Chapter 2
This game of cat-and-mouse continued for a few weeks as the summer drifted on. Each workout was hot, intense, sweaty and--at least to me--painfully erotic. We'd both have our shirts off by the end of the workout and Pook never failed to make a point to the class to admire my guns. He went off repeatedly to anyone who'd listen how he wished he had a set of pipes like mine. I'd act embarrassed, but his attention almost made me hard. What message was Pook sending to me? How do I play this? Is he hitting on me? It couldn't be possible. I'm in great shape for my age. But for my age. He's an incredibly good looking, high performing athlete with the warmth, charisma and natural leadership of guys you dream about. If I made a move and found out I was misreading him, I'd be humiliated forever. I wouldn't be able to face him again. I'd need to find yet another new CrossFit box.
A few weeks later it was a Friday morning class and I was looking forward to an entire weekend to myself. Pook was there and the session was no different from the previous ones. Humid, sweltering, shirtless, punctuated with pats on the ass, subtle but longing stares and testosterone-driven camaraderie. Walking into the box that morning I had no intention of doing what I did. We finished the workout and were starting to pack our gear when my adrenaline kicked in. I thought: what the fuck, it's now or never. I don't know what gave me the courage, but I went for it. I stared at this young god as he was getting ready to leave and synchronized packing my gear so we'd leave at the same time. I timed it right so we walked to our cars together, me trying to act nonchalant all the way. As he was putting Zoe, his puppy, and his gear in his car I blurted out, "Hey, wanna stop over for a beer after work? Would love to talk more about the Open." (I cringe now thinking what a lame excuse it was, but it's all I could think of at the time. The "Open" is the CrossFit Open competition that was coming up in a few months).
There was a pause before he answered--enough time for me to begin to regret I did this--but finally his head snapped around to answer, "Yeah, that'd be great. What time?"
I tried to disguise the fact that I had stopped breathing. I gulped some air and was able to spit out, "7 work for you?"
He casually replied, "Sure, 7 works great. Looking forward to it".
Once again, I couldn't read him. After the last few weeks, he had to know what I was after. But his reply was so breezy and casual it didn't suggest he understood my intentions.
My heart was thumping as I climbed into my car. What have I done, I thought. My invitation was so unplanned, so spontaneous, I didn't think beyond it. Now he would be at my place in roughly 12 hours and I needed a plan.
The day dragged beyond belief and 7 couldn't come quickly enough. I closed my office door and told everyone I needed quiet time to strategize on a major corporate initiative I was working on. Actually I was developing a plan for that evening. Pook and I were both intense competitors. I cooked something up that would definitely test our limits.
Finally, I left for the day and raced home. It was going to be a hot day so I intentionally turned the A/C off in the morning and opened all the windows. The apartment had a great cross breeze so it wasn't stifling, but plenty warm. When I got home it was just right. Warm, but not suffocating. Perfect for my story when he got there that the AC was out so I had to open all the windows.
What to wear? I wanted to be sexy as hell without letting on I expected any action. That's a fine line to walk. I settled on a Nasty Pig jock in case we got that far, a pretty routine pair of shorts, and a v-neck t-shirt that clings to my chest with really short sleeves that hug my biceps. I actually get turned on when I see myself in that shirt and was hoping he would as well. He arrive at 7 sharp (good sign) and I buzzed him in . My heart was thumping. My cock twitching. I could barely breathe. I couldn't believe this was happening. What if I'd mis-read everything? What if all he really wants is to swill a beer and talk CrossFit. What then?
I hear a light knock at the door that's so smooth it even sounds sexy. How can a knock sound sexy? I don't know, but it did. I open and find him there with an impish grin on his face, looking as confident as I was uncertain. Surprisingly, he was wearing a tank top like the ones I wear that he admires. I kidded him about me apparently being a trend setter and he joked back that he wanted to see if he looked as good in a tank as I did. I knew immediately I had made the right decision. I knew he knew why he was there. And hell yes he looked as good in a tank as I did. It clung to his chest and his arms were as defined as mine. And below the waist he was wearing an equally tight pair of street shorts. His bulge was defined, but not obvious. His ass was gloriously round. Trying to sound casual, I told him he looked every bit as good as I do in a tank, maybe even better. I noticed he was carrying a magazine called Lifestyle Fitness. When I asked what it was, he said it showcased some of the best exercises to train for the Open that he wanted to show me.
This was going well, but I needed to stay cool.
