Full Release (5 page)

When I finished dressing, I resisted the temptation to check my hair in the mirror and headed up to look for Peter. He was about six foot three, had very pink skin and curly blond hair. Whenever I saw him naked at the gym, which I tried to avoid, he reminded me of a giant Peep, one of those candy Easter chicks.

It’s not that he wasn’t sexy. He just wasn’t sexy to me. Since his divorce there had been a stream of young men following a certain type: short, dark-haired, dark-skinned, and dark-eyed. He preferred them Hispanic, Mediterranean, or Middle-Eastern. The only reason he ever accepted an Internet date with me was that his therapist suggested he branch out. He gave it the one try and never tried again.

At any rate, given Peter’s height and fluffy, blond hair, he was never difficult to find in a crowd. But after doing a lap around the track on the second floor then heading up to the third floor, I didn’t see him anywhere. I got in line to wait for an elliptical. When I was three people away from getting a machine, my cell vibrated. Peter. I picked up.

“Where are you?” he asked without preamble.

“I’m at the gym. Where are you?”

“I’m at the gym,” he replied.

I looked around again and said, “Yeah, where?”

He paused. “Are you really at the gym? I thought for sure you’d flake.”

“You’re not here, are you?”

“I met someone.”

“You met someone?” I tried to keep my voice down, but it wasn’t working well. I got a funny look from the woman in front of me. A machine opened up, and we moved up in line. “Between the studio and the gym?”

“In the parking garage.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I saw him, our eyes locked, we spoke, one thing led to another, and now I’m following him home.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure he has one. He’s gorgeous, though. Short, dark, and hopefully hung like a Shetland Pony.” Peter never used the expression “hung like a horse.” He considered himself a size queen within reasonable limits.

“So, you’re not coming to the gym at all.”

“You’re not really there, are you? You’re on your way home to the Happy Hooker.”

“I have to go. There’s a machine available,” I said as I walked down to an elliptical.

“Have a nice… workout,” Peter said, in the lewdest way possible.

Chapter Five

As I worked out, I pondered the situation with Eddie. I should have gone straight home and thrown him out. I knew that. Puffing along on the elliptical, I thought up things to say when I did got around to giving him the boot. I could try, “You’re a really terrific guy, but being with you made me realize I should get back together with my ex.” But even the idea of saying something like that made me cringe.

Or, “The thing is Eddie...there’s just no spark.” That one wouldn’t work. After a guy’s given you two orgasms, it’s hard to convincingly say there’s no spark.

My favorite was, “You promised not to go all Glenn Close on me. I think it’s time for you to leave.” The problem was it sort of gave him permission to go “all Glenn Close” on me. And I didn’t want that.

I tried to reassure myself that in all likelihood we’d just had a miscommunication and if I politely asked him to leave, he would. Unfortunately, there was a real possibility I’d go home and say absolutely nothing. I’d feed him dinner, have sex with him and let him stay another night. Sometimes, I’m an incredible wimp.

A layer of sweat formed on my forehead, and I decided to stop worrying about Eddie and start worrying about my finances. It was just as distressing a situation, but there was math involved and that made it more manageable. Doing math in my head always soothed me -- even when calculating my own negative worth.

I tried to determine exactly how much of a raise I’d need to get my life in order. At the new job, the one I hadn’t even interviewed for, that is. I had several credit cards in need of paying down. For a year, I’d been juggling my expenses -- charging groceries, gas, everyday expenses -- so that I had enough to pay the mortgage. If I got a twenty percent raise, I’d be able to get some of that under control. The position at Monumental Studios was a promotion, so a twenty percent raise wasn’t out of the question.

I really needed to believe there was a light at the end of the tunnel for my financial problems, which were in turn my problems with Jeremy. I had to find a way to finish things with him once and for all. I considered making him a counter offer. If I got a new job, I might be able to accept part of what he took. Say forty thousand dollars. Of course, I was pretty sure Jeremy didn’t have forty thousand dollars. We could set up a payment plan, but once I let him out of the domestic partnership agreement and he got hitched to Skye, why would he continue to pay me? Or more accurately, why would Skye continue to pay me?

I needed a lawyer. I knew that. I’d been avoiding the idea for months. A lawyer would want a retainer, and obviously, I didn’t have that. It was logical to think a lawyer would save me money on the whole thing. But the question was, would a lawyer save me enough to justify their fee. If all I saved was the money to pay the lawyer, was it worth it?

I’d met Skye just once. Jeremy had a fantasy that the three of us would some day be friends. He insisted I have dinner with the two of them. I went along, in hopes that if I was social and polite, we’d somehow find a way to work through our financial issues.

When we met at an impossibly trendy West Hollywood restaurant, Jeremy said, “Skye is really excited to meet you.”

