Bodies of Work

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Jacksonville, FL

WE ENTERED HIS room, and he closed and chained the door behind us. We embraced briefly and indulged in a lengthy kiss. Finally, he broke away, saying, “After performing under those hot lights, I’m desperately in need of a shower. Why don’t you join me?”

Without waiting for an answer, he headed for the bathroom, shedding various garments along the way. I walked over to the bed and undressed, carefully folding my clothes and placing them on one of the chairs. Having done that, I entered the bathroom. He was just about to step into the shower, and I quickly noted that his slim body was lean, quite fit, and very compact. His torso was hairless, as was the rest of him, as far as I could tell. As he turned to step into the shower, his bubble butt was shown to advantage.

“What are you waiting for?” he said.

“You.” I stepped into the shower with him.

We spent quite a while washing each other’s bodies, leaving no stone unturned and no crevice unexplored, both of us wonderfully erect the entire time. Finally, he grabbed my erection and said, “I want that thing in me, now.”

“We’ll be more comfortable in that nice queen-size bed.”

“Fine, but make it quick.”

He turned the water off, and we quickly toweled ourselves mostly dry. He grabbed my erection again and led me into the bedroom. There was no need for subtleties—the foreplay had been going on in the shower for ten minutes or more. Before I knew it, he’d slipped a condom over my erection, was on his back with his legs in the air, and I was entering him slowly and cautiously.

“Don’t hold back,” he said. “Do it fast and hard.”

“Are you sure?”

“Shut up—and do it now.”

I obliged, and began to thrust in and out.

“Faster… deeper… harder,” he said.

I picked up the pace.

“Much better.”

“I won’t last long at this rate.”

“That’s okay, next time will take longer.”

“Promises, promises.”

“Just wait, you’ll see.”

I bent down and shut him up by covering his mouth with mine. Finally, I began to spasm deep inside him, and I felt him spurt against my abdomen. When it was over, I stretched out on the bed beside him.

“How do you hide all this under that tight dress?” I said, caressing his softening genitals.

“There are various ways to do that, all of them uncomfortable. To answer your question, I usually wear a dance belt, but where a male dancer points his d**k at the sky, I tuck mine down in the other direction.”

He began to stroke me, saying, “How soon will you be ready for a repeat performance?”

“As soon as I’m sufficiently inspired.”

“I think I can manage to inspire you,” he said, and proceeded to do so.

It didn’t take long, and when it was over, he said, “Can you spend the night?”

“Sure, provided we can do this again first thing in the morning.”

“Deal,” he said as he reached over to turn out the light beside the bed.

I woke up the next morning almost on the dot of six, just as I always do, and almost hopped out of the bed automatically to head for the bathroom until, at the last minute, I realized where I was. Bob had rolled over onto his side during the night, facing away from me, so I eased up against him and put my arms around him, but not before I’d slipped a condom over my morning wood.

He began to stir under my hands. “Mmmm. What time is it?”

“Early. You probably don’t want to know,” I said as I eased into him.

“This is a nice wake-up call.”

“Finest kind.”

I began to stroke him and to do things to his neck and ear with my mouth as I began to plunge in and out. Once again, it wasn’t very long before we were both spent.

He rolled over to face me, and we kissed.

“That was nice,” he said.

“Yes, it was. Want to have breakfast?”

“Not a chance. I have two performances tonight, and I’m going to sleep ‘til noon.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it. I’m meeting a friend for an early morning workout at the YMCA.”

“You have enough energy for a workout after all this?”

“Sure. I find s*x energizing, don’t you?”

“Not at this hour.”

I gave him one last kiss and went to the bathroom to relieve myself. When I returned to the bedroom and began to dress, he went to the bathroom. He returned just as I was strapping my ankle holster in place.

His eyes widened a bit. “Do you always carry a gun?”

“I’m a policeman, and I’m never totally off duty.”

“This is a first for me; I’ve never had a cop before.”

