Walk in the Park 1: the Jungle.

Suits to Brutes | Feedism & Muscle Growth | Mud & Formalwear

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This is a reboot of an old suit and tie kink fantasy I wrote about ten years ago, inspired by my obsession with Indiana Jones. I loved the idea of the well-dressed archaeologist being forced to trudge through a jungle in his suit and tie, his finery getting sweaty, muddy, and torn along the way. “A Walk in the Park” is a more elaborate version of this fantasy: guys in suits and ties are trapped in a jungle and forced to toil to survive, while munching on fruit that makes them hulk out of their tailored garments. However, the version from ten years ago was problematic. In the original, the characters began to form a debased Lord of the Flies society of hierarchy. After posting it to MuscleGrowth.org, I began to understand that I was glorifying toxic masculinity, rape, and slavery—all of which are harmful, and none of which are things that I condone. So I took down that version, deleted it, and felt guilty about it for years. I still fantasized about guys ripping up their suits and ties, but it felt like every version of that wet-and-messy muscle growth fantasy was tainted somehow with my own internalized homophobia, my own internalized notions of masculinity. So this is my attempt to rework the story in a way that establishes consent of the characters. I took inspiration from one of the fantasies of Domingo Stephen Orejudos (Etienne), whose uniform-themed comics often featured a turning of the tables against authority figures. One of his comics in particular featured a domineering executive reduced to a slave, his attire unraveling along with his power: the executive's attire unravels along with his power, and that comic served as the inspiration for this story. I have attempted to rewrite this bizarre tale in a way that—I hope—forces us to think harder about what turns us on. Themes: Formalwear & tuxedos, suits & ties where they don't belong, loafers & sheer socks, wet & messy, muscle growth, suit destruction, sweat, power dynamics, comeuppance.

Detail of an image from a glamorous Instagrammer who saw fit to take a little walk in the woods in his tuxedo and opera pumps.

“I’m higher up on the food chain than you. Remember that.” Tony’s gleaming double monkstraps clicked across the marble tiles.

“Yes sir,” said Cal, pecking a few notes on his tablet. “You mentioned that you have the charity gala tonight, yes?”

“Correct.” Tony unlocked the door to his penthouse. Top floor, corner view of East Bluff Park. A posh new bachelor pad, a gift to himself after last month’s divorce proceedings finally concluded. He produced a copy of the key from his pocket. “You’ll be in charge of my wardrobe.”

Cal held out a hand for the key, but Tony snatched it away.

“And you won’t end up daydreaming and wanking on the job.”

Cal cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir?”

“That’s what my last personal assistant did, before I fired him last week.”

“That’s . . . not very professional of him, sir.”

“Yeah, you think?” Tony handed Cal the key, then led him to the bedroom. Fixtures in rose gold and marble, chic furniture in slate gray, a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline—Tony’s apartment was a catalog picture, barely lived in. Tony slid open a pair of double doors, and an overhead light came on, triggered by a motion sensor. Dozens of suits lined the walls of a closet that could have been a living room of its own, complete with a couch and table in the middle overlooking rows of Italian shoes lined up like soldiers, next to drawers of folded French cuff shirts and ties rolled and tucked into place like silk jewels.

“Most impressive, sir.” Cal’s wholecut oxfords sank into the carpet as he took it all in. Cal caught glimpses of himself and Tony in a floor length mirror: Cal in his double-breasted pinstripes, and Tony in a three-piece solaro wool. Adjusting his tie, Cal adjusted his French cuffs over his muscular brown hands. “You said that the charity gala was a black tie event, correct?”

“Yes.” Glancing in a mirror, Tony followed Cal’s example and primped his tie. “I have a client meeting at 3, gym visit at 4, and I need to be at Hotel Milan by 6.”

“So, tuxedo ready by 5?”

“Obviously.” Running his fingers over the cedar-lined shoe shelves, Tony picked out a pair of patent opera pumps that glistened like mirrors. “I have several tuxes. Arrange a formal outfit. Something with these shoes.”

Cal thought they looked a little old fashioned and low vamp for Tony’s chic power suiting style, but he kept that comment to himself. “Those shoes are your father’s, correct?”

Glancing down at the velvet-lined pumps, then up at Cal, Tony cocked his head. “How did you know that?”

“Your father owned a menswear shop, and you inherited much of his clothing.” Cal cleared his throat. “Something I overheard from one of your colleagues at lunch.”

Taking a step towards Cal, Tony held the fine shoes up to his assistant, his cufflinks glittering against his bracelet and chunky watch. “You think you’ve done all your research on me, haven’t you.”

