Page 9 of View From the Bottom
Enzo’s house aroused me in the dullest of ways, its tediousness intoxicating.
His living room was situated to the right of the entryway—completely open to the kitchen straight ahead—and decorated with contemporary furniture: a sectional sofa, a coffee table, an oversized floor lamp that swooped up and dramatically hung over the space. Wide bamboo planks stretched the entire length of the house. An exposed brick wall housed a large flat-screen TV and a built-in fireplace that wouldn’t be necessary for at least a couple of months. A muted gray tone gave life to the other walls—walls that were sparsely decorated with abstract art that gave nothing away about Enzo’s personal life, about his character. The space was mid-century minimalism at its finest.
An oversized picture window at the front of the house overlooking the quaint postage-stamp front yard provided a nice view of the vivid splashes of greens and browns that painted the world outside: cut blades of grass and leafy plants and overgrown bushes and large old oak trees. The garden district was quieter and more stately than bustling Spruce Street, where the majority of my clients lived towering above this older, more historic slice of the neighborhood.
Unhooking the leash from Rocco’s harness and unclipping the clasp that kept it secured around his chest, I allowed him to step out and prance over to his water bowl in the kitchen. The silky tufts of black and white fur that dangled from his belly bounced back and forth as he strode. He lapped and lapped as though he hadn’t had a drop in days.
Rocco’s an English springer spaniel, almost three years old, and usually my last walk of the day. Enzo, Rocco’s owner, tended to work late hours—later than most of my clients, anyway; eleven to seven rather than nine to five. When he asked me if I could manage a four o’clock time slot, it was music to my ears. Most prospective clients wanted their companions walked between the hours of eleven and two. Even pack walkers could only accomplish so much in such a tight time frame.
I didn’t pack walk. I’d been walking dogs full-time for four years, long enough to know that walking even two dogs that weren’t well trained at the same time could be a struggle, let alone five or six.
My mom had been asking me what my future was going to look like for the last two years, and honestly, I didn’t know.It’s the future, I kept telling her.No one could possibly know what it’s going to look like. I graduated from Georgia State in the spring with a degree in marketing and no fucking clue what to do with it. Even less of a clue about what Iwantedto do with it.
Walking dogs suited me just fine. Eight thirty-minute walks a day allowed me to pay the rent on my small studio apartment. It covered the bills. It put food on the table. Anything on top of that—extra walks, overnight stays with pets while their owners traveled, watering plants, house-sitting—was play money, travel funds, a deposit into a savings account.
Enzo’s house was nice. It was the kind of place owned by someone who knew what they wanted to do with their degreebeforethey graduated. Someone who got offer letters from Fortune 500 companies before tossing their cap. Someone with an understated sense of style and a bank account with no history of overdraft fees. It was the kind of place one could host parties and backyard barbecues and raise a family.
Only, Enzo was single, as far as I could tell. There were three bedrooms, two of which looked like they’d never been used. Only one toothbrush stood in the toothbrush holder in his bathroom. There were no photos featuring significant others hanging on the walls or occupying frames on end tables or dotting the mantel over the fireplace. There was usually only one soiled bowl and one ringed coffee cup sitting in the sink from breakfast waiting to be washed after a long day of work.
I’d only met him once—a year ago when I had my initial meet-and-greet with Rocco. I assumed he had just moved intothe neighborhood or his previous walker had gotten a full-time job or moved away. The meeting lasted all of ten minutes. Enough time for me to get a feel for Rocco’s temperament. Enough time for Enzo to show me where Rocco’s leash was kept, where his toys were stored, and where his food was tucked away in the pantry. Enough time for him to gauge my experience and judge my character. To establish the most basic of rapports in a professional relationship.
Enzo didn’t reveal too much about himself in those ten minutes. He was a man of few words—quiet, serious, maybe even shy—asking only necessary questions and giving me only the information I needed to navigate his home and walk his dog. I couldn’t tell if he was straight or gay or undecided, and he offered me nothing to make my assumption any easier. I got the feeling that small talk wasn’t his thing. I was fine with that. He was a client to me and nothing more.
He must have just gotten home from work when I’d met him that evening a year ago. He wore black slacks that hugged his firm ass snugly and a gray-and-white checked button-up that fit him well. It led me to believe he kept himself in shape. He was attractive—maybe even hot—but nothing in particular drew me to him at that moment. The meeting was strictly business.
Rocco continued drinking until his bowl ran almost dry, sloppy strings of drool swirling in the otherwise clear water. He then traipsed down the hallway toward the primary bedroom at the back of the house—Enzo’s room—where he usually hung out when Enzo wasn’t home, lounging on a large plush dog bed in the corner. I cleaned his bowl and refilled it with filtered water, then followed him to Enzo’s room so I could close him in before heading home for the evening. I needed to clean up so I could meet some friends for dinner and drinks later.
