2. Your Secret

Sun-kissed cheeks and a dewy sheen of sweat veiled the normally even tone of my skin, glistening on my forehead as I turned the key to unlock the front door to Enzo’s house, a craftsmen painted a deep, muted shade of blue with light gray trim. I was perched on a small, elevated slab of concrete and red brick that composed the front porch, not much room for anything other than a doormat and a potted plant. Houses in the neighborhood stacked and nestled themselves amongst other residential structures and beneath leafy old-growth tree canopies.

The unforgiving oppression of September days had finally given way to wavering temperatures more suited to October, offering welcome breaks of comfortable, moderate warmth between days-long stretches of unrelenting sultriness, the sunbeams belting down from afternoon skies as a heavy blanket of humidity hung cruelly in the air. But this week had given Atlanta another one of those sultry stretches. The thick, moist air had been hanging around since Tuesday, when the temperature again spiked to nearly ninety degrees, only resigning in the black of night when the neighborhood had grown quiet.

Thank God it was Friday; the sweet end to another grueling week of working outside. And I had no weekend jobs lined up.

The thin gray fabric of my T-shirt clung to my chest, beads of salty perspiration faintly dampening the front of it in an odd sort of Rorschach pattern. I was grateful for the central air that hit me like a brick in Enzo’s entryway, instantly cooling my flesh, providing me with a satisfying respite from the outdoors: the thickness, the heat, the density of the city in which I’d been trapped for hours, for years. I loved the heat but I was ready for a break.

I drew a strange enjoyment from entering Enzo’s space, a muted excitement that bubbled underneath my flesh and tingled my fingers and toes, subtly vibrating in my stomach. And even further down below. It made no sense. It was a nice home but a lot of my clients had nice homes—well-decorated, upscale, expensive homes. Most of them were one- and two-bedroom condos in high-rise towers a couple of blocks away. Those towers furnished the neighborhood with activity, with interest, and decorated the skyline with shiny, glimmering, looming beacons of glass and steel that buzzed with life. But Enzo’s place was older, a small single-family home with cedar-shake accents and a giant evergreen in the front yard. It was nice. It was comfortable.

The setup inside was neat and tidy, everything in its place. The smell was clean but woodsy, like bergamot and cedar and new furniture. A candle on the coffee table looked recently burned. Maybe that was the source of the aromatic ambiance that seemed to float through that entire space. Or maybe it was Enzo’s cologne still lingering in the air. There was something serene about the house. Structured but easy. Modern but cozy. Pristine but lived in.

Enzo’s house aroused me in the dullest of ways, its tediousness intoxicating.

His living room was situated to the right of the entryway—completely open to the kitchen straight ahead—and decorated with contemporary furniture: a sectional sofa, a coffee table, an oversized floor lamp that swooped up and dramatically hung over the space. Wide bamboo planks stretched the entire length of the house. An exposed brick wall housed a large flat-screen TV and a built-in fireplace that wouldn’t be necessary for at least a couple of months. A muted gray tone gave life to the other walls—walls that were sparsely decorated with abstract art that gave nothing away about Enzo’s personal life, about his character. The space was mid-century minimalism at its finest.

An oversized picture window at the front of the house overlooking the quaint postage-stamp front yard provided a nice view of the vivid splashes of greens and browns that painted the world outside: cut blades of grass and leafy plants and overgrown bushes and large old oak trees. The garden district was quieter and more stately than bustling Spruce Street, where the majority of my clients lived towering above this older, more historic slice of the neighborhood.

Unhooking the leash from Rocco’s harness and unclipping the clasp that kept it secured around his chest, I allowed him to step out and prance over to his water bowl in the kitchen. The silky tufts of black and white fur that dangled from his belly bounced back and forth as he strode. He lapped and lapped as though he hadn’t had a drop in days.

Rocco’s an English springer spaniel, almost three years old, and usually my last walk of the day. Enzo, Rocco’s owner, tended to work late hours—later than most of my clients, anyway; eleven to seven rather than nine to five. When he asked me if I could manage a four o’clock time slot, it was music to my ears. Most prospective clients wanted their companions walked between the hours of eleven and two. Even pack walkers could only accomplish so much in such a tight time frame.

I didn’t pack walk. I’d been walking dogs full-time for four years, long enough to know that walking even two dogs that weren’t well trained at the same time could be a struggle, let alone five or six.