“Want to have me again? What time will your show be over tonight?”

“Yes—and probably not until well after midnight.”

“In that case, I’ll stop by for the second performance, unless, of course, duty calls.”

“Are you on duty today?”

“I have the entire weekend off, but I’m subject to call.”

My holster in place and pants snugged down over it, I gave him a brief kiss and left the room. When I got home, I found Mike nursing a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

“Good morning, sunshine,” I said.

“My, aren’t we chipper this morning, and I know why. You’ve got that ‘just been laid’ look about you.”

“That I do, and you’ll never guess who it was.”

“I give up.”

“Bob Jones.”

“The performer? No way.”

“He was chatting me up when you handed me your keys last night.”

“Well, I am impressed.”

“Ready to go to the Y?”

“Not really, but I will anyhow.”

“By the way, how was Stan?”

“Who?”

“The guy you went home with.”

“Oh, him. Quite forgettable, and something of a disappointment.”

“Do you mean to say that you struck out?”

“Not at all. We f****d a couple of times, actually, but it just wasn’t very interesting.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault. Are you ready to go?”

“After you.”

We took my car to the central YMCA facility, which was on Riverside Avenue not too far from downtown. It was a large complex, situated between the street and the river, and featured handball courts, lockers, showers, steam room, sauna, and an indoor pool. The equipment room contained every workout machine known to man, or so it seemed. There was even a new room full of stationary bikes devoted to spinning classes—the latest fitness craze. In addition, there was an outdoor running track situated between the Y and the river.

We carried our gym bags into the locker-room, and Mike said, “What are we doing today?”

“We usually run on Saturdays, but if you want to do a different routine, I’m game.”

“Let’s do about five miles, then. I need to sweat last night out of my system.”

We pulled on our gear and headed out the door and down Riverside Avenue. It was a well-established route used by various members at all times of the day, starting with a group who met, already in running gear, an hour before the Y opened. They timed their run so that the facility would be open by the time they returned. Then they showered, shaved, dressed, and went to work. They called themselves the ‘dawn patrol’.

We’d just reached the one-mile mark at the park when Mike said, “What are you doing the rest of the day?”

“What do you think? The shingles are calling me.”

“Want some help?”

“You know you can’t hammer even a roofing nail in straight, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Then I’ll play gofer for a bit and lug a few more bundles of shingles up the ladder to you.”

“Thanks, I’ll be grateful for that.”

We completed our run in relative silence. Back in the locker-room, we slipped on Speedos and went to the pool to cool down while doing a few laps.

In the locker-room once again, Mike looked at me. “Steam or sauna?”

“Steam, I think, if that’s okay with you.”

“Fine.”

He led the way to the steam room, towel slung over his shoulder, and I followed suit. The usual assortment of men were sitting on the tiled benches, taking the steam. Some of them had towels around their waists, while others were sitting on their towels, legs spread, various parts dangling in full view. Mike and I emulated the former, cinching our towels around us before we sat down on one of the benches. I settled back against the warm tile wall and, with eyes half closed, watched the group.

After we’d been settled on the bench for a couple of minutes, a sort of nerdy-looking guy wearing glasses entered the room and took a spot on the bench across the room from us. His towel was kind of loosely draped over his thighs, but with his legs spread, you could clearly see his private parts. He slipped one hand under the towel and began to fondle himself until he was fully hard. Somehow he managed to keep his erection pointing out along his thigh instead of standing up and tenting the towel. He was watching us intently while pretending not to do so.

In the Mists and Vapors

HE’D FOLLOWED THE two men from the locker-room into the steam room, where he watched them carefully through hooded eyes. They were both so hot-looking, but the blond was the one that really turned him on. He wondered if they were lovers, but watching their body language, he decided that they were probably just friends.

He began to fondle himself to full erection, thinking about the hot blond across the room and what he would like to do with and to him. The two men didn’t appear to notice him, but they couldn’t help but do so. He could see their genitals between their spread legs, and neither of them appeared to be reacting to his display.

