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The trucks were there every morning. It had been a couple weeks now, the gas company was laying a new pipeline behind the department store where I work. I passed the construction site each day as they dug their way up the drive, across the back of the parking lot, through the receiving area behind the building heading for the boulevard in the front. It was a dirty job, lots of sand and dust blowing around. I had to get the car washed several times that month to remove the grit I picked up driving through the site each day. The men who worked the site were busy each day as I arrived with the road cones in place, waving little orange flags to direct traffic. A swarm of dusty drones actually labored in the trenches, working with tools and shovels. I guess I thought it would all be done by machine. I don’t relate to hard labor, I wear a suit and tie and rarely break a sweat. Not that I don’t work hard, my job is just not as physical as the stuff I see these guys doing every morning! By mid afternoon, the sun is high in the sky, and the oppressive heat is too intense for outdoor labor. It is then that the men on the gang take refuge in a brown canvas tent at the edge of the driveway, or some days enter the store to refresh themselves in the air-conditioned chill.

After a few days, I began to recognize some of the individuals. Many of them appeared lazy, showing up at the site to stand around and chat with fellow lethargic co-workers. I wondered who was in charge to allow this obvious abuse of time at the expense of the Gas Company. Some of them however were always busy. They threw themselves into the task, and seemed to be the only men actually working. I felt sorry for them, doing the majority of the labor while the other guys stood around gabbing. One of the more industrious men caught my eye the first day I saw him, and I looked forward to catching a glimpse of him every morning. He was tall, about six-three. His skin was tan as a nut from working shirtless in the hot summer sun. His dust-filled hair was medium brown, in need of a trim, a little blonder on the top where the baking sun had kissed his head. His body was lightly hairy, but you couldn‘t call him a bear. He had a spray of silky gold on his forearms and chest, and the trail of blonde hairs on his belly that led my eye down to his construction belt before it disappeared into the sweat-soaked waistband of his jeans. The man was brawny, but not puffed-up. His muscles were significant, clearly defined, and lean. I guess you could use the term “ripped”. He had a tattoo on his right chest that looked like the twin towers with an eagle flying overhead. The stud gave me a woody every morning that I had to hide from my co-workers as I walked from the car to the employee entrance.

I drive a Mustang GT convertible: white, with a throaty V8. It’s two years old, but still turns heads. I keep it nice, so it looks like new. The man obviously dug it, because he would stop work for a second and smile as I drove by. I was flattered, as I always am when my car gets some attention. I guess that’s why I bought the showboat in the first place. After a few days, he and I actually gave each other a little wave, making it necessary for me to sit in the car a couple minutes after parking to let my hard-on ease up enough to walk to the door. Then one morning, he walked into the Men’s Department as I was talking to one of the managers who report to me. The heat of the noonday sun was intense, and I guessed he was escaping the brutal temperature. He looked great, walking down the marble aisle towards the escalator atrium. His trunk was squeezed into a skin of army green muscle top, his Twin Tower tattoo visible on the expanse of gold hair and tan chest that showed above the edge of the shirt.. Camel-colored boots laced loosely over dusty socks pushed down in a crush of beige around his ankles. His khaki cargo shorts exposed his incredible calves. Strong, strapping, and almost hairless. Tanned a deep gold by days of outdoor labor. His thighs were bulging bundles of muscle and sinew. The seams of the shorts strained against his full hard ass, as he sauntered through the store. Very cocky, very sure of his sexual potency. He looked right past the department manager and headed right for me.

“Can you help me find something? I gotta get back to work soon, so I’m sorta in a rush, y’know?”

I was at a loss for words the first time that day! He swept me away from my conversation and we were off hunting for a denim shirt. Not just any denim shirt. The first one we found was too heavy. The next had too many labels sewn on it. The third had a button down collar. Too preppy. He wanted something rugged. I found it hard to stop staring at this handsome animal pacing next to me through the Men’s department. He caught me checking him out several times, but he didn’t seem put-off by it. His hand would brush against mine as I held out shirts for him to consider.