Cal met Tony’s glare. Not bad for a hedge fund manager, thought Cal. Tony’s impeccable suit fit him like a glove, a greyish tan linen that complemented his boss’s olive complexion. With his Roman nose, bald head, and tightly mown stubble, Tony was not hard to look at, his brown eyes gleaming with sharklike, predatory do-not-fuck-with-me instinct. So Cal crafted a remark that would prove his attention to detail. Something a little risky, that could disarm him: “I believe one of your colleagues mentioned that you’re recovering from a divorce, yes?”

“Not ‘recovering.’ Recovered.” Tony placed the opera pumps in Cal’s hand, extracting a platinum chain necklace from a jewelry drawer and laid it on the polished wooden tray of the valet. “I’ll wear this neck chain, too. Also my dad’s. Emphasizes the pecs, you know? I always wear it when I’m out for some action. After this charity gig I’m looking forward to one hell of an afterparty tonight. I’ll be out late.”

Cal nodded, inspecting the opera pumps with their grosgrain bows and cushioned lining in scarlet velvet before setting them down in front of the cedar valet. “Will there be anything you need me to prepare for your return from the gala this evening, sir?”

“Lay out an outfit for tomorrow. Something double-breasted. Might wear the platinum chain under that one, too.” Tony smirked, then chuckled. “You’re not half bad, I guess. My previous assistant didn’t last a week.”

Cal let that remark go, making a few more notes on his tablet. “Anything else, sir?”

“That’ll be all,” said Tony, turning on a heel. “We’ll see how long you last.”

*

Bentley’s eyes went wide. “So he cheated on you . . . with another personal trainer?”

“Several.” Crossing his legs, Tony admired the gleam of his double monkstraps, sipping his coffee.

“Shit.” Draping his tie down his belly, Bentley shook his head. “I’m sorry, man. That really sucks.”

“Well, it’s all done now. The divorce proceedings finished last week.” Swishing his coffee in the cup, Tony finished it.

Bentley cracked a wide grin. One of Tony’s mentors when it came to all things financial, Bentley had taken a shining to Tony years ago, particularly when it came to Tony’s style. “But hey—looking forward, you’re a free man now Tony.”

“I guess so.” Tony shrugged, folding his hands on his lap, secretly noting how soft his midsection was, and how he noticed a pair of wrinkles around his nose this morning. He wasn’t anywhere near as young or fit as his ex husband was—or his ex’s musclebound fuckboy, either. Flabby, and getting older, all he had was his walk-in closet of Italian suits, fine garments to hide his aging body. “I guess I can play sugardaddy for some young jock.”

Bentley laughed, spreading the lapels of his pinstripe suit. “Daddies are the new thing. You’ll have no trouble finding a new guy.”

“Or a fuckboy.”

Another laugh as Bentley clapped Tony on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, man. You’r young yet. You have plenty of time to figure out what—or who—you want to get yourself into.

Young, thought Tony. Young and daddy don’t go together. The irony soured his mind.

*

Changing at the gym, Tony had his ass kicked by the kettlebells his trainer put out for him. Still a struggle, getting back into shape after the stress of the divorce. Returning to his penthouse, he checked his closet. His Brioni tux with the velvet shawl collar hung on the cedar valet, alongside a pique front shirt already fixed with studs and cufflinks, the platinum chain, bowtie at the ready with black grosgrain braces, sheer silk socks and garters hanging next to his opera pumps waiting for him. Not too bad for a first day with his new personal assistant, he thought, heading to the shower.

A shower, another wardrobe change, another chauffeur ride, and he was at Hotel Milan. The canapés and food were subpar. Speeches were boring, but Tony clapped. His ring finger still felt weird and naked, now that his wedding band was gone. He put on a polite smile, looking around the room. Lots of older guys in tuxes, not his type. Tony was craving some young hot shot. He was jonesing for that glow of sexual conquest.

Fuck, tuxes made Tony so horny. Suits had the same aphrodisiac effect on him, too. All that hard-won finery, ever since he tried on his first custom suit at his father’s menswear shop years and years ago: suits made him feel like he was putting on decades of financial accomplishment, slow investing and saving—discipline, dedication, control, and power. A rush of pure erotic power. Fuck. That’s what he felt each time he knotted a tie each morning. Suits gave him that high, that sense of “pure cajones,” the way his dad described it years and years ago—but tuxes. Tuxes were a rare treat, luxury of luxury.

