He was one of the first men that I didn’t see his face first, or his head,
instead watching his biceps curl and bulge, squeeze against the powder blue
stretch shirt white fringes and peppered with air holes. I was more captivated
by his shelf pectorals and tapered waist and abs I could see pushing
muscular against the shirt like other men’s beer bellies do.
He even had legs curving in at the knee from quadriceps that rose
more than an inch, and calves wide around the shin and almost
overflowing the width of his shoes; so rare when most guys
lay on the bench press bench and atrophy their legs.
I was thinking all swooning melt under his heavy weigths
letting him lift me as easily as he did the 100 pounds in each arm
how he would let me grind my crotch on his rigid core
and pump my thighs against his quads without him tiring
until I noticed the band of gray cropped stubble under
the shining bald dome and his icicle blue eyes;
he could have been a 50 year old model if only he had hair.