“I don’t want any fancy shit, that ain’t my style. Jus’ a plain old denim shirt.”

No, he really doesn’t need anything fancy, his remarkable shoulders and massive chest needed no embellishment. He could wear a parka and look great. I finally found what he wanted in his size and walked him over to a cashier. I handed the shirt to the man, and our hands touched again as we both held the shirt between us. I held it a pause too long. He noticed the hesitation and threw me a big, generous smile. We connected for just that moment, I can’t explain it any other way.

Later, after dinner at home, I was nursing a glass of wine and paging through the losers on the webcam site. (I was signed on as WHTMUSSY because I love my car.) You know the site, lots of exhibitionists that love to show the world on video camera what studs they are. Trouble is, they are usually guys that I wouldn’t give a second glance at a bar. Funny, they seem to really get the chat room worked into a frenzy when they jerk off or finger their ass for a few minutes on camera. When a really hot guy shows his stuff, it can cause pandemonium! That’s what was happening that night. Everyone was chatting about RDWARRIOR, a very good looking man in one of the gay rooms, cam room 8. He was “showing” from the neck down, I guess to protect his identity. I looked at his soft, blurry image for a while as he played with the focus on his cam. He looked great. His shoulders were wide. his chest popping high off his breastbone, mounds of dark tan flesh with a frosting of hair. His arms reached forward to adjust the camera, wisps of spun gold on his forearms. He sat before his camera wearing only a pair of CK boxer briefs with a pouch front that strained to hold him in. He pulled his cock and balls over the top of the elastic waistband and pulled the trunks off in one motion. The flurry of comments from the chatters made the screen crawl. His dick was eight inches soft. He held it in his hand, and I judged it was as big around as a beer bottle! His balls were heavy, thick, and meaty. He pulled his legs up to show a hairy asshole, with soft fuzz running down the insides of his legs and off screen. He pulled away from the camera to give his audience a better view, and I took a good look at the man’s torso. On his very big right pectoral was a tattoo. It was the World Trade Center with an eagle flying over it. Where had I seen that before?

He stood up and started to jerk himself off. I couldn’t begin to read the messages suddenly posted on the chat. Comments were flying across the page, superlatives and graphic descriptions of what the audience would like to see him do. His arms filled the screen as he reached for his keyboard to type his thanks for the warm welcome, and let them know he was taking requests. His cock was enormous, and he worked it up and down the shaft with his rough hands until it was as long as a ruler. Standing in front of his cam, he teased and pulled at his dick, rubbing his chest and pinching his brown nipples until they were as hard as his cock. Everyone on the site wanted to know if he was gay/bi/str8 or what? They suggested he bend over, that he show his balls, that he finger his asshole. The big man obliged gladly, doing each command as suggested. He obviously enjoyed the attention, and thrived on the notoriety. I couldn’t blame him, he was an amazing sex pistol and everyone in the room was waiting for him to shoot, including yours truly. It had to be the gas pipe man, I was sure! He jerked his tool vigorously with one hand, licking the fingers of the other hand with his tongue. The cock suddenly surged forward into the frame, and creamy wads of hot gel sprayed out into the air in front of him. He pulled on his dick a few more times, sending arcs of white jism across the video screen. The crowd roared their approval by sending a barrage of messages to RDWARRIOR. The screen went out of control, as lines of type scrolled down the message box. I waited a few minutes for the excitement to recede, then shot off a message to him.
WHTMUSSY: HOWS THE NEW DENIM SHIRT, RDWARRIOR?

His answer soon came back, I watched him on the cam as he typed it.
RDWARRIOR: HOW YOU DOING MR SUIT? HOWS THAT HOT CAR? LIKE WHAT YOU SEEN?

My heart raced. He figured it out right away. His new denim shirt. The Mustang. The suit he sees me in each day. He knew who was watching him jerk off in a gay chat room. I got nervous, this was certainly a mistake. I should have just enjoyed the show and minded my own business. I signed off without replying.

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