This is a work of fiction. All persons are intended to be age 18 and above.

Even horndogs need to visit the grocery store, and that’s how I met the shelf-stocker. At the ripe old age of 20 he was all man and I have the happy memories to prove it.

I had been working in the yard all morning, doing those chores you put off during the week because you’re too worn out when you get home from work to deal with them, but they never go away so by the time the weekend rolls around you’ve got a mountain of jobs waiting to be finished. You know – those kinds of jobs.

It was getting to be early afternoon and I wanted to take a break as the sweat was pouring down my forehead and into my eyes, practically blinding me. I don’t know about you but my sweat seems saltier than the Dead Sea. I don’t even use salt as a condiment but God help me if I get sweat in my eyes – I’ll be rubbing them for the next 10 minutes ... and crying, literally.

That’s why I wear bandanas when I’m doing physical labor. I buy my bandanas at a variety of places – convenience stores or sometimes Walmart. They rarely cost more than a dollar and are like every other bandana you’ve ever seen in your life – a solid color with a white paisley print pattern. But not long ago I discovered a collection of Pride rainbow pattern bandanas for sale on Amazon. I had a few bucks in my gift certificate account so I went ahead and ordered them. I figured I could use them as a form of advertising – you know, in case that hot-looking mailman, or the FedEx delivery guy, had any question as to my availability.

I put my tools away and dumped myself into my favorite chair on the front porch to finish a bottle of water ... which reminded me. I needed more bottled water and a few other food items. I had a list inside. Maybe once I cooled off I could run down to the grocery store and cross all these items off my list and get back in time to do a little reading before a shower and dinner. So I gathered my wallet, keys and phone, and headed out, just like I was, dirty, sweaty clothes and all. In the past I wouldn’t have set foot out of the house looking like this but I remembered something my granddad used to say: “You ain’t going to a fashion show.”

The grocery store was one of those modern venues that have been studied by psychologist-decorators who calculate the precise kind of lighting, flooring and display strategies to maximize sales. I found myself wandering past the BOGO tables, the deli with its delectable odor of fried chicken, and the colorful produce department, and over to the aisle that contained water. I decided their prices were too high and skipped the big shrink-wrapped bundles; I’d save that purchase for Walmart. But another item I wanted was a package of Klondike bars. This store had a sugar-free variety I couldn’t find anywhere else. Leaving the water behind, I headed to the frozen food section and scanned the coolers for my beloved Klondikes.

While I was there I noticed this young man, a store employee, staring at me. I caught him looking several times and always, he would jerk his gaze away, only to return it when he thought I wasn’t looking myself. As I said, he appeared to be about 20, had buzzed-short brown hair and a stocky build, like a rugby player. But his freckled face was the mold for that guy-next-door look, the eyes slightly quizzical, the nose a cute anime-style button and a granite chin that was fringed with the barest hint of a 5 o’clock shadow. The moment I saw him I was smitten. My eyes centered on that beefy ass, which filled his corduroys and then some. I could see myself thrusting my face into that meaty crack and attacking the delights that lay within those sweaty depths. I felt my dick growing hard at the thought of it.

I found my Klondike bars and placed them in my basket, and when I turned I caught him giving me the eye yet again. So I decided to be bold and went up to him. His cheeks turned a furious shade of red and he seemed reluctant to look me in the eye. I gave him best smile and said in a quiet voice, “I’ve noticed you looking my way several times. Is there something I can help you with?”

He closed his eyes – that “I’m busted” gesture - and finally nodded. “Your bandana,” he said. “I was just ... checking it out.”

My bandana. I had forgotten all about it.

My Pride bandana.

I touched it with my finger and said, “Do you like it? I bought a package of them on Amazon. I can bring one for you if you like.” And then more quietly I whispered, “Or is there something else I can do for you?”

I heard a faint whisper of a sigh. He whispered back, “Yeah, there is.”

I looked around to see if any eavesdroppers were nearby, then said, “And where can I do this thing for you?”

He smiled faintly. “The men’s room is at the back of the store, next to Produce. Five minutes?”

I nodded and walked back to the freezer, returning the Klondike bars where I found them. I had a feeling they’d be melted by the time I finished my other, er, “shopping.”

I headed that way and found the men’s room. I had to stand at the urinal and pretend to pee while a man finished his business in the stall and left. I quickly moved in, and that was a mistake, if you know what I mean. I think all public toilets should be equipped with two things – a sound system to mask the tinkle of pee hitting toilet water, and a powerful exhaust fan to clear out the eye-watering stench some guys leave behind after they’ve voided their bowels.

Just as the air was becoming breathable again I heard the door swish open and peeked through the crack in the door. Yes, it was my rugby playing shelf-stocker. I opened the door and motioned him inside before somebody else came in.

I took a seat on the toilet. I looked up at him. He was smiling as he undid the apron all store employees were required to wear. There were no words exchanged between us. I simply reached up, undid his belt, unbuttoned his jeans and pulled the zipper down. Then, I grabbed his pants and yanked them down. He was wearing a pair of blue boxers with a comet-and-stars print. They came down partially and I finished the job, then leaned back to admire my prize.

To say that this young grocery store worker was hung would have been an understatement. His dick was like a billy club, long and thick and hanging from a dense, unruly thatch of pubic hair which was, strangely, not very curly. It resembled a black lion’s mane, and his monster of a cock protruded from it, giving it definition and scale. I was next stricken by the smell, a potent elixir of sweat and the kind of secretions a young man gives off when he becomes sexually aroused – hormones, pheromones, whatever the medical name is for those things. There’s really no way of describing the smell – a funky, musky odor that, when you take a whiff, reminds you of nights when you were lying in bed, your hand exploring your crotch, your skin salty with sweat and just a little bit tacky, and you were thinking of a certain person, the one you wanted to lie on top of and grind against and drink in their taste and aroma, and your crotch became a steamy furnace of arousal with your dick standing straight out from of it like a divining rod and all you could think of was the need you were feeling to thrust inside him, again and again, your brain giving way to an animal need for sex.

I gently pulled him closer to me and when he stopped shuffling, I took that majestic cock in my hand and just felt it, my fingers rubbing against the warm, sticky surface, as if I had picked up a caramel apple by the wrong end. I could see a fine tracery of veins running just beneath the skin, and as I fondled it, the dick began to grow in my hand, and stand away from the crotch. I slid my hand up and down the shaft and as I did so, the peehole dilated, and I wondered if he would ejaculate prematurely. Some young men do that, you know.