Sexy Andy 1

Living in my hometown, you weren't a real man unless you wanted to be like Andy. Strong, handsome, kind and brilliant, he was as perfect a specimen as you could hope to find. Even self-avowed feminists, with no use for men of any kind, swooned in Andy's presence. He was just worth it.

I had known him since high school, when he was the unlikely mix of scholar and athlete. I was a late bloomer myself, more interested in computers and the school paper than in doing laps or working out. So other jocks had their fun at my expense, and I generally took it in stride. I particularly remembered Andy because he came to my rescue one day. A mean- spirited oaf decided to pound me because I didn't let him copy my mid-term test (I only got an 85--he'd have done better to copy from Andy!). I had already caught one in the face when Andy's voice boomed out from the school steps. "Hey!" We both turned, and the bully swiftly averted his eyes and skulked away. Andy looked at me and shook his head, as if to say, "sorry, kid, some people are just assholes," and he walked back inside. That was as close as I ever came to knowing Andy. No one bothered me again after that.

It was some years later--11, to be precise--that I finally started taking better care of myself. Maybe it was hitting that magical three-oh, seeing the obits of men buying it at 35 or 40 from heart disease. It was, for me, time to shape up or risk shipping out. I tried the rower, then the climber, then the skier, then the bike. Each time, I'd wind up holding a fitness garage sale a few weeks after the purchase. Knowing my plight, a co-worker offered to go halves with me on a buy one, get one free membership in a local health club. This normally wouldn't have been my bag, but after stepping on the scale that morning, I was ready to take another shot at being in shape.

When I first stepped into the club, I was mightily impressed. Everything gleamed, including the faces of the patrons, and the solid clinks and thunks of metal-on-metal sounded like music to me. I was psyched. I had heard rumors that fitness clubs were meat markets, but that wasn't going to be the case here--the place was full, but there wasn't a woman in sight.

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We paid our dues, picked up locks for our lockers, and trundled off to the locker room. What a layout! Sauna, whirlpool, big tiled showers...

Showers. I used to hate them in school. The rest of me developed late, but parts of me, embarassing parts, were already full-sized by the time I was 11 or 12. Other boys would point and laugh, or snap their towels at it. Still others would timidly approach me after gym class and ask me over to their houses. They'd cook up some pretense, some game, that would have us undressing in front of each other. Too young to know better, I had quite the trade in showing curious youngsters what grown-up privates looked like. Boys with their little pinkies would stare in wide-eyed amazement at this seemingly monstrous thing. It was in the same place as theirs, but surely I must have some disease or error of birth that made it so big. It got bigger when people looked at it, and I worried that I might injure myself when blood filled it until it shined (as when other boys would touch it).

I still wasn't tuned in to knowing what sexual pleasure was. I did find myself dreaming, more than once, that Andy would ask me over to his house after gym class. We'd go up to his room, close the door, and play strip poker until we were both in our underwear. We'd make that last deal to show all, and there he'd be, that pretty boy, showing a stiff dick even bigger than mine. I attached no emotion to this dream, and didn't even make the connection that it was a sex fantasy.

I squeezed my eyelids tight to bring myself back from my reverie. The shimmering shower tiles came back into focus. I sighed, and headed with my bag to my corner locker.

A few minutes later, I emerged in full battle dress, ready to get with the program. The membership included a few hours with a trainer, and I had one to myself. Brian was a nice enough guy, with biceps the diameter of my skull, and he was patient and understanding. "I know you haven't worked out before," he intoned, "so we'll start you off easy. You'll build some endurance on the bike, the rower and the climber--use whatever's free, but don't push yourself." I snickered to myself as I realized I was now paying to use the same gear I sold in my driveway over the past year. Brian showed me to the bike first, and that's when I realized that this wasn't going to be like working out on the Sears KoreaCycle. This bike had a television in front, headphones and a pulse rate monitor. As I pedaled, the forest path scene on the TV kept pace, and the headphones murmured with rustling leaves and bird calls. After what seemed like seconds, Brian's hand was on my shoulder. I peeled off the headphones and followed him to the next station. All of the equipment was similarly state-of-the-art, and before long, I had exhausted myself.

Brian commended me on my performance (I'm sure he said that to all the first-timers), gently reminded me that only regular visits can bring you real fitness, and sent me off to the showers. My tight muscles ached deliciously as I padded over the carpeted floor to my locker. When my shorts came off, the air conditioning whirled around my steaming thighs and crotch. I closed my eyes for a moment and leaned back, propping myself up by the elbows on the wooden bench, drooping my legs over either side to let the cool air circulate.

My eyelids sprung open when I heard the catch of a locker nearby. When I focused, there was a man standing not three feet from my knees. It must have been quite a sight, my legs spread wide, my crotch practically pointed right at him. I sprung upright and pulled one leg over the bench so fast that I scraped it. "It's okay," the man smiled. "I had a tough workout myself today. I haven't seen you here before--are you a first-timer?" I nodded. "Then may I make a suggestion? You really should try the whirlpool. I'm headed there myself, and I wouldn't mind the company."

Still feeling a little jolted, I managed a nervous smile and another nod. Soon we were headed, towels in hand, toward the jacuzzi. I found myself marveling that I was so relatively calm, despite the unfortunately introduction, in the presence of another naked man. I walked behind Art, and allowed myself to notice what a fine shape he had. He was obviously a weightlifter, because well-defined muscles rippled from his ankles to his ass when he walked. I marveled at his shape, then felt a little strange about it--what if he could feel me staring? Nah--just giving myself something to aim for, I thought. Just think: it'd only take me two or three years of daily workouts to look that good.

I stepped into the tub as Art fiddled with controls. No sooner had I sunk in than fingers of water started rushing over my body. Art showed me how to move the jets around to massage sore muscles. I did, I thanked him with a groan, and we settled in to chat and relax. The combination of the rushing, hot water and the exercise made me feel drunk, and as we talked, I studied the contours of Art's body. We talked about the economy, and I traced the line from his chin to his shoulder, down the center of his chest...Art squirmed in his seat a little, and I realized I wasn't being very careful about where I stared. I quickly shifted my gaze to Art's face, and realized that he was looking in my eyes the whole time. He knew I was studying him. Ah, well. Looking like he did, he was probably used to it.

We talked a little more, I studied more discreetly, and soon Art announced that he'd have to get home to his wife soon. I stood up, and felt compelled to politely wait for Art. He looked up at me and seemed a little rattled, then stood up very quickly and turned away from me. As he swung around, I caught a glimpse of Art's semi-erect cock. He headed for the showers while I stood and puzzled over that for a moment. Then I took off for a shower of my own.

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