All About Mike

It’s strange how some people can look at something or someone and see fire and music while others, to paraphrase Margot Channing, will see only an old kazoo with bit of sparkle. The latter will be the phrase that I will refer to myself as. It’s not something that I want, but I’m not ashamed of it either. What I would be ashamed of, would be to act like the other old kazoos who hang out in the locker rooms of my gym.

In the men’s locker room at a gym, you will often be surrounded by youth and testosterone, muscle and power, supple bodies and lithe limbs. You will also find older trolls lurking about, leering at what can be seen and hoping to approach those that can be easily had. These men are the ones that think they are the only grown faggots in Boys Town. They are the ones that stare in the mirror imagining what it would be like to touch you. These are the ones that linger in the shower a little too long, gawking behind the half closed curtains with their dicks saluting the midday sun. Milkman Mike is one of these people.

Mike, of course that is not his real name, is a middle aged man of average height. He has a lumpy build with pale and pasty skin. I have seen him at my gym for the last seven of eight years and I am still looking for some sign of physical improvement. But what he does do well is make himself known to almost everyone there. He speaks to all, from employees to management and from students to senator. He makes banal and forgettable statements that interest no one all the while searching for an opportunity to ingratiate himself with you.

I first noticed Mike when he would stand naked in front of me, legs akimbo, blow drying his balls in hope that I would take notice of him. It wasn’t difficult to keep my eyes above his waist or even turn away in complete disgust and ignore the show. But when he started following me into the sauna or steam room he began to get unbearable.

When I was in the sauna I would always be wrapped in a towel if I was sitting up or completely naked if I was lying down like many of the guys who go there. My eyes would be covered or closed as I tried to relax and take in the heat. Then Mike would walk in, dressed in his work out clothes and bottle of eucalyptus oil. He would pour the oil somewhere on the furnace so it would stink up the room to open up the sinuses or annoy the shit out of me, I’m not sure which.

After a while when he had finished saying how good it was to see me and I had turned my head towards the wall, I would hear the sound of his hand sliding rhythmically up and down flesh. If I turned suddenly or looked up, I would catch him either be staring at my dick or tucking his own into his pants.

The idea of being stuck in a room with him nauseated me, but he soon got the notion that I was not interested in him and started to leave me alone when newer and fresher dark meat started to come to the club.

Now I look at Milkman Mike and laugh to myself when I see him trip over himself chasing the younger guys. I see him wander in out of the sauna from ten to forty minutes trying to get someone to nut with. It amuses me that he still doesn’t realize that very few people are interested in him or his antics. I entertain myself by wondering why he doesn’t grasp the idea that he is just an old kazoo with NO sparkle in him.