STREET VIEW Chapter 2 by Sean Reid Scott sean@musclepla.net
Chapter Two
I set up a dummy email account that evening— with trembling fingers on my keyboard. Now, what should I say to him? I decided to stick with short and sweet. And I made an effort to not fawn all over him with stuff like, "I can't believe you'd want to email with me!" kind of shit.
Better to play it cool. Who knew if he wanted to get all chatty with me or what. I figured I'd let him set the tone as much as possible.
I wrote and re-wrote for about an hour:
From: Golden23Lab@outlook.com To: BuffWinner@musclepla.net Re: An Admirer
Hey, thanks for leaving your email address on your windshield. As you can see, I got it! Like I said before, I really admire the results of your hard work. Have you competed? I'm not really very competitive, and I don't spend much time in the gym, but I think it would be cool to talk with someone about what it's like to discipline yourself like that and then to give it your all on stage.
Would love to learn more!
Sincerely, Adrian
Of course, Adrian wasn't my real name. If he had made my apartment, even if I gave my real first name, there's always that chance he could find out my last name. And that nagging stabbing-in-the-middle-of-the-night concept just didn't sit well with me. In the end, I still think it was too talky, but I was so excited that I just couldn't wait any longer to send it. I copied it from my word processing program and pasted it into my email browser, and sent it. I had debated on waiting 'til the next day, so as to not seem too anxious, but I couldn't wait.
But then, the waiting actually began. I swear I checked that email account every five minutes that evening. He's not going to answer tonight, I told myself. Yet I couldn't stop going back to the computer.
Then, to my elation, at a little after 9:00, he responded! Holy fuck! I'm actually communicating with this guy!
From: BuffWinner@musclepla.net To: Golden23Lab@outlook.com Re: An Admirer
Hey, man. It's always nice to hear from someone interested in bodybuilding, and I appreciate your compliments. Thanks.
Yeah, I do compete. (That's why I took the email name of BuffWinner— `cuz I like winning bodybuilding contests.) :) I don't know what kind of stuff you want to know, but it might be easier if we meet up sometime, in person. I don't really do a lot of emailing. I like face-to-face better. There's a Starbucks just up 15th from the gym. If you wanted to hook up there sometime, we could chew the fat over coffee. I usually get done with my workout at about 5:45, so any time after that would work for me. What do you think?
Lance
Holy hell! I was literally trembling. The stud wants to meet me! My head started spinning with thoughts: How long should I wait to reply? Why does he really want to meet me? He wouldn't try anything in a public place like S-bux would he? Maybe I should suggest a different venue in case he is planning on having his buddies there to jump me. Regardless, no matter what, I will NOT leave S-bux with him and go somewhere private. Just too scary.
I was reeling with thoughts, fears, hopes, expectations, dread... I decided to reply that night, but wait an hour or so. In the end, I told him that Starbucks the next evening when he got done with his workout would be fine. He replied that he'd be there. I took three sleeping pills; and didn't sleep a wink all night.
The next day, when I got home from work, I made sure to wear the exactly right clothes. Not too dressed up, but something more than holy jeans and a wife-beater. (I look almost okay in a wife-beater, but there was no way in HELL I was going to stand next to Lance in one. He'd make me look anemic.) I watched the street, and sure enough he pulled up at 4:30, parked and went inside to work out. I half expected him to look up at the apartment building, but thankfully he didn't.
I planned on getting to the Starbucks on the corner before he came out of the gym. I didn't want to risk having him see me come out of my building. Likewise, I decided to take my laptop with me in case he didn't go directly to his pickup after we finished talking. I wanted to have something to occupy myself with in case he stuck around to watch where I live. I'd be willing to outlast him. Worst scenario: I could sneak behind my building can come in the back entrance. In fact, I took the back door to leave for S-bux as well. Who knows if he might be watching my building from the gym. Yeah, I assumed he had seen me on the street, retreating to my building, but I figured, why give him a confirmation?
At 5:30 I was sitting at S-bux, sipping on an ice coffee. The hell was I thinking? I wasn't going to sleep again, all night.
I watched the street. I would be able to see him as soon as he got out onto the sidewalk, and I'd have a great view as he approached. I practiced sitting in just the right positions. My "Don't Sit Like A Flamer 101" class really paid off, I think. I even warmed up my voice a little; didn't want to choke or burp while I talked. I practiced holding my iced coffee just right. I'd need to grip it firmly to prevent my hands from shaking.
