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Street View  •  Chapter 1

by Sean Reid Scott  •  First published years ago


[NOTICE: This story contains vivid descriptions of homosexual encounters. There's lurid, kinky sex here. Homo sex. It's prolly straight out of HELL, if you're inclined to hold the religious perspective. Really, this story is not for those who button the collar tightly. If you can't stomach this kind of smut, skedaddle. Likewise if you're under 18.]



TODAY WOULD BE THE DAY. I’d been planning this for months— almost ever since I’d first seen the guy down on the street. That first day I saw him. I’d hit pay dirt for sure.

I’d never really admitted to myself why I rented an apartment that looked down on a street where a gym was located; right across the street. And I was on the third floor, with an unobstructed view of the street and parking lot of said gym— a gym that catered to the big guys, as opposed to the 40-somethings who just wanted to keep their hearts pumping. Yeah, I’d never really admitted that the reason I rented this place was because of my infatuation with muscle dudes. Okay… an addiction.

I’d done everything but actually set up a video recorder on a tripod. I had blinds installed, so I could surreptitiously watch the musclemen come and go. It was the perfect setup. Most of the bodybuilders parked in the club’s lot, and even there I had a pretty good view; some, however, had the habit of parking on the street, which gave me an even better vantage point.

Then there was "Mr. White Toyota 4WD." The guy I mentioned at the top of this little yarn. He pulled up one day, parked his glistening-clean rig on the street, on the far side, giving me a perfect view. I could tell even before he got out that he held promise. A lot of promise. As his hands rested on the steering wheel, it was obvious this dude had some guns. More like bazookas. That day, he wore one of those ringer T-shirts— the kind with dark rings around the neck and the short sleeves. And holy fuck, those rings wrapped tightly around this guy's biceps and triceps.

He threw his rig in park and opened the door— and it was then, as I peeked through the slits of my blinds, that I saw just how much beef the dude was carrying— everywhere. His shoulders were thick and wide: Traps that bulged next to his bull neck; deltoids that seriously had to cause a major wind wake when he walked.

But fuck, it was his thick, bulbous pecs that just caused my breath to hitch. For an instant, I think I also saw his nipples poking through that ice blue fabric. Did I mention his gorgeous dirty-blond hair? Might have been highlighted on top. Or it could have been natural— from the summer sun. It was cut short, but not military short. Cropped on the sides, and longer on top. Just so handsome.

I remember after he stepped out, he leaned back inside to grab his duffel. And Oh. My. God. Lats that spread wide over his cab’s seat; they narrowed down to his waist— shit. The guy looked competition-ready. His waist poured into his jeans and as I stared as his back side I was so thankful that he was having a little bit of a time retrieving that bag, because he was providing a show that no gay guy should have to endure without the benefit of coming. That ass was the tightest, roundest… God Almighty those glutes were HOT! Probably a lot of the hotness was due to the fact that the upper legs of this stud were ginormous! Breathtakingly huge!

I actually fogged up my window through the blinds I was breathing so hard, just ogling this guy’s body. He finally retrieved his bag and closed his door. His gait was confident, but definitely not strutting. His right triceps bulged huge as he carried his large duffel beside him. He was inside the gym way too soon for my tastes.

An hour and 17 minutes later, the guy emerged. He had changed into a tank top and shorts for his workout, and I nearly fell backwards onto my coffee table. The yellow tank clung to his torso with his sweat. He obviously wasn’t a take-my-shower-at-the-gym kind of guy. I can see why: He’d probably cause a riot if he walked around the locker room naked. There’s only so much the general public (even the general male public) can take.

Anyway, that was the first day. And almost immediately thereafter I started fantasizing about approaching the guy somehow. You know, just be randomly walking down the street when he arrives. His workout schedule became very predictable, and it wouldn’t have taken much for me to plan out a strategy where I could be stationed at the end of the block when he arrived, then I would start walking toward him. The first time, maybe I’d just say “hi,” to see if he was friendly. Then later, I might give him a look and say something like, “Whoa, man. You look like you’re ready for a contest!” Or something like that. I’ve learned, over the years, if you compliment a bodybuilder— without getting all gay on him— they often are quite friendly to positive feedback like that.

But, did I mention that I’m kinda not that brave? I’ve struck up a conversation with a few guys before, and the discussions usually turned out pretty well. But still, this guy was totally intimidating.

So, I came up with a plan: Leave a note on his windshield. I know, it sounds corny… and pretty risky. But really, the risk could be minimized. He could easily just ignore the note. Or, he could perhaps respond. I have no idea how many draft notes I wrote— tossing them all. But I finally came up with a note that I thought might work. And today was the day I was going to deliver it. As soon as the guy parked and got inside the gym I’d go downstairs and put the note under his wiper blade. He’d be in the gym for over an hour, so the risk of being caught was minimal.