He got so excited that he lost control and spewed onto his thigh before he could slow down. He heard the blond say to the other man, “Ready to hit the showers?” The other man nodded, and the two of them left the room.

Damn. Maybe next time he could control himself a little better. He wanted the blond to notice him… to desire him… to want him. He settled back against the wall with a sigh of resignation.

I WATCHED THE guy with the glasses lose control and spurt all over his thigh. Such behavior was not at all uncommon in the steam room. In fact, at times the jacking off and other displays were much more overt. I looked at Mike. “Ready to hit the showers?”

He nodded, and we left the room. The shower room had five stalls divided by chest-high partitions along one wall and four along the other. One door led to the locker-room, and the other opened to an anteroom, which in turn led to the pool. The shower room was unoccupied, and we stood in adjacent stalls.

“Did you see that guy?” Mike said.

“Which guy?”

“The nerd with the glasses. He was hot for your body, let me tell you.”

“Surely not.”

“George, if you were a lollipop, that guy would turn you into an all-day sucker. Trust me on this.”

“If you say so. That being said, he’s not my type, so he’ll just have to get over it.”

We finished showering and went to our lockers to dry and dress.

“Want to have an early lunch?” Mike said as we walked through the lobby to the exit.

“Sure. Where?”

“You know I prefer Richard’s when I’m in the mood for a Camel Rider, but they’re not open on Saturday, so how about the Goal Post?”

“That’ll do.”

I pointed the car down Riverside Avenue, and when we were past the St. Vincent’s Hospital complex, I turned left onto King Street and one block later turned right onto St. Johns Avenue, and followed it almost to its intersection with Herschel Street. The Goal Post Sandwich Shop was a long-time neighborhood fixture and was heavily patronized by the Junior League set from the nearby Ortega neighborhood, where much of the old money in town still resided.

Like most of the sandwich shops in town, it was owned by a family of Middle Eastern descent. Jacksonville has a huge population of people from Lebanon and other spots who’d been in the area for two or three generations or more. Most of them were Christian, and quite a few of them were communicants at St. John’s Episcopal Cathedral, as were we—although our attendance was somewhat irregular. A staple in all the sandwich shops was the Camel Rider, which was a pocket of pita bread filled with bits of lettuce, slices of cheese, tomato, and cold cuts. We placed our orders and took the only available booth while we waited for our number to be called. We consumed our Camel Riders and a bag of chips each and returned to the house.

ON THE LAST SATURDAY of his life, James Albright followed his normal routine—which proved his undoing. He drove, as usual, to his office in the Riverplace Tower, which had been built as the Gulf Life Tower. The building was a city landmark. When completed in 1967, it had been, at twenty-eight stories, the tallest precast, post-tensioned concrete structure in the world, which was a fancy way of saying that the building didn’t have a steel skeleton. Its skeleton was composed of pre-stressed concrete beams. It held that distinction for some thirty-five years until 2002, when a taller such structure was erected in San Francisco.

Making his way to the 23rd floor, he stopped, as he always did, in the men’s room adjacent to the elevators. Standing in front of the urinal, he paid no attention when someone else entered the room and walked up to the adjacent urinal. He was so intent on the task at hand that he didn’t see the flash of the knife… and barely felt it, as it slashed through the blood vessels in his neck. His hand went to his throat instinctively when he felt the warm wetness, and he fell to the floor as he bled out.

I SETTLED DOWN on the roof, and Mike, as he’d promised, started carrying bundles of shingles up the ladder and placing them on the roof as directed. He’d just brought me the tenth bundle when my pager buzzed.

“s**t,” I said, looking at the number on the display. “I knew it couldn’t last. I’d like to get through just one Saturday off without interruption.”

“Go ahead. I’ll put your tools and supplies away.”

“Thanks.”

I made my way to the ladder, climbed down, went to the kitchen, and grabbed a soft drink from the fridge. Then I sat down to call the number displayed.