Geoff and Chet Ch. 17 – A Steamy and Suspenseful Chapter in this Alluring Gay Sex Story
A gay sex story: Geoff and Chet Ch. 17 Chapter 17 Working out with Reg
Chet’s POV
Author’s note: Author’s note: All characters are over 18. All persons, places and events are fictional. Comments are always welcome. Copyright, 2023, All rights reserved. This chapter contains references to racist anger exhibited by a descendant of slaves, including harsh language and threats of non-consensual sex. They should not be taken as the views of the author, but are just part of the story. If these matters bother you, I suggest you skip the chapter. BD
Reg had texted his interest in working out together and, for some reason, I didn’t tell Geoff I was meeting a new teammate for a gym session. I just responded that we should meet in the lobby of my building at 7:00 a.m. “The guard will telephone me when you arrive or you can TXT me. Shirts and athletic shoes are required. There are locker rooms, towels, water bottles, showers and saunas. I generally don’t use the sauna because the gym becomes more crowded after 9 when I finish up, but you are welcome to use it. The patrons, at least after 8, tend to be 60+, but they stay out of the way of those engaged in serious workouts.”
Reg was prompt and sat under the watchful eye of the concierge until I came down to guide him to the gym. Even in liberal Houston in 2020, there is residual, latent prejudice. He was obviously a young black stud and therefore a potential threat. I was not sure about this building—and thinking back about it, I probably should have mentioned that I was going to host a black teammate at the gym before he arrived. It was unusual enough that the concierge might make an offhand comment to Geoff, particularly since the manager seemed put out by my living in the condo at all. I don’t think I had seen anyone of color, other than an octogenarian Latino, in the gym so far. A young Afro would be a curiosity—at best. He was dressed for a workout, not a show, this time: lightweight heather grey cut-off sweats and a Rice logo t-shirt in bright yellow with a large black screened owl on the front. However, he sported $500 Nike shoes in neon green. This morning was definitely going to be a voyage of discovery for both of us.
The guard called within minutes of Geoff’s departure for med school. We took the stairs down to the gym which was empty. “Except for spotting, I pretty much work alone. I try to put myself in a zone. Make yourself at home. My routine is warm up, machines and I typically lift after about an hour. But, we can adjust. Make yourself at home.”
“Incidentally, don’t be surprised if you see some nudity. I had forgotten. Every other weekday for early morning, the gym goes male or female and clothing optional. Today is male-only and clothing optional day—until 10.”
“I think I’ll keep my shorts on for the time being. I don’t want to traumatize any old codgers. They turn off the closed-circuit cameras, but over there is a panic speaker. If something happens, just shout and it will activate an alarm at the security desk.”
I moved to the mats and began my stretching routine and instantly regretted that I had worn loose thin basketball-style shorts without a liner or a jock. Working out alone, these were not issues. But, anyone who paid attention would get periodic flashes of my equipment. The jury was still out on Reg’s sexuality—but it certainly was strong, whichever way he swung. He was definitely a very sensual animal—probably what has become known as “metro-sexual.” Thirty minutes later, my shirt was wet and clung to my carved chest. I moved to the arm machines. Reg had warmed up using the stair-master and was already several machines ahead. He too was very wet, but not significantly larger than I, although a little taller. I couldn’t tell the weight he was pushing, because he carefully reset seat and weight adjustments to zero after each set and wiped the machine down. Being so tall—and black—had probably taught him this routine courtesy.
We took a water break and I had a chance to ask a little about his background. His family had lived in Texas for many years—mostly in Dallas—where his father was a minister in a large church. He had three brothers and three sisters; he was right in the middle. The family originally came to Texas from Georgia. Before the war (to a Georgia black, “war” means the Civil War), they had been slaves on a plantation near Savannah. Jim Crowe forced them to move around 1900—although Texas wasn’t much better by then. He said he wasn’t angry about the experience, but his facial expression suggested otherwise. I wonder if he knew that my mother’s family were Savannah slave holders. And then I wondered how similar our religious backgrounds might be—black churches in Dallas were inevitably Baptist and evangelical. I was about to ask him about his boyhood experiences with a preacher dad.
Then he remarked that his skin color indicated he had had several “white masters” in his bloodline—since his family was from the darkest skinned part of East Central Africa. His mother had initiated the ancestry research years ago but ran into a stone wall a few generations back since most slave records (mostly estate inventories since slaves were property and many census records from that period) had been destroyed during Sherman’s march and the following Reconstruction years. But, she did learn from DNA that they had Nubian (present day Sudanese) blood.
He had been scouted as a model in high school. He was a minor and his daddy permitted it only if he kept up high grades. I could certainly see why—he was photo-genically gorgeous with those deep purple eyes and high cheekbones that the camera loves—not to mention his ultra-cut body. Yes, several of the CK ads were his. As well as the Chanel Bleu and Versace perfume ads. All were of course extremely suggestive and with or without air-brushing, he was a god. “I still get royalties on those. Enough to keep me in Rice and equipped with the best cycle equipment. So I’m not on scholarship. Maybe the only campus black not on Rice’s payroll. But, not enough to be rich. That’ll come after I graduate. I need more than modeling; I need to be a celebrity, an influencer. Until then, I need to live a quiet “moral” life—or risk termination under the morals clauses. They’re such hypocrites about it. They expected me to be a hermit—but I was living in an environment where everything was available. I had a rigid workout routine, a restricted die and tutors to maintain my grades. No sex, no drugs, no parties—unless of course some major store buyer or some renowned photographer wanted to dip his dick in my prime ass or have my cock in his or her cunt—with or without chemical enhancers. Then it was ok. In fact, it was an unwritten requirement of the job—even before I was 18. But, I learned to use my assets to make it. I know how to make the man very happy—even if his dick is half of mine. Ladies still fall all over me. They’re all ho’s. I’m going to do it again and make really big money. Just give me a year or so.”