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Weight rooms make me horny. I don't know no other way to put it. Maybe it's because of Mr. Beram in tenth grade, the way he'd strip off his shirt to spot me on the free weights, or how he kept inviting me to his office for protein shakes. Right. Vanilla, berry, or spunk.
Actually they all tasted pretty much the same.
The weights at Oz are set up better than any muscle gym I've ever been in – the only things missing are floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Everyone looking at everyone else, nowhere to hide, no shame, just a bunch of guys slippery with sweat, grunting, breathing hard. I don't care how straight you say you are because in a place like this, you're always checking other guys out. Rationalize it however you want: you're staying informed, on top of your game, in case you're ever in a fight with that one or both of them. You can play it like you're learning how to use a machine or how much to press or a hundred other things, but what it comes down to is men and strength and admiring hard bodies.
What better place to figure out that you like cock than prison. All those randy, half-naked men sharing air and time. That's how Beecher figured it out. He says he hated it, but that's probably because Vern lacks finesse. Hell, maybe Toby hated it 'cause he liked it a little. It's kind of a shock accidentally finding out how good it can feel, and you know Vern ragged on him mercilessly when Toby got hard during their fuckfests. Made him feel two inches tall for poppin' wood while Vern plowed him from behind, holding onto the bed frame, tears leaking down his sweet little lawyer cheeks.
He never cried for me. Maybe I didn't pull his hair hard enough or slap his ass or call him my little prag Bitcher. Kinda wonder what he woulda done if I had. Suspect it would've been like a ride on a mechanical bull with my dick caught in the gears. Never know – mighta made him shoot like gangbusters, too.
'Course now he goes out of his way to show me just how little he ever needed from me. I've got Said in one ear going on about a soon-to-be dead man sucking face with Beecher in the laundry room. The fucking laundry room. Yeah, he's doing a bang-up job getting along without me, the homeboys breathing down one side of his neck and every other motherfucker in this place linin' up to get a piece of his branded ass.
I'm here until I die, so you know I stomped on the self-destruct button pretty fucking hard, but Toby, Beecher, Bitcher, it's like he swallowed that prag pill and dove down the tunnel again, just to spite me. I already know he's capable of fucking anything: I've seen the proof. Hell, everybody has.
I heard him asking Murphy for gym time, and then he wanted to check the list to see who else would be there. Now we're avoiding one another? Fuck that. I told O'Reily I'd take his brother, so Cyril could practice his boxing or whatever the fuck it is he does over in the corner every day. Ryan had something else going down anyway. I'd bet my best porno mag it had to do with Dr Nathan, who still hates his guts. Smart lady.
Ever since I combed that kid's hair out, he's been makin' cow eyes at me. Not like it wasn't fun; it was, and Ryan trying to interrogate me after was even better. I imagined what he asked Cyril after lockdown, coaching his words, asking what happened, did big bad Chris do anything that made Cyril feel… uncomfortable? Can't even say if the kid even knew he was bulging in his pants. 'S partly why I came so fast. I was gonna take it out, maybe slide the head down the warm skin of his back, leave a little mark that only I'd know about. But then he was squirming around and his hair felt like silk on my palm. I could see that he was hard and I didn't even get to unzip in time.
Cyril's whaling on the bag like it fucked his dead mom and Beecher's about to tackle the barbell; I have to ask if he wants me to spot him, even though I'm sure he's gonna say no. I've got that hot burn of endorphins sizzling down my back, sweat beaded on my arms and I feel like I could run ten miles without taking a breath. 'Course he don't even have to say no, because that glare could put a lesser man off his game. I shrug like it's no big deal and keep walking 'til I hit Cyril. Real shame what happened to him, and if we were outside? Yeah, I'd be balls deep, pulling on his thick blond hair like reins. I don't even wanna fuck him here. One thing, it'd be too easy, and another, I like a little reciprocation.
Fucking around with him's better anyway, 'cause it draws attention. Never said I didn't like standing out in a crowd.
And right now, Beecher's still glaring, a look of horrified indignation on his face – I guess I wasn't supposed to stop and talk to him. Hey, let's see if I can get some more of his heart showing on his face.
Cyril stopped beating the shit out of the bag when I walked over, and he's staring at me like I've got all the answers. His bandanna's messed up and his hair's stuck to his sweaty face. He's in fighting stance, shifting his weight back and forth, fists clenched up tight. He still flinches when I raise my hand, though, so I speak real quiet, making him lean closer, and I move slowly to tuck some of his hair behind one ear. He smiles, his whole body shaking out and relaxing, and I'm having a hard time keeping my laughter in when I catch a glimpse of Toby's face.
He's propped up on his elbows watching us, and man, if looks could kill. His expressions tell me everything I wanna know. First there's 'gotta tell Ryan' on full display, then 'well, maybe I'll just wait and see what happens next, so I can give a better report.'
Yeah, Beecher, why don't you lean back and enjoy the show?