Set a jock time alarm and let it ring in your mind and pants. Because it's jock time. Those of us who don't train for years to win a medal of whatever color still train for our own reasons.
Like so you can spend time in a locker room and watch guys in various states of sexual undress. Or so you can sort of fit in with other jocks at various points throughout the day. Because, hell, maybe you're a jock too.
Or you just want to watch, which most jocks secretly (or not so secretly notice) and heartily approve of. Tends to feed their egos too. Which may make them workout harder, set bigger goals, and give you more to see next time. Win and win.
If you're lost, is it better to stay in the same place so someone can find you? Or keep wandering? If you're searching for a certain guy, is it better to stay in the same place so he can find you? Or wander in hopes of finding him?
Neither thing with neither thing. Rather shout it from them the rooftops. A giant cosmic I WANT YOU. YES YOU.
Some guys show off accidentally on purpose and you may find yourself accidentally on purpose at the right angle to stare like all hell at them. Also known as winning the beefcake lottery.
Or as a precursor to filing a sexual harassment lawsuit. Whichever.
As much as they tout their utility, those trip planning sites just don't offer a Bulge World Tour. And I mean ass bulge, muscular arm bulge, ass bulge, and of course the most important one of all.
Wallet bulge.
Isn't that what makes jeans bulge out in the front? THat's where I wear my wallet. Meanwhile, I wear my dick in my back pocket. It's complicated.
No need to follow all the standard steps to win a gold medal, such as picking a sport, training, qualifying for the Olympics and, um, actually coming in first. You can skip right to the gold medal part.
Because your gold medal is this rather perfectly built guy in a gold singlet. Wouldn't you enjoy wearing him around your neck?
In this social experiment to see what happens when a shiny, pretty muscular guy (carrying a coffee cup most of the time) walks nonchalantly through Manhattan.
Or more specifically, certain parts of Manhattan, not including Wall Street, the Meat Packing District, Dhinatown, or Bergdorf Goodman. Because everyone knows what would happen if he walked into ritzy department store Bergdorf Goodman.
Outside is where you see guys and inside is where you take them. But sometimes inside is where you see one too because he's on his way to outside and his way to you hopefully. Admiring people is complicated.
Especially from a distance.
I'm beginning to wonder if all guy watching carries the risk of lost opportunity. Though hopefully some of these guy watchers who snapped these followed up with an approach, such as:
Technically, that would be muscle and crotch bulges and muscle bulges. And why not throw in another bulges while we're at it. Or a dozen.
I must assert that it's wrong to grab a guy's pecs out of nowhere. Definitely say hello first. And not with your hands but with your words and eyes. Or hands and eyes if you speak that way. As long as he understand and accepts.
That mix of clothed and dressed is everything. The fabric (or rubber or plastic wrap or macrame or whatever people where) caresses, highlights, partially exposes, hides, teases or shows off the body. And I want to see.
I get that it's something simple often, like a t-shirt and shorts. But compare the full nudity (which has its own definite charms) to partially clothed and you can feel the seduction.
What's better for you? A major bulge ready to explode out of super tight jeans? Or flopping cock and sack doing their thing out a shorts leg?
Frankly, I would prefer a flopping cock and sack hanging out the bottom of a pants leg, as in by the ankles. Though as that size package is only a Photoshop thing, I'll have to settle for cock out of shorts.
And what an arousing way to settle it is. Not like settling for soggy french fries. This is serious cock we're talking about.
Thank you male nipple privilege. That's the protestable double standard in which biological men are (depending on one's exact location) generally allowed to be bare chested in public.
Including, if you live in Florida, at an alligator funeral. You know, when the alligator died from a meth overdose. Which is pretty much what happens someone in Florida at least once a day. Or probably.
Not "double-dicked" but "double-dick" as in two dicks. His two dicks. He has two dicks. Which is one more than required. Or if you're FTM dude friendly, then potentially up to two dicks more than the zero required.
I get that it's the fold of the singlet. I get he doesn't have two dicks. Except, facts show he totally does! Two dicks! Double! And he hasn't let it hold him back from great athletic success, such as jacking himself off two times at once.
That's like Wonder Woman but men and more than one. But still the overall effect is superhero. And I like superheroes.
Pity none actually exist. I mean for all the movies out there, there has yet to be a person who can fly. For all the radioactive spiders out there, there has yet to be a nerd bitten by one. And for all the muscular guys in shorts sitting outside, there has yet to be one whose shorts spontaneously disintegrate, despite my attempt to use my nonexistent telekinetic powers.
