chest was imposing, and hairy enough that tufts peeked out of the neckline of the tank tops he liked to wear. His shorts, while not tight or revealing, were a bit shorter than most men wear them these days—short enough to set off his sturdy thighs and muscled calves. Despite the seriousness of his workouts he always looked sleek and put together—hair all in place, skintight workout shirt hugging his torso.
That was my first reason to hope that he wasn't totally unavailable, actually, much more so than the fact that he didn't wear a wedding ring. How could a man so conscious of his appearance possibly be completely heterosexual? Yet the only people I ever saw him chitchatting with were either women, or straight men with not a whisper of anything ambiguous about them. The snatches of overheard conversation I heard were not promising either. Work, sports, and occasional crude remarks about what a woman working out across the room was wearing. Like I said, not promising.
But then there was his post-workout routine. The gym had recently remodeled its shower area. Formerly it had consisted of a maze of stalls with opaque, interlocking walls. I had always been convinced that the whole idea was to discourage hanky-panky in the stalls, which occasionally happened at off hours with the old setup. In the renovation all of the old walls had been removed and replaced by two rows of individual stalls made of translucent plastic that lined both sides of the rectangular space. Each had its own door and shower head.
The entryway was set so that some of the stalls could be seen from the main locker room. Most guys who used the showers at all made sure they chose a stall not visible from the lockers. Not that you could see anything really detailed through the frosted glass, but a perv like me could see enough.
You would have thought my unfriendly straight guy would make sure to take his post-workout shower in the furthest corner of the shower room, right? Wrong. He would stride down the tiled aisle, holding a nondescript towel around him that was just a little too small to stay unassisted around his waist and bared a tantalizing strip of his thigh. Inevitably he would step into a stall opposite the entrance and then drop his covering.
His showers were really long too. He would cover himself with soap and wash every nook and cranny, sometimes more than once, lingering over his private parts, which as much as I could see were pretty substantial, as he faced outward. His hair-washing was thorough too, involving lots of raised arms, giving anyone watching good looks at his hairy chest or muscled back and shoulders. Either my man was performing a show on purpose, or he was the most unself-conscious post-gym shower user I'd ever seen, particularly for anyone so unfriendly outside the frosted Plexiglas.
After he turned off the water he took minutes inside the stall to dry himself with his towel, before wrapping it again around his waist and emerging, never meeting anyone's eye. Then the post-workout grooming session would begin. Most men would get dressed in a hurry, dry their hair, run a comb through it and leave, probably to get back to work. He'd put on his jeans, then stay shirtless most days while he shaved, carefully combed his hair, moisturized, and finally got dressed. All this was done at an unhurried, casual pace. It was only after this process was finished that he'd pack his duffel, zip it up and leave.
Watching all of this made me all the more determined to at least try my luck. If there's one thing I like it's a challenge. Besides, what did I have to lose? He wasn't talking to me anyway.
I racked my brains for weeks about the exact approach I was going to take. Finally I saw an opening, based on two facts I'd gathered over many weeks of observation.
First, though my man's gym and street clothes were neat and even stylish in their understated, casual way, he had absolutely no taste in underwear. None. I never saw him in anything except the dullest, most generic boxer briefs or tighty whities. I swear the guy wore Fruit of the Loom. Anyone with a body like that needed to show it off with fashion undies, and he wasn't doing it.
Second, though the guy exuded uptightness in most ways—certainly in the few encounters we'd had—he was strangely nonchalant in one way. He always used the same locker, in the row nearest the entrance. When he'd leave to take his ten- or fifteen-minute showers I've already described he would without fail leave his gym locker door wide open, his sweaty gym clothes draped over the door and his duffel bag plainly visible inside. I mean, weren't his wallet and keys in there for the taking? It never seemed to bother him, and I guess nothing had ever happened to shake his confidence.
These two observations gave me the idea. I've always had a bit of an underwear fetish myself and own a substantial collection of briefs and jockstraps, most of which I only wear in the privacy of my own home, or when no one else will see. Occasionally when I'm feeling daring I'll wear one to the gym.
I went online and perused the merchandise available on my favorite underwear site. Finally I settled on a pair of briefs in a brand I liked. They were stylishly cut, but not skimpy enough to freak anyone out. I chose a fairly conservative shade of blue, though it was much brighter than anything I'd ever seen him wearing. I guessed at his waist size, though by now I'd looked at that body so much I had a pretty good idea. In a couple of clicks the underwear was on its way to my place.
It was in my mailbox a few days later. I opened the padded envelope and saw to my satisfaction that the briefs were folded in a compact plastic container, small and discreet. I put them in with my gym stuff and took them to my workouts every time, waiting my chance.
I didn't try too hard to coordinate my gym schedule with that of my crush. I didn't want him to get suspicious or to think I was stalking him—that would kill my chances for good. So it was a couple of weeks before I was able to execute the next phase of my plan.
