Daily Steam Routine

It was always hot, wet and ready for me to enter. The steam room was my sanctuary in the house of pain that most called a gym. The bleached white towel that lazily draped over my thighs was the only image of purity that this bath house would conjure up this evening. Being so wasted from my work out, it hurt to just sit up against the back dark corner of the steaming box. Somebody had covered the harsh yellow light with a couple wet towels. I slowly slid down the wall farther into the bench, removing the towel from my thighs as I eased down to fashion a pillow under my head. The boilier spat scorching steam under the cedar benches, forcing my hanging legs back up to the bench. She knew where to make me lay, to make it more comfortable for me, easier for him.

The scent of musk infused with mildew from the poorly treated benched and softened tiles tickled my nose and memories. I had first gone to this gym as a boy with my grandfather, and his friends. Now that he was gone I had become the new center of attention. I had just finished up a game with 'the guys' and knew their matured bodies were in more pain than even my young frame after a few layups and full court press. Because they took me in as their own I would make sure they knew I appreciated their... every effort to make me comfortable. In my twenties now I was able to accommodate to their rigorous workouts a little more than as a teen.

I was always the first to start the steam. Soon after Teddy would arrive, showered up and still wearing his jock. The gym had a rule about always either wearing clothes or a towel in the men's area, some mumbo-jumbo about minors being present. A jock always seemed to be Teddy's preference anyway. Not that the staff were completely happy about it, but Teddy was a long time-good standing member.

Then next would come Paul. Tall and lean Paul was the oldest and most in shape of all of us. A marathon runner for years it was Paul's job to make everybody more competitive. Mostly we just wanted to see him lose a game for once. Jack would be last. Short, a little chunky and a pain in the ass complainer, Jack always had a joke to tell and a reason to bitch... and a cock like a donkey. He was always last because he had to call and check in with his wife every hour, and it would be at least that long until the nightly ceremonies would be finished.

Teddy peered through the fogged glass pane, taking a body count of the small five by eight benched room. One. One person lying down. This one reason was good enough to bring a smile to his face and quickly pop in the room, being careful not to let too much steam out. I didn't even open my eyes, but I knew that, as always, the steam would stick to his once white swimmer jock and make it transparent against his flesh.

He would sit across the small dark room by my head and begin to massage himself. Paul never took a body count. He always welcomed himself into the room wearing nothing but a hand towel over him and sits at my feet. His bare cheeks would smack hard against the moist bench, always scaring the crap out of me. But that was Paul, always making a scene and being the center of attention. Banter about the basketball game would start as soon as Jack made his way in, even before he could sit down. And in he came, and in the banter started. I didn't bother listening in, just taking mental note as Jack sat his towel down right next to Teddy and their toes would just barely be touching. Sometimes you could see them stare in each others eyes just a little too long.

The steam stopped. As soon as Jack made himself comfortable on his towel, Paul rested his right hand on my leg. Once in a while removing it when he got carried away with his playfull banter with Jack, always to return it just a little higher each time. Teddy and I never talked much, just smiled. I opened one eye to see Teddy playing with his jock, which was stretched out to the max by now. Two knees to the pouches right was Jacks donkey cock oozing over the edge of the bench. A single shiny stream of pre- cum connected from the floor to his piss-slit. He was watching Paul move his hands up my legs with one hand, while his other cautiously massaged the length of his own middle leg. It was all almost a dance.

One person would coyly signal to other and then initiate a small subtle step, hoping the other would dance along as well. They danced to the rhythm of the water beads dropping from the tile ceiling onto their bodies and the soaked floor. Subtle, quiet, shy and yet an unstoppable force of physics. In a few minutes, us four men would become instruments of our own, adding a powerful melody of booming grunts and whimpers to the five by eight concert hall. Fleshly harmonics that were fine tuned and perfectly choreographed to dance in erotic rhythm. About two more minutes of this and the overture was about to start.

written by cj

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