Looking at his barely contained flesh, I felt an impulse to grab at him. Paw at him like a drunk lecher gets handsy with a woman. Surely he wanted to be touched, displaying himself like that. A body like that demanded to be groped.
I imagined reaching over and grabbing his chest. Squeezing one of his partially exposed tits, or cupping that fantastic dump truck in his tiny shorts. Parting his big globes and poking at his hole through that thin layer of nylon. He was probably as hairless as Bruce down there. I caught myself as my dick stirred in my shorts, pulled my gaze away.
While I had of course admired another guy’s physique, I had never had these kinds of aggressive sexual thoughts about a dude before. The urge to grab his ass was so bizarre, like the notion one gets to jump when peering over a great height. Witnessing the dismantling of Bruce’s manhood the night before had changed how I perceived these kinds of muscle guys, made me aware of them in a way I had never been before. Put them on the table, so to speak and filled me with some kind of unfamiliar sexual entitlement.
When he was on his back and benching, lifting his hips up to complete his set, his shorts tightened over his crotch and the material flattened down over just a small bump. Maybe it was shrunken from the exertion of his workout but whatever he was working with was tiny. It looked more like a woman’s camel toe than a man’s bulge.
His huge pecs squeezed out a few more reps, getting up more weight than I’d ever been able to lift, and it was clear just how empty his package was. I studied the almost labial ridge and my throat went dry. It made me feel a confusing combination of curiosity, anger and lust.
I wanted to touch it, poke at the little thing and hold it between my fingertips to see how much my digits would dwarf it. I daydreamed of pantsing him right there on the gym floor. He was so close I could have just reached over and in a single motion yank both those slutty little shorts and whatever underwear he had on. Pull them off his big feet and toss them in the trash. Make him go bare ass.
I envisioned how all the other men would laugh with glee at his exposure, that the mixed-age crowd would all revert to the cruelty of junior high students eager to join in on the big man’s shaming, and deafen us with their jeers. He eventually put the bar down, plates clattering, and sat up, drinking from his water bottle. The sound woke me from the lurid daydream but I was still dizzy with lust and this strange aggression.
After adding weight to my bar, I took the opportunity to turn towards his bench and start stretching my hips, side to side then back and front. He was going to see what a proper man was packing. I was just above average down there but next to the big blonde himbo I looked like a porn star. I wasn’t hard, just chubbed up from all this restless stimulation and fantasy, so while my crotch was full it wasn’t obscene. As he sucked the spout of his water bottle he gawked at my bulge. I pushed my waist forward, closer towards him. He was at eye level with my hog and couldn’t seem to look away.
I was just far away enough from his face to still be within the bounds of propriety. Plausible deniability due to the close proximity of the gym. I knew this was rude, inappropriate, and risky, but some instinct told me that the muscled pretty-boy would not complain about a better-hung male showing off next to him. Peacocking. Practically rubbing his face in it. I knew he would just take it. Submit to the display of superiority.
I was filled with all sorts of foreign-feeling impulses. Some were relatively innocent, flirtatious even, like winking at him. Some were outrageous, like leaning over the bench and spitting a string of saliva down into his face, to see if he’d open his mouth and take it, take it just like Bruce had accepted Wolcott’s endless abuse. I wanted to grab his head and thread my finger through his sweaty golden hair as I dragged his handsome face into my crotch. I wanted to mark him with my scent.
Instead I just grabbed my groin like I was scratching myself, and shook the whole package as he watched, rapt. His mouth was even hanging open. Then I looked him in the eyes, catching him staring. I kept my face even and neutral, and his cheeks went beet red. His face flushed with guilt and embarrassment.
Somehow I had been able to make it that he was the one crossing a boundary, and I felt another strange rush of power. He was the chastened pervert, caught staring at a dude’s junk. He dropped his head and averted his gaze, an unambiguous sign of submission, and shortly after that he abandoned the bench.
I felt like I had won something but I’m not sure what exactly. It gave me a rush of power, a strange confidence that I could shame a big man like that, make him submit even if only subtly.
For the rest of the day I thought about blondie. I imagined what he would look like if I stripped him out of those skimpy workout clothes, and what I could do to him once I had him bare ass in the locker room. Whereas in the past I would have pushed out these uninvited thoughts in the summer heat they energized me.
That night I regrouped with my friends. Drinking and smoking in their backyard, reliving glory days. It felt like I was only half there. My thoughts kept returning to Bruce and what he had let the old bastard Hugh Wolcott do to him.
The guys joked that I had gotten overly stoned, blaming my aloofness on that. As we all got looser from alcohol and weed, they teased me for the random erections that kept popping up as I fixated on last night’s vile images. Each time I just laughed along weakly and tried to bring myself back to the present.
I left at about 11:30 and my friends all piled on, joking that I was going home to jack off. I thought to myself that while this was technically correct, they didn’t know the half of it.
I sat in my car up the street from Wolcott’s house with the engine off, like an undercover cop casing the joint. My hand steadily patted the hard-on in my sweatpants. The minutes ticked by slowly and the night was silent.
I was about to give up when just after midnight Bruce appeared from down the shadowy street. Again he wore the varsity jacket that he had outgrown, so tight on the shoulders that he couldn’t close it, and hanging a couple inches above his waist. It was marked with black stains that I could now identify as cigar burns.
His hands were in his pockets, his head lowered. It might have been my imagination but there seemed to be a slight limp to his gait. I sunk down in the driver seat and watched him knock on the door. After a few moments it swung open and I saw him get roughly pulled inside by Wolcott. I waited five minutes then quietly exited my car.
I followed them around back and found them in the living room. Both men sat facing each other, knee to knee, like they were having some kind of heart to heart. Wolcott in his armchair, leaning over to reach Bruce who sat lower to the ground in a dining room chair.