It was mid-morning in Chelsea, the kind of crisp November day that begged for motion, but the air inside felt thick, stagnant. Jordan had the afternoon shift at the consultancy, a client walkthrough for a private Warhol collection that could stretch into cocktails, but until then, the hours stretched open, a canvas he intended to fill with sweat and hard-work. He’d slipped into his workout gear with deliberate care: charcoal shorts that hugged his muscular thighs and climbed high enough to showcase the sculpted sweep of his quads; a fitted black tank that clung to his waxed torso, the thin straps framing the swell of his pecs and dipping low to tease the V of his hips. Every inch of him gleamed with lotion, as he laced up his sneakers by the kitchen island, stealing glances at the living room where Ben held court with the remote.
Ben was sprawled across their oversized sectional like a toppled statue, his frame devouring the cushions, one beefy arm slung over the backrest, the other cradling a half-empty mug of black coffee gone cold. His button shirt hung open over a faded tee that strained across the plush curve of his belly, the fabric rumpled from a morning interview that had soured before the handshake. Another rejection, some midtown firm that had eyed his resume like yesterday’s trash, muttering about “unfit” and “recent gaps” before shuffling him out the door. The TV droned on, that mindless cop procedural flickering, Ben’s hazel eyes glazed behind his glasses, beard shadowed with a day’s neglect. He didn’t look up as Jordan padded over, towel draped over one shoulder, the faint scent of his citrus body wash cutting through the room’s malaise.
Jordan paused at the edge of the rug, hands on his hips, letting the morning light catch the sheen on his legs. A silent invitation, if Ben would only glance. “Come on, Benny, please? Come with me?” His voice was soft, coaxing, threaded with a gentle lilt. He crouched slightly, bringing himself level with Ben’s downturned face.
Ben’s gaze flicked to his face, then back to the screen, a sigh rumbling from his chest like distant thunder. He shifted, the couch creaking under his weight, tree-trunk thighs spreading wider as if to root himself deeper into inertia. “Maybe tomorrow, Jord,” he muttered, voice gravel-low, edged with defeat. The mug tilted in his grip, coffee sloshing perilously close to the rim, and he took a swig that was more swallow than sip, wincing at the chill.
Jordan didn’t retreat. “Come on, you always say that,” he pressed, lightly. “I miss watching you doing squats.” A teasing smile curved his lips, eyes sparkling with the ghost of their old rhythm.
Ben’s mouth twitched, a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes, his massive hand coming up to scrub over his beard as if wiping away the temptation. “Yeah, well... “ He set the mug down with a clunk, finally meeting Jordan’s gaze, the vulnerability there raw as an exposed wire. “Go sweat it out, babe. I’ll... I’ll think about it. Promise.”
Jordan lingered a moment, the air between them humming with the unspoken weight of another small surrender. He could see the pull of inertia in the slump of Ben’s shoulders, the way his fingers drummed absently on the mug’s handle, and something sharp-tipped pricked at Jordan’s chest: annoyance, fleeting but insistent. It was dumb, really, how Ben twisted himself into knots over his body these days, all that discomfort festering until he drowned it in oversized hoodies. Why hide and not do something about? But Jordan swallowed the frustration, letting it dissolve on his tongue; patience was the thread holding them together now, frayed but unbroken. “Alright, big guy,” he said finally, voice light as he pushed to his feet, slinging the gym bag higher on his shoulder. A quick peck to Ben’s forehead, and he was out the door.
The next day unfolded in the same reluctant rhythm, Jordan emerging from a triumphant afternoon at the office, sealing a deal on a rediscovered Matisse sketch that had the partners toasting with overpriced espresso, his commission check already padding their pinched budget. Adrenaline thrummed in his veins as he changed into his gear. He felt unbreakable, primed to shatter personal records on the bench or rack, that electric high begging to be shared. “Gym tonight?” he pitched over takeout lo mein, perched on the sectional’s arm beside Ben, who was hunched over his laptop, scrolling job listings with the fervor of a man dodging quicksand.