My stomach was doing somersaults. The iced coffee was definitely a mistake. I had the jitters like never before. It was 4:40. The street was busy, but not crowded.
Then... there he was. He came out the front of the gym, carrying his duffel bag. His yellow tank top was sweaty. God, those cannon ball deltoids! How does he just walk around looking like that? He was carrying his duffel bag— but my heart came to a stop when I realized he was walking to his truck! Holy shit! He's leaving! Then the thought struck: Maybe he's going to get in his rig, pull out, and then gun it, crashing right through the Starbucks' plate-glass window to try and kill me! I wasn't sitting near the window, but I did consider moving even farther away... until, as I watched, he opened his passenger door and put his duffel bag on the seat. I held my breath. He leaned in just a bit, and started to fumble through his bag. Then, he took off his sweaty tank top, and pulled on a bright white T-shirt. He closed the door, flashed his lights and honked his horn with his door-locking fob, and started up the street, right toward the S-bux!
God in heaven. He was really, actually walking toward me. To meet me! To talk with me! I actually stood up, in a panic, thinking I should bolt. I had to get out of there! What the fuck had I been thinking? But it was too late to run. He'd see me running. I could hide in the restroom! S-bux cans have locks on the doors, so it'd be simple to just go in there and hide. Even if he tried the door, it'd be locked... But then, I could see him standing around until I came out. I'd have to come out some time; and there he'd be, all drop-dead gorgeous and everything, smiling at me like he knew exactly what I was doing, just standing there and killing me softly with his grin and big muscles. No. That would not do.
I sat back down and tried to stare at my coffee. He got bigger and bigger as he approached. His walk was so studly— so confident. I couldn't tell if he could see me or not. He didn't seem to be looking for me; he was just walking.
He crossed the street, moving closer. I was almost ready to barf. I was so nervous I thought I would die. Then... he reached out his big arm and pulled open the coffee house's glass door. Fucking fuck, the guy was gorgeous! I realized right then that the closest I had ever been to him was three stories and a street-width away. Now, he was maybe 30 feet from me! And close-up was even more astounding than long-distance! He filled out that T-shirt with just perfectly-bulging, proportioned muscle. This close, I could tell that it was a nicer T-shirt than a plain white one. It was double-stitched, on the expensive side. And he looked so damn hot!
As soon as the door closed behind him, he scanned the place. Our eyes met, and I could tell he recognized me. Yeah, he had to have seen me running from his rig the day before. As soon as he made me, his face lit up. Damn, fucking damn! His bright white teeth out shown his T-shirt! Fuck. So astoundingly gorgeous! That thick neck! That smile! Those blue eyes and that brown-blond hair! He still wore what looked like workout shorts, but it didn't matter. He could have covered himself in horse shit and he would have been overwhelmingly gorgeous.
His shirt was just bulging with muscle— like he had been poured into it. And his legs— this guy obviously didn't skimp on leg day! Of course, you idiot. He competes!
He kept his eyes on me as he walked toward me. Instinctively, I stood— it's a good thing it was instinctive because I certainly wasn't thinking about what I was doing. Thanks, mommy for teaching me manners. He extended his brawny arm as he got to me, and re-energized that gorgeous smile. "Yo, Adrian," he grinned. Then he laughed. "Sorry," he said. "You probably get that all the time huh?" His grinning-grin was like nothing I have ever experienced in my life. This is the truth: It actually hurt me. Just seeing his perfect, white smile hurt. My gut knotted. Hard. My whole body ached. It actually ached! My muscles; my joints. Everything.
I found the words, somewhere, and said "You must be Lance. Nice to meet you." And no— no one has ever said "Yo, Adrian," to me, since that's not my name.
He poked his thumb over his shoulder, to his back side, and his thick forearm pulsed in front of me. "I"m just gonna grab something to drink ok?" God, that forearm was so meaty and lined with veins. Probably bigger than a lot of guys' upper arms!
"Sure," I said. "Hope you don't mind that I already did."
"Not at all, dude. I'll be right back."
I sat back down. I had no choice; I was really close to blacking out. I grabbed my plastic iced coffee cup and held it tightly. Then I looked up at Lance as he waited in line for the lady in front of him to finish ordering. I scoped out the baristas, and couldn't help but notice them eyeing the super-stud. Fuck, he probably was used to the stares, but I was just beside myself with lust. Lance's back seemed so wide— it kind of hovered above his narrow waist. And that ass! Oh hell, what an ass! Two tight globes of gluteal muscle— small and taut in those shorts. Like twin bowling balls under the thin workout fabric. This was the best porn I had ever seen— and the guy was fully dressed!
