Torso Tackle

1: Stress Retention

“Close your eyes and don’t move,” I say over Jory’s right shoulder. My hands are locked against his tight torso, and my fingertips dig into his hairy skin.

“Where do you think I’m going to go?”

“Be quiet. Concentrate.”

We stand in the center of my office, blocking out the sounds of the city: horns blaring, people yelling, pigeons on the concrete windowsill doing whatever pigeons do in early October. My firm middle is pressed against his backside, exactly where I want it to be. I breathe in his scent of Lever 2000 soap and expensive cologne.

“I feel it,” Jory whispers.

My fingertips deeply dig into his chest’s firm muscles and I reply, “Your core. Now inhale slowly.”

He listens, taking in a deep breath.

“And exhale.”

Jory continues to listen.

“This is how you relax. This is a good way to find your Zen after a stressful game on the field.”

“Or before?”

“Exactly.” I place my chin on his shoulder. I want to kiss his neck; a desire I have always wanted to accomplish with his skin for the last two years. Jory Sole will send me to the hospital, though, if I do decide to cup my lips against his corded skin. One punch will turn into twenty. A coma for three months will be a gift from him if I decide to carry out such a risky act. There is no way I will make a move on the football player, though. Instead, I pass on my hunger for his delicious flesh.

“Sebastian, are you hard back there?”

I lie and say, “It’s your imagination.”

“I swear I feel your dick against my ass. What’s going on, man?”

“You’re wrong,” I reply, drop my hand from his middle, and pull away from him.

Jory spins around, facing me. He takes a second to study me and ogles my 5'10”, twenty-six-year-old frame. His gaze studies my blond hair, topaz blue eyes, and thin build. Of course he finds my 180 pounds attractive, which I believe is everything he seems to like in a man. I’m a pretty boy with a career in alternative physical therapy, ex-smoker, runner, indiscreetly gay (except with professional football players), and I’m currently single.

I study his six-three frame from head to toe, placing him at twenty-eight-years-old: onyx-colored hair and eyes, slim nose, broad shoulders, no tattoos, pecs of steel, rigid lines that design his abs, pelt of dark fur on his massive V-shaped chest, Diesel jeans snug around his narrow middle, leather belt in place with a silver buckle, and no shoes.

No longer is my wood a concern. It goes limp as quickly as it inflates because of his awareness of the tool. Instead, I ask, “What do you think about the stress retention exercise?”

He lights up with an ear-to-ear smile that beams white and says, “I think that breathing maneuver will work when I start to freak out because of nerves.”

I poke his chest with an extended finger and respond, “Don’t just use it for football. It’s a proven technique for all stressful situations.”

He holds out a titanic hand for me to shake, which I do, and compliments me. “You’re a genius at this stuff.”

“Making the body feel better is my career. It’s what I went to school for. It’s why I’m in business and get up in the morning.”

“I should have had you in my life a long time ago.”

It’s music to my ears; something I have always wanted to hear from him. “Better late than never,” is my response, and he gathers up his shirt from my sofa, slipping his bulky arms into the cotton material. Unfortunately, he has every intention of covering his rigid chest, reducing my interest. Before this transpires, he heads to my office door for his exit exposing his hairy perfection for my simple delight.

“Jory!” I call out his name, nervous as hell and jittery in the middle of the floor. Never has a guy caused me to feel so…uneven, but the football player does. Shame on him.

His dress shirt is still unbuttoned. The cotton is open and his richly tanned and furry chest is generously exposed for my pleasure. Royal blue shirttails drape down and over his leather belt and its silver buckle, which causes my rod to bounce inside its khakis.

“What?” escapes his handsome and pink-lipped mouth.

“Next week, same time, same place?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he replies, vanishing from my life again.

Dammit!

2: Coveting Ben

Ben lifts weights in our living room, distracting me again. No longer can I concentrate on my client notes, particularly the one-hour therapy session with Jory Sole.