Ben glanced up, glasses catching the screen’s glow, his bearded jaw tightening as he rubbed the back of his neck, the hoodie zipped to his chin like armor. “Can’t, Jord. Got that interview tomorrow, the HVAC spot in Brooklyn. Need to iron the shirt, run through questions... all that.” His voice carried the flat edge of rehearsal, eyes darting back to the cursor’s blink, the excuse landing soft but final.
The weekend arrived on a whisper of frost-kissed air, the loft bathed in the lazy gold of Saturday noon as Jordan plotted his quiet campaign. He’d float it casual, maybe a late-afternoon stroll to the weights, watching hot guys grunting through reps, sweat sheening on defined traps and big chests, the primal haze thick enough to stir Ben’s blood, put that cock back in the game. “What do you say we hit the gym first, then crash here with pizza?” Jordan murmured over coffee.
Bem’s hazel eyes fixed on the window’s distant skyline. “Not today, babe. Head’s killing me. Think I caught something from the subway yesterday. Rain check?” The words hung there, another excuse, leaving Jordan’s plan to fizzle in the sudden chill, patience fraying just a thread more at the seam.
Sunday morning filtered into the loft like a tentative truce, the November sun spilling golden across the hardwood in rare, unfiltered warmth, chasing the weekend’s chill from the corners. Jordan had woken with a stubborn spark, the sting of Saturday’s fizzle still fresh but tempered by the promise of one more try. The cop show droned on unchanged, dialogue a loop of clichés, Ben ensconced on the sectional once more, his massive legs stretched out, bare feet hooked over the ottoman.
“Come with me, big guy,” Jordan murmured, easing onto the cushion beside him, close enough that his thigh brushed Ben’s tree-trunk warmth, the contact a quiet anchor. “It’s a beautiful day outside. You can’t spend it in front of the TV. Please. For me?” He tilted his head, letting his lower lip jut in that deliberate pout.
Ben paused the show mid-siren wail, and turned, hazel eyes locking on Jordan’s. He watched him for a while, the silence stretching taut, and Jordan knew the machinery churning, the excuses queuing like storm clouds: a headache’s echo, some phantom errand, the weight of another rejection still clinging like damp wool. Jordan’s pout faltered at the edges, resolve thinning as he braced for the dodge, ready to retreat with another forced smile. But then Ben’s mouth quirked, a reluctant huff escaping as he rolled his eyes in exaggerated defeat, shoulders shrugging broad and loose under the hoodie’s bulk. “Fine, you win,” he grumbled, the words laced with a jokey gravel that cracked the tension, his free hand ruffling Jordan’s hair in rough affection. “Let’s go to the fucking gym.”
He changed into on a relic from their glory days, a black pair of shorts once perfect on him but now painted on, the fabric clinging like a second skin as he wrestled them up his legs. The quads bunched and flexed, calves diamond-hard from years of hauling cable and concrete. And there, at the crotch, the unmistakable swell: that bulge, heavy and pronounced, the outline of his thick cock shifting with each adjustment, balls nestled low and full, a promise Jordan hadn’t tasted properly in months. Jesus, how Jordan missed that cock, the weight of it on his tongue, the stretch of it filling him until he shattered. He stood frozen in the doorway, pulse thundering in his ears, mouth watering with a sudden, feral hunger. He almost wanted to forget the gym altogether, drop to his knees right there on the bedroom rug and worship his man’s cock again. But he held back. Don’t rush him, he told himself. Take the win.
The cab ride to the gym was a quiet thaw. Their gym was a new build in Hell’s Kitchen, a gleaming temple of fitness that had popped up six months prior: all floor-to-ceiling glass walls admitting floods of natural light, rubberized floors that absorbed the clang of weights like a hush, and open-plan zones segmented by frosted partitions for privacy without isolation. It wasn’t billed as a gay gym, no rainbow flags snapping over the entrance or thumping house anthems, but the management wore their pride on their sleeves, sponsoring local gay fundraisers and posting allyship manifestos on every smart screen. Word had spread like wildfire in the apps and group chats and gay men flocked there in droves. They claimed a corner of the free weights area, the scent of fresh rubber and eucalyptus sanitizer sharp in their noses, mirrors multiplying their reflections into an army of two. Chest and triceps today, Jordan’s plan, a nod to the glory days when Ben’s meaty pecs would bounce under loaded barbells. They started light, Jordan racking plates on the bench press, his bubblebutt flexing under his shorts as he bent, drawing Ben’s eyes for a beat longer than casual. “Spot me first, big guy? Ease you in,” Jordan said, settling onto the bench.
