Date: Thu, 17 Jul 2014 14:40:30 -0700
From: sean@musclepla.net
Subject: "Street View" Chapter 1

STREET VIEW Chapter 1
by Sean Reid Scott
sean@musclepla.net



Chapter One



Today would be the day. I'd been planning this for months— almost ever
since I'd first seen the guy down on the street. That first day I saw him.
I'd hit pay dirt for sure.

I'd never really admitted to myself why I rented an apartment that looked
down on a street where a gym was located; right across the street. And I
was on the third floor, with an unobstructed view of the street and
parking lot of said gym— a gym that catered to the big guys, as opposed to
the 40-somethings who just wanted to keep their hearts pumping. Yeah, I'd
never really admitted that the reason I rented this place was because of
my infatuation with muscle dudes. Okay... an addiction.

I'd done everything but actually set up a video recorder on a tripod. I
had blinds installed, so I could surreptitiously watch the musclemen come
and go. It was the perfect setup. Most of the bodybuilders parked in the
club's lot, and even there I had a pretty good view; some, however, had
the habit of parking on the street, which gave me an even better vantage
point.

Then there was Mr. White Toyota 4WD. The guy I mentioned at the top of
this little yarn. He pulled up one day, parked his glistening-clean rig on
the street, on the far side, giving me a perfect view. I could tell even
before he got out that he held promise. A lot of promise. As his hands
rested on the steering wheel, it was obvious this dude had some guns. More
like bazookas. That day, he wore one of those ringer T-shirts— the kind
with dark rings around the neck and the short sleeves. And holy fuck,
those rings wrapped tightly around this guys biceps and triceps.

He threw his rig in park and opened the door— and it was then, as I peeked
through the slits of my blinds, that I saw just how much beef the dude was
carrying— everywhere. His shoulders were thick and wide: Traps that bulged
next to his bull neck; deltoids that seriously had to cause a major wind
wake when he walked.

But fuck, it was his thick, bulbous pecs that just caused my breath to
hitch. For an instant, I think I also saw his nipples poking through that
ice blue fabric. Did I mention his gorgeous dirty-blond hair? Might have
been highlighted on top. Or it could have been natural— from the summer
sun. It was cut short, but not military short. Cropped on the sides, and
longer on top. Just so handsome.

I remember after he stepped out, he leaned back inside to grab his duffel.
And Oh. My. God. Lats that spread wide over his cab's seat; they narrowed
down to his waist— shit. The guy looked competition-ready. His waist
poured into his jeans and as I stared as his back side I was so thankful
that he was having a little bit of a time retrieving that bag, because he
was providing a show that no gay guy should have to endure without the
benefit of coming. That ass was the tightest, roundest... God Almighty those
glutes were HOT! Probably a lot of the hotness was due to the fact that
the upper legs of this stud were ginormous! Breathtakingly huge!

I actually fogged up my window through the blinds I was breathing so hard,
just ogling this guy's body. He finally retrieved his bag and closed his
door. His gait was confident, but definitely not strutting. His right
triceps bulged huge as he carried his large duffel beside him. He was
inside the gym way too soon for my tastes.

An hour and 17 minutes later, the guy emerged. He had changed into a tank
top and shorts for his workout, and I nearly fell backwards onto my coffee
table. The yellow tank clung to his torso with his sweat. He obviously
wasn't a take-my-shower-at-the-gym kind of guy. I can see why: He'd
probably cause a riot if he walked around the locker room naked. There's
only so much the general public (even the general male public) can take.

Anyway, that was the first day. And almost immediately thereafter I
started fantasizing about approaching the guy somehow. You know, just be
randomly walking down the street when he arrives. His workout schedule
became very predictable, and it wouldn't have taken much for me to plan
out a strategy where I could be stationed at the end of the block when he
arrived, then I would start walking toward him. The first time, maybe I'd
just say "hi," to see if he was friendly. Then later, I might give him a
look and say something like, "Whoa, man. You look like you're ready for a
contest!" Or something like that. I've learned, over the years, if you
compliment a bodybuilder— without getting all gay on him— they often are
quite friendly to positive feedback like that.

But, did I mention that I'm kinda not that brave? I've struck up a
conversation with a few guys before, and the discussions usually turned
out pretty well. But still, this guy was totally intimidating.

So, I came up with a plan: Leave a note on his windshield. I know, it
sounds corny... and pretty risky. But really, the risk could be minimized.
He could easily just ignore the note. Or, he could perhaps respond. I have
no idea how many draft notes I wrote— tossing them all. But I finally came
up with a note that I thought might work. And today was the day I was
going to deliver it. As soon as the guy parked and got inside the gym I'd
go downstairs and put the note under his wiper blade. He'd be in the gym
for over an hour, so the risk of being caught was minimal.

