The Hardest Thing

New York City noticed my absence. “I’ve been working.”

    “Good to see you back.”
    “Thanks, man.” I strolled over to the water cooler; he followed me.
    “What’s your line of work?”
    “This and that,” I said. “Been doing a bit of personal security.”
    His eyebrows flickered upward. “Nice.” He smiled.
    “And you?” I had no real desire to engage him in conversation, but I do have some basic manners. “What do you do?”
    “Oh, I’m semiretired now,” he said, scratching his grey beard. “Still do a few jobs for the old firm.”
    “And what was that?”
    “I’m a lawyer.”
    I nodded. “That so?”
    “Yeah.”
    I drank, he drank.
    “What sort of stuff?”
    “Criminal, mostly.”
    “Mmm-hmm.” He was starting to look more interesting. “White-collar?”
    “Yeah. Did a few high-profile RICO cases back in the day.” He laughed. “That’s a great way to make enemies.”
    “I bet.” I wonder…I just wonder… “Well, I’m done for now. Think I’ll hit the steam room.”
    “Okay.”
    “You coming?”
    His face lit up. “Sure. Great idea.”
    “Right.” In the locker room I stripped and headed for the shower, pretty sure that he’d follow. He did.
    My gym is one of those old-fashioned places
untouched by twenty-first-century prudery—three chrome showerheads sticking out of the wall, no cubicles or dividers, just a wall of white tile, tolerably clean. The water was hot and strong, and at least one of the dispensers had soap in it. I picked the right-hand shower and got washing.
    He took the left-hand one. I wondered what excuse he’d find to move to the middle.
    By the time I’d washed my face and got the soap out of my eyes, he was standing under the water facing me, one hand against the wall, the other pulling his foot up for a quad stretch. How many times, I wondered, did he go through this routine? How many casual conversations on the gym floor were followed by hopeful trip to the showers? Oh, well—it was nice to be admired. And he wasn’t bad looking, for an old guy. I mean, one day I’d be that age…
    And then I saw it. It was semifluffed, not quite hanging straight down. Next to his bent leg it looked like a slightly smaller extra limb. I did a double take, stared for a moment then realized what I was doing. He didn’t miss it. I guess he was used to it.
    “I did legs today,” he said, sounding very matter-of-fact. “Feeling a bit creaky.” He swapped legs, and his meat flopped around a bit, a stream of water shooting off the end. “At my age, you don’t snap back into shape quite so quick.”
    “You look pretty good to me.”
    “Thanks.” He put his foot down and ran a hand along his stomach. There was a bit of flesh on it, but only a bit. An inch or so under the surface there was muscle. “Too many guys of my age just give up.”

    “And mine.” I copied his gesture, running my hand over the wet hair on my ridged stomach. That touch was all it took—my dick started soaring, from zero to forty-five degrees in ten seconds.
    Now it was me who was looking for an excuse to move to that middle shower.
    I’d like to say I struggled with my conscience at this point, that I thought of Jody and our future together, took a deep breath and walked out of that shower with my dignity intact. But I’ve never claimed that I’m a good person, a nice person or even a particularly honest person. I wanted that cock, I wanted to submit to him, and if there’s one thing you learn during twelve years in the USMC, it’s how to submit to your seniors.
    “Shit,” I said, making some feeble play with the perfectly well-equipped dispenser, “soap’s out.” I reached across, preceded by my penis which was now pointing toward him like a diviner’s rod.
    I washed my chest, arms and legs while he went through a few more basic stretches, watching me with a half-smile. I turned around and washed my ass, making sure he got a good look. He obviously did. When I turned back, his cock was starting its own journey northward. I don’t know how, but that monster got thicker and longer, and by the time it was nearing the horizontal it looked like something you might throw on the fire.
    “What’s your name?” His voice sounded gruff.
    “Dan.”
    “You a hooker, Dan?”
    I almost laughed, which would have been tactically disastrous.
    “No, sir.”

    “Security guard?”
    “Ex-marine.” I don’t know why I told him that. I think I was hypnotized.
    “So, we