Ben hovered at the head, beefy hands ready, but the first set dragged, Jordan powering through reps with controlled exhales, twelve clean presses that made his pecs swell and striate, while Ben’s nods felt rote, his loose tee tenting over the gut as he shifted weight. “Your turn,” Jordan urged after, wiping sweat from his brow with a grin, clapping Ben’s shoulder to swap places. Ben lowered onto the vinyl, the bar groaning as he unracked it, but the groove eluded him at first: reps halting at six, elbows flaring, a muttered “Fuck” escaping his beard as the weight pinned him mid-air, Jordan’s hands diving under to steady it with a lilt. “Breathe through it, Benny.”
It took a while, the air thickening with the gym’s ambient pulse; grunts from a cluster of guys on the cable machines, the faint throb of indie pop underscoring the clanks, but the thaw came in fits and starts, jokes cracking the ice like fault lines. Jordan’s spotter whispers turned playful: “Push it up, big guy, you can do better than that” Ben huffed a laugh on his third set, the bar rising smoother, his triceps horseshoeing out as he locked out eight reps, sweat beading on his forehead and trickling into the collar of his shirt. Teasing flowed freer then, Ben ribbing Jordan on the dips station, “No wonder you crush these; that ass got its own gravity,” his eyes sparking behind glasses as Jordan dipped low. Ben’s turn on the skull crushers drew Jordan’s hands to his wrists for form tweaks, and by the cable flyes, Ben was in it: chest blooming under the resistance, pecs twitching alive beneath the loose fabric, a genuine grin splitting his face as he squeezed out a drop set, Jordan whooping low and triumphant beside him.
They worked out together for more than an hour. It was actually really fun, the kind of rediscovered rhythm that made Jordan’s pulse sing, his own muscles pumped and glowing as he stole glances at Ben’s rekindled form. Jordan knew miracles weren’t a thing, Ben wouldn’t snap out of his depressed mood with just some time at the gym, the shadows under his eyes and the weight in his silences too entrenched for a single session’s sweat to banish. But maybe it was a start, a crack in the armor wide enough for light to seep through. For the first time in months, the mirrors didn’t moc. As they racked the final dumbbells, towels slung over necks, Jordan bumped Ben’s hip with his own, voice thick with unspoken hope. “See? Told you it would be fun.”
They racked the final dumbbells with a synchronized clank that echoed through the gym’s vast hush, the hour-plus burn leaving their skin slick and flushed, muscles humming in that sweet, spent harmony Jordan hadn’t felt shared in too long. Ben slung his towel over his broad shoulder, the loose tee clinging damply to the renewed pump in his pecs, and made for the exit. But Jordan veered left toward the locker room, a detour that wasn’t his norm; he preferred the loft’s rain-shower ritual, but today the endorphins buzzed too bright, the victory too fresh, and he craved a interlude. To play with Ben for a while, tease out that old spark with water and wandering hands.
Ben paused at the threshold, hazel eyes narrowing behind sweat-fogged glasses, but he followed Jordan anyway, half knowing what was on his mind, the glint in those teasing glances during cable flyes, the hip bump that lingered like a promise. The locker room unfolded empty before them, a Sunday ghost town: the gym all but deserted, echoes of distant ellipticals the only company, benches vacant and steam vents silent. Jordan didn’t hesitate, peeling off his tank with a deliberate arch of his back. His shorts followed in a slow shimmy, kicking them aside to bare it all: the muscular sweep of his thighs, his big, round ass flexing as he bent, cock swinging free in the open space. He showed off a bit to Ben, turning with a coy spin, hands framing his hips like a frame around a prized sketch, the mirror catching the full view: smooth, sculpted, an invitation etched in every curve.