My heart pounded in my chest as I waited. And sure enough, at 4:30 he
pulled into an empty spot on the street. As soon as he was inside the gym,
I was out my door. Three minutes later I was back in my apartment, gazing
down on his rig. His truck was sparkling clean; always was. I had taken
the opportunity to glance inside the cab: immaculate. I had fumbled
nervously with the wiper blade. My hands visibly shook. But I got the note
secured, and I turned and scurried back across the street.

Now, upstairs, I waited. I swear, I stood at the window for the whole
hour-plus. I didn't want to miss his reaction.

Then, finally, he emerged. He wore a white sleeveless muscle shirt. God,
please kill me now. Those arms!

I panicked. I wanted to run out of my apartment and into the hallway, just
to get away from the window. But I froze; horrified at the prospect of a
negative reaction on his part.

He pressed a button on his fob and the truck's lights flashed, unlocking
his door. He threw his bag inside, pushing it to the passenger side of the
bench. He had his ass on his seat, reaching to close his door before he
actually saw it. I couldn't really read him as he got out to grab it. He
was probably a little pissed, thinking it was some kind of flyer for a
business or something. Scientology. Maybe the Policeman's ball. But my
note was folded, four times. Hand-written on notebook paper.

He got out, rounded his door and stretched out one of those mighty arms,
pulling the paper out from under his wiper blade. As he unfolded it, I
swear to you that even from the third floor I could see the muscles in his
forearms rippling and moving as they directed his fingers.

He stopped, holding the now-unfolded page open. He was reading it. I
almost choked on my fear. I took a step back from the window, but couldn't
bear to miss anything, so I moved forward again. Surely, even if he did
pick out my apartment, he couldn't see me, could he?

I could see him pull his neck back, signaling either unbelief at what he
was reading— or maybe it was disgust? Outrage? Irritation?

He dropped his hand to his side, still holding the note, and I could see
him scanning the front of the gym, maybe trying to look inside the front
windows. Then he looked across the gym's parking lot. Then he looked down
at the cars parked behind his truck on the street. Then across the street,
to my side. But to my pleasure, he didn't look up and the apartment
building in which I stood. He was thinking two-dimensional.

He was standing there, with his cab door open, looking... when he concluded
that he wasn't going to find the note-sender, he rounded his door again,
sat on his seat and closed the door. Apparently he kept the note, because
I didn't see him throw it down on the street, and it wasn't on the
pavement after he left.

"Hi, I hope this doesn't seem too forward, but I noticed you a few days
ago, when you came to the gym, and I just wanted to tell you how blown
away I am by your development. You're obviously very committed, and I
would guess you've been in (and won) more that your share of bodybuilding
shows.

"Anyway, I don't want to seem weird or anything, but I just wanted to
compliment you on your physique. Maybe I'll get brave enough to introduce
myself one of these days. Kinda intimidated right now...  an admirer."

I hoped it didn't seem too weird. The last thing I wanted to do was to
scare him away. I tried to not give away that I saw him on the street when
he parked. Maybe he'd think I was some gym rat inside the club. If he
thought I was watching him on the street (which, of course, I was) then
he'd probably start parking somewhere else. If he thought I was a guy
inside the gym, he might stop going to that gym altogether. Or at least
change his schedule.

I didn't give up my gender in the note, but maybe it was obvious I was a
guy. And gay. Who knows what he was thinking. Best case scenario: He was a
closet muscle flexer who loved to have his body worshipped and eventually
we'd hook up. Worst case: He was a rabid homophobe who was also a private
detective and he'd make me within an hour, come up to my apartment and
stab me in my sleep that night.

That'd totally ruin my day.

That night I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. What the fuck have I
done? I thought. The guy was some kind of nut case if he didn't get all
pissed over the note.

The next day, right on schedule, the dude pulled up and parked where he
regularly did. And he looked as fiiiiiiine as ever. I couldn't imagine a
more perfect, manly, muscular, gorgeous body. He seemed to not even
remember that there might be a voyeur watching him. Same routine with his
duffel, and walking into the gym like nothing was up. Maybe he was used to
random notes like that.  Whewww! At least he wasn't scared. Yet.

An hour and 15 minutes later he emerged from his workout, got in his rig
and drove off. It was time for me to solidify step two of my plan. Who
knew if I'd be brave enough to go past step two. It would actually depend
on his reaction.

I jerked off that night, once again to his muscular body, dreaming of the
impossible— an up-close-and-personal encounter.

The next day was Thursday. And he showed up right on schedule. As soon as
he was in, I was downstairs again, securing another note on his
windshield.

