Social Dexterity

The instant he walked into the locker room, I knew he was slumming.

He scanned the room, marking the exits and aisles with the attention of a pilot landing in a strange airport. He took a long look at me, and at Drey, our gym-built Jamaican pal with the foreskin obsession, and selected a locker between us. He took off his managerially cut suit and its expensive accessories, turning to allow each of us a generous look at his lengthy dick, as Drey and I began a simultaneous whistling of "Hey Big Spender". He smiled at this, which was a good sign. He wrapped a towel around his short slim suburban forty-something redheaded wedding-ringed body and walked in the direction of what he correctly assumed to be the showers. Some guys don't even feign the premise of a work-out.

Drey headed upstairs to the weights, and I down to the pool. We are, afterall, among the chased, not the chasers.

At the pool, I find that an exercise class has pre-empted the regularly scheduled lap swim. I throw a minor fit, but they will not open up even a single lane. This is the sort of thing that never happens at our NYC gym, but is part of the constant irritation of life in this mismanaged wretched little city. I head back to the locker room, through the showers, and stop by the sauna. The only other guy in it is Red who is sitting cross-legged on the upper level, and perks up visibly at my arrival, assuming I had followed him there.

I am well launched into a nasty gripe about the pool schedule, and the dirt on the floors and the thievery in the locker room when I notice that Red has begun a forceful manipulation of his dick, building it into a sturdy arc with a trajectory like the bridge in Monet's garden at Giverny. He's not hearing a word I'm saying.

"You're a lefty",I observe.

He nods and smiles and asks if I would mind him standing next to me while he gets off.

My gracious and serene agreement lends the event a Vermeerish atmosphere in which my one work is to pretend to feel unobserved. Red climbs down from his perch and licks my shoulder while his fist moves faster.

"Funny, but that's something I've always done with my left hand, too", I add. "I think it's because my father was bi - I mean ambidexterous." I laugh at what I almost said. "I mean I don't think he was bi, but who knows? My mother said he rarely touched her, but that was more her fault really."

Red wasn't listening. With a groan and a whiplash stretch of his lumbar region, he cupped his other hand just in time to catch the extensive product of his effort.

"Wow. That's quite a puddle in your palm. Been a while, has it?" I said with a low whistle.

He nods yes, catching his breath.

We leave the sauna and I am walking behind him as he heads to the showers, his towel draped over an arm, and holding his hands together at his chest as if cradling a baby robin that has fallen from its nest. The collision happened at the turn leading into the showers.

A large white-haired prominent banker-turned-politician who was leaving the showers walked right into Red, and grabbing him by the shoulders said, "Fred! Howya doin? How's Marian and the kids? I didn't know you were a member here."

F-red was dumbfounded, but finally managed to say, "I'm just getting the tour."

"Well that's great! Welcome aboard!", the big guy said, and extending his hand, "Put it there, pal!"