He joked with the barista. She flirted back.
Once he got his drink, he turned toward me, and when he sat down at my small table he flashed that painful smile again. "I'm glad to meet you, man," he said.
"Thanks, me too," I said. "I felt kind of awkward approaching you. I didn't want to freak you out or anything."
"No worries, man," he smiled. His fucking huge forearms rested against the edge of the table and his enormous biceps bulged against his tight shirt sleeves. "It happens quite often, actually."
"Really?" I asked. "People leave you notes and shit?"
He chuckled. "Well, not usually notes. Most of the time they just strike up a conversation. You know, asking me if I compete... whatever." He took a sip of what looked like iced green tea and the dimples that dented when he smiled became even more pronounced.
"Wow," I said. "I was pretty nervous. Glad it's no big deal." I didn't know what else to say.
He smiled and said, "So, how long have you been interested in bodybuilding?" He sat back in his chair now, totally relaxed.
"Oh, uh..." fuck I hadn't planned anything! I finally came up with: "I can't even remember. Since my teens, I guess."
"You ever been to a contest?" he asked.
"Naw." Oh shit. He's gonna figure me out in two seconds! "But I'd like to... someday."
"Yeah, they're pretty cool. A lot of testosterone at those shows," he laughed.
"Well, you obviously have your share of testosterone," I said, glancing at his arms. Oh fuck.
He laughed. "Yeah, I get that a lot."
I was going to need some serious pain pills if he kept stabbing me with that smile of his. I looked at how he filled out that T-shirt. Those traps; and his neck! His traps supported just a powerful-looking plug of a neck! As he sat back like that, his chest just protruded into the room. Thick, massive, wide pecs.
"You must live around here, huh?" he asked, taking a sip of his drink.
"Yeah, not too far. That's how I first spotted you, actually."
"I figured," he smiled. "You must have a nice view from your apartment— of the street and stuff," he said. His demeanor was still very friendly.
My face flushed— very hot. God, I should run.
He leaned forward just a bit. "I saw you grab my note and run into the building. That's where you live, right?"
"Yeah," I was getting more scared.
"Cool," he said. He still didn't seem at all concerned that he was sitting at a table with a voyeur.
Maybe he didn't make the connection. Maybe he thinks I just happened to see him on the street— not like I was watching for muscle.
There was a painful silence. Finally he said, "Hey man, you should check out a bodybuilding show that's coming up in a few weeks. It's the Mr. State competition." He leaned forward and seemed to be getting excited about the topic. "I'm planning on going. You want to come? I could give you some pointers about what the judges look for and stuff."
"Are you competing in the show?" I asked. I couldn't believe he was asking me to come with him!
"No— not this one," he said. "So I'll be in the audience the whole time. You want to come?"
I can't believe this! "Sure!" I tried to not act too excited. "That'd be cool!"
We each got out iPhones and I watched his long, muscular fingers as he pulled up his calendar. The contest wasn't for a couple of weeks. I put it on my calendar with a reminder alarm. Like yeah, I'm going to forget... He'd pick me up Saturday morning. I'd get to ride in his jock-rig.
Before we parted ways, we exchanged phone numbers, and— here's the best part— he handed me a card that gave the URL of his own bodybuilding website! "I've done a lot of shows," he said. "There are some pictures and video clips there. A friend of mine did the site for me. It's pretty cool!"
A half hour later, I was home scouring his website. God it really was cool. I download every picture and video clip I could find of Lance, and then jacked off to some of the clips. Fuckin' awesome.
Now my only problem was going to be... How in hell am I going to survive for over two weeks before I see him again?
Fortunately, I didn't have to. That night— or should I say the next morning— I fell asleep at about 4:00 AM. Yeah. Four-fucking-Anti-Meridian. Fortunately, it was a Friday night/Saturday morning so I could sleep in. That was, until my phone started blasting away at 9:00.
It was him.
I had entered his phone number and his name to my phone when he'd given it to me, so when the screen said "Lance," I was instantly awake.
"Hey, man, I hope I didn't wake you." His smile was even evident just in his voice.