I immediately offered him a beer and remarked that he would need more than one cold one to stay cool as my AC had gone out that day. Since the apartment had a decent cross breeze and a great view of the lake he took it in stride, said he loved hot weather anyway and laughed that it was a good thing he wore a tank top. We sat down in the living room and chatted nonchalantly about CrossFit, the coaches, and the upcoming CrossFit Open. I think we both knew we were just filling time.
When we got the subject of the Open, he pulled open the magazine he brought and told me there are three exercises and stretches in the magazine I need to learn to be ready for it. He was sitting on the couch and motioned for me to come over next to him so he could show me. I hadn't heard of the magazine Lifestyle Fitness, so when he opened it, there is now no doubt in my mind where this was going. While it is, indeed, a fitness book, all the fitness models are male and are in nothing but speedos. He doesn't even reference that and just turns to the first exercise that he wants to show me and acts like nothing's unusual. The first one he shows me is a handstand pushup. He gets down on the floor and tells me he's going to do it and I need to stand and catch his legs. I stand up and he gets on his hands and flings his legs into me. He's standing on both hands and I'm holding his legs. (Almost like we're getting ready to 69, but vertically). He tells me that's how it's done and says that it's my turn now. We change positions, and I get up with no problem. As I'm standing upside down and he's holding my legs in the air, he takes the time to tenderly point my toes and adjust my legs to make sure they're straight, and shares other pointers.
First exercise down, and he says on to #2. He shows me a stretching exercise where you sit on the floor with your legs straight out in front of you and bend over and touch your toes and hold it as long as you can. He demonstrates it quicky and tells me to do it. I do it no problem, so he climbs back in the position and says he'll do it again, but this time see how long he can hold it. He gets down on the floor, completely bent at the waist and as I'm watching him from behind I notice that under his shorts is a 2(X)IST jock strap waist band peeking out of his shorts. I gather the courage to grab the waistband out from under his shorts, give it a quick snap and laughingly point out that first it's my tank top, and now it's my jock strap that he's appropriating. Before he can even answer, I use the opportunity to light-heartedly announce it's hot in here with no AC and we both need another beer and jump up to grab them. It's getting hot in more ways than one.
Exercise three is a groin stretch (I'm not making this up) where you plant one foot way in front of you, your other foot on the floor behind you and your elbow to the floor, which stretches your groin. We do it in CrossFit but workout shorts are a necessity because so much stretch is required. He tries to show me but realizes his everyday shorts are too tight to stretch appropriately and explains the problem. I gather my nerve, take a swill of my beer and say, look, I know you're wearing a jock strap anyway so might as well just take off your shorts so you can show me the stretch. He acts like it's the most natural thing in the world, stands up to pull off his shorts, pauses, and then says he's so hot he may as well lose his shirt as well. And there he stands like the god he is, displaying his jaw-droppingly beautiful body wearing only a black 2(X)IST jockstrap. His torso is like marble. Hairless, chiseled, perfectly proportioned pecs with defined, but not ridiculous 6-pack abs. His legs are like tree trunks. Just a bit of hair and probably the most sculpted set of legs on an athlete I've ever seen. And between his legs, covered by a rapidly stretching piece of fabric, was the most glorious bulge I've ever seen. And he's doing nothing but standing there on display, for me.
We've now crossed the line. It's no longer about him tutoring me in CrossFit training routines. We both know why he's here. Now I have nothing to lose so I tell him, in no uncertain terms to turn around. He turns immediately and now stands with his back to me. His broad shoulders narrow to a perfect "V" and a narrow waist. The muscles in his back are taut and well defined. His glutes, framed perfectly by the two bottom straps of the jock, are even more round and firm than I had imagined them from watching all those squats. And his crack was hiding what I was sure was the most glorious rosebud hole that God created. We both were speechless for what seemed like an eternity when he turned to me and said he wasn't going to just stand there alone in his jock...that I had to join him. He took the opportunity to remark that now that it was established that he was as good looking in a tank as I was, he wanted to see if I was as good looking in a jockstrap as he was. I needed no more encouragement or direction. I stared him in the eyes, shed my flip-flops, pulled my shirt off over my head and slowly dropped my shorts, leaving me standing in front of him wearing only my red Nasty Pig jock.
We stood, face to face like we were in a western shoot-out for what seemed like an eternity. Finally I had the courage to say, "Well Pook, here we are".
To which he simply replied..."Yes".
The competition begins.
End of Chapter 2
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