bianchi_andreas
Slut
A few nights ago a friend and I had a spirited discussion about a novel we both enjoyed, but since I hadn’t read it in years, I couldn’t remember some of it, so I looked through the shelves for my copy. When I opened the book, a photograph, the colors faded, a corner creased, fell out. I don’t remember whose mother took the photo and gave each of us a print, but it showed me and my soccer teammates before a game . . . our feet spread apart since, of course, our balls were too large to stand like normal human beings, hands thrust deep in the pockets of our warm-up jackets to make our shoulders looker wider, out chins tucked and our heads drawn slightly back to flatten and thicken our necks.
And our faces! Our freshly-scrubbed and new-penny-bright faces, self-consciously arranged in intimidating scowls. How young we all look. It must be a trick of photography, because I can’t imagine that I was ever that young.
I hadn’t thought about those guys in a while, but as I looked at that row poised between worlds, the large feet anticipating the manhood we were entering, the frail ankles a poignant reminder of the boyhood we were abandoning, I was unaccountably nostalgic as I recalled an incident from that season.
This is an unremarkable story about my first time, the first with another guy, I mean. Everyone has a story like this, and they are all alike in that there are the same basic body parts groped or slurped, quivering with anticipation or release, nothing too exotic or, when you think about it, too memorable except to the parties actually involved. Maybe by now your attention has already wandered to contemplating how bad the traffic will be on the way to the theater, or trying to remember if tonight is the episode where Chad Michael Murray wakes up naked in bed with some dude. Well, all I can say is, trot on along to check it out . . . it will be more satisfying then this tale.
I don’t know why I have this compulsion to unravel the story for you, but you don’t have to indulge me in it, except that if you leave now, I will almost certainly have something snotty to say about you behind your back, but then you are probably used to that from me, I am somewhat ashamed to say. I am ready to start with one last warning. If I become too weepy and sentimental, please feel free to remove the Chardonnay and replace it with a cup of coffee, black, no sugar.
So if you have a morbid taste for this sort of thing and you’re still with me, here’s the story.
Midway through October of that last year in prep school, our coach announced that anybody could be excused from our normal Saturday practice if they wanted to go eighty miles up the interstate to see a tournament that featured the top-ranked high school team in our region, one that we would still play in the regular season and then would probably see later in the playoffs. I was jazzed about going until he added that Boyd Buchanan, a senior like me and our student equipment manager, would be driving his van to the matches.
There was something about Buchanan that creeped me out. Whenever I saw his plump, cherubic face it seemed to have a vaguely lecherous expression behind his wire-framed glasses, like he was prowling for someone to drug and sell to a Bangkok brothel. All he really had to do for the team is make sure that there were enough balls for the games and that the nets were up before and down after, but he expanded his duties to included lurking outside the shower to congratulate guys on their play and try to sneak a peek of some guy’s ass.
This should tell you all you need to know about him. One time the previous year, I needed a new pair of shorts and went to him in his equipment cage, his little “kingdom.” He handed me the shorts and, now get this, followed me back to the locker room to watch me change into them, muttering that “The sizes run a little small.” As soon as I had stripped down to my jock, he snatches the new shorts from me and makes this big display of checking the label to be sure that he had given me the right size as I stood there with my bare butt hanging out for him to study.
Now you might wonder why I didn’t give him the ass-kickin’ he deserved. Here are a couple of things about me. One, I was really shy, almost afraid of my own shadow. Two, I was pretty slender, downright scrawny, actually, and while Buchanan was mostly fat, he made about two of me.
Well, anyway, I’ve meandered around enough that you get the idea about this son of a bitch, and why I had no interest in going anywhere with him. However, my friend, Luke McCorkle, really wanted to go, since as a six-two defender with a solid, meaty keister that could feed a family of cannibals for a week, he had not attracted the greedy interest of the equipment manager. I told Luke no way I was going, so he applies a little pressure, literally, by grabbing my tit between his thumb and forefinger and grinding away as tears pour out of my eyes until I agree.
Having witnessed that tender moment, I can understand if you are confused and think that this story might involve Luke in a featured role, but you would be wrong because, his lack of hesitation in assaulting my intimate male parts aside, he was pretty relentlessly straight for as long as I knew him. Of course, when we first met, so was I. As a Freshmen, I was seriously heterosexual, that morphing into a more curious attitude as a sophomore. In my junior year, I decided that there was a slight possibility that I was bi, and now as a senior I had eased into full-fledged, if closeted, fagdom. I tried not to think about what was waiting for me next year. The mind reels, but all this shifting orientation was all kind of theoretical at this point, no actual sex having taken place.