Of course, I’d seen his show,
Shear Luck
, which had one season on cable. It was about Skye opening his own hair salon in the valley. He barely had enough money to open the shop and constantly threw diva hissy fits at the hunky contractor. I think Jeremy and I were among the few people in the world who actually watched the show. At the time, I thought we were watching it because it was fun to hate Skye. On the show, he’d seemed like a complete narcissistic asshole. I knew editing might have had a lot to do with that, but when I sat down to dinner with him that night, he seemed in character.

And he was not in any way, shape or form excited to meet me.

While Jeremy struggled to keep the conversation moving, mostly by discussing every item on the menu, I studied Skye. He was probably close to forty, though I doubted he was the type to admit it. He wore his hair in a way that suggested he’d just rolled out of bed after thrashing all night. In an earlier decade, your friends would have told you, “Man, your hair’s a mess. Go fix it.” Now they say, “Whoa, dude, cool do.”

Eventually, Skye began to talk. His only topic of conversation was his career. He was opening another shop in Burbank. He was in talks with various filmmakers about making a theatrical documentary about the whole process. He was through with cable television. He found it too limiting - which I suppose happens when they cancel your show. Jeremy was writing a screenplay about Skye’s life. He mentioned a very popular teen idol he hoped to attach to the project. Skye had cut his hair once two or three years ago, so they had an in.

After we ordered dessert, Skye seemed to remember that conversation required a give and take, looked at me and said, “So...you’re an accountant. Sounds painfully boring.”

I wanted to say, “not as painfully boring as this conversation”, but decided to take the high road. I said a few things about how much I enjoyed my job and its value to the overall studio. Not that I thought Skye would appreciate that.

Then Skye asked, “You don’t happen to know anyone in development, do you?”

Ah, I thought. Here’s the reason for the dinner. I was tempted to tell him I had some very good connections in development just to watch him grovel. Instead, I told the truth. “No, sorry, I don’t.”

When the check came, I stubbornly waited nearly five minutes before Skye grumpily picked it up and paid it. They’d invited me, and given my financial problems with Jeremy, I wasn’t giving them a dime for dinner unless asked -- and maybe not even then.

In my book, Skye was a total loser -- no matter how many films he did or didn’t have in the works. Even though they’d met after Jeremy and I had broken up, on some level Jeremy was choosing Skye over me. And if Skye was a pathetic loser, what was I? Jeremy, seeming oblivious to the entire dinner, wanted to go have a night cap somewhere. Skye and I stepped all over each other declining. Instead, I went home and drank an entire bottle of Chardonnay while listening to a radio station that played a lot of Celine Dion. I don’t like her enough to buy a CD, but there are times when she comes in handy.

I finished with the elliptical and went down to the second floor and walked the track to cool down. As I did, I checked out the guys in the free weights area. I’d been coming to this particular gym for several years, so there were lots of familiar faces. I had favorites, of course. Guys I liked to check out again and again; collect little bits of information about; imagine what their lives are like. Some of them I might like to meet, maybe.

A guy I’d nicknamed Stripes was on the floor doing some intense exercises that involved squatting over a machine and lifting an enormous weight a few inches up toward his chest. I assumed the machine had something to do with the impressive V-shape of his muscular back.

I called him Stripes because in the locker room he always seemed to be wearing a pair of striped boxer briefs. He was older; a little beyond forty, I’d guess. He had the kind of strong-featured, square face favored by the cartoonists who design superheroes. Most of his body was tight and well-defined by his frequent trips to the gym. He was there almost every time I came, so I figured he had to be more regular about it than I was.

My favorite part of his body was his ass. I’d seen it a few times in the shower, and it was smooth and soft, maybe even a little on the fat side. He probably hated it, but the contrast between the tight, obvious muscles he had everywhere else with the creamy softness of his buttocks got my attention. Sometimes it’s a man’s flaws that get me.

I’d been planning a solid workout for my arms and shoulders, but abandoned the routine in favor of stalking Stripes. Without regard to muscle group, I picked out a machine a few down from the one Stripes was working and began doing reps. He glanced at me a couple of times. It was casual enough that I wasn’t quite sure he’d noticed me gawking at him. Nor was I quite sure he hadn’t.

About the fifth time he glanced over, I was sure he’d noticed me. There was no way he couldn’t have. He was casual about it. Didn’t spend a lot of time looking back at me. But then, he folded up his sweat rag and headed toward the stairs leading to the locker room. Just as he turned into the stairwell, he looked over his shoulder to see if I was following him. And I damn well was.

In the locker room, I walked by Stripes on my way to take off my workout clothes. I put my combination into my lock and opened it. I tried to move as slowly as I could. Since I wanted Stripes to go into the shower first. Where he chose to shower would tell me what I thought I already knew. The showers at my gym were set up in two long rows facing each other. Straight guys normally took the first empty shower they came upon. Gay guys were pickier, choosing on the basis of privacy and the view offered, usually showering all the way at the end.

