In the title story, a routine Sunday swim leads to something far from routine. The narrator finds himself in a crowded locker room, still wet from the pool, when a man walks in-a father, built like someone who doesn't ask permission. While his kid rinses off, the man waits... and watches. The silence between them stretches, heavy with glances and something unspoken. When the man steps under the showerhead-directly in front of him-everything shifts.
The water hits his shaved chest, his black swim briefs cling tighter, and the heat in the room thickens. Their eyes meet. A subtle grin. A flash of skin. The elastic of his briefs tugged down, just enough to show what waits beneath. No words, no questions. Just a shared current, rising.
The hairdryer room is empty. He leads the way. What happens next is fast, quiet, and unforgettable-like breath against a neck, or the last second before the door clicks shut behind you.
Some men fuck with their eyes. Some leave you with the taste of their skin in your mouth long after they're gone.
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