"No, no," I fumbled, trying to fix my hair so he wouldn't see me like this. "I've been up for (like, three seconds) a... while."
"Cool. Hey I was wondering, if you don't have plans today, you want to head down to the beach with me?"
What? I blinked my eyes, then pulled the phone away from my ear to re-check who the fuck it was that I was talking to. Yup, the screen said, "Lance."
"If you're busy, that's okay," he said. "I just thought it might be fun to hang out."
"No! I mean Yes!" I practically spat. "I mean, I don't have anything planned for the day, and yes that'd be cool. You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure!" he smiled through the phone. "What kind of beer do you like?"
"Uh— it changes. I'm kinda seasonal," I said. Oh fuck you're sounding gay! "In the summer I like Corona."
"Sweet, man! I'll pick up a case. We can find a spot for lunch in Cannon Beach. Pick you up in a half hour?"
"Uh, sure. That sounds good!"
"Alright man." The phone beeped twice, ending the call.
Fuck. What the hell am I supposed to do now? First, jump in the shower. Check. Then I needed to find suitable attire. I wasn't so gay that I didn't know how to do Jock, but the stuff I had in the way of swimwear was going to make it a challenge. And just how in fuck do you think you're going to live once he takes his shirt off at the beach? A) Every person in the world is going to notice HIM, not you. And 2) Your sorry cock is probably going to explode before his shirt even hits the blanket!
I was a mess. This was going to be hard to pull off (pun intended).
I totally gave up on trying to look good next to him. Just not possible. So I settled for at least not looking too femmy. No drag swimsuit today. (Just kidding. I don't do drag.) A half hour later I was standing down at the street, wearing long swimming trunks (royal blue) and a "Speed Racer" T-shirt. I had packed a small duffel, with sun screen, a water bottle, a book (who knows?), some granola bars, and a change of shorts. I hate wearing wet clothes. As I stood there, holding my inflated dolphin swimmy toy, and wearing my big Hobo Kelly sun glasses (Joke!) I saw him approach. God that pickup was sexy.
The guy driving it, however, wasn't sexy: He was sex itself! A living breathing boner/wet dream in the flesh. "Hey man!" he grinned as he pulled up. "Let's hit the beach!"
The drive to the beach took a couple of hours, and the whole time I memorized the map work of his veiny, thick arms.
The guy was amazing, and I'm not even talking about his body now. He laughed (wish I would have brought those pain pills!) and joked... a really quick wit! A great conversationalist. SO friendly. It was as if he actually LIKED spending time with me.
"How long have you lived in that apartment?" he asked.
"A couple of years."
"You like it?"
"It's okay," I said. "Nothing special."
He was originally from Alabama. I thought I'd detected a hint of a drawl— to die for— but he'd lived in town here since the middle of grade school so he'd lost much of the accent. He was studying pre-med. Yeah.
Yeah, yeah, I know, the reader is thinking, "Come ON. This muscle stud can't have that kind of body, those good looks, that gorgeous personality, friendly as hell, AND have brains too? Are you kidding Seanny? Do you want me to throw this computer across the room right here and now? `Cuz I will! I swear I will!"
No. You wont.
Because you want to find out how a muscleman— a gorgeous, friendly, BRAINY AND BRAWNY muscleman could find the likes of "Adrian" someone with whom he'd want to spend an afternoon. With. So yeah, your computer is safe. I know you.
So, where was I? Or, rather, who was I? Oh yeah, I was Adrian.
"Can I ask you a question?" Lance asked as we neared the parking area at the beach.
"I think you already have," I smirked, feeling more and more confident after his friendly conversation.
He laughed, and I had to fight to keep my face from scrunching up in pain while I watched his adams apple bob. "Touché," he grinned. "But I was wondering what your real name is."
I froze. "I mean... what?" I muttered, obviously flummoxed.
"It's okay, man," he said, a little more seriously now. "I know you wouldn't have used your real name. Dude, until the last half hour or so, every time I've talked to you I thought you were going to pass out from nerves."
"Zack," I said. Fuck. I'm so busted.
He extended his arm— that really, really meaty, thick and veiny arm— and we shook hands, again. "Glad to actually meet you, Zack," he smiled. "Dude. Don't worry. I'm harmless. We're going to have a great time today."
"Thanks," I said. I averted my gaze to the floor of his rig. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" he grinned. "Faaggggetabowwwdit," he said in his best Boston. "I'm glad you took the initiative. I think we're going to be great friends."