My mom had been asking me what my future was going to look like for the last two years, and honestly, I didn’t know. It’s the future , I kept telling her. No one could possibly know what it’s going to look like . I graduated from Georgia State in the spring with a degree in marketing and no fucking clue what to do with it. Even less of a clue about what I wanted to do with it.

Walking dogs suited me just fine. Eight thirty-minute walks a day allowed me to pay the rent on my small studio apartment. It covered the bills. It put food on the table. Anything on top of that—extra walks, overnight stays with pets while their owners traveled, watering plants, house-sitting—was play money, travel funds, a deposit into a savings account.

Enzo’s house was nice. It was the kind of place owned by someone who knew what they wanted to do with their degree before they graduated. Someone who got offer letters from Fortune 500 companies before tossing their cap. Someone with an understated sense of style and a bank account with no history of overdraft fees. It was the kind of place one could host parties and backyard barbecues and raise a family.

Only, Enzo was single, as far as I could tell. There were three bedrooms, two of which looked like they’d never been used. Only one toothbrush stood in the toothbrush holder in his bathroom. There were no photos featuring significant others hanging on the walls or occupying frames on end tables or dotting the mantel over the fireplace. There was usually only one soiled bowl and one ringed coffee cup sitting in the sink from breakfast waiting to be washed after a long day of work.

I’d only met him once—a year ago when I had my initial meet-and-greet with Rocco. I assumed he had just moved into the neighborhood or his previous walker had gotten a full-time job or moved away. The meeting lasted all of ten minutes. Enough time for me to get a feel for Rocco’s temperament. Enough time for Enzo to show me where Rocco’s leash was kept, where his toys were stored, and where his food was tucked away in the pantry. Enough time for him to gauge my experience and judge my character. To establish the most basic of rapports in a professional relationship.

Enzo didn’t reveal too much about himself in those ten minutes. He was a man of few words—quiet, serious, maybe even shy—asking only necessary questions and giving me only the information I needed to navigate his home and walk his dog. I couldn’t tell if he was straight or gay or undecided, and he offered me nothing to make my assumption any easier. I got the feeling that small talk wasn’t his thing. I was fine with that. He was a client to me and nothing more.

He must have just gotten home from work when I’d met him that evening a year ago. He wore black slacks that hugged his firm ass snugly and a gray-and-white checked button-up that fit him well. It led me to believe he kept himself in shape. He was attractive—maybe even hot—but nothing in particular drew me to him at that moment. The meeting was strictly business.

Rocco continued drinking until his bowl ran almost dry, sloppy strings of drool swirling in the otherwise clear water. He then traipsed down the hallway toward the primary bedroom at the back of the house—Enzo’s room—where he usually hung out when Enzo wasn’t home, lounging on a large plush dog bed in the corner. I cleaned his bowl and refilled it with filtered water, then followed him to Enzo’s room so I could close him in before heading home for the evening. I needed to clean up so I could meet some friends for dinner and drinks later.

When I entered the room, the door to Enzo’s bathroom was wide open and the light was switched on. The sight wasn’t that strange. It was just that Enzo rarely left any lights on in the house when he departed for work. Something tugged at me. A feeling inside that told me I should check to make sure everything was alright. I don’t know why. It was simply a light left on in a bathroom. But at that moment, I felt I should investigate, or at the very least, turn the light off.

Something caught my attention as I rounded his bed and approached the bathroom, though; something that should have been inconspicuous. Something I should have breezed past and forgotten about moments later, but for some reason, caught my eye. Just next to the bathroom was a walk-in closet. And just next to the walk-in closet was a wicker laundry hamper, lid closed over the cream-colored cloth bag that lined it. And wedged between the basket and the lid was an elastic strap, white and interesting and full of intrigue in its meaninglessness.

I don’t know what snapped in my brain at that moment, but I froze. I forgot about the stupid light in the bathroom. Rocco absent-mindedly licked at his paw, focused completely on the task at hand, oblivious to my presence. Everything else in the room just disappeared: the bed, the art on the walls, even Rocco. The only thing that existed was that hamper. And the elastic strap hypnotized me, drew me into some sort of cultish trance. Colors and shapes melded around me, eventually forming a tunnel that led directly to the hamper. Like a tractor beam. Like I was on some sort of eroticized acid trip.