I can tell you what Luke looked like, not that it is relevant, as I said, to this yarn. He was big, thick chested, with a substantial ass that he was mildly sensitive about, so, of course, I brought it up every chance I could. He had blondish red hair and clear blue eyes and freckles scattered all across his bluff, hearty face. He had a heart of gold and an infectiously lopsided smile that I couldn’t help sharing. I said that his appearance isn’t relative, but maybe it is, because it explains why I couldn’t refuse him when he asked me to go along to the tournament, too, my bruised nipple aside.
So on Saturday, we all are hanging around in a parking lot at school, waiting for Buchanan to show up with his piece-of-crap van, O’Brien, Tereshinski, Wilkinson, Luke and me. I loudly proclaim that as the leanest of the group I would share a seat with Luke’s fat ass, and he aimed for my nipple again, but I’m quick in an open field, so I mockingly elude his raging fury. You might want to know what I look like, or maybe you want to picture your self in here, but this is my story, so you’re gonna be stuck with me. . . a little under six feet, weighing maybe a buck forty soaking wet, dark red hair, green eyes.
I see you thoughtfully stroking your upper lip, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Wait, you think to yourself, two of the three characters so far have red hair? Isn’t that a little odd? That’s the sort of detail that lets you know this is a true story, not the usual made-up shit I dump on you.
Anyway, we get to the tournament, which was held in the stadium of a small college, and watch the St Ignatius team overpowering their opponents, and, of course, we are cheering our butts off for the other team, getting these seriously funny drop-dead-asshole glares from the Iggy fans, which just makes us yell louder. It didn’t make any difference, our support, I mean. The other team was made up of dimwits that hardly knew which goal was theirs as the St Ignatius juggernaut rolled over them, but we felt better cheering for the thick-skulled pussies.
In the second half, I really have to pee, and when I get to the restroom, I see that it is deserted. It stinks in there like there might be urine left over from the Civil War puddled underfoot, but I just hold my breath and plunge in. I’m a little uneasy, thinking that one of the slack-jawed St Ignatius fans might wander in and pop me a couple of uppercuts on account of us pulling against their team and all, so I am totally focused getting out of there as quickly as possible, and that’s why I didn’t realize someone had come in until I feel a hand slip around me from behind and make a power grab at my nuts.
Aha! you gloat. At last we get to the juicy parts. No such luck, amigo, because the hand that grabbed me privates at the urinal belonged to Boyd Buchanan, and I already made it clear that this jackass was a scratched entry as far as I was concerned. If you have a cruelly perverse sense of humor, you may eye this scene with amusement as I try to twist away from the unwanted attention without, you know, spraying my sneakers with piss. I am trying to shove his hand away from my crotch while he is leering over my dick and moaning how big it is, and with most guys, I must admit I’ve used it with some success through the years, a little flattery of that sort does usually grease the path to pleasure, but not in this case.
Now, I hesitate to bring up this next bit since in spite of my protests to the contrary, you might try to interpret this as reflecting some interest on my part in the pervert, but my attention was suddenly riveted to Boyd’s cock, which he had out and hard and squeezed in his fist. If I am allowed a bit of bragging, I have seen any number of dicks in my career, in prep locker rooms, in college dorms, in the shower at the gym, in beds, on couches, on beaches, under bushes, on a pool table once in a frat house (don’t ask), but I had never seen one before nor one since that was as repulsive as this one. Maybe it was just . . . I don’t know . . . the head was dry-looking and shriveled. Anyway, I am standing there, stuffing myself back into my khakis and zipping up, and he has this obscene leer on his pudgy face, and I can’t tear my eyes away from this wrinkled, pruney-looking boner, and Buchanan is trying to keep his belly from slopping over his belt , ‘cause he has totally mistaken my stare, and he thinks I need a better look. Then he says something that as long as I live will always be the most shocking statement ever said to me even including if the King of Sweden calls some day to tell me I had won the Nobel freaking Prize for Physics; he says, “But it isn’t as big as Rick Bradshaw’s. I swear he is this big hard,” and drops his dick to mime with both hands holding something maybe like the size of a can of tennis balls.
My mouth flops open, and I yelp, “Bradshaw? The goalie?” Rick was by far the best player on our team. Colleges were jostling to get in line to sign him up, not just the local ones, either, but national powers like Indiana, Virginia, UCLA.
He nods smugly and resumes squeezing his crotch. “Yeah, he and I mess around all the time.”