My heart pounded in my chest as I waited. And sure enough, at 4:30 he pulled into an empty spot on the street. As soon as he was inside the gym, I was out my door. Three minutes later I was back in my apartment, gazing down on his rig. His truck was sparkling clean; always was. I had taken the opportunity to glance inside the cab: immaculate. I had fumbled nervously with the wiper blade. My hands visibly shook. But I got the note secured, and I turned and scurried back across the street.

Now, upstairs, I waited. I swear, I stood at the window for the whole hour-plus. I didn’t want to miss his reaction.

Then, finally, he emerged. He wore a white sleeveless muscle shirt. God, please kill me now. Those arms!

I panicked. I wanted to run out of my apartment and into the hallway, just to get away from the window. But I froze; horrified at the prospect of a negative reaction on his part.

He pressed a button on his fob and the truck’s lights flashed, unlocking his door. He threw his bag inside, pushing it to the passenger side of the bench. He had his ass on his seat, reaching to close his door before he actually saw it. I couldn’t really read him as he got out to grab it. He was probably a little pissed, thinking it was some kind of flyer for a business or something. Scientology. Maybe the Policeman’s ball. But my note was folded, four times. Hand-written on notebook paper.

He got out, rounded his door and stretched out one of those mighty arms, pulling the paper out from under his wiper blade. As he unfolded it, I swear to you that even from the third floor I could see the muscles in his forearms rippling and moving as they directed his fingers.

He stopped, holding the now-unfolded page open. He was reading it. I almost choked on my fear. I took a step back from the window, but couldn’t bear to miss anything, so I moved forward again. Surely, even if he did pick out my apartment, he couldn’t see me, could he?

StreetV1I could see him pull his neck back, signaling either unbelief at what he was reading— or maybe it was disgust? Outrage? Irritation?

He dropped his hand to his side, still holding the note, and I could see him scanning the front of the gym, maybe trying to look inside the front windows. Then he looked across the gym’s parking lot. Then he looked down at the cars parked behind his truck on the street. Then across the street, to my side. But to my pleasure, he didn’t look up and the apartment building in which I stood. He was thinking two-dimensional.

He was standing there, with his cab door open, looking… when he concluded that he wasn’t going to find the note-sender, he rounded his door again, sat on his seat and closed the door. Apparently he kept the note, because I didn’t see him throw it down on the street, and it wasn’t on the pavement after he left.

“Hi, I hope this doesn’t seem too forward, but I noticed you a few days ago, when you came to the gym, and I just wanted to tell you how blown away I am by your development. You’re obviously very committed, and I would guess you’ve been in (and won) more that your share of bodybuilding shows.

“Anyway, I don’t want to seem weird or anything, but I just wanted to compliment you on your physique. Maybe I’ll get brave enough to introduce myself one of these days. Kinda intimidated right now… an admirer.”

I hoped it didn’t seem too weird. The last thing I wanted to do was to scare him away. I tried to not give away that I saw him on the street when he parked. Maybe he’d think I was some gym rat inside the club. If he thought I was watching him on the street (which, of course, I was) then he’d probably start parking somewhere else. If he thought I was a guy inside the gym, he might stop going to that gym altogether. Or at least change his schedule.

I didn’t give up my gender in the note, but maybe it was obvious I was a guy. And gay. Who knows what he was thinking. Best case scenario: He was a closet muscle flexer who loved to have his body worshipped and eventually we’d hook up. Worst case: He was a rabid homophobe who was also a private detective and he’d make me within an hour, come up to my apartment and stab me in my sleep that night.

That’d totally ruin my day.

That night I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. What the fuck have I done? I thought. The guy was some kind of nut case if he didn’t get all pissed over the note.

The next day, right on schedule, the dude pulled up and parked where he regularly did. And he looked as fiiiiiiine as ever. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect, manly, muscular, gorgeous body. He seemed to not even remember that there might be a voyeur watching him. Same routine with his duffel, and walking into the gym like nothing was up. Maybe he was used to random notes like that. Whewww! At least he wasn’t scared. Yet.

An hour and 15 minutes later he emerged from his workout, got in his rig and drove off. It was time for me to solidify step two of my plan. Who knew if I’d be brave enough to go past step two. It would actually depend on his reaction.

I jerked off that night, once again to his muscular body, dreaming of the impossible— an up-close-and-personal encounter.

The next day was Thursday. And he showed up right on schedule. As soon as he was in, I was downstairs again, securing another note on his windshield.