It was as though X had marked the spot and my insatiable greed had gotten the best of me. Danger could be lurking around the corner. I might stumble upon some sort of counter-offensive, enemy forces leading me to an ambush. It could be booby-trapped, the treasure chest I’d just discovered. But I also didn’t care. Some sort of daze had settled in around me, my expression vacant, my eyes glazed over.

I shook myself out of it, literally shaking my head from side to side to break free from whatever pull that strap had on me. A digital clock on the bedside table read 4:41. It was the middle of the workday for Enzo. He wouldn’t be home for hours. Surely, Rocco wouldn’t mind me hanging around for a few minutes. Enzo would be none-the-wiser if I just had a peek.

What am I doing? A peek at what? Enzo’s laundry? What the fuck is wrong with me? I need to get the fuck out of here.

My brief attempt to reason with myself was of no use. Time seemed to lapse, and before I knew it, I found myself lifting the lid of the hamper to discover the rest of the jock that belonged to that elastic strap. That erotic-looking undergarment rested on a pile of Enzo’s dirty laundry: towels, socks, underwear, T-shirts, jeans, dress clothes, gym shorts. Most of those items meant nothing to me. That jockstrap, however, was the focus of my attention. The only thing that kept me from moving, from bolting out of that house, from cursing myself, from pushing that weird desire into some dark closet in my brain and padlocking the door. A door that would inevitably be kicked at from the other side, forcing my undivided attention as that innocuous piece of apparel begged for escape.

The white elastic straps, the gray pouch, that thick black line racing its way around the waistband, two thin red lines sandwiching it in. Even the size of the thing excited me: medium. Had anyone ever encountered such a wondrous size?

The jockstrap had been thrown into the hamper haphazardly, wadded up, the straps twisted and tired, lazing atop a pile of unwashed clothes, relegated to a mundane weekend chore. But I was an explorer and I had discovered the most beautiful fucking place ever discovered.

A genuine curiosity pecked at my brain—had he worn it recently? He must have since it was on top of the pile. Maybe this morning? During a workout? A jog around the park?

A tingle shot like an arrow from my brain to my cock, causing it to jump and swell in my underwear. I felt it thicken and press against my cutoff khaki shorts, a visible bulge surely forming as my slumbering member awoke, stretching and yawning, preparing to embark on another sexual journey.

Why was I so enthralled? Enzo was good-looking when I’d met him a year ago but I hadn’t seen him since. I liked walking his dog. I liked being in his house. It made me feel… something. Pinpointing exactly what being in that space made me feel was difficult, though, and I tried not to give it much thought. But I liked the feeling it gave me.

And Enzo? He was simply an attractive client. He wasn’t my first and likely wouldn’t be my last. But he was nothing more.

But suddenly, Enzo was all I could think about. My brain sent pulses of electricity through my body as I stared at that jockstrap. I imagined Enzo jogging through the neighborhood, lifting weights at the gym, doing push-ups or sit-ups or jumping rope in his backyard, all while wearing that jockstrap underneath a pair of slick gym shorts that hugged his frame and rode up and down his thighs with each movement.

His muscles flexing.

His meaty pecs bouncing.

Beads of sweat leaving salty trails of desire behind them as they coursed down his temples, his back, his tight abdomen.

Fuck. I had grown completely hard during my fantasy; a level of firmness that would require assistance to dissipate. That would necessitate a release to retract.

I wondered if I should touch it, that jockstrap. I knew I shouldn’t. It was an impulse. And the question wasn’t whether I should or not, it was simply a matter of whether I could get away with it without Enzo finding out. Without feeling the guilt that would surely meet me later, the guilt that would come from lusting over—from handling—another guy’s worn jockstrap. A steady client of mine, no less.

I looked back to the clock on this bedside table. 4:43. I’d been staring at the thing for two minutes, frozen in some kind of sexual trance. I felt like a kid in a candy store. A kid who was trying to get away with swiping a handful of something sweet while the shopkeeper was busy with another customer.

This is stupid , I thought. I know I’m going to touch it. Just fucking do it already .

My mind had been made up. I had only been hesitating in hopes that I would come to my senses, replace the lid, and walk away. But two minutes had passed—shit, three now—and I hadn’t budged. I leaned the lid against the wall to prop it up. The position would make it easy to grab it and throw it back on top of the hamper if I actually stopped to think about what I was doing. My hand reached out and grabbed the jockstrap quickly, as though I was hoping no one saw. I don’t know why. Not a soul was around.