Before this weird conversation could continue, the door opened, and as Buchanan dove into a stall to hide his hard-on, I saw my opportunity and bolted out of the door. I sprinted all the way back to the stands to make sure that Buchanan didn’t catch up with me, arriving just in time to see Luke and Tereshinski getting all up in the face of some St Ignatius forward’s mother, and she looked like she could have knocked them seven ways to Sunday without breaking a sweat, so they could have needed my help.
I sat as far away from Buchanan as I could, and didn’t say much in the second half, not even joining in the hooting when some lame Iggy third-stringer slammed in an own-goal, and you know over that kind of shit I always have a smart-ass comment to make.
We were back at the school parking lot just after dark and I darted to my car to leave as quickly as possible. Luke caught up with me and was trying to get me to go for pizza, but Boyd Buchanan was still hanging around by his van and I was watching him as warily as a bird watches a stalking tomcat. Fed up with not being the center of attention, Luke poked me hard in the ribs, and demanded, “What’s your issue here, Andy?”.
I knew I should have kept my trap shut, but I sang like I was angling for a spot in the witness protection program, I am not proud to have to admit. Luke’s jaw got tighter and his eyes narrowed, at least until I got to the part where Boyd claimed to be regularly putting the blocks to Rick Bradshaw, and then his eyes widened in disbelief. He kept saying over and over, “I gotta kick Buchanan’s ass!” Fortunately, Boyd had already left or Luke might have made good on the threat to pound him.
After I got that off my chest, I did feel better and went for pizza, but after a while I was getting tired of Luke asking me, “He really said he’s fucking around with Bradshaw?” about every ten minutes.
I kept warning, “Don’t say nothing to nobody! He’s just a mega-perv lying to make himself look good. I won’t be able to show my face at school if everybody thinks I’m fucking getting felt up in the crapper all the time, so shut up!”
I spent all day Sunday sprawled on my bed listening with the music cranked up really loud, replaying what creepy Boyd said about messing around with the goalie. I just couldn’t get an image into my head of the pasty equipment manager and the macho jock stud together, then I thought about me in Buchanan’s place, me and Rick fooling around, and that really freaked me out. I was shaking it bugged me so much. I tried not the think that I should be sorry that I told Luke, although I knew he would hold it over me like I did him and his fat bum. One thing about Luke was that although he was actually two months younger than me, he always acted like I was the younger brother he never had, and it annoyed the hell out of me, which is why he did it so much.
Of course, I couldn’t keep the story to myself, so you won’t be surprised to hear that Luke didn’t bother to keep it corked, either. On Monday, I kept a low profile until I saw that Buchanan wasn’t in school that day, but in third-period English, Luke flopped into the seat next to me, looking cocky as all fuck, saying, “Bradshaw says it’s all lies.”
“Huh?” I grunted.
He grinned, “I told him you said he was screwing Buchanan, and he said no effin way.”
“Why did you do that?” I hissed, the teacher having come into the room and fixing me with the Evil Eye. “I told you to keep it quiet. Why didn’t you let it go?”
Luke was really surprised. He shrugged, “I just had to find out, bro.”
I spent the rest of the day with my gut tied in knots, scared that Rick was going to find me and knock my balls up around my ears for spreading rumors about him, but as my luck runs, we had soccer practice scheduled after classes ended, so there was no way to avoid him.
Coach was in my face all afternoon screaming about my crappy play, but I couldn’t focus on anything since every time I spied Rick in goal, and you better believe it was out of the corner of my eye and not a direct glance, he was watching me with this inscrutable stare. All I could think about was getting home alive, and as soon as the last wind-sprint was done and the last drill completed and the last whistle blown, I bolted for the locker room and snapped into the shower.
With just a towel around my waist, I went to get dressed and found . . . don’t try to tell me you don’t see it coming . . . Rick Bradshaw leaning casually up against my locker with that bland, unreadable expression on his face.
“You and me,” he growled, “We gotta talk. I got questions, and you better have the right answers.”
I nodded, and he continued, “I’ll drive you home. Meet me in the parking lot.”
It occurs to me that I have mentioned Rick several times without telling you much about him. He was handsome in an easy-going jock way, short, dark hair; full lips and square All-American Boy jaw; dark eyes edged with thick lashes that all the girls squealed over. His thighs were thick with muscle and tapered to narrow hips and a tight butt; his shoulders were broad, but it was his chest that always caught my attention . . . just enough definition to the muscle to be interesting but not too much, and a tuft of dark hair nestling between his pecs. Sociologists can debate all they want about what it is that orients someone to being gay, all that “nature versus nurture” crap, but since this is my story, I will tell you flat out . . . That year, my first sighting of Bradshaw’s bare chest with its nest of dark hair is what turned me gay, simple enough, that’s all there is to say. Before I saw him, I still had a fighting chance at the two-point-five offspring and the white picket fence in the ‘burbs, but that eyeful sealed the deal, and now he was waiting outside to beat the snot out of me.
