Chapter 2

I ate my lunch on those same back alley steps at that same time again the next day. I had wished and hoped and dreamed that this guy had a regular route that included my alley. Well, the UPS Gods had smiled down upon me. My Belly Button Boy was back. And damn if that bottom shirt button wasn’t missing again. Was he wearing the same shirt on consecutive days? Did the bottom button pop off of all of his shirts? Was that a common hazard of carrying large packages every day? Whatever the reason, I wasn’t going to complain.

I have a belly button fetish. I always have. It’s not a path I chose, it’s just how I am. It’s how I’m hardwired to be so how can that be wrong? I don’t think I’m exactly ashamed, but it’s not something I tell people about either. They wouldn’t understand. There are groups and forums and communities online, but I didn’t join any of them. I’m more of an anonymous navel gazer. And while there are some decent girl belly buttons out there, it’s the male navel that excites me.

The internet has everything. As I grew older and embraced this fetish I that didn’t really understand when I was younger, I did a little web surfing. There are about a billion images of the male navel out there, some wonderfully sexy and some repulsively disgusting. There are also extreme fetishes that involve gut punching and even navel stabbing. This I do not understand. I do not judge other people for their fetishes. Whatever makes you happy… You do you. But personally, I don’t get it. Curiosity drove me to briefly explore those worlds. They were just not for me. If I ever had the opportunity to get up close and personal with a belly button that wasn’t my own, I wouldn’t attack it or hurt it. I would worship it.

Up until now I have fed my cravings with weekend trips to the beach. I could see hundreds of shirtless dudes in one afternoon at the beach and none of them would be near as exciting as this UPS driver. I found him to be intoxicating. He literally has the most perfect belly button in the world. It kept invading my thoughts the whole rest of my workday. When I got home, I had the best masturbation session of my life as I closed my eyes and relived my too-brief lunch break.

So, yes. I was back the next day. This young man moved with a languid grace that was poetry in motion. He could have been performing a dance. Every move he made, every bend, every reach, every twist… It occurred to me that if he had been working shirtless, I would of course have still stared, but this stolen glimpse was thrilling. Seeing what I was never meant to see was magical. Something about the belly button peeking through the teepee of fabric flaps formed by the too-short shirt made it almost scandalous. It was a secret private showing that went on for an hour.

But I did two things differently on day two. One: I forced myself to look less conspicuous by actually eating my lunch. Two: Like him, I wore sunglasses. Now he couldn’t see where my eyes were trained any more than I could see his.

The thing that wasn’t so different was another complete failure to conceal my raging boner when it was time to stand up and leave again.

His sunglasses didn’t fool me. As I predicted (hoped?) he came back the next day. Like eating his sad salad and hiding behind a pair of Ray-Bans was going to trick me. I knew why he was there. And just maybe, he knew that I knew.

I played it up for him. I took longer than I needed to arranging the order of the packages for the customers that this alley served. I stacked and restacked. I would twist and bend my body in different ways to keep things interesting for my admiring fan.

And he really was ridiculously hot. His tucked in Oxford shirt was so form-fitting that I could actually see the shape of his eight-pack abs through the thick fabric. Unfortunately, I had no packages for his address. If I had, what would I have said? What would he have done? It certainly would have been an icebreaker. Maybe if our little game here continues long enough, I’ll send him something myself. But I don’t know his name. I’m not sure that addressing a fake package to “Hot Black Guy” would go over too well. Or maybe it would. Based on his mammoth hardon two days in a row, maybe the handsome man would be open to receiving a special delivery from me.

As it turned out, he ate his lunch in that spot at that time every day for the rest of the month. Would I ever be brave enough to approach him?

I was becoming obsessed with the new object of my unique and unusual desires. I watched him work every day all month. I jerked off every night to the new images filling my mental photo album. And while I would never tire of watching this magnificent creature, I was getting bored of my own hand. I wanted more. I wanted to do real things to this real person and not just in my fantasies.

The logical, simple thing to do would be to walk up to the guy and start a conversation. It could be about anything. The weather, the Red Sox, I could ask him where he bought his sunglasses. One of us might suggest we catch the game at a bar one night. A friendship could form. Maybe more than friendship? That would take time to build to. Time that I was too impatient to spare. And if I did approach him and he turned me down, then not only would I lose my chance for an up-close and personal experience with the belly button of my dreams, but I wouldn’t have the balls to continue our lunchtime game anymore either. I would lose everything.

I needed a different plan.

