The shorts are certainly a fetishistic turn on my part, a bit of a leap considering I am not particularly imaginative when it comes to such preferences. The thing is, I don't put them to my nose. They are handily grabbed with the ease and confidence of their true owner, quickly judged for size, and then deposited in my gym bag. At home they go straight into the wash and then a hot dryer afterward to ensure there is no cross-contamination. If they jump through all these hoops intact they become part of my collection. Practicality aside, there is a nascent thrill of walking around in another man's panties hahaha.
Why let something go to waste? I was raised by parents who survived The Great Depression. They both armed me with a sense of thrift and an eye to reuse that many of my contemporaries - and modern society in general - lack. I remember years ago taking my shoes to be re-shod at the local shoe repair down the street. He had been there for years, a fellow who had emigrated from Colombia. On one of my visits he mentioned to me that he was retiring and closing up his shop. "Don't you have an apprentice?" I asked. He laughed and told me that it wasn't a trade that would survive into the next few decades. The way modern shoes are made, and the attitude of shoppers and retailers means that shoes are simply thrown away. Nothing gets repaired. Everything is bought fresh and new and then tossed when the time comes. I half suspected this was largely the attitude of the majority of men in my change room. It's definitely a mixed crowd, but older men like me are certainly in the minority. All the young fellows want muscles, while I desperately strive just to keep myself flexible for the year to come. So much for my modus operandi.
My assumption about the mysterious bounty of body wash I had been acquiring was that they were left behind by businessmen who probably used the gym and then flew out. They went home to their respective cities knowing that keeping a large bottle in their carry-on would mean it had to be tossed anyway, or they were just too lazy to pack something they knew they had at home. So I thought.
A few weeks ago I was at the gym, in the middle of my workout. Working in health care means I have to stay in shape. A strong muscular back and abdominals are a necessity. I had just a few sets left when I noticed a young fellow hovering. I made eye contact and pointed to myself as if to say "do you want this machine?" He seemed to nod or notice. I pointed my index finger into the air to tell him I had one set left. Getting up he grazed me, and I patted his shoulder, telling him I had not wiped the thing down. He laughed and told me it didn't matter. I went about my business.
Later, when I was stripping down I saw him at the mirror. He was taller than me and slim, with legs full of tattoos. I grabbed my towel and body wash and headed to find a stall. The last shower in the line is the one I prefer, for the sake of the handle. There are only three showers and the last one has a handle that does not slip so you can accurately adjust the flow and the temperature of the water. Many young guys skip the shower, probably living in condos close by, so they are a half-neglected amenity. Across from the three showers are a row of cubicles. I suspect these are for disabled patrons. They are large and lockable, without toilets.
I usually stand outside the stall and open the stream to warm it up. It's no fun turning the handle blind and having a rush of freezing cold water envelope you. As I stood there with my hand on the lever before entering I noticed the fellow with the tattoos coming toward the showers. He proceeded to give such an intense blink-less gaze in my direction that my gaydar popped on. From the top of my frame he then fastened his peepers upon my middle, as if with x-ray eyes he could make out my dick through my towel. He proceeded into the disabled stall. I jumped into the shower, a bit piqued after being so boldly cruised.
I soaped up, rather flattered that he seemed to enjoy what this old dad had to offer. But it didn't end there. It took me a second, but then I realised I was being watched. He had taken a chair inside his cubicle and was peering intently at me through the sliver of space between the wall and the attached panel. Being in the corner, he had a clear view of me through a section of curtain that I had not completely pulled flush. I could see his eyes, lustful and fixed, and his cut dick, which he was stroking. A fine set of hefty balls swung under his curved cock, swaying with the motion of his hand.
Thrilled, exposed and flattered I tried to gather my wits. His tongue was out, crimped on his bitten lip as if he were aiming a marble or preparing a dart to toss. The man seemed unable to blink. In spite of myself, considering everything that had presently transpired, I got rock hard. I pulled my foreskin back and forth which seemed to please him. Then I saw him make a circle with his free hand, as if to say, turn around. I obliged him and sudsed my backside. I had absolutely no intention of coming, but extended my typical shower time for his benefit. I turned and stroked my meat to give him the thrill he was looking for. I'd say considering his age, he'd have come into his hand with enough encouragement, but it's just not my scene. Aside from the arousal of the whole thing, he kept looking with some urgency through his cubicle into the change room, wary of being found out I suppose.
I slipped the handle back and closed the flow of water, exited and changed. It was only back home emptying my gym bag that I realised having been so completely and thrillingly distracted, I had forgotten my body wash on the shelf inside my stall.
"Ah, the cows .."
Erik Satie