Ben leaned against a locker, arms crossed over his meaty chest, a smirk tugging at his beard-framed lips, low, knowing, the first unguarded curve of amusement Jordan had coaxed out today. His legs shifted, and Jordan could swore his saw his bulge twitching faintly in those too-tight shorts, as if the sight stirred something dormant. Jordan held the gaze a beat, heat pooling low, then pivoted toward the showers, flipping the faucet with a twist that unleashed a scalding torrent. He stepped under it, the spray lashing his skin in punishing waves, head tipping back as rivulets traced his collarbone, beading over his pecs and arrowing down his abs, a glistening path that begged to be followed.
Ben peeled off his loose tee with a shrug, the damp fabric whispering to the tiled floor, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, meaty pecs dusted with dark hair, the softening gut curving plush over his waistband, cheap tattoos stark against the flushed skin. His too-tight shorts came next, shoved down those tree-trunk thighs in one fluid yank, freeing the heavy sway of his cock and balls, thick and unapologetic even in repose, a sight that hit Jordan like a gut punch of memory and want. For a moment, as Ben kicked the clothes aside and stood there bare in the locker room’s light, Jordan’s breath caught, scared that the insecurities would show up, whispering Ben back into his shell. But for the first time in months, it seemed Ben wasn’t thinking about that; his hazel eyes met Jordan’s through the rising steam with a lazy confidence, beard quirking in that smirk, shoulders rolling loose as if the mirror’s judgment held no sway today.
He stepped into the shower stall next to Jordan’s, the divider a thin frosted panel that did little to mute the heat radiating between them, Ben’s massive frame filling the space like it owned it. They couldn’t actually do something, no matter how the air thickened with possibility; the gym had a strict no-fucking-around-in-the-locker-room policy, etched in bold on every door and enforced with zero tolerance. Jordan wouldn’t risk it. But there were no rules against looking a bit, right? Jordan’s gaze traced the rivulets carving paths over Ben’s body, lingering on the water-sheened gut, the veined forearms braced against the wall, his stunning cock glistening under the spraye. He reached for the liquid soap in the wall dispenser, pumping a generous pearl into his palm, the scent of clean eucalyptus blooming as he worked it over his skin, lathering his pecs in slow circles, suds foaming down his abs, over the swell of his butt, a deliberate show that drew Ben’s eyes like gravity, the steam veiling their shared hunger just enough to keep it safe.
Steam curled thicker in the locker room as the outer door hissed open, admitting two guys in a gust of cooler air, mid-twenties gym bros. towels knotted low on narrow hips as they traded low chuckles and claps on sweat-damp backs. They veered toward the far bank of showers, distant enough from Ben and Jordan’s corner to grant the illusion of solitude, but close enough that their voices carried in lazy echoes off the tiles. The teasing between Ben and Jordan snuffed out like a candle in wind. Jordan’s sudsy hands paused mid-lather on his abs, Ben’s smirk faded to neutral as he rinsed his beard under the spray, both of them snapping into the gym’s unspoken code: behave. But as the newcomers’ footsteps faded toward their stalls, Jordan caught Ben’s eye over the frosted divider, a quick glance that sparked twin smirks, conspiratorial and electric, the near-miss of getting caught twisting into something hilariously forbidden, like kids dodging a curfew. Ben’s hazel eyes crinkled behind his glasses, beard twitching with suppressed mirth, and Jordan bit his lip to stifle a bubble of laughter.
Jordan ended his shower first. He toweled off quick before padding to the urinals at the room’s far end, a row of porcelain sentinels under harsh fluorescents. Relief hit sweet as he pissed, but the moment shattered as the two guys’ voices filtered clearer from their showers, unguarded bro-talk slicing through the hush.
“Fuck, you saw the cock on that bear? That thing has its own zip code,” the first one drawled, voice pitched low but carrying, laced with awe that bordered on desire.
“I’d have to be blind not to clock it, man, guy’s a fucking horse.
Jordan’s grip tightened on himself, mid-stream faltering as he felt his eyebrown going up.
“You think he’s with the shorter dude?”
A snort, wet and dismissive. “You kidding? Shorty’s way out of his league.”
