Cupid Strikes 2 Straight Men Pt 1

Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fucking fuck. I’m a dead man.
He’s looking right at me. He knows what I’ve been doing. Now he’s going to kill me. My stomach feels like his fist is already in it. All that’s left is for him to spit on my crumpled body. I can just imagine him doing it, his lips forming into a sneering “O,” his full, pouting lips, his gorgeous, plump, soft, lips…
Fuck! I’m doing it again. I’m about to die and I’m still doing it. I am so fucked.
I didn’t come here to stare at him. I came here to get away from him, actually. I didn’t think he’d be here. In fact, given my previous observations of his schedule, this is the time that he’s normally at his team meeting in the athletic office. The one where he looks serious and engaged right up until he nods off, that cleft chin coming to rest softly on his chest, his baggy sweats tenting up as his apparently ample privates respond to something pleasant in his dreaming. At least that’s the way it looks through the window of the basement room where they have the meetings.
Not that I’m a stalker or anything.
It’s just that he’s so beautiful, so fucking beautiful, I can’t help myself. And now he’s seen me gawking at him on the bench press, and he’s going to come over here and bash my fucking brains in. I didn’t intend to stare, you know. I just glanced over–glancing is fine, right? everyone glances, happens all the time–and he was really pushing hard to thrust the bar back up, really straining, and then his legs lurched a bit, the leg of his shorts shifted a bit, and suddenly I could see straight up his leg to, well, all the way up....