The Powers of Love

The Powers of Love By J.M. Snyder Vic Braunson met Matt at the gym downtown where he went to lift weights after work. There was something between them from the start—Vic felt a hungry gaze on his back as he worked out, and in the mirrored wall he noticed it came from a young man wearing swim trunks and nothing else. With smooth olive skin whorled with dark hair, those tight black curls hugging his scalp, Matthew diLorenzo looked like a Grecian god poised in the doorway to the weight room, watching him. Vic wanted to lick down those long legs, massage the balls of those large feet in his palms, nip at those thick ankles. He liked a man with good-sized feet—the adage was true, in his experience; Matt’s looked like prehensile flippers and hinted at so much more crammed into those tight trunks. Later, in the showers, Vic caught a glimpse of Matt’s bare ass, the long length hanging limp between his legs, those tight thighs and thin hips. So he’d been right—the feet were an indication of bigger things in store. Matt was Vic’s height, just shy of six feet, but what looked tall and lean on him was bulk and muscle on Vic. His forearm was easily the size of Matt’s thigh, and the thought of wrapping those long legs around his own thick waist excited him. He’d just resolved to talk to the guy, say hey and see where things went from there, when his co-worker Kyle Munley came up to him in the locker room and clapped a heavy hand on his back. “You met my new guy yet?” Vic turned to find Matt beside Kyle. This close, his dark green eyes caught the light like chips of malachite. His shoulders were still damp from the shower, his blue-black hair plastered to his scalp and curling as it dried. The smoldering way he looked Vic over made Kyle disappear. Why couldn’t I meet him first? Disappointment shot through Vic like a bullet. He gave Matt a curt nod before turning away, but his thoughts didn’t shut off so easily. Those eyes haunted him, and for the first time in years, he woke the next morning with a fierce erection, his mind filled with dreams of being taken by this man in every way he could imagine, being loved, being savored. He began to linger at the gym like a lovesick schoolboy, checking out the men in the shower in the hopes of seeing Matt again, hanging out by the pool whenever the team had practice. The slightest glance from the guy, the briefest nod or quickest wave or, God forbid, a smile of any proportion, was enough to fuel Vic’s desire. He tried to play it off—a man his age, really, sliding toward forty like a base runner aiming for home plate. A big guy like him, all beef and brawn, with his shaved head and his pierced ears and the tattoos inked across his arms and back. The moustache and goatee he wore because it gave him a devilish appearance. The leather jacket he favored, with its chains and bandanas and ripped pockets held together with safety pins. Guys like him didn’t crush on their buddy’s hot new boyfriend like some randy teenager just discovering his own c**k and balls. Yet there it was.