TURNABOUT by K. Nitsua. Copyright 2024 by the author.
I'm sure that whoever designed it hadn't intended it that way, but the men's locker room at my gym was ideally set up for cruising. I often wondered why more guys didn't taken advantage of it.
Mirrored alcoves lined with sinks and warm-air dryers attached to the walls were set opposite three-walled recessed areas lined with lockers and benches. It didn't take much effort to stand at a sink, washing up or shaving, and find an angle where you could catch the eye of someone dressing or toweling off at his locker.
The showers had even more possibilities. A wide entryway directly opposite one square of lockers led to the wet area, consisting of individual stalls with translucent doors and walls. Though the views from outside were blurry, you could still get a pretty good idea of how a guy inside looked, which is why the shy ones chose the water boxes that couldn't be seen through the entryway or from the lockers. If you were inside one you could also discreetly check out a guy next to you.
For some reason two of the shower stalls on the wall opposite the entryway had no doors. That little detail was the key to how Rick and I connected that first time.
Even if the rest of him hadn't been in such great shape Rick (I would not learn his name until much later) would have been a handsome man. The first day he turned up at the gym I sized up his full head of salt and pepper hair, steely narrow eyes and jutting jawline. Whenever I saw him after that striding around the floor of the weights area, wearing the expression of grim concentration most men wore when they worked out, I'd imagine him as a cowboy of the Old West, riding some vast sunbaked range, gazing toward the far horizon.
Of course he wasn't dressed anything like a cowboy. Like most of us of a certain age, Rick's workout gear wasn't stylish. It was the same each time--loose shorts of a nondescript color and a similarly dingy tank top that bared his muscular shoulders and arms. His footwear was almost comical--plain white athletic socks of a type almost no one (not even me) wore anymore and what looked like plain black walking shoes.
But who gave a shit about Rick's gym clothes? It was what you saw when they came off that counted. Unlike many guys who either didn't shower at the gym or did so quickly and furtively, as if they were ashamed of their bodies, Rick seemed more than pleased to show his off.
I'd noticed from covert observation how he spent most of his time working on his upper body, and it had really paid off. His shoulders were broad and his lats popped out when he raised his arms. His back was corded with muscle and flared out in the classic V-shape that all men want to have, and tapered down to a pair of small, round, and tight butt cheeks that could have belonged to a man twenty years younger.
His chest projected in two sharply defined pectoral slabs with a deep cleft in between, topped with large, fleshy nipples, dusted with dark hair mixed with silver highlights. His stomach was the only feature that betrayed his age--he had visible abs, true, but his belly was larger than probably he would have liked. Personally, I thought it made him even hotter, a true silver dad. Anyway, when you were checking him out your eye didn't stop there, not when he had such quality assets lower down. Rick was a bit cagey about revealing them, but I was sharp enough to have caught some quick glimpses of a long, circumcised rope of manflesh hanging straight down between a perfect pair of round, tight balls, the whole frame by a neatly trimmed bush. Classic.
Without ever planning on it I would frequently find myself at a locker dressing or undressing just as he emerged from his post-workout shower. He would always stand naked in the entryway, shaking his towel dry for what seemed an inordinately long time, long enough so anyone who wanted could get a good look at what he had. He'd never make eye contact or speak, though, even though we frequently chose lockers in the same area, often right across from each other. Over the years I had frequently discovered that men who at first glance seemed unimpeachably straight were often anything but. I never tried to chat Rick up to try and find out whether there any cracks in his armor, though. The truth was he intimidated me, which didn't happen very often.
Then one day I left the gym floor after my workout, hot and sweaty after finishing up with a good run on the treadmill after my usual weights. I stripped off my gym gear in the locker room, took my towel and entered the shower area. Out of force of habit, not really hoping for anything, I took one of the stalls with no door and a view toward the lockers. Water was running and a couple of shadowy figures were in the stalls further in.
As I turned toward the opening of the stall, letting the warm spray wash shampoo out of my hair, I saw a familiar figure walk past my stall. My granite-jawed man had worked out, gotten clean before me and was about to towel off. I held my breath, not daring to hope.
To my delight he stopped in the shower entryway and proceeded to his usual ritual of peeling off his towel and drying every inch of his body, his musculature glistening with moisture and pumped up from his workout. He dropped his towel and used it to cradle his equipment while he dried his cock and balls. I forgot myself, stood stock still underneath the shower spray and took in the mouthwatering sight. Dimly I was aware of my own cock beginning to stiffen and rise between my legs.
At that moment the god that I was worshiping raised his head. I quickly dropped mine, but not before we locked eyes for a split second. Busted! I stood frozen, staring at the water flowing at my feet, feeling the blush spread across my face. It was long moments before I felt in control enough to raise my head.
He was still standing there, holding his towel in one hand, looking unsmiling at me. I went for broke and met his gaze again, this time holding it. We stood rooted to our spots for what seemed like an eternity.
Then he moved directly toward my shower stall, stopping at the entrance and thrusting his head in until his face was just inches from mine. His magnetic blue eyes bored into me. Warm water was cascading down but I imagined I could feel the heat coming from his body.
"Get dressed and meet me outside."
He was not wasting words. My heart pounded in my ears. A split second, then I nodded. He smiled for the first time since I'd seen him, taking my breath away. Then he was gone. I raced to follow him, turning off the shower and hastily toweling myself off, trying to keep my semi-hardon concealed.
Today whatever locker he was using was not in the same area as mine. I didn't see him as I dressed, and wondered if he was just messing with me. Maybe when I got outside no one would be there.
But there he was, clutching his gym bag.
"Why don't you ride with me. I'll bring you back here."
He had it all planned. I guess I hadn't been as subtle checking him out as I'd thought. A small part of me wondered what I was doing. Now that the scene I'd only fantasized about had suddenly become real, though, I wasn't about to let it slip out of my hands.
"Sounds like a plan." I stuck out my hand. "I'm Jerry, by the way."
He gave me an odd, unfathomable look. Then it was gone as he extended his own and shook mine. "Rick."
I clambered into the passenger side of his fiery red, shiny Ford F-150 as he gunned the engine, and off we went.
We turned out of the gym parking lot and Rick guided the truck onto the nearby freeway. I shot a sidelong glance at his set jaw and steely gaze, now fixed on the traffic in front of us. The guy wasn't a psycho or serial killer, I was sure. I was getting a funny vibe from him, though. I had the feeling that we had met before, which couldn't have happened.
We drove for what seemed like a long while, neither of us saying a word. Finally I couldn't help it and glanced at my phone.
"We're almost there," Rick said.
