Just about every tourist attraction has a place where you can go for a different type of R & R. At the local state park, the main attraction is Lookout Point, a scenic overview accessible only by hiking trail. And the reward for that long trek is an overhang several feet down from the observation deck that receives a good amount of the day's sun, making it ideal for sunbathers.

On this particular day, after separating from the crowd and making my way along the narrow path, I arrived at my destination.

 Makeout Point, as the locals call it. The view of the park from here was just as gorgeous, but more secluded. Some boulders, a scattering of wildflowers and--and--no one! I can't believe I trudged all the way up here to--oh, wait a minute. There by a large rock was a pair of feet sticking out; hope he wasn't dead.



Nervously, I stepped closer to see what was attached to those feet: muscular legs, a firmly packed ass and broad shoulders, topped off with auburn colored hair. The whole package was covered in a medium coat of fur that practically sizzled in a mixture of sweat and sunscreen from the mid-day sun. The guy had excellent hearing because he lifted his head and partially propped himself up on one arm to take a look at me, revealing a nice patch of chest hair. "Hey, how's it going?"



I suppose like a lot of guys, the iron bug bit me in high school. I started lifting as a means of getting bigger for football. Many an hour was logged in the weight room in the quest for strength and size. Even while trying to stay focused during all those hours and all that hard work, it was hard not to develop a fine appreciation for the male physique in all the various shapes and forms that were on display in that sweaty, musky chamber on a daily basis. 



My grades didn’t qualify me for college, but my competitive nature wouldn’t let me sit still. So, after dabbling in bodybuilding for a few years, I settled on power lifting and racked up enough trophies to fill two wall cases. Now closing in on thirty years since high school, my joints have forced me to retire from the contest arena, but I still keep active with regular workouts at Jake's Gym, an old school facility located in the rear of a building with the only access by way of an intimidating dead-end alley. The weights, benches and racks have a slightly rusted hue from the perpetual Pittsburgh humidity, and plenty of dents from the years of brutal and constant use.



As for the owner, Jake, I suppose he’s a lot like his gym, a little beat up but at his core, all power. At six foot two, with a salt and pepper beard, bald on top, and muscle upon muscle from years of experience in the iron game, he can be an imposing figure. About five years my senior, Jake has become a trusted confidant and mentor. And to me, he’s without a doubt the sexiest man alive. Hardly a night goes by that I don’t jack myself to sleep fantasizing about him and waking up with stained sheets. When I’m not at work, I try to spend as much of my free time in the gym, watching his every move out of the corner of my eye. If I could live there, I’d gladly take up residence just to be closer to him. Now, before you go thinking that I’m some sort of stalker, let me relate what happened last Friday night.



I had just finished an all-out balls-to-the-wall workout, looking forward to the upcoming weekend. Jake and I were the only ones left, and after locking up, he began to clean and straighten while I headed downstairs to shower up. Jake had converted a bathroom into a makeshift locker room with a fiberglass shower stall, a few chairs and a used bank of lockers that he had bought from an area high school that had recently upgraded its facilities. 



Like many a young buck fresh out of college with a degree in his hand, I was ready to conquer the world. But with the world not exactly beating a path to my door, I was stuck biding my time at the local affiliate of a computer chain store. Not the greatest job, but at least I get to make house calls to the customers' PCs. And my most recent experience has made the work all the more enjoyable.



Max Parker was the store's most valuable customer, a local entrepreneur who bought thousands of dollars worth of software every month. I remember seeing him on a couple of occasions, but we never had the chance to meet. I was quite surprised to learn that he had specifically requested me for a service call to his home. When I arrived and rang the doorbell, I was not prepared for the way he greeted me.



Evenly matched in height, Max was a powerfully built man with light brown hair and a full, darker-shaded beard. And did I mention he answered the door in a thin but snugly fitting pair of running shorts and tennis shoes? Nothing else--just shorts and shoes. Flashing a brilliant smile, he shook my hand. "Hey, Ryan. Good to see you," he stated. "Sorry about my appearance. I was just going out for my afternoon run." I took a deep breath and tried to regain my composure. "Not a problem," I assured him. 



