Extroverted and self-assured, Jeb McCammon found it hard in the odd moments with spare time on his hands, sitting in his small apartment with nothing to do but stare at the wall. He kept a few Clive Cussler novels, buried somewhere in his bedroom closet, but wasn’t really much of a reader. Jeb was a ‘physical’, ‘hands on’ kind of guy; happiest playing sports, fooling with the engine of his car, or just hanging out with friends. He had done a stint in the navy loving every minute of it; the sights and sounds of shipboard travel and, especially, the crowded port stops turned him on. A ‘man’s man’ and ladies’ heart throb; he cruised through life at twenty six filled with restless energy, bold but trusting, confident that he could handle and enjoy everything that life had to offer. These days he worked a decent job as a warehouseman, mostly driving the forklift, but getting down and dirty often enough to keep him in shape. Loading the big rigs had his muscular frame in top condition and he loved watching from the corner of his eye as heads turned to observe him, casually dressed in loose jeans and t-shirt; smooth muscles and languid grace, people sizing him up- often hungrily or green with envy- guessing at the masculine contours beneath the fabric. He reveled in the stares- surreptitious or head on- boldly returning the perusal of good looking women. He wasn’t the analytical type and, so, shrugged and smiled inwardly at the strange buzz he got when he caught the odd, darting gaze of men measuring the muscles of his lanky frame or the bulge in his blue jeans. Sometimes his blue-gray eyes met their roving appraisal. Jeb would arch a sandy eyebrow; quizzical in a weird, condescending sort of way.

Friday night- and he shook his head for the hundredth time in bored disbelief. His cell phone lay tossed on a pile of dirty laundry; none of his wide circle of acquaintances seemed to be available. He wished he had a girlfriend and considered calling Cathy on the phone and trying to make it up with her. No use. That relationship had been a rollercoaster and he was better off done with it. Besides, there were a thousand women out there waiting to be had. Jeb didn’t lack confidence and shrugged off the impulse to call his ex-girlfriend; it had been great while it lasted, but the ride was over. The evening was sultry and Jeb slouched on the sofa, stripped to his boxer shorts. He casually scratched the fine bronze hair carpeting his flat belly and studied an old stain on one of the walls of his tiny living room. Fidgeting restlessly a few minutes longer, he sighed in frustration then, on impulse, sauntered into the bachelor-pad bedroom. Rummaging in a battered chest of drawers Jeb pulled an old gray t-shirt over his head and buttoned up a pair of faded jeans. Black leather belt and white socks and tennis shoes had him ready for the public. He considered a shave but, rubbing the sandy stubble on his jaw, figured ‘no time for that’. Thinking about Cathy had temporarily soured him on the ladies and he planned on killing time over some beers at one of the many bars downtown; maybe shoot a few games of pool and, if later he met a good looking babe, well, there were chicks that got into the rough and rugged look. The young stud studied the macho reflection in the bedroom mirror, winked and flashed a wide grin over even white teeth. Casually patting down his bushy hair he made a note to grab a haircut over the weekend and headed for the door. He was a man with a plan; boredom forgotten he locked up the apartment, happily jingling his car keys as he left the brightly lit building.

Jeb drove aimlessly for a while down some side streets near the center of town and, on impulse, opted for adventure. The ‘down side’ of center city was littered with sleazy joints blaring music and splashed with wild streaks of flickering neon. Jeb parked his car in an unfamiliar alley and randomly chose a small bar bathed in sickly blue light. The inside smelled like month old beer and a thousand cigarette butts and was sparsely populated by the type of clientele that made Jeb feel self-consciously clean cut. Heads turned when the fresh young jock entered but he was used to that and, shrugging off the unfamiliar sense of shyness, he returned the stares, cracking a boyish smile and thought to himself, ‘Check it out, man! A bunch of fucking low life rednecks...’ as he plopped himself down on a stool and contemplated his first brew. Three bottles later and the handsome drinker had a good buzz going with a conversation to match; amusing a few of the guys gathered around with tales of his days in the navy. They all seemed suitably impressed and Jeb, used to being the center of attention (and floating on four beers), didn’t really notice the restless shifting of eyes to the gaping collar of his old t-shirt or the line of his rounded biceps. Without really realizing how, Jeb found himself answering some very personal questions. Naturally, the conversation had moved from talk of travel adventures to a guy’s favorite subject: sex. Jeb loved to describe his conquests and did, but the men around the table deftly maneuvered things along slightly different lines; they weren’t all that interested in the women the young stud had screwed; it was the muscular warehouseman that riveted their attention. Jeb, working on his fifth beer, was oblivious and easily moved from bragging about his conquests to bragging about himself.

‘Yeah, I like to work out, but don’t really have to... much. I get some pretty good exercise at work.’ He laughed and subconsciously flexed the muscles of his torso. One of the guys, named Bobby, laid his hand on the smooth muscle of the jock’s upper arm and gently squeezed. He put on an ‘aw shucks’ kind of voice and said, ‘Not bad, man. You got some real good mass, good tone...must drive the ladies wild when you load up them trucks with your shirt stripped off.’ Jeb had the sense to feel a whisper of nervousness at the man’s touch but was also somehow gratified. The nervousness faded to a blur in a swirl of beery fog; waiting almost out of sight as Bob gently took Jeb’s forearm in his other hand bending at the elbow, working the muscles himself in hypnotic slow motion. He hoisted the bemused jock’s captive arm higher bending Jeb’s slack wrist behind his head and ran his other hand over the taut bicep to the yawning sleeve of his t-shirt, which he peeled back over the rise of a bronzed shoulder. Sliding his meaty paw underneath the fabric of the shirt, he probed the upper reaches of the jock’s raised pecs, fingering damp blonde hair in the exposed pit. Jeb snapped out of his reverie and jerked away. ‘Hey, man, that tickles!!’ he stammered and, realizing how lame that sounded, blushed and stared confused at the half empty bottle of beer on the table. Being ticklish was definitely not macho and Jeb felt somehow diminished and a little angry. As uncomfortable as those emotions were, they masked one far worse; Jeb was uncomplicated and straight, not used to guys pawing the contours of his biceps or upper chest. He didn’t want to think about that. Eager to steer the unsafe conversation back, at least, to familiar ground he said, ‘Yeah, it feels great to load up the rigs...’ Reflecting on the lost thread, he added, ‘when it gets hot I like to work with my shirt off, you know, get up a good sweat, catch some rays and stuff.’ His mouth was suddenly dry. One of the other guys chimed in, ‘The chicks must really dig that, man! You ever tease ‘em, like do some posturing, maybe let your pants sag kind of low on your hips? Show ‘em the line of your shorts...get ‘em hot for what’s inside???’ Oh yes, Jeb had done those things and loved every sweaty testosterone charged minute of it, but all of a sudden he wasn’t loving this conversation. He wished he could go, but it was still so damn early. ‘Yeah, I guess so, sometimes,’ he mumbled. The other guys laughed approvingly and Jeb felt a little better.

‘Hey! Want to shoot some pool?’ one of the guys, a fat dude named Ricky, said. ‘Yeah, sure.’ Actually, the suggestion came as a huge relief. Jeb wanted to get his mind on other things and needed a stretch and, well yes, to clear a little of the haze from his beer soaked brain. That resolve was dashed as Ricky shoved another brew (number seven) in the jock’s sweaty hand.