"Hi again, I just wanted to let you know that I'm not trying to be a pest
or anything, but I have to tell you that you are a real inspiration to me.
But I also understand that my messages might be a little annoying. I hope
they aren't scary to you. I'm harmless!  :)

"So anyway, if you would ever be interested in meeting for coffee or
something, I've come up with a way for you to either let me know you're
interested, or to tell me to bug off. When you get in your rig today
(which, incidentally is awesome!), here's how you can send me a message.
If you think you might want to have coffee some time turn on your
headlights as you drive off. If you want me to bug off, instead of turning
on your headlights, just honk your horn a few times. I'll be able to see,
or hear, either response. And you don't have to do it today either. If you
want to think about your response before you give me a signal, that's
okay. Just drive off without doing either, and then give me the message in
a day or two. No pressure.

"I hope your workouts are all good in the future, man!   —a (male) admirer."

He stood on the street with his door open as he read my note, just like
last time. When he was done, he looked around to the gym, then the parking
lot, then the street, just like last time.

My heart pounded so hard I thought I might keel over.

He just stood there, surveying his surroundings, most likely looking for
anyone who might be standing, like, in the lobby of the gym, or on a
street corner, or maybe sitting in a parked car nearby.  Finally, he got
into his truck and started up the engine. I could see him looking around
some more. He checked his rearview mirror. Then he glanced around one
again. He sat there for a moment, his hands on his steering wheel, those
enormous arms just hanging there in all their glory.

Eventually, he threw on his turn signal and pulled away from the curb. I
listened. I watched. He got down to the corner of the block. The light was
red. There were no lights on, on his truck. The light turned green, and he
proceeded through the intersection. No horn honk.

I ran into my bedroom and threw myself on the bed, almost screaming. What
does this mean? Is he seriously considering meeting me? My mind swam. I
lay, face down on my bed, and opened my mouth, yelling as loud as I could,
into the mattress. Wait. Maybe his horn is broken! No, he obviously takes
meticulous care of that truck. He'd never drive with a non-working horn. I
rolled from left to right and back again, not knowing the implications of
my actions.

Clearly, he didn't delay because he wasn't sure he wanted to tell me to
bug off. The only real reason that he'd delay in giving me a signal would
be because he was thinking about meeting me, right?

I slept maybe an hour that night. And the next day I was totally worthless
at work. My shift starts at 6AM, and I get off just after 3:00. I was
definitely not rested for work. And even if I had gotten a reasonable
amount of sleep, I still would have been so preoccupied that I wouldn't
have been any good.

As soon as my shift ended, I was home in a flash, the blinds at my window
turned to the exactly right angle. I think I was running on more
adrenaline than blood, and I remember telling myself that I'd need to take
a sleeping pill or three that night.

Finally, 4:30 came around. I stood at the mostly-closed blinds, peering
out to the sunny street.

No white Toyota pickup. No dude.

Ten more minutes passed. He was nowhere. I scanned the parking lot of the
gym just to make sure he hadn't parked somewhere else. I would have seen
him if he had parked on some other street and walked, I told myself. No
one could have gotten in or out without me seeing.

My heartbeats decreased dramatically. I became worried. Fuck, I did scare
him away. Then I became disappointed. I sighed.

Maybe, since this was Friday, he had a date and postponed his workout, I
pled with the muscle gods. That's it, isn't it? Worst case scenario: He
decided to ditch the voyeur and join another gym. That'd be stupid. He's
muscles out to here. Why would he let anyone intimidate him? I TOLD him
how to signal me if he wanted me to bug off... Then this thought struck:
Maybe, though, he knew that even if he had honked his horn, I'd still
always be there... somewhere... watching him.

I sighed again. I stood by the window for another hour and a half— in vain.

The three sleeping pills definitely helped that night, but I still did my
share of tossing and turning.  I had blown it, and I couldn't help but
beat myself up with that fact.

The next day was Saturday. The dude worked out six days a week: Every
weekday, and then alternating Saturday and Sunday, with no regular
pattern. So it was about a 50/50 chance that he'd plan on working out
today. Unless, of course, he was at another gym.

I was home for part of the day Saturday, but didn't see him. Ditto for
Sunday.

Maybe he was taking a 3-day weekend.

Monday at 4:30, as I stood watch, I vacillated between hope and despair.
Still no sign. But then... in the corner of my eye, a white vehicle. I
turned my eyes toward it and... yes! It was him! Oh fucking god! I was
beside myself. And too my elation, the guy had his headlights on! In broad
daylight! He never had his headlights on before! He pulled into a spot on
the street and turned off the lights. He gave me the orgasm-stimulating
back shot once again as he retrieved his duffel from the passenger side of
his bench seat. God, those glutes!

This was a little unusual: He was already wearing his workout clothes. He
usually came in street clothes and changed inside. But today he wore that
white sleeveless muscle shirt and workout shorts. Fuck: his arms! I never
would ever get used to those guns. He closed his door and pressed his fob.
His truck lights flashed. Then... what's this? He paused. He looked around a
bit, then placed a small piece of paper under his wiper blade! What the
fuck?