The pouch felt cool in my hand as I gently rubbed the fabric between my thumb and forefinger. It was made of a soft cotton-spandex blend that gave it the ability to stretch, to shift with the movement of a body. Enzo’s body. Slightly damp at the edges, I panicked at the thought that it should probably be dry given how many hours Enzo should have been at work. Perhaps the lid of the hamper didn’t allow for much airflow. Perhaps Enzo had gone in to work late.

My dick stretched and punched at the fly of my shorts, looking for a way out, hoping to find comfort in freedom. It pulsed with excitement at the thought of Enzo’s cock being trapped inside the same jockstrap I was currently fondling just hours earlier, his balls tight against the fabric of the pouch.

Reason flew the coop and my sick curiosity got the best of me once again. I brought the pouch to my face and inhaled, softly at first, quickly. I wasn’t sure what I would encounter and I wasn’t sure if I would like it. The scent was light, an almost hollow musk dancing on the fabric. So, I went in again, inhaling more deeply as I brought the pouch closer to my face, touching it to my nose.

There it is , I thought. There’s the thick, heady scent of a man between his legs .

It was a scent I wasn’t sure I’d find at first, a scent I wasn’t sure I wanted to find: sweat and masculinity and sex. I swear I could smell sex clinging to the fabric. My rigid hard cock relayed to my brain that I could, anyway.

Fuck, I was horny. And I was sniffing the dirty laundry of a client. A client to whom I’d never given much thought. Not until just that moment, when that client became the only thought I had in my mind. Those distant memories of his kind, angular face: the laugh lines, the full head of hair newly graying at the temples, the sexy five o’clock shadow dotted with flecks of salt and pepper, clouded my head like a sandstorm. Memories a year old and probably outdated.

The rounded shape of his ass in those black slacks. Fuck.

And now, the way he smelled. That would be a new memory I’d carry with me. It would be the one that would put me over the edge the next time a heady release anxiously bounded across the horizon.

I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to. I wanted him all over me. I wanted to be able to smell him on my face later that night when I was out with my friends, a naughty little secret keeping my dick hard and my mind racing with filthy thoughts during dinner. I wanted to lick my lips after taking a sip of my beer and taste him on me. I wanted to be able to sense him on me while I jerked off in my bed before falling asleep. I wanted to be able to picture him clearly; pushing his cock between my wet lips, provoking me, urging me to lick him, to taste him, to suck him. To swallow him.

I inhaled deeper, pressing his jockstrap to my face, imagining how it would feel to be fucked by him, for him to shove his cock into my…

“Stevie?” The voice that appeared from behind me was rugged but even, almost accusatory. It scared the shit out of me, shocked me into believing I’d imagined it. I hoped I had. Please, please let it have been my imagination. “What are you doing?”

Fuck.

Shit.

Holy motherfucking shit fuck.

My entire face turned red; cheeks set ablaze with rosy embers. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears. The room began to spin… quickly. I thought I might pass out. Then it slowed. I froze up, and sweat began to bead on my forehead and under my arms… again. Nervous energy coursed through my veins, doing anything it could to push itself from my body, from the tips of my fingers and the soles of my feet.

I dropped the jockstrap back into the hamper, doing my best to restrain my movements and conceal my guilt, and stood completely still. My back was to the door. Maybe he hadn’t seen what I was doing. His voice had appeared from nowhere, after all. It had taken me a few seconds to even realize there was someone in the room with me. Well, in the doorway, watching me in his room, sniffing his jockstrap. But maybe he hadn’t seen. What the hell was he doing home from work so early, anyway?

I wanted to fade away, to spontaneously combust, to find an open window and hastily fling myself from the safety of his house. It was no longer a safe space for me. It had become a hostile battleground, a stately courtroom in which I sat exposed on the stand being interrogated with a string of litigious questioning, forced to incriminate myself.

Wait. The bathroom light. That’s why I’d originally entered his bedroom in the first place. I’d pretend like I’d been turning the bathroom light off before unceremoniously tripping over the hamper on my way out, causing the lid and some of the contents to tumble to the floor below. That’d be plausible, right? Except the bathroom light was still on and I was standing over the open hamper like a jerk, like a stunned idiot, like a deer in fucking headlights.

I couldn’t speak.