I stood under the shower, lost in my thoughts as warm water cascaded down
my body. The past few weeks with my wife had been brutal–constant
arguments, blatant disrespect, and stinging verbal abuse had pushed me to
the edge. I felt trapped, unsure of what to do next.
My spiraling thoughts snapped to a halt when I turned and saw him. There
he was: a tall, lean, muscular man with a short stubbled beard, showering
in the stall across from mine. Water glistened on his chest as it flowed
over his medium brown skin. Our eyes met briefly–too briefly–before we
both turned away, pretending it hadn’t happened.
A bit about me: I’m a 24-year-old registered nurse, specializing in
post-surgical care for neurosurgery patients. At 5’6″ and 142 pounds,
I’m fit, with a 30-inch waist and a smooth swimmer’s build. I’m a
mutt, a mix of half-Caucasian, half-Vietnamese from both parents. My
features lean white, except for my almond-shaped eyes. I wear my black
hair long–over six inches–flowing down to my shoulders. I twist it into
a ponytail, secured with a clip.
My wife, also a nurse, and I met in high school, went to same nursing
school. That’s how we hooked up, moved in together, and married right
after graduation from the nursing school–a whirlwind romance that
unfolded over seven years. She was 2nd generation Vietnamese American.
Back then, I thought we were a match made-in heaven. How wrong I was.
After the wedding, we relocated to Southern California, settling into a
nice rental apartment near the sprawling hospital where we both worked.
For a while, it felt like a fresh start. But it didn’t take long for
things to shift. Suddenly, I couldn’t do anything right in her eyes. Her
constant nagging wore me down, and we began to drift apart. Within a
year, our intimacy crumbled–I found myself begging for sex, only to be
met with rejection. Eventually, it dwindled to nothing.
I love sex–a lot of it. But after marriage, she changed. She started
calling me a pervert, an animal, for wanting it, for daring to ask. That
wedge drove us apart, first emotionally, then physically. Tired of the
endless rejections, we stopped sharing a bed. Separate rooms followed
soon after.
We couldn’t stand the sight of each other anymore. To avoid her, I
switched my shifts from days to nights, ensuring our schedules never
overlapped. It worked, mostly. I knew divorce was looming, but I
couldn’t bring myself to take the first step–not when it would crush my
mother. Cheating wasn’t an option either; my father had done that,
abandoning six-year-old me and my mom. I refused to follow in his
footsteps.
To escape the stress and avoid my wife, I joined a high-end fitness
center near the hospital. My job covered the membership, a small perk I
clung to. My routine was simple: after my morning shift ended, I’d swim
20-25 laps in the pool, shower, and head home. It was at this gym, in
that very shower, where I first saw him.
After finishing my shower that day, I stepped into the locker room to
dress. The place was nearly empty, the quiet hum of the vents filling the
space. Then I heard a voice. Glancing to my left, I saw him again.
He stood about 25 feet away, at the far end of the room, talking to
James, the gym manager. They faced each other, perpendicular to me,
oblivious to my presence. He was stark naked, not a stitch of clothing on
him. His body radiated strength and quiet confidence, his medium brown
skin catching the overhead light. He was lean muscular and defined, with
broad shoulders, sculpted biceps, a chiseled chest, and abs that hinted
at discipline. His thighs, thick and powerful like a soccer player’s,
grounded his upright posture. His broad chiseled jawline, the Roman nose
and pronounced cheekbones added to his suave personality. His voice, deep
and commanding, carried an effortless masculinity. In his nakedness, he
was standing with such stoic, confident swagger that he gave an
impression of a battle-hardened soldier. What stood out most was the
substantial, brown length hanging between his legs. I had never
encountered anything quite like it in my life. It had to be at least
eight inches, if not more, and remarkably thick.
His stunning, bare physique looked like something straight out of a
fitness magazine. He carried himself with no trace of shame or
embarrassment, as though he took pride in displaying his impressive
form.
He looked to be in his late 40s or early 50s, with slightly graying hair
kept in a neat crew cut and a trimmed beard framing his face. There was
something about him–something magnetic–that lingered in my mind long
after I looked away.
Once dressed, I quickly exited before being caught staring at him. James
saw me, excused himself and ran after me.
“Hey Joey,” He said with a sigh of relief as if he wanted to get away
from that man.
“Hey James,” I replied as we walked out the locker room.
James and I had been friends ever since I joined the gym. He is a
Vietnamese mutt like me. We are almost the same age.
——-
A week later, while I was sleeping during the day, a knock on the door
jolted me awake. It was the police. My wife had accused me of rape and
domestic abuse. A few days after posting bail, I was served divorce
papers and a restraining order. My credit card was maxed out, my bank
account drained. When I showed up at my job, they informed me I was
suspended without pay until the criminal case against me was resolved.
There I was–beaten down, homeless, with nothing but my car, a phone, and
a suitcase with a few belongings. The only person I could think of who
might help was James. So, I reached out to him.
James lived with his girlfriend, which meant I couldn’t stay with them
for long. Still, he did what he could, helping me search for a place to
live. My mom sent me some money, and with that, I managed to get by
temporarily.
Next day, I arrived at an address James had given me. A man in his 60s
greeted me and led me to what seemed like an in-law unit attached to the
main house. It was a fully furnished, 600-square-foot space–just one
room with a closet, a small kitchen, and a decent bathroom. When I opened
the kitchen window, I caught sight of a long lap pool in a meticulously
manicured backyard. The unit even had an attached garage and a separate
side entrance.
All I needed was a temporary shelter until my legal troubles were sorted
out. After that, I planned to head back home to Atlanta. This place was
far better than I’d expected–a gated community in a wealthy
neighborhood, close to the hospital.
Before I could say anything, the older man spoke up.
“Well, I should tell you the unit doesn’t have drinking water,” he
said. “You’ll need to buy your own, or if Andy allows it, you can get
some from the water dispenser in the washer/dryer room. You’ll have to
ask him about that. No parties, no smoking inside, either.”
“How much is the rent?” I asked politely.
“It’s $1,200 a month,” he replied. “You’ll need to talk to Andy
about the details. There are a few things you’ll have to do. Supervise
the weekly house cleaning, make sure the mower shows up every week, and
check that the pool guy cleans the pool. Dry cleaners pick up and drop
off clothes–you’ll handle that, too, since Andy travels a lot these
days. Oh, and check the mail daily, bring the packages inside.”
I took a moment to think it over. All this Andy guy wanted was someone to
keep things running smoothly for him. I had nowhere else to go, and I
needed a place to stay so badly that I said, “OK.”
“Alright!” the man responded.
An hour later, Andy called me. We spoke for a few minutes, and just like
that, the unit was mine. I moved in the next day.
A couple of days later, Andy returned from a work trip and knocked on my
door. When I opened it, I froze. Standing there 5 feet away was the same
man I’d seen at the gym.
He wore white cotton pants with drawstrings and a loose, light blue
half-sleeve cotton shirt, the top buttons left undone. His musky scent
wafted toward me, and the sight of his long, muscular neck and taut
masculinity–practically spilling out of his clothes–brushed against my
senses, stirring something deep in my stomach. As he stood there, a
sudden flashback hit me: a fleeting glimpse of him naked in the gym. The
memory sent a ripple of nervous fluttering through me. His eyes swept
over me, scanning from head to toe, while his voice emerged calm and
steady.
“Hi, Joey. I’m Andy–Andy Mathews,” he said, offering a faint smile.
“Hello, Mr. Mathews,” I replied meekly as I met his gaze.