Under the soft glow of the moonlight, a lonely figure, barefoot and clad only in boxers, retreats to the sanctuary of his bedroom. The night is quiet, save for the distant hum of the city, as he begins his ritual. His hands, calloused from years of guitar playing, glide over his toned body, tracing the lines of his abs and chest. His cock, already half-hard, tents his boxers, a sight that sends a shiver down his spine. He hooks his thumbs into the elastic band, sliding them down his legs, allowing his cock to spring free. Lubricated by his own spit, he strokes his length, eyes closed, lost in his own fantasies.