“Hi again, I just wanted to let you know that I’m not trying to be a pest or anything, but I have to tell you that you are a real inspiration to me. But I also understand that my messages might be a little annoying. I hope they aren’t scary to you. I’m harmless! :)

“So anyway, if you would ever be interested in meeting for coffee or something, I’ve come up with a way for you to either let me know you’re interested, or to tell me to bug off. When you get in your rig today (which, incidentally is awesome!), here’s how you can send me a message. If you think you might want to have coffee some time turn on your headlights as you drive off. If you want me to bug off, instead of turning on your headlights, just honk your horn a few times. I’ll be able to see, or hear, either response. And you don’t have to do it today either. If you want to think about your response before you give me a signal, that’s okay. Just drive off without doing either, and then give me the message in a day or two. No pressure.

“I hope your workouts are all good in the future, man! —a (male) admirer.”

He stood on the street with his door open as he read my note, just like last time. When he was done, he looked around to the gym, then the parking lot, then the street, just like last time.

My heart pounded so hard I thought I might keel over.

He just stood there, surveying his surroundings, most likely looking for anyone who might be standing, like, in the lobby of the gym, or on a street corner, or maybe sitting in a parked car nearby. Finally, he got into his truck and started up the engine. I could see him looking around some more. He checked his rearview mirror. Then he glanced around one again. He sat there for a moment, his hands on his steering wheel, those enormous arms just hanging there in all their glory.

Eventually, he threw on his turn signal and pulled away from the curb. I listened. I watched. He got down to the corner of the block. The light was red. There were no lights on, on his truck. The light turned green, and he proceeded through the intersection. No horn honk.

I ran into my bedroom and threw myself on the bed, almost screaming. What does this mean? Is he seriously considering meeting me? My mind swam. I lay, face down on my bed, and opened my mouth, yelling as loud as I could, into the mattress. Wait. Maybe his horn is broken! No, he obviously takes meticulous care of that truck. He’d never drive with a non-working horn. I rolled from left to right and back again, not knowing the implications of my actions.

Clearly, he didn’t delay because he wasn’t sure he wanted to tell me to bug off. The only real reason that he’d delay in giving me a signal would be because he was thinking about meeting me, right?

I slept maybe an hour that night. And the next day I was totally worthless at work. My shift starts at 6AM, and I get off just after 3:00. I was definitely not rested for work. And even if I had gotten a reasonable amount of sleep, I still would have been so preoccupied that I wouldn’t have been any good.

As soon as my shift ended, I was home in a flash, the blinds at my window turned to the exactly right angle. I think I was running on more adrenaline than blood, and I remember telling myself that I’d need to take a sleeping pill or three that night.

Finally, 4:30 came around. I stood at the mostly-closed blinds, peering out to the sunny street.

No white Toyota pickup. No dude.

Ten more minutes passed. He was nowhere. I scanned the parking lot of the gym just to make sure he hadn’t parked somewhere else. I would have seen him if he had parked on some other street and walked, I told myself. No one could have gotten in or out without me seeing.

My heartbeats decreased dramatically. I became worried. Fuck, I did scare him away. Then I became disappointed. I sighed.

Maybe, since this was Friday, he had a date and postponed his workout, I pled with the muscle gods. That’s it, isn’t it? Worst case scenario: He decided to ditch the voyeur and join another gym. That’d be stupid. He’s muscles out to here. Why would he let anyone intimidate him? I TOLD him how to signal me if he wanted me to bug off… Then this thought struck: Maybe, though, he knew that even if he had honked his horn, I’d still always be there… somewhere… watching him.

I sighed again. I stood by the window for another hour and a half— in vain.

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The three sleeping pills definitely helped that night, but I still did my share of tossing and turning. I had blown it, and I couldn’t help but beat myself up with that fact.

The next day was Saturday. The dude worked out six days a week: Every weekday, and then alternating Saturday and Sunday, with no regular pattern. So it was about a 50/50 chance that he’d plan on working out today. Unless, of course, he was at another gym.

I was home for part of the day Saturday, but didn’t see him. Ditto for Sunday.

Maybe he was taking a 3-day weekend.

Monday at 4:30, as I stood watch, I vacillated between hope and despair. Still no sign. But then… in the corner of my eye, a white vehicle. I turned my eyes toward it and… yes! It was him! Oh fucking god! I was beside myself. And too my elation, the guy had his headlights on! In broad daylight! He never had his headlights on before! He pulled into a spot on the street and turned off the lights. He gave me the orgasm-stimulating back shot once again as he retrieved his duffel from the passenger side of his bench seat. God, those glutes!

