Sunday, Sept. 15, 2002 - 12:30 a.m.
Same Old; New

So there I was, minding my own business, wandering into the shower room after my swim this afternoon. A luscious, slim, bubble-butted Asian guy in tight black spandex shorts was showering. Oi. I haven't had a lust attack like that in a while. I couldn't take my eyes off the fabric sucking at his wares as I showered right beside him. That spandex was form-fucking-fitting, if you know what I mean. I was in heaven.

My desire flustered me so bad that I left the shower room after a minute or two. I wasn't sure what I was doing, or where I was, or what to do next. I took a deep breath and decided to proceed with the usual next step, headed towards the sauna.

And damned if Spandex Boy didn't follow me out of the shower room; not only that, but as I took one last thirsty look he flashed me a mega-smile!

Flustered again, weak at the knees, I smiled back and carried on into the sauna. Hoping he would follow.

He did not.

I sat up on the bench beside another Asian guy. He checked me out. Enthralled as I was with Spandex Boy, I didn't pay much attention to him. He sat there, naked, chatting in broken English with a hunky white guy. I listened to their conversation, my heart still racing about the spandex and the smile. The Asian guy sitting beside me had nice thighs, I noticed; he also sounded friendly.

But I paid no more attention, and at that point I left. I was going to call it a day, had another quick shower and had almost finished drying myself when I saw him, Spandex Boy, back in the shower room and peeling off his spandex!

Let's just say I realized how dirty I still was. There was nothing to do other than to head right back to the shower room. I stood right beside him again.

Un-spandexed, those buns were indescribably pleasing. Oh my fucking god. I gawked and spluttered; I started popping a woody.

Spandex-Boy completely ignored me. No that's not true; he did look at me once, blankly, having no memory, it seemed, of the moments-ago smiley moment we'd shared.

And then he was gone.

There was only one other guy in the shower room, an attractive Latino guy not particularly my type, but I couldn't help noticing how sexily he soaped up his olive skin. He stood back from the spraying water and took his sweet time lathering himself up from head to toe. Oomph. It quickly got pornographic, his dick swaying and swelling as he, um, cleaned it.

Latino Guy checked me out a couple times. Hmm, that's not quite accurate: his eyes never met mine, but he did seem vaguely curious as to the effect his suds-show was having on my genitalia. Apparently, not enough for his liking. After a couple quick fleeting glances he stopped looking over, turning his gaze instead to the locker room outside to see who might wander in next.

Momentarily crestfallen—that same old ego thing which every once in a while sneaks up and bites me on the ass—I nipped my suckiness in the bud.

I mean, it just doesn't fucking matter, right? This kind of cruisiness is fun sometimes, a thrill, but it's never ever anything but a game. So what if I wasn't Latino Guy's type, if Spandex Boy's attention was fleeting?

It's just a game.

I left the shower room. Latino Guy looked at me, at my face I mean. I smiled at him.

On my way to my locker, I passed by the friendly, nice-thighed Asian guy I'd seen in the sauna; he was wringing out his speedos in the toweling-off area. He became, in that instant, Nice Buns. I oomphed all over again at his oh-so-shapely backside. Oomph oomph oomph!

Nice Buns's locker, it turned out, was in the same row as mine. He showed up there a minute after I arrived at mine.

Everything I'd experienced in the past few minutes percolated inside me, and I thought about gay life, desire, where I get stuck and how I get unstuck.

Contact, I thought. The part voyeurism skips over.

Something burst open inside me, and I felt whole again. I looked over at Nice Buns at his locker and I called out, "Hey, did you have a good work-out?"

He was taken aback by my question, and I had to repeat it twice. His English wasn't that good but he more than made up for it with friendliness. We chatted away as we got dressed. He's 30, from Korea, came over here a couple months ago to study English. Sweet sweet sweet.

And my dick leapt up and I didn't care if he could see; it was just so joyful—joyful, I tell you!—to talk with him. Let's call him Kim. He became more interesting and sexy to me as we talked. I'm pretty sure he's gay. I suppose I could be wrong.

He works out every day, he told me. He also lives two blocks from me. Then I was fully dressed, and so was he. There was a pregnant pause. I could feel my dick throbbing in my jeans. I offered to walk Kim home. He looked excited and nervous. But he said he was there with a friend (no where in sight); he'd already mentioned that he had been swimming with this friend.

"Cool, well I'll see you around eh?" I said.

"I hope so," he said, shyly. "I'm here every day, remember." We shook hands.

I took my hard-on—my glowing, many-storied-self—home.