I started stalking him after work. It was easier to do than I thought it would be. First, I needed to find him. Who knew where his route took him after he left my alley every day? I Googled UPS sorting facilities and found several in a twenty-five mile radius, but only one was close to my office. So, about a month after our little game started, I headed to that facility to scope out the situation. My SUV had tinted windows and I didn’t think that if I found him, he could identify me.

It was only the second night when I saw him. He was walking out of a rear door with three other guys who were dressed just like him. Well, their properly fitted shirts were securely tucked into their little brown shorts, but other than that, they were the same. The four of them said their goodbyes and split off in different directions. My Belly Button Boy went to an old blue Honda Civic that had seen better days, but now I knew his car.

A plan was beginning to take shape in my mind. That Friday afternoon, I would only work a half day. I needed time to make some preparations. Working only a half day meant I would have no lunch break. No lunch break would mean that for the first time in a month, I would forfeit spending an hour gawking at that beautiful young man. That was disappointing. But my reward for making such a sacrifice would be so much greater.

I dug through my closet and found a black ski mask and a pair of black leather gloves. I stopped at the hardware store and purchased a supply of nylon zip ties. This was going to be the weekend of my life. And of Belly Button Boy’s too. The Heist was on!

It’s Friday at the end of my shift and I’m feeling a little down. My hot hunky stalker friend was not in the alley this afternoon. There could be a million logical reasons why he couldn’t make it. A conflicting meeting, he was home sick with a cold, he pulled a muscle at the gym, he was taking a vacation day, etc. With so many reasonable explanations, why am I so fixated on the unreasonable possibilities? I’ve been so busy enjoying our little game that maybe I missed my chance to meet the guy. Maybe he quit his job. Maybe he transferred across the country. Maybe he got hit by a bus. There are just as many scenarios where today wasn’t a fluke. He could very well never be back on those steps in that alley again.

I know he hadn’t tired of me. I could tell. And that wasn’t just my ego. I was shown physical proof every day when he stood up at the end of his break and his steel rod was pointing at me. No, he hadn’t found a new, better muse. I’ll fret over it all weekend and hope that he returns on Monday. I will be double devastated if our little game is in fact permanently over and if I missed my chance to meet him.

I promise myself that if he does come back, I will be brave. I will simply walk up to his perch and introduce myself. I’ll have no script or plan beyond that. The ball will be in his court and we will see what happens next. Undoubtedly, being so close to those shapely abs (his shirts are painted on) and his rock hard erection, I would develop a protrusion of my own. And my stupid light brown shorts would do little to conceal it.

Having returned my truck and signed out for the day at the sorting center, I am heading out to my car in the employee parking area, walking with three other drivers whose shifts had just ended as well. As I approach my car, I discover that the rear passenger tire has been slashed. Who would do that to me? Do I have an enemy and not know it? My car is a worthless dated heap of scrap metal containing nothing of value. And no windows appear to be broken. What was the purpose? Was this some kind of revenge? Was someone mad at me? What could I have done?

Two of my coworkers had already gotten into their cars without noticing my predicament and had driven away. The third, Carlos, is still with me. He says, “What the hell happened here?”

I shake my head, unable to think of any helpful words.

Carlos says, “I have nowhere to be. I can help you change it.”

It’s sweet of him to offer. “My insurance includes roadside assistance. All I have to do is make one call and help will be on the way.”

He scoffs, “Bryson, two strapping young men such as ourselves can change this tire long before that service guy ever arrives. We got this.”

I pay for the service, I figured I might as well use it, but whatever. Carlos is right. We could do this. And we could do it quickly. I shrug, “I’ll get the owner’s manual.”

I walk around to the driver’s side door and I let out an audible sigh.

“What’s wrong?” asks Carlos.

“It’s the front left tire too. I only have one spare. I’ll have to call that service after all. I need a tow.” I already have my cell phone out of my pocket as I scroll through my contacts.

Carlos says, “Two tires? What the fuck?”

I make the call, read some numbers off my insurance card and repocket my phone. “Carlos, thanks for offering to help but I’m all set. The guy is finishing up with another customer and he’ll be here in about an hour.”

He checks the time on his phone, “I could wait with you. Keep you company.”

I smile, “An hour is too long. My night is shot to hell, but yours still has potential. Go get out there and find something fun to do. If you stayed here, I’d just have to go with the tow guy anyway once he arrives. I’ll have shit to deal with.”

He seems to finally agree. He nods and tells me, “Text if you need anything.”