He hadn’t fucked a guy in a tux in years. Four years, in fact. Last time was right before his wedding four years ago. It wasn’t his husband. Wasn’t his last fuckboy, either. That was the half of the story he didn’t tell Bentley at coffee a few hours ago. Several handsome interns along the way, always quickies at the office before Tony came back home to his husband many evenings, over many years, noticing the smell of some musclehead from the gym all over him. For Tony, always someone well dressed. For Tony’s husband, always a jock. The infidelity had been mutual.

But no. Nobody met Tony’s caliber. He wasn’t about to settle. As he finished his champagne, Tony’s nostrils filled with a delicious odor of something both savory and sweet a waiter brought out a dessert plate.

On it was a small fruit. It looked like a nectarine cut in half.

“Talk about a minimalist dessert,” Tony muttered to himself, as his mouth started to water. Picking up his fork, he finished the first half. It tasted sweet and satisfying and left a smoky aftertaste as it slid down his throat. He poked his fork into the second half, but when he opened his mouth to bite in, juice and drool dribbled down his chin and onto the velvet shawl lapel of his tuxedo.

“Shit.” He clutched his napkin against his lips, then dabbed off his lapel. Fuck. This thing was going to need drycleaning before the night was out anyway. Or—well—maybe not, judging by this crowd. Not a single guy here to Tony’s taste. Leaning over his plate, he finished the fruit, his mouth aching with pleasure and salivating the whole time. Sweet, tangy. Juicy. He swallowed, and the aftertaste was like scotch.

Warmth spread through his throat, his chest. The stiff pique of his shirt felt a little snug around his belly and his chest. Moisture gathered in his armpits. His collar cinched around his neck, and, down below—

“Fffffffuck.” Tony tucked his napkin on his lap, clearing his throat, and trying to pretend that there wasn’t something pitching a tent in his trousers, trying to pretend that his balls didn’t suddenly feel tight in his underwear. He looked around first to make sure that the coast was clear, then peeked under the table.

“Damn.” He hadn’t felt an erection like that since—shit—college, maybe? He could feel his balls relaxing, his cock engorging, the head snaking out of his briefs and resting against the lining of his trousers, leaving a streak of hot precum against his thigh. If he got up now, he’d be on full display for everybody. Or maybe he could just unzip and rub one out right here? He could hide it under the table, right?

“What the fuck are you thinking,” Tony muttered to himself. What was he, 19 again? So horny that he just wanted to wank in the middle of a black tie gala? He was the top performing project manager for the whole company, but he’d still get kicked out. But his boner just kept raging, leaking, balls filling out his underwear, libido humming on every nerve. His mouth watered, too, lubed up and ready to receive a guy’s hot erect dick. That was all he could think about. The aftertaste of the fruit lingered on his tongue, reminding him of precum.

Fuck it. If there were no guys here up to his tastes, and if he was horned up already—fuck—he might just have to excuse himself to the restroom and work it all off. He dabbed off his lapel one more time, then buttoned his jacket and got up, trying to keep his monumental bulge concealed. The shoulders of his tux felt just a bit stiff, too, like the jacket was a smidgen too small.

Must have been that training session he had struggled through earlier in the afternoon. Opera pumps clicking across the tiles, Tony made his way to the restrooms, acting as cool and collected as he could manage. Sidestepping a passer-by—odd, that person looked kind of like his new personal assistant, maybe?—Tony made his way into one of the stalls, locked the door behind him, unzipped, pulled down his boxers, and let his precum-slicked erection just flop right into his hands, balls hanging larger and redder than he’d ever seen.

Tingling, swollen balls. Libido. Raging, surging libido. Tony stifled a moan. By the first stroke, he swelled with pleasure.

“Easy there, boy,” he whispered, drool bubbling on his lips. With the barest touch, he could already feel the pangs—

“Shit shit shit—” Grabbing a wad of toilet paper, Tony could feel his balls churning already. The whole toilet stall shook. The force of it—that first sweet, orgasmic blast—kicked him back against the door, sheer socked heels arching out of his opera pumps. He caught it just in time, the white hot cum spurting out of the toilet paper. And then another jet, the hot moisture soaking against his fingers. And another. Fuck—it ruptured out, spilling all over his fingers, down his distended sack. And then another, dribbling down his cufflinks—fuck—another one—fuccccck—spattering on the grosgrain bow of one of his opera pumps, pale droplets on the gleaming patent leather vamp.