I slipped out of my gym clothes and dug through my duffel for my towel. I wrapped it around me. Carefully, I put my gym things into my bag and looked up to see that Stripes had already headed off to the showers. Perfect.

Walking into the showers, I headed toward the end. Stripes was in the very last shower on the left. I took the second to last shower on the opposite side and had a perfect view of him. Not the kind of guy to masturbate in the shower at the gym, I wasn’t planning to do anything but get a good look at his assets. Being a voyeur rather than a masturbator was a subtle distinction, I suppose, but one that mattered to me. I also couldn’t afford to lose my membership to the gym. I didn’t have four hundred dollars to join a new one.

Stripes soaped up his well-defined chest. A layer of hair covered his pectorals, some of it gray -- which might be a turn off for some, but I liked it. A tingle began in my prick, and I turned away for a moment. When I thought it was safe, I turned back. He was staring right at me, lathering his cock.

Against my will, my dick sprang to life. I tried to cover it with one hand, but that just encouraged it to grow. I looked over at Stripes. He had a smile on his face. My heart was racing and my breath had slowed down. I gave in and began to stroke myself -- so much for voyeurism.

Completely hard, Stripes pumped his cock half a dozen times. Then he turned and showed me his ass. It was as deliciously fat as I’d remembered. Pumping some soap out of the dispenser, he began to clean his pucker hole. I couldn’t believe he was so aggressively showing it to me. He was practically sticking his ass out of the stall while he fingered it.

I caressed myself slowly, telling myself to take it easy. Knowing that if I went too fast I’d pop, and I was having a good time, I wanted it to go on for at least a little while. Suddenly, a guy I didn’t recognize walked by and got into the stall next to me, the stall directly across from Stripes. I cleared my throat, trying to warn Stripes, and turned so the guy couldn’t see my erection.

Scolding myself for my stupidity, I scrubbed my arms far more than necessary while I waited for my erection to ease down a bit. It was one thing to be semi-hard and pretend your flaccid state was always that big, but a full on stiffy tickling your navel couldn’t be passed off as anything but what it was. I just knew I was going to get kicked out of this gym forever.

Between the next stall and mine was a sheet of frosted glass. I could see the outline of the New Guy, and though fuzzy, it was appealing. The glimpse I’d gotten told me he was in his twenties, a well-built blond, tall and lanky. I tried to think if I’d seen him before, but wasn’t sure. I worried he was some straight guy who’d gotten lost and would now run out to call a manager.

I turned around and saw that Stripes had stepped back into the shower and was facing the wall, continuing to soap himself. Well, at least I got to watch his ass for a while, even if I didn’t get to react to it. Stripes looked over his shoulder; first at me, then at the New Guy in the next stall. Slowly, he turned around.

His erection hadn’t gone away. He was still rock hard. I looked through the frosted glass to see the New Guy’s reaction and saw that he was facing Stripes and pulling at his semi-erect cock. I relaxed; my own prick beginning to harden again.

Stripes stroked his pole, looking back and forth between the New Guy and me. The New Guy noticed him looking my way and turned to check me out through the frosted glass. He pushed his dick up against the glass so that it was almost fully visible. My heart skipping a beat, I stepped forward and did the same thing.

Moments later, I stepped back and began to seriously pound my meat. The New Guy did the same. So was Stripes. I could tell by the tension in his face that Stripes was close to coming. I pumped myself even harder. At the last moment, Stripes reached his free hand down and came in his palm.

I turned and focused on the New Guy through the frosted glass. He was standing on his toes. Even through the glass, his whole body looked tense. Then, his come splattered against the glass. Seconds later I squirted out my own contribution.

Looking up, I caught Stripe’s eye. He gave me a big smile as he toweled himself off. I soaped up my hair and then rinsed. When I opened my eyes again, the New Guy was gone.

Walking to my car in the garage next to the gym, I couldn’t help but think two things: first, I was really glad Peter had flaked, I never would have done that if he was anywhere in the building; and second, I was becoming completely un-vanilla. In less than two weeks, I’d paid for sex, had free sex with a sex-worker, and jacked off in public. Part of me wanted to call up Jeremy and throw the information in his face.

Before we got together, Jeremy had a host of experiences. He talked as though it was the normal experience of every gay man to spend his early twenties testing sexual boundaries. And maybe it was for some. I, however, had skipped that phase. Jeremy had done all sorts of things I hadn’t. He’d been to bathhouses and sex clubs; he’d had three-ways, four-ways, and I-sort-of-lost-count-ways; he could explain every sex toy on the market and had tested half of them. Before I’d have un-safe sex with him, I made him take a full STD panel and show me the results. Remarkably, he was fine.