When I entered the room, the door to Enzo’s bathroom was wide open and the light was switched on. The sight wasn’tthatstrange. It was just that Enzo rarely left any lights on in the house when he departed for work. Something tugged at me. A feeling inside that told me I should check to make sure everything was alright. I don’t know why. It was simply a light left on in a bathroom. But at that moment, I felt I should investigate, or at the very least, turn the light off.
Something caught my attention as I rounded his bed and approached the bathroom, though; something that should have been inconspicuous. Something I should have breezed past and forgotten about moments later, but for some reason, caught my eye. Just next to the bathroom was a walk-in closet. And just next to the walk-in closet was a wicker laundry hamper, lid closed over the cream-colored cloth bag that lined it. And wedged between the basket and the lid was an elastic strap, white and interesting and full of intrigue in its meaninglessness.
I don’t know what snapped in my brain at that moment, but I froze. I forgot about the stupid light in the bathroom. Rocco absent-mindedly licked at his paw, focused completely on the task at hand, oblivious to my presence. Everything else in the room just disappeared: the bed, the art on the walls, even Rocco. The only thing that existed was that hamper. And the elastic strap hypnotized me, drew me into some sort of cultish trance. Colors and shapes melded around me, eventually forming a tunnel that led directly to the hamper. Like a tractor beam. Like I was on some sort of eroticized acid trip.
It was as though X had marked the spot and my insatiable greed had gotten the best of me. Danger could be lurking around the corner. I might stumble upon some sort of counter-offensive, enemy forces leading me to an ambush. It could be booby-trapped, the treasure chest I’d just discovered. But I also didn’t care. Some sort of daze had settled in around me, my expression vacant, my eyes glazed over.
I shook myself out of it, literally shaking my head from side to side to break free from whatever pull that strap had on me. A digital clock on the bedside table read 4:41. It was the middle of the workday for Enzo. He wouldn’t be home for hours. Surely, Rocco wouldn’t mind me hanging around for a few minutes. Enzo would be none-the-wiser if I just had a peek.
What am I doing? A peek at what? Enzo’s laundry? What the fuck is wrong with me? I need to get the fuck out of here.
My brief attempt to reason with myself was of no use. Time seemed to lapse, and before I knew it, I found myself lifting the lid of the hamper to discover the rest of the jock that belonged to that elastic strap. That erotic-looking undergarment rested on a pile of Enzo’s dirty laundry: towels, socks, underwear, T-shirts, jeans, dress clothes, gym shorts. Most of those items meant nothing to me. That jockstrap, however, was the focus of my attention. The only thing that kept me from moving, from bolting out of that house, from cursing myself, from pushing that weird desire into some dark closet in my brain and padlocking the door. A door that would inevitably be kicked at from the other side, forcing my undivided attention as that innocuous piece of apparel begged for escape.
The white elastic straps, the gray pouch, that thick black line racing its way around the waistband, two thin red lines sandwiching it in. Even the size of the thing excited me: medium. Had anyone ever encountered such a wondrous size?
The jockstrap had been thrown into the hamper haphazardly, wadded up, the straps twisted and tired, lazing atop a pile of unwashed clothes, relegated to a mundane weekend chore. But I was an explorer and I had discovered the most beautiful fucking place ever discovered.
A genuine curiosity pecked at my brain—had he worn it recently? He must have since it was on top of the pile. Maybe this morning? During a workout? A jog around the park?
A tingle shot like an arrow from my brain to my cock, causing it to jump and swell in my underwear. I felt it thicken and press against my cutoff khaki shorts, a visible bulge surely forming as my slumbering member awoke, stretching and yawning, preparing to embark on another sexual journey.
Why was I so enthralled? Enzo was good-looking when I’d met him a year ago but I hadn’t seen him since. I liked walking his dog. I liked being in his house. It made me feel… something. Pinpointing exactly what being in that space made me feel was difficult, though, and I tried not to give it much thought. But I liked the feeling it gave me.
And Enzo? He was simply an attractive client. He wasn’t my first and likely wouldn’t be my last. But he was nothing more.
But suddenly, Enzo was all I could think about. My brain sent pulses of electricity through my body as I stared at that jockstrap. I imagined Enzo jogging through the neighborhood, lifting weights at the gym, doing push-ups or sit-ups or jumping rope in his backyard, all while wearing that jockstrap underneath a pair of slick gym shorts that hugged his frame and rode up and down his thighs with each movement.
His muscles flexing.
His meaty pecs bouncing.