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I slink into a stool at the hotel bar. I'm the only one here. The bartender is a young, college-aged kid. He nods at me.
“Whiskey on the rocks,” I grumble. The bartender turns around to make my drink.
I feel like I've got tunnel vision. The walk down here from the room was ... surreal. My legs felt like jelly – but somehow, despite their wobbly weakness, they propelled me forward. Through the long hallway, past all the doors and the rooms with the people hidden inside. Down the stairs, to the lobby. I wasn't sure where my legs were taking me, I was only along for the ride. Part of me kept hoping I'd wake up in a sweat.
At last, I ended up here. The bar. Normally I won't drink by myself – I only drink with the boys, or I'll have one with dinner. But uh, tonight, I guess, is an exception.
The bartender sets the tumbler in front of me. I fumble through my wallet and lay down a $20.
“Keep the change.” I close my eyes, tilt my glass back, and let the smokey flavors wash over my palette.
Man, I think to myself. The hell just happened?
But when I open my eyes, the bartender is still staring at me. He's smiling, too.
I raise my eyebrow at him. “Hm?”
“Did you get locked out? You know, you can go to the front desk and let them know. They'll be able to help.”
“No ...” I trail off, a bit puzzled. “Why do you ask?”
He points at my right hand. I look down at it.
“Uhh,” I stammer as I realize I brought Jonesy's bath towel and clothes out of the room with me. His neatly folded clothes, and boxers too, just resting on top of the bar. “Shit!”
I pull his stuff off the bar and set it on my lap so it's at least out of view. I look through his stuff. His pajama pants. His boxers. His t-shirt – a shirt from his Junior team, the Colts, with his name and number printed on the back.
Jones. 37. I drag my fingers over his nameplate.
“Didn't mean to bring this down with me,” I laugh to the bartender nervously.
He bobs his head, pretending as if he understands, but I can tell he thinks I'm crazy. And I don't blame him.
What the hell am I gonna do with all this? I gulp.
And how does this prank end? Because right now I've got visions of myself walking back into that room, with a bit of a buzz, and my head lowered in shame. “Here's your shit back,” I'll mumble as I toss him his clothes. And he'll just give me an angry look. “Well, are ya fuckin' happy, Vance? What'd you expect to see when you bust in on a guy in the shower?”
I dunno what I expected to see, honestly. I thought the dude liked taking long showers 'cause he just liked to relax in the hot water! Shit! If I knew he was jerking it in there, I never would've gone in, obviously. I mean, I stopped jerking it in the shower when I was like, 16, for fuck's sake – I didn't think it was a thing that grown men did!
And I mean I have ... never seen anything like that.
Of course, I've seen my share of naked guys. I'm a professional athlete, after all. We'll see each other naked hundreds of times in a given year.
But I never see them actually, y'know ... excited.
I never see them touch themselves.
I snuck into that bathroom so quietly, I was goddamn proud of myself. The steam was really thick, like it always is. Clouds of fog were practically rolling through the room. I stayed low to the ground, almost crawling on the floor so he wouldn't see me.
Honestly, I thought he'd hear me the second I opened that door and his sauna lost its heat. But he didn't. Oh man, I thought, I'm actually gonna get away with this one!
I grabbed his clothes, his towel. And as I turned to leave, I took a peek through the glass shower door.
And there he was, his back against the tile wall. He was facing me, just a few feet away, only a glass door separating us. But he couldn't see me because he had his arm up, his elbow crooked over the bridge of his nose. I didn't even have to look lower to know what he was doing. I could see it, feel it, sense it.
I knew exactly what he was up to.
And instead of laughing my ass off, shouting “Oh my God Jonesy what the hell are you doing!” and making a bee-line outta there? ...
Instead, I froze. Like a thousand pounds of cement were just poured all over me. And all I could do was sit there, hypnotized by it – the motion.
I let myself take just a peek lower. To the center of his chest. Random spasms jolted through him. His rock-hard abs strained and trembled.
I wouldn't look any lower. But I could still see the top of his forearm. It was a blur, jerking back and forth. His pace was frenzied, building faster and faster, until he down-shifted to a lower speed that pulled heavier, deeper. That made him look really weak – made him collapse back against the tile wall. Like he basked in the ecstasy of each deliberate stroke.
I was hypnotized, like I said.
And then, without me even wanting to, my eyes went even lower.
Oh. My. God.
Jonesy is ... he's a grower, I'll say that. Not that the dude is small when we're in the dressing room. Not that I've paid attention to it, either – okay? But – but this. It was ... it was something.
It was long. But it was also thick. The head was fat, and with a little upturn at the end. Big, virile veins ran up his shaft.
I dunno how to describe cocks. I've never had to do that before. I've never thought about any cock but my own ... it's a weird place to be in.
