I’ve got the world’s best job. I work as the attendant in a men’s gym in Chicago. The double locker rooms are always full of men who need a workout, stripping down for a shower, getting into their exercise clothes or getting dressed after a hard session. The air holds an almost visible miasma of sweat, with a sweet over layer of various colognes.
Plus that delicious pure male scent that only exists in a room no woman would ever visit. I love to see them all too, the lithe young guys wanting to bulk up, their heroes buff and big and hard all over, the older men and desk jockeys trying to recapture the body they once had. You know, I think they are all sexy in their own way. They work so hard, I can tell. They come in pristine, boys in clean flannel or tee shirts and jeans.
Sneakers… Men in crisp shirts and ties, dress pants and loafers… Even the ones that wear their sweats here to the gym. They are all clean, dry and eager to get out onto the floor and improve their bodies a little. Here they strip down and that’s fun too. Flat abs and beer bellies, softening love handles and rock hard gluteus, it’s a total man mix that should delight any man who considers himself a gay in good standing. And I do, I love men! I love being here to watch them change into their shorts or sweats, their tank tops or t-shirts or no shirts for their work out. It is always different…
But, you know what every man wears to work out? White socks. Perfectly white cotton athletic socks and Nike trainers… And I, the workout voyeur, the locker room lurker, now confess that I love those socks. I love them right out of the package, I love them being pulled over fresh powdered feet for the first time. But I love them best when they are all grungy, after a good hard session, when the guys come in dripping with sweat.
The men pull off their layers of sodden sweat drenched clothing and leave it in piles on the floor. They head, hair damp and skins salty wet, into the shower or into the sauna for a good clean sweat. I advise them to do both, to shower off and then into the cedar sauna to sprawl and relax while they sweat some more. Another good shower after that, a cool one, leaves them invigorated and refreshed. And I take care of their laundry. Lucky, lucky me!
I provide all the towels, of course, and those are fun. They get as sweaty as the socks. The guys strip off their shoes and socks, then dry their feet off before moving on. Between each wet toe, if I’m fortunate! I sit there in my hot little laundry room of an office and watch those guys with good foot hygiene. Good guys. I creep out and grab up those towels, take them back to my office and press them to my nose.
They smell so enticing. It makes me hard to smell them, that yeasty disgusting sweaty foot odor is like perfume to my dick. I rub the smelly towels against my face, but they’re really just the appetizer. You see, it’s the socks, like I said.
I love the dripping used socks more than anything. When my guys leave their used, once pristine, white athletic socks on the floor, I drool. I want to scurry over there and wrap them around myself, around my neck like a mink stole, around my wrists like stinky corsages at some filthy foot oriented prom.
They lay there with the rest of the work out clothing, in little piles on the floor of the locker room. The guys will, for the most part, scoop them up with the rest of their gear to take home and wash. Or they toss them into their gym bags or lockers to ferment until next time, which can get really repulsive but still oddly appealing…to me anyway. It’s not so good for the guy working out beside them in the gym.
When it seemed like a lot of guys were doing this, I came up with my brilliant idea, the idea that keeps me here and happy in the locker room. Laundry Lothario Extraordinaire. I began offering laundry services, very cheaply, to any gym member. Especially for their socks. After all, white athletic socks are all pretty much mix and match, all of a size for most guys. So if I just throw them into one big wash, with soap and bleach, all I have to do is sort them into pairs and let the guys grab them at random as they need a fresh pair.
I wash their other stuff too, if they want, but I love having that big pile of gross sweaty socks to play in before washing them. I heap them up in a corner of my office, dumping them out of the large wheeled canvas hamper I collect them in. The pile gets awfully big sometimes, as I put off doing a wash as long as I can, because when it’s big enough, I do my special thing.
I stay after the building closes, when the heap is big enough. That’s when I strip down, there in the empty locker room. I take my chair out of the office and the wastebasket, and I spread out the grimy smelly socks, all over my floor.
They raise quite a smell, some are still damp with sweat when I kneel down, completely naked, and then roll around in the deliciously disgusting lovely socks. They stick to my body, I inhale big sniffs of their filthy aroma and it’s the most arousing perfume ever invented. My cock is tingling and alive, growing against my thighs, thrusting into my stinky lovers, the highlight of my week. I pick up some of the still wet socks and rub them urgently over my dick, my full aching balls.
I need this so badly, I love it and I want it, want this feeling to last forever. Glorious, wonderful, smelly things… I am ashamed of course, embarrassed by my humiliating fetish, but nothing could shame me enough to keep from this private revel. I gorge my senses with the objects of my perverted desire, eking it out, making them last.
My body takes on the moldering rancid sweat scent, I can find no clean air to breath, nor do I desire for it, I love having my lungs full of my beloved’s foul breath.
It’s harder now; I roll around, thrashing frantically, pumping my hips and howling my need for release to the gods! It’s cumming; it’s pulsing, being torn out of me and I SHOOT, thick ropes of creamy cum covering the socks around me, dripping onto my balls and thighs. My body shudders with orgasm, shining bright and soaring orgasm, and I fall back on my stinking bed of roses.
It’s over, for now. It’s over. But, it will come again. And so will I.
Over and over again.