This was a little unusual: He was already wearing his workout clothes. He usually came in street clothes and changed inside. But today he wore that white sleeveless muscle shirt and workout shorts. Fuck: his arms! I never would ever get used to those guns. He closed his door and pressed his fob. His truck lights flashed. Then… what’s this? He paused. He looked around a bit, then placed a small piece of paper under his wiper blade! What the fuck?

He walked into the gym, and I stood there staring between the blinds, dumbfounded.

Obviously, the note was for me. But the question is, if I go down there to retrieve it, will he be standing just inside the gym lobby, and run out and confront me when he sees me take it? I couldn’t take that risk. I totally froze. There was no way in hell I was going down there.

No way.

I sat down on my couch and buried my face in my hands. God. I did a bunch of calculations in my head: Could I make it across the street, grab the note, and then get back inside my apartment lobby before someone could get out of the gym lobby and nab me? What if I crawled on my stomach across the street, so as to not be seen by anyone inside the gym? Yeah, and get run over in the process. I sighed.

Then I popped a thought: He might be watching for a few minutes, but I bet he’s not willing to give up his whole workout to keep an eye on his rig. The weight floor would not provide any kind of view of his rig, so he’d have to give up looking eventually if he was planning on working out. I figured that my best shot would be sometime around mid-way of his workout. At that point he’d be most likely to have given up waiting, and least likely to end his workout soon to return to his stakeout.

At 5:00 I found myself in my apartment lobby. Fuck, I forgot about the security buzzer. It would take me a few extra seconds to punch in my security code and unlock the door when I returned from the street. A few extra seconds that might mean the difference between success, and having the muscle dude run up on me, drag me into the street and beat the shit out of me in front of God and everyone.

But I had to try. I had to.

With my heart in my neck, I stood at the glass door, looking outside. It was time. In an act of absolute unbridled bravery that I had never imagined possessing, I shoved the horizontal bar of the door, unlocking it, and I ran. Like hell. The white rig was directly across from my door, so it took only a few seconds to get there. I grabbed at the note— it was only the size of a business card. But his wiper blade had caught it, and it wouldn’t immediately give. I yanked at it, hoping I wasn’t going to break the blade. This is taking too much time! I glanced at the gym doors. I refocused my attention on the paper. Finally, I had it in my trembling hand. I looked back to the gym’s double doors. The sun was so bright that I couldn’t see past the reflection, but to my horror… the door started to open.

Fuck! I turned immediately and ran back toward my apartment’s door in an all-out sprint. I punched in my code and about ten years later the buzzer sounded and the lock snapped with a bang. I pulled the door open and slinked inside, panting. The door locked behind me. I paused, looking across the street. The gym door was closed, but there was no one walking away from it. If someone had been coming out when I saw it open, they’d have to still be within ten feet of it. But there was no one. Only possibility: The guy had opened it, but had retreated when he realized I would be inside the apartment before he could get to me.

Fuck! Now he knows where I live? I hadn’t thought about the ramifications of that. And, had he seen me? Did he get a good look at me? Fuck. I returned to my apartment so nervous that I didn’t even read the note till I was inside, behind my deadbolt.

I looked at the note. The card was totally blank except for a short message and a request that I email him.

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

My immediate thought was that I’d need to set up a new email address to do this. No way would I use my regular email. My second thought was to get to the window and see if the dude was out there. I did. He wasn’t.

At least, not for a few seconds. Way before his workout should have ended, he emerged from the gym’s double glass doors and walked to his rig. Then… and this to my absolute horror… when he got to the driver’s door, he paused. He turned around and faced my apartment building. For the first time since I had ever seen him, he looked up. He scanned my building. He seemed to stare down every fucking window in the building. When he got to mine, I took a step back from the blinds. Even though he wouldn’t have been able to see me.

Fuck, he had seen me! He knew that I watched him from across the street.

I stood there, frozen. Then, the most amazing thing happened! He opened his truck’s door, then turned back to my building. Slowly, as I almost died right then and there, the dude put his hands on the hem of his muscle shirt… and he started lifting it! Slowly. His magnificent arms bulged. And then I saw his abs. Fucking Shiiiiit! He was dramatic. He knew exactly what the fuck he was doing. He lifted the shirt off his head and tossed it on the far side of his truck’s bench seat.

If I died in the next five minutes, my life would have been fulfilled. The guy was astoundingly built. Not an ounce of fat. Perfect proportions. Just gorgeous!

He paused for only a second. Was that a slight flex of his upper body? Like a mini most-muscular? The guy was teasing me! Taunting his secret admirer! Holy fucking fuck!

Fucking holy fuck!

He didn’t stand there long. Once his muscles rippled, oh so slightly, he sat in the driver’s seat, closed the door and took off.

…and I had his email address.



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© 2018 & earlier, Sean Reid Scott

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