Excuse me, but you might need a hose in a minute— to clean out your cab— because I seriously think I'm going to THROW UP right now.
Lance parked his pickup and we got out. "Can you believe this weather today?" he beamed. "Look at those breakers!" He scanned the water, then looked at me. "You like body surfing?"
"Yeah, I do!" I said. And it was true. I really did. Especially if I can do it about ten feet behind you and watch your rippling back and muscle-ass while I do it!
We spread a blanket and set up the cooler. There were plenty of people on the beach, but it wasn't crowded at all. Lance stood there, looking out over the water, then he grabbed the bottom of his shirt and pulled it up and over his head. No, I didn't cream my pants even before it hit the blanket. But close.
"Fuck," I let slip as I gazed upon his brawny gorgeousness.
Lance turned to me, at the sound of my expletive, and grinned. He tighten his abs, and the skin shrink-wrapped into almost invisible. Mounds of muscle, stacked on top of each other, looked insanely manly.
"Fuck," I said again. I need to learn some more cuss words. This is going to get redundant real fast.
Lance grinned at me from behind his sunglasses. He looked a little like Dennis Newman. Gorgeous manliness. I wanted to fall onto the blanket and curl up into a fetal position. He looked around at the various people surrounding us. Yeah, he had everyone's attention. Then he looked at me and said, "Maybe later on this evening, when we get back to Portland, I can give you a little look at my posing routine." He looked around again and added, "But not here. Too many eyes."
He cared?
His body was everything I wanted in a fantasy man. As I looked at him, I thought it entirely possible that I would have to use my hand to push my lower jaw up. I was floating away. I was lost in muscle lust. Gorgeous, virile. Huge, rippling.
Brain functions were in danger of shutting down completely.
Fortunately, Lance took another look at the surf and made a beeline for the water, shouting, "Last one in the water has to buy lunch!"
Now, I think I mentioned before that I'm kind of scrawny, didn't I? Runner's build. That's because I've always been... you know... a runner. Track, all four years of high school. And I still run, like six days a week. I'm pretty fast. And I got some endurance.
Even though I'm not that competitive anymore, I still like a challenge. So at Lance's taunting, I took off behind him. I don't know if it was simply because he got a head start— or maybe all those muscles can just mooooooove, but there was no contest. He was halfway to Japan before I was even wet. (With water, okay?)
Then the fun began.
We spent almost the whole day in the water. Splashing, body surfing, running, swimming. Lance was approached many times by would-be admirers. And when a couple of grade school boys struck up a conversation with him, he asked if they wanted to play a game of keep-away with their ball. God, what a fun time that was. In the end, those two kids were climbing all over Lance's body, while he held the ball high in the air. Even when his arm was straight, fully-extended upward, it didn't lose any of its size. Big, bulging biceps and triceps.
Shit it was fun. I even got in on the act a couple of times, enjoying some screaming-wicked body contact.
"This is a kick," Lance said a while later as we both lay on the beach blanket. "You want to do this again next Saturday?"
I turned my face toward him. His eyes were closed as he lay on his back, face straight up.
"Really? Yeah!" I said.
"Cool," he smiled under his sunglasses. "It's a date then."
I stared at him a few seconds, and only when I saw a smile form on his lips— he knew I was looking— did I turn back to face the sky.
The ride back to town was quiet. We were both pooped. God, that was a singular day. And even though neither one of us did much talking, it was a comfortable silence. At least I thought so. We didn't need to talk.
Back in the city, he took me to his apartment. To my pleasure, he lived only about a mile from me. His place was nicer than mine. Clean, but not fastidious. What do you expect? He's perfect.
We lugged the cooler and stuff up to his apartment in one trip. He had repeated his invitation to show me a few poses before he would take me home, but unfortunately, I had forgotten to set my DVR to record The History Channel, so I had to decline.
Ha.
Just checking to see if the Curious Web Surfer is still awake.
"Hey man," he smiled to me, "before I show you some poses, I was going to hop in the shower. Get that salt water out of my hair and stuff. That okay?"
"Sure. No problem," I said. "I got nothing to get home to."
Then, he stopped. He looked at me. Harder than normal. He squinted his eyes, smiled, and said, "You need to shower too? `Cuz... there's probably room for both of us..."
[To be continued... Heh. Heh. Heh.]
Contact the author at sean@musclepla.net www.seanreidscott.com