"The computer's in the den," he said, ushering me into the lavishly furnished room. "Make yourself comfortable. You may be here for a while.

"You wanted to see me, Coach?"



"Come in and close the door," he instructed. 

It was the end of the first week of practice, and I had worked hard to win one of the walk-on spots on the university baseball team. From the look on the coach's face, I had the feeling my late afternoons were about to become free again.



"I'm going to be honest with you," he said, in a soft tone of voice that seemed out of place with his gruff exterior. Other guys on the team were easily intimidated, but I found something attractive about his buzz-cut hair, bushy mustache and day's growth of stubble. "You're showing a lot of difficulty with your fielding and batting. You've got wheels, so I could always use you as a pinch runner, but I need my players to be more versatile." 



"I can put in extra hours in the batting cage with the pitching machine, but I'd need someone to field with," I replied. "I'd like the chance to change your mind about me. Give me one more week to prove that I'll do whatever it takes to make the team."



"Anything?" the coach questioned, his lips forming a crooked smile. I suddenly felt a little vulnerable, standing there with just a towel around my waist; I had just gotten out of the shower when the coach had summoned me. Shifting my weight, I broadened my stance, bringing my hands to rest in front of the towel, trying to quell the sudden stirring I felt at his last comment.

I suppose like a lot of guys, the iron bug bit me in high school. I started lifting as a means of getting bigger for football. Many an hour was logged in the weight room in the quest for strength and size. Even while trying to stay focused during all those hours and all that hard work, it was hard not to develop a fine appreciation for the male physique in all the various shapes and forms that were on display in that sweaty, musky chamber on a daily basis.

My grades didn't qualify me for college, but my competitive nature wouldn't let me sit still. So, after dabbling in bodybuilding for a few years, I settled on power lifting and racked up enough trophies to fill two wall cases. Now closing in on thirty years since high school, my joints have forced me to retire from the contest arena, but I still keep active with regular workouts at Jake's Gym, an old school facility located in the rear of a building with the only access by way of an intimidating dead-end alley. The weights, benches and racks have a slightly rusted hue from the perpetual Pittsburgh humidity, and plenty of dents from the years of brutal and constant use.

As for the owner, Jake, I suppose he's a lot like his gym, a little beat up but at his core, all power. At six foot two, with a salt and pepper beard, bald on top, and muscle upon muscle from years of experience in the iron game, he can be an imposing figure. About five years my senior, Jake has become a trusted confidant and mentor. And to me, he's without a doubt the sexiest man alive. Hardly a night goes by that I don't jack myself to sleep fantasizing about him and waking up with stained sheets. When I'm not at work, I try to spend as much of my free time in the gym, watching his every move out of the corner of my eye. If I could live there, I'd gladly take up residence just to be closer to him. Now, before you go thinking that I'm some sort of stalker, let me relate what happened last Friday night.

I had just finished an all-out balls-to-the-wall workout, looking forward to the upcoming weekend. Jake and I were the only ones left, and after locking up, he began to clean and straighten while I headed downstairs to shower up. Jake had converted a bathroom into a makeshift locker room with a fiberglass shower stall, a few chairs and a used bank of lockers that he had bought from an area high school that had recently upgraded its facilities.

The water was nice and warm as it massaged my aching muscles, relieving the soreness from my iron session. I had just rinsed the soap off when I heard Jake's voice yell out. "Rich, I need you! Right now!"

Startled by the tone in his voice, which was different from the way he yelled during workouts, I quickly turned off the water and debated for a second whether I should try to dress before responding to his cry for help. Instead, I wrapped a towel around my waist and ascended the stairs in my bare feet.

The room was all but dark except for the single row of lights that were left on at night for security purposes. At first I didn't see him when I called out. "Jake, where are you? What's wrong?"

"I need some lovin', that's what's wrong."

I turned to see him standing in the recess of the room that was hidden from the window. Almost spotlighted from the ceiling lamp above, Jake stood totally naked except for the leather boots that he worked out in. His thick chest hair thinned out as it descended toward a patch of pubic hair that surrounded a currently soft but thick and long cock that hung slightly to one side.