Calves burning, back sweating, pelvic bones cursing its owner profusely. This is the state of my body as I am dragging it up the stairs of my two-story loft, after a gruelling Saturday morning cycle. As I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror, an old venetian relic of my room-mate's Italian proclaimed ancestry, I make a poignant observation: I am all alone for the weekend. Franco, my room-mate, has eloped again for the weekend to his lover's nest. I say 'lover' as it hasn't been clear from our minimal discussion about his 'absences' the gender of his human release. I reckon his trying his utmost to hide something. For which I am humorous enough to allow him to do.
I've been staring at myself for quite a while by now. Watching, no, admiring as the glistening sweat droplets caress my now bare torso. Perhaps it's my narcissistic personality trait, but at that moment I think the reversed image staring back at me is strikingly handsome. Virile even. Tight black cycling shorts, the kind that instantly draws attention to the crotch, is complimented only by the now pulsating muscles of bare torso, and what's exposed of my thighs and legs.
The old venetian mirror has always been a self-confidence enhancing tool. It's long enough to expose my entire body and it has a charming antique look, as if it was made by Instagram. The morning sun, now streaming in freely through our massive double-human sized windows, warms my bare feet on our dark wood floor. Reluctantly, I release my gaze and proceed back to reality. I meander towards the shower, but decide instead to get a smell of the fresh spring air in the patio garden. Frangipanis. They must have just bloomed. I encircle the quaint patio nonchalantly, when an oddly familiar glare demands my attention. I know that glare. It's the kind of glare that can only be generated from a 35mm plus camera lens - a fact fortuitously discovered in a photography practical in second year. Have I got an admirer? Maybe. Perhaps its just my now over-inflated ego whispering sweet nothings. I continue my revolution of the patio, and it hits me again. The glare is following me. This voyeurer is clearly an amateur. Voyeurism 101: target should be none the wiser.
Nevertheless, I indulge my audience of I assume one. I turn around, slowly stretching out my muscles. Arms on hips, legs open a bit wider, I stretch down to the ground. In this precarious position, I steal a glance at where my admirer is positioned - 3rd floor across the street, an apartment block similar to mine, flowing auburn hair encapsulated in a beautiful Nikon lens. She doesn't flinch. But then again, why would she? I am sure her attention is elsewhere on my anatomy - the tight black spandex is making sure of that. Nikola. That's her name. My auburn amateur admirer. She is the 23 year old daughter of the architect that designed these quadruplet of magnificent apartment buildings, situated adjacent to the pier. I wonder if she appreciates her mother's works. Probably. She's currently residing in the penthouse suite.
I re-gather my stance and stride gently to our outdoor shower - a misfit really in this conservative abode. Fully cognisant of her attention on me, I slowly drop my tights - the only covering I have had thus far. I can almost hear her gasp. I imagine her heart racing, palms sweating, not believing her luck. With my back still towards her, I kick away my tights and step inside the shower, pausing just for a second to give stretch of my gluts. "My ass must look so appealing from the vantage point she has." I hear the narcissism in my head tell me.
Hot steam rises out the top of the shower just as shut the semi-transparent door. I decide to go all out in this' cleansing' process. I glide soap around my muscles. Neck, shoulders, down both flanks. The hot water feels so good on my bare skin that my once slow growing cock is now entering the 'raging erection zone'.