Maybe that's why I couldn't look away? 'Cause I've never seen a hard cock besides mine. That makes sense, right?
I'd definitely never seen another guy beat it before, either. A morbid curiosity gripped me. I couldn't look away, couldn't will myself to leave the bathroom – no matter how scared I was of getting caught.
So, mesmerized, I stayed. And I watched.
I watched that arm work in waves. Starting slow, with deep, deliberate tugs. Building up faster. Until he's jerking it fast and light.
With each cycle, a strange thing happened. His dick grew thicker. Longer. Fatter. The head itself – I could see it swell! I thought for sure he'd bust ... and a part of me even got excited. Yes, I'd whisper silently to myself, do it.
But he wouldn't let himself cum. Instead, he started over, went back to his slow and steady strokes. And my brow would furrow and I wanted to swear under my breath, damn it! Cum already!
What the hell? I had to ask myself. Why do I even care?
I guess because – I know what it's like. I know how good it feels to cum. That pressure blast – a pop of relief – that comes again and again, shooting out in heavenly threads. And for those next few moments, you're on top of the world and nothing else matters.
So I want him to do it already. So I can say yes, quietly pump my fist, and get the hell out of there. And move on with my life.
Each new cycle brought him closer. He'd build himself back up even faster. His cock growing thicker, fatter, longer.
Then he got to the one that I knew, deep-down, would be 'the one.' There was no way he could resist this one – his penis looked swollen and vulnerable.
Wide-eyed, I was helpless to do anything but stare.
Here it comes, I thought to myself, biting my lip.
And all I could think about was a crazy thing. I thought about how beautiful his body was. What a perfect build, so trim but muscled – the ideal man. I could just imagine being a woman, being under him, my hands pressed up against his abs – feeling his abs clench and tighten the moment he came. Feeling his seed spray inside me.
Oh fuck, I thought, a hot flash rippling over my body. That's the moment I realized my own cock was hard. Uncomfortably and painfully erect – gouging against the crotch of my pants.
“Unngh!” Callan whimpered softly, and I knew he was trying to keep his voice down – so I wouldn't hear. If only he knew how close I really was.
And then ...
Sprrrrtttt!
The sound of a high-pressure spray blasting against the glass door.
My jaw fell open in disbelief. Another part of me, deep down, screamed with an agonized thrill – Yes! Yes! Yes!
Then he pumped himself like a shotgun, priming himself for the next blast. Sprrrrtttt! Again and again.
My heart froze in my chest. I didn't dare make a peep. And now, finally, it dawned on me what a fucked thing I'd done – and how close I was to getting caught. He was done, after all, he'd spilled his seed. Yet, here I was – kneeling right outside the shower, my face inches from the glass where he'd lost himself. And I'm afraid to make a sound or move an inch, because I know that could get me caught.
Any second now, he could open his eyes and see the scene of my crime.
I'd lost the right to gloat, to antagonize, to point my finger and laugh and call him names. I lost that right minutes ago – when I found out he was jerking it, and instead of shouting about it, I stayed quiet. I didn't dare make a damn noise – and I actually watched him finish.
I was the deviant now, and I knew it. Not him – me.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Callan had lost a little of his firmness after he came. But he still he milked his cock in his hands, squeezing it from the base to the tip, until he'd spilled the last drop.
And then I was transported back in time – reminded what it was like to be Callan's age again.
His cock seemed to grow more rigid. Firmed up like a piece of lumber. And he was ready to go again – he had to go again.
“Ugh,” he groaned, realizing he was too weak to stop himself. That he'd have to jerk it all over again.
That was it – the escape I needed. I finally snapped out of my trance. He'd jerk himself again, and that was great, because that meant he was distracted. I forced myself to look away, having satisfied my curiosity, and slowly, quietly, crawled back out of the bathroom.
And then I closed the door, softly, silently, and no one was any wiser.
And then I snuck down to the hotel bar.
Callan would never have to know about any of it.
That is – if I had left his clothes in the bathroom. Instead, here they sit, right on my lap at the bar.
The fuck am I supposed to do with these? I wondered, shaking my head at his clothes and finishing off my drink.
“You want another?” the bartender asks.
I have to think it over. Another drink might help – if Callan wants to talk about what happened. Then again, another drink might make me do something stupid. Say too much, maybe.
“No,” I say, waving the bartender off. I leave the bar, taking Callan's clothes with me.
But on the walk back to the room? I find a trash can, and I dump Callan's clothes in it.
“Sorry,” I mutter under my breath. I feel horrible throwing his things away.
But it's not just clothes I'm throwing away. It's evidence. Of something fucked up. Something I witnessed, and – what's more – something I felt but can't quite explain.
I dunno what it means. But I'm perfectly content and fine to take that whole experience and throw it in the garbage, never to see the light of day again. And no one will be any wiser.