A unique kind of tryst from a different point-of-view
This short story was very different from any that I have read. Written from a somewhat shy young man's perspective, he is determined to break out of his shell and have the sexual encounter of his dreams.
Most of the story was an interior monologue, and I found the glimpse into his mind interesting.
While I, personally, found it a little difficult to relate to the story, given the gender and geographical differences between the main character and myself, it made me wonder just how many men want to experience (or actually DO experience) exactly what the main character does in this story? Hmmm...
***I received a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review***
This short story was very different from any that I have read. Written from a somewhat shy young man's perspective, he is determined to break out of his shell and have the sexual encounter of his dreams.
Most of the story was an interior monologue, and I found the glimpse into his mind interesting.
While I, personally, found it a little difficult to relate to the story, given the gender and geographical differences between the main character and myself, it made me wonder just how many men want to experience (or actually DO experience) exactly what the main character does in this story? Hmmm...
***I received a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review***
Yes, I’m a narcissist and proud of it, happily fed by my screen and video role models. And after many years of sheer laziness, and being condemned for, I got into a bit of exercise and healthy living to give my attitude some substance and justification. The muscles gradually tightened, the flab burned away, and all the aftermath of that past accumulated sugar evaporated. At last, I could really show myself off to myself in the mirror.
I worked out my own self-revelation show. Late at night, under a dim light, I did my beachwear striptease by putting on a pair of very brief swimming trunks, synthetic fibre, with a leopard-skin pattern, and over them, a tight pair of Fifties trunks, dark blue, tautly straddling my slender hips. Still, over these a pair of boxer shorts and a singlet top. With the light just right, red, subdued, I’d do a slow dressing down in front of the mirror, acting like an indoor surfing beach boy.
Taking off my singlet, my taut, rippling torso shone. I swung it slowly through several alluring angles. Then on to the shorts, just wide enough to hold some extra thigh. I then took off the elastic waistband, which was as tight as my firm midriff. Down and off, giving off a butterfly breath, a rousing, flushing thrill as my blue trunks and full thighs were revealed in the mirror. I swung my hips—they jutted them proudly.
All that cycling, all that time in the gym and the pool, with all their on-going aches and pains, and the occasional buffeting, falls and sprains, had paid off. Getting into top condition sometimes means flirting with injury, but I had to get away from that drip I had been! I’d made it—could match those figures on any of the hoardings or in any of the supplements and glossies. Now, I was beautiful, a beach-girl’s dream, and dreaming of my beach girl. Unseen and undefined, my seductive partner was disrobing down to a super-clingy lycra one-piece, or maybe one of those gorgeous Jantzen suits from the Fifties they’ve just brought back on the market, so graceful, so lovely…
Down to the briefer trunks, more flexing, more hip-swivelling. That Retro wave gave me a huge flush of energy, a bridge to make up for all that time lost in the past—breathing the life of modernity into the archaic. Being alone, I cancelled the last revelation in the dark—had to save that for contingent reality. The whole atmosphere rippled with the waters of fantasy, swirling to immerse me. The reverie oscillated between the pool and the steamy shower room, immersion and towelling, mirrors sometimes look really good when they are steamed over…
Of course, I ever yearned for that special lady, someone with a bit of glamour and panache, for a gracious erotic encounter, but I was so shy. I was a bit alienated from my workplace. The female staff there very much had their own closed community and their own external partners. The usual public meeting places like discos seemed so cold, so anonymous.
As I became more relaxed with my body, though, bodies in general became a focus of fascination for me. I started going to life-drawing classes. I relished the graceful, svelte models. It would be lovely to have an experience with one, even more so if the encounter included some role-reversal. It was nice to feel some ripples of androgyny. Yet, I still could not bring myself to ask any of them outright for a date.
Then one evening the class was beginning to get impatient to get started, until the secretary came in and announced that the booked model could not make it that evening. I was aquiver—this was my opportunity. “Could I stand in?” I asked nervously.
“Yes, please do. You’ve really saved the day,” said the slender, gracefully ageing tutor.
At last, I’d broken the ice! It was a delicious turn-on, taking my clothes off behind the dark green velvet curtain, which was interesting comparison with a swimming pool changing room. I could reveal the unrobed me—my firm pecs, and my slender waist. I was a lithe, lovely model, and some alluring dames drew me with relish. I was the reversed-out, retroactive answer to the pre-Raphaelites.
I worked out my own self-revelation show. Late at night, under a dim light, I did my beachwear striptease by putting on a pair of very brief swimming trunks, synthetic fibre, with a leopard-skin pattern, and over them, a tight pair of Fifties trunks, dark blue, tautly straddling my slender hips. Still, over these a pair of boxer shorts and a singlet top. With the light just right, red, subdued, I’d do a slow dressing down in front of the mirror, acting like an indoor surfing beach boy.
Taking off my singlet, my taut, rippling torso shone. I swung it slowly through several alluring angles. Then on to the shorts, just wide enough to hold some extra thigh. I then took off the elastic waistband, which was as tight as my firm midriff. Down and off, giving off a butterfly breath, a rousing, flushing thrill as my blue trunks and full thighs were revealed in the mirror. I swung my hips—they jutted them proudly.
All that cycling, all that time in the gym and the pool, with all their on-going aches and pains, and the occasional buffeting, falls and sprains, had paid off. Getting into top condition sometimes means flirting with injury, but I had to get away from that drip I had been! I’d made it—could match those figures on any of the hoardings or in any of the supplements and glossies. Now, I was beautiful, a beach-girl’s dream, and dreaming of my beach girl. Unseen and undefined, my seductive partner was disrobing down to a super-clingy lycra one-piece, or maybe one of those gorgeous Jantzen suits from the Fifties they’ve just brought back on the market, so graceful, so lovely…
Down to the briefer trunks, more flexing, more hip-swivelling. That Retro wave gave me a huge flush of energy, a bridge to make up for all that time lost in the past—breathing the life of modernity into the archaic. Being alone, I cancelled the last revelation in the dark—had to save that for contingent reality. The whole atmosphere rippled with the waters of fantasy, swirling to immerse me. The reverie oscillated between the pool and the steamy shower room, immersion and towelling, mirrors sometimes look really good when they are steamed over…
Of course, I ever yearned for that special lady, someone with a bit of glamour and panache, for a gracious erotic encounter, but I was so shy. I was a bit alienated from my workplace. The female staff there very much had their own closed community and their own external partners. The usual public meeting places like discos seemed so cold, so anonymous.
As I became more relaxed with my body, though, bodies in general became a focus of fascination for me. I started going to life-drawing classes. I relished the graceful, svelte models. It would be lovely to have an experience with one, even more so if the encounter included some role-reversal. It was nice to feel some ripples of androgyny. Yet, I still could not bring myself to ask any of them outright for a date.
Then one evening the class was beginning to get impatient to get started, until the secretary came in and announced that the booked model could not make it that evening. I was aquiver—this was my opportunity. “Could I stand in?” I asked nervously.
“Yes, please do. You’ve really saved the day,” said the slender, gracefully ageing tutor.
At last, I’d broken the ice! It was a delicious turn-on, taking my clothes off behind the dark green velvet curtain, which was interesting comparison with a swimming pool changing room. I could reveal the unrobed me—my firm pecs, and my slender waist. I was a lithe, lovely model, and some alluring dames drew me with relish. I was the reversed-out, retroactive answer to the pre-Raphaelites.
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