Fury boiled low in his Jordan’s gut, fists balling at his sides. He wanted to storm over, and tell that asshole Ben was completely in his league, actually leagues beyond these vapid gym rats with their empty reps and emptier stares.
But the second guy barked a laugh, throaty and echoing. “Fuck no, with a cock like that, that bear could have any bottom in town.”
Their laughter rolled out in tandem. “Shit, that guys’s cock is an OnlyFans jackpot. Tease a vid of it swinging, and he’d bank a fortune.”
Jordan exhaled sharp through his nose, the words lodging like shrapnel: fortune online. A spark, unbidden, dangerous, half-formed... but he shook it off. Ben emerged then, towel slung low on his hips, that very bulge shifting innocently as he toweled his hair, hazel eyes questioning Jordan’s sudden silence. Jordan forced a smile, but inside, the seed took root.
They emerged from the gym into the crisp November embrace of Hell’s Kitchen, the midmorning sun a rare gift slicing through the skyline’s haze, covering the sidewalks in honeyed light and turning the brownstones’ stoops into stages for bundled dog-walkers and coffee-sipping locals. “Walking?” Jordan suggested as they hit the street, gym bags slung over shoulders, the post-pump ache a pleasant throb in their limbs, and Ben nodded with a vigor that crinkled his eyes behind his glasses. Yes, walking, why not, the air alive with that autumn bite that sharpened the senses without numbing them. It really was beautiful, the kind of day that coaxed scarves loose and jackets unzipped, leaves skittering like confetti underfoot as they turned west toward Chelsea, the Hudson’s distant gleam winking like an old friend.
Ben was more excited than he’d been in months, the workout’s endorphin rush unlocking a floodgate. His massive strides ate the pavement as he launched into a babble about that dumb cop show, the one he’d mainlined through his funk like a lifeline. “So, get this, the twist with the partner? Total bullshit, right? But the way they shot the chase, all shaky cam and that score kicking in... fuck, Jord, it’s like they knew I needed the adrenaline fix.”
Jordan was only half-listening, nodding at the pauses with mechanical smiles, his legs matching Ben’s pace but his mind miles away, tangled in the locker room’s echoing crude. He wasn’t surprised those guys were attracted to Ben. Bears were popular in the gay community for a reason. And his cock really was monumental. It was the other thing, the OnlyFans part, that hooked him deepest, the offhand toss of “fortune online,”. As Ben gestured wildly about plot holes and bad acting, Jordan’s gaze drifted to the sway of his boyfriend’s hips under those too-tight shorts, the outline faint but insistent, and the seed from the urinal’s hush burgeoned: what if showing the world could heal what hiding had broken?
It was crazy. Really crazy. And probably stupid, the kind of half-baked whim that should curdle in the light of day, but as they strolled the sun-dappled blocks toward Chelsea, Jordan couldn’t shake it loose. He was sure Ben would turn him down on the spot, those hazel eyes narrowing behind his glasses, a bark of laughter masking the shutdown. He could almost hear it, OnlyFans? Get real, Jord.
But what if it worked? The guys back in the locker room had been almost drooling over Ben, not a whisper about the absent six-pack spilling soft over his waistband, or the jobless limbo that had him pacing their loft like a caged storm. They hadn’t clocked the faded tattoos or the beard hiding a jaw clenched against rejection; just the power, the body, the cock. What if the whole world was like that? Okay, maybe not the whole world, Ben’s rough edges and runaway scars would always snag on the polished fringes... but some people? Enough to flood a feed with fire emojis and DMs that screamed yes, you’re wanted?
It wasn’t even about the money, though that bro had nailed it cold: people would actually pay for a cock like that, subscriptions stacking like bets on a sure thing, that cock worth a monthly tithe from bottoms who’d never touch it. No, for Jordan, it was the spark, the what if that twisted in his gut like hope laced with heat. What if, when Ben realized he was still hot, still desirable, that thunderous body a magnet no slump could dull? Wouldn’t he get his old confidence back?
As Ben paused to snag a fallen leaf from the sidewalk, twirling it between beefy fingers with a boyish grin, Jordan’s pulse stuttered. It was crazy, it was stupid, but god, what if?
