2000-09-26 - 23:13:11
Meanwhile, In Other News: I'm **Horny**!
Meanwhile, In Other News: I'm **Horny**!Voyeuristic(ky)
I now have two exhibitionists living across the street, bringing me countless hours of enjoyment, not to mention some happy memories.
The sad part is that both gentlemen reside in basement suites. One lives with his girlfriend in a basement apartment in a walk-up. They have blinds, but rarely pull them down. He saunters around their pad either buck-naked or shirtless--my perspective is such that I can't yet tell, but, hey, I can dream--each and every night. Strawberry-blonde curly hair, a nice lean muscular build.
Whenever I spot him now, I've taken to nonchalantly exiting my house, beelining across the street and walking up and down the sidewalk outside his suite. Pretty discreet, eh? Yeah, just out for a brisk evening walk. So far I haven't managed to see much more than his yummy torso as he lounges on the couch watching TV.
But I am indefatigable.
The second fellow lives by himself in the basement suite of a house, directly across from where I sit here in my den at my computer for hours each day. A poor student who can't afford curtains, or a gay-curious exhibitionist dying to put on a show for me, or both? He must have just moved in; I have only noticed him in the past week. He too struts around his apartment either nude or shirtless--again, my perspective is frustratingly foreshortened. But I can tell you he has huge shoulders and chiselled, smooth pecs. He's caught me gawking several times; I'm sure he can't tell how beautiful I am because my windows are overdue for a good cleaning.
I must say, these nightly peeps are making me feel downright neighborly.
Facing The Callipygian
Okay, so I'm checking out this new, cruisey gym. I am not too crazy about the weight machines they have, compared to my old gym, but yes indeed, erotic energy abounds. I got cruised in the change room within the first 30 seconds on my first visit. And I've now been there thrice and received attention each and every time. This I like.
The change room's wet sauna is so oppressively hot that I can't stand it for more than five minutes; any mischief I might get up to would have to be quick. The first two times I've been in there this week, I've been all by my lonesome. But just sitting alone in a public sauna--letting memories of past exploits sink into my pores, fantasizing about some strapping, naked young lad joining me at any moment--gives me a hard-on.
The sign outside the sauna stipulates that you must wear a towel or a bathing suit in there, so I have thus far obeyed. But today--I worked out on my lunch hour--there is a naked guy sitting in there when I arrive. The sauna is so thick with translucent steam that I can't decide whether or not he's cute. And he doesn't recline or shift himself to afford me a glimpse of what might be lollygagging between those thick, taut thighs.
But I am immediately distracted from such reconnaissance when this hunk of a young man enters, wearing tight speedos. Buns! Biceps! Thighs! Everything everything everything is mouthwateringly perfect. Once he plunks himself down across the way, I can only trace the blurry outlines of all this perfection through the mist, but it is enough to keep me riveted. He only stays in for a few minutes, and I too leave moments later.
And so there's Mr. Hunky Perfection in the shower room, speedo-less. Speedos can shape your buttocks rather flatteringly, no? Well, in this particular case, his butt needs no garmental support whatsoever. Those buns--rivulets of soapy water flowing down between their fleshy, curvaceous banks--are eurhythmic globes. A pretty penis dangling, too, looking small but probably due to the muscular enlargement of the rest of him.
And he keeps dropping things! First his bar of soap. He would bend those massive legs, pick it up, continue on with his shower. And then he would drop his shampoo. Same thing.
Let's just say I am dizzy. Especially when he makes eye contact once or twice.
There are a few other guys in the shower room but--aside from a few admiring glances at the large, uncut dick hanging off one young lad--I am totally engrossed in Mr. Perfection's sudsy performance. He finishes up and walks out of the shower room. What a coincidence--I'm done my shower too!
The towelling-off area adjoining the shower is claustrophobically-small. Not that I'm complaining. You see, in order to get to my towel hanging on the wall, I have to pass so close by this brutish beauty that my nipples and dick are centimetres from his delectable shoulders and--well, guess what my pee-pee nearly brushes up against. Swooning, I begin towelling myself off as I watch him do the same. There is so much of him to dry. As I watch him rub his towel an extra long while on his genitals and that amazing butt, as he shoots me a few more curious, near-impish looks, I begin to puff up.
I consider ducking back into the sauna at that point, to see if he'll follow me in there. But no, I simply adjourn to my locker and change back into my work clothes and lose sight of him at that point. Out of doors, beside the gym, I sit down on a cold cement bench--risking hemorrhoids, but hey, it's for a good cause--to watch for Mr. Perfection's exit. Should he give me the slightest encouraging gaze, I will jump at the chance for some post-work-out butt-munching, let me tell you.
I study the face of each cute guy that comes out of the gym, ultimately realizing that I don't particularly recall, physiognomically-speaking, what Mr. Perfection looks like. I mean, I remember he is cute, but my eyes had been fixated elsewhere. Finally, a guy in loose-fitting jeans and a heavy coat comes out and walks right by me without so much as a second look. Minus the obvious and intoxicating body clues, I'm not sure whether it's him or not.
I promise I'll pay more attention next time.
Missing Out
Imagine me retrieving the following voicemessage--a young man's voice piquant with Jamaican spice--at work this afternoon: "Hi, it's J.C. I'm just calling to tell you that you missed out, big-time, last night. Because I went on stage, and I stripped! Believe it, or not. All the way down, baby, all the way down. So give me a call as soon as you can."
Fuck. I missed it. J.C. and I chatted on the phone last night so I knew he was going out with Jon to that particular bar's amateur strip night; I'd even teased him about him entering the contest. But I never thought he would actually do it. And I missed it!
Jon told me J.C. put on an amazing show. No doubt. He came in second, but only because Short Stud was also a contestant. J.C. is an amazing dancer, and he had the crowd of men in an uproar, cheering him on something fierce. He had on two pairs of shorts under his pants, and he stripped down to the final pair and then flashed everyone his exquisite, freshly-shaved rump as well as the full monty. (And let me tell you, the monty is indeed full.)
So when I phoned J.C. back, I demanded a private show to compensate for having missed last night. He laughed, said "You snooze, you lose."
But tonight we chatted again, and he surprised me by seriously planning for me to take some nude photos of him for use in his Internet quest. Again, I've been teasing him about this for weeks, but didn't imagine he would ever go for it.
He's going for it. Wants this photo shoot to occur as soon as possible. I think I better get fitted for a pacemaker first.
The problem, of course, is developing the film. I doubt most camera stores here in town would do it, plus J.C. is embarrassed at the prospect of anyone seeing these pictures--other than who he wants to see them of, course. But, as most of you know, Joey has a digital camera so we'll probably go that route.
Shirtless neighbors, bubble butts at the gym, and now J.C. wanting me to capture his sizzle of a body in a variety of pornographic poses; what is a poor girl to do, I ask you?
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