He walked into the gym, and I stood there staring between the blinds,
dumbfounded.

Obviously, the note was for me. But the question is, if I go down there to
retrieve it, will he be standing just inside the gym lobby, and run out
and confront me when he sees me take it? I couldn't take that risk. I
totally froze. There was no way in hell I was going down there.

No way.

I sat down on my couch and buried my face in my hands. God. I did a bunch
of calculations in my head: Could I make it across the street, grab the
note, and then get back inside my apartment lobby before someone could get
out of the gym lobby and nab me? What if I crawled on my stomach across
the street, so as to not be seen by anyone inside the gym? Yeah, and get
run over in the process. I sighed.

Then I popped a thought: He might be watching for a few minutes, but I bet
he's not willing to give up his whole workout to keep an eye on his rig.
The weight floor would not provide any kind of view of his rig, so he'd
have to give up looking eventually if he was planning on working out.  I
figured that my best shot would be sometime around mid-way of his workout.
At that point he'd be most likely to have given up waiting, and least
likely to end his workout soon to return to his stakeout.

At 5:00 I found myself in my apartment lobby. Fuck, I forgot about the
security buzzer. It would take me a few extra seconds to punch in my
security code and unlock the door when I returned from the street. A few
extra seconds that might mean the difference between success, and having
the muscle dude run up on me, drag me into the street and beat the shit
out of me in front of God and everyone.

But I had to try. I had to.

With my heart in my neck, I stood at the glass door, looking outside. It
was time. In an act of absolute unbridled bravery that I had never
imagined possessing, I shoved the horizontal bar of the door, unlocking
it, and I ran. Like hell. The white rig was directly across from my door,
so it took only a few seconds to get there. I grabbed at the note— it was
only the size of a business card. But his wiper blade had caught it, and
it wouldn't immediately give. I yanked at it, hoping I wasn't going to
break the blade.This is taking too much time! I glanced at the gym doors.
I refocused my attention on the paper. Finally, I had it in my trembling
hand. I looked back to the gym's double doors. The sun was so bright that
I couldn't see past the reflection, but to my horror... the door started to
open.

Fuck! I turned immediately and ran back toward my apartment's door in an
all-out sprint. I punched in my code and about ten years later the buzzer
sounded and the lock snapped with a bang. I pulled the door open and
slinked inside, panting. The door locked behind me. I paused, looking
across the street. The gym door was closed, but there was no one walking
away from it. If someone had been coming out when I saw it open, they'd
have to still be within ten feet of it. But there was no one. Only
possibility: The guy had opened it, but had retreated when he realized I
would be inside the apartment before he could get to me.

Fuck! Now he knows where I live? I hadn't thought about the ramifications
of that. And, had he seen me? Did he get a good look at me? Fuck. I
returned to my apartment so nervous that I didn't even read the note till
I was inside, behind my deadbolt.

I looked at the note. The card was totally blank except this short
message: "Email me: buffwinner@musclepla.net."

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

My immediate thought was that I'd need to set up a new email address to do
this. No way would I use my regular email. My second thought was to get to
the window and see if the dude was out there. I did. He wasn't.

At least, not for a few seconds. Way before his workout should have ended,
he emerged from the gym's double glass doors and walked to his rig. Then...
and this to my absolute horror... when he got to the driver's door, he
paused. He turned around and faced my apartment building. For the first
time since I had ever seen him, he looked up. He scanned my building. He
seemed to stare down every fucking window in the building. When he got to
mine, I took a step back from the blinds. Even though he wouldn't have
been able to see me.

Fuck, he had seen me! He knew that I watched him from across the street.

I stood there, frozen. Then, the most amazing thing happened! He opened
his truck's door, then turned back to my building. Slowly, as I almost
died right then and there, the dude put his hands on the hem of his muscle
shirt... and he started lifting it! Slowly. His magnificent arms bulged. And
then I saw his abs. Fucking Shiiiiit! He was dramatic. He knew exactly
what the fuck he was doing. He lifted the shirt off his head and tossed it
on the far side of his truck's bench seat.

If I died in the next five minutes, my life would have been fulfilled. The
guy was astoundingly built. Not an ounce of fat. Perfect proportions. Just
gorgeous!

He paused for only a second. Was that a slight flex of his upper body?
Like a mini most-muscular? The guy was teasing me! Taunting his secret
admirer! Holy fucking fuck!

Fucking holy fuck!

He didn't stand there long. Once his muscles rippled, oh so slightly, he
sat in the driver's seat, closed the door and took off.

...and I had his email address.



[Stay tuned for part two!]

Contact the author at sean@musclepla.net
www.seanreidscott.com