Steadying himself, slipping his heels back into his shoes, Tony took long, quiet breaths. Nothing to see here. His platinum neckchain, along with the cool metal studs of his tuxedo shirt, pressed into his chest, firmer than he remembered. He stuffed his still stiff cock back into his trousers and boxers, had trouble getting the zipper to close. Dabbing the cum off his shoes and French cuffs, Tony put himself back together again. He’d send Cal tomorrow to get this tux drycleaned, he thought, noticing the damp patch of precum that his cock had oozed into his velvety formal trousers. He stepped out to wash his hands. He wasn’t salivating anymore, at least, but his shaft still throbbed.

Back at the table, Tony found his napkin folded and placed next to a pamphlet. Sitting down, Tony looked over the plain piece of cardstock:

Ready to give your game an extra edge?

Thank you for trying our exclusive, performance enhancing fruit from the Triple A Double E Beast Mode Leadership Simulation. Our trial runs prove that this fruit increases testosterone, muscle mass, and even sex drive more than any other male enhancement on the market—the perfect supplement for helping you conquer the boardroom, the gym, and the bedroom.

Want more? Our next recruitment pickup is tonight at 12:00. Clear your schedule for the next seven weeks. Pack your six best executive outfits (suits or tuxes, shirts, ties, socks, accessories, shoes), but please bring no gym clothes, casualwear, underwear, undershirts, or toiletries. We require you to look your best, always. Arrive in East Bluff Park at the central pavilion, with your luggage, dressed to impress.

“Huh. Weirdest marketing scheme I’ve seen.” Craning his neck, Tony looked to see whether there were any other pamphlets at the other tables. None. “Is this some kind of augmented reality thing?”

Clearing seven weeks of client meetings? Packing six suits to meet some recruitment manager out in the park, in the middle of the night? Crazy. Not interested, thought Tony. But Tony felt himself still stiff from before, shaft still long and tingling, precum (or aftercum?) still leaking through the black velvety wool of his tux. That was the best jackoff he’d savored in years.

Sliding his sheer socked feet in and out of the velvet cushioning inside his opera pumps, Tony thought about it. 48 years old, divorced—to an ex husband who preferred muscleboys twenty years younger than him, no less. He remembered reading an article about how guys become “sexually invisible” at 50. That was only two years away.

He took out his phone and googled this “triple A double E” company. Took a few tries before he saw a glossy corporate page advertising a leadership conference on a tropical island. Looked like a nice resort, a getaway. Testimonials left glowing reviews about how “ripped” and “swoll” these guys got after their seven weeks, with a few winks and nods about how “my partner thanks me every night.” Looked tempting. Looked legit.

He looked at the pamphlet again. Divorced. No strings attached. He looked around the room at the other guys here. A bunch of pasty, potato-faced senior management types, with out of date hairstyles and a certain air of defeat. He was almost senior management, but he couldn’t shake the sense that he was looking at a glimpse of his future, sexually invisible, relegated to the background workings of the company, advancing only his waistline. He thought about his lovehandles, and his late 40s metabolism made it harder for him to burn off that stubborn belly fat.

Clearing seven weeks of meetings. He now had a new personal assistant. What better opportunity to put him to the test? Picking up his phone, he felt a thrill and hunger. Finally—something spontaneous and unexpected. He texted quickly:

I need you to cancel my meetings and work hours for the next seven weeks.

Tony paused. He hadn’t hit “send” yet. He could still turn back. It was a lot to ask for a piece of fruit and a weird marketing scheme. There would be questions. Colleagues asking where he’d taken off to. And if he admitted he was going off to some seminar about “male enhancement,” they’d know for sure he was . . . compensating for something.

He set down his phone, looked over the pamphlet one more time. Triple A Double E Beast Mode Leadership Simulation. If he told Cal about that, he’d be only one Google search away from having his secret out. So Tony added a bit more to his message:

If anyone asks, I met someone at the gala tonight. He invited me to an exclusive leadership conference. I will not be available for anything.

Tony looked over his text. An adventure. Something unexpected, unplanned. Just what he needed. He hit “send.”

Getting up from his table, Tony strode out of the gala, shoulders swaggering a bit more than usual, still-stiff boner bulging and moist in his velvety tuxedo trousers. By the time he reached the front lobby, Cal had already texted him back:

Done, sir. I’ve called your uber already. They’re waiting for you in front of Hotel Milan. Enjoy your trip.

Hm, thought Tony, sending a thumbs up emoji. Not bad for his personal assistant’s first day.

---

Hungry for more? Purchase and download the full .pdf here:

A Walk in the Park 1 – The Jungle (suit + tie, muscle growth, wet + messy, muddy tuxedo).