I slung my gym bag over my shoulder and, with a moaning sigh, went to face the music. As I exited the building, Rick waved me over to his car and jerked his thumb to the passenger seat for me to get in.
As he pulled out onto the street, he turned left when he should have turned right to go to my house, but when I started to say something, he mumbled, “Gotta go by my house first.” I didn’t say anything, but his family lived at least ten miles the other way. We just rode in silence, which was kinda weird considering that he snagged me so we could talk, but I figured I would let him throw the first punch, so to speak. I edgily eyed him a little, especially his thick, veined forearm lit by the dashboard lights as he shifted the transmission from one gear to the next. He was so hot, and he was so gonna kick my butt if I didn’t say the right thing. Damn Luke and his big fuckin’ mouth!
We pulled up to his house, a big gabled place with cedar shingles all over the walls and about a bazillion windows, I swear. No lights were on in the front, which looked spooky and raised my anxiety a couple of notches. He parked by the front door and snapped, “C’mon!” to me.
The house was as impressive inside as out, exposed wood beams and rough stone walls, a lot of dark leather upholstery and intricately-loomed rugs. Didn’t look much like a home, more like a picture from a magazine. I guess it was somebody’s lame idea of a lodge on the coast of Maine or something, but I didn’t have much room to talk. My parents’ house was an imitation English manor house that was supposed to make you want to go fox hunting or some shit like that. I followed Rick to the back of the house, where there was a light on in the kitchen. When I saw who was sitting at the table eating a sandwich, I knew that I was in for a whuppin’ for sure.
It was Rick’s younger brother, Jimbo.
A little back story on Jimbo, who was a year younger than me, will clue you into why he hated my guts as much as anybody possibly could. Twice in the past couple of years girls that Jimbo was dating dumped him and started dating me, this all taking place before I knew which way the wind was blowing, alternative lifestyle-wise. I had nothing to do with the breakup either time, and both times a few weeks had passed before I moved in on the ex, but he still would as soon kick me as look at me.
I looked from one brother to the other nervously, figuring they were going to jump me together, but Jimbo still hadn’t said a word or moved since we walked into the kitchen, just sat staring at me with a suspicious expression. Rick was rooting around in the refrigerator, and I kept a careful watch on both of them, my mind racing. One thought I had was that they didn’t look much alike. Jimbo was short and stocky with a face like a pugnacious bulldog. He also had a shaggy mop of bright, coppery hair.
Hell, Andy! I can hear you. This is the third redhead in this story. That’s too much of a coincidence for me to swallow. I could lie and say that a couple of us had dark hair or were blond, but what’s the point? It was whatever it was.
Rick fished some beer out the refrigerator, and pointed to the back door. “We’re going down to the lake.” Jimbo, still mute, just watched us as we went out into the unusually warm night. Halfway down the long sloping lawn that descended to the water, I turned back and saw the younger brother standing at the window watching us, his squat body silhouetted by the light. My legs were so rubbery they would hardly hold me up.
At the shore there was a dock built out over the lake and a two-story boathouse designed with the same shingled sides and dormer windows as the main house. There wasn’t much light down there, since it was about a mile across the lake , and the neighbors on either side were hidden behind the trees. I followed as Rick swaggered out onto the dock, and sat when he did on a bench that ran along the side of the boathouse. We popped the caps off the bottles, and I sat, staring straight ahead at the water, sensing that Rick was watching me, but not seeing that for sure. I was biting my lower lip so hard I was almost drawing blood. After an awkward silence, he finally asked, “I hear that you and Boyd Buchanan had a run in at the Iggy game.”
I shrugged, not sure what to say that wouldn’t irritate him, settling on “You know what a jerk he is.”
He grunted in agreement, then said, “I asked him about it and he says that you felt each other up.”
I whipped my head around, squeaking, “He snuck up and grabbed my balls; I didn’t touch him!”
It was Rick’s turn to shrug. “That’s not the story he’s telling.”
I jumped up and paced nervously. “It’s a lie! I didn’t do anything.”
“Luke McCorkle told me my name came up.”
I swore to myself that I would bloody Luke’s nose next time that I saw him, but I remained quiet.
“So did Buchanan say something about me?” There was a belligerent tone to Rick’s voice that told me he was serious. “What did he say?” He was still seated on the bench, coiled tightly. I leaned against the wall of the boathouse, several feet away from him, the tension thick between us. “Did you just make up that crap you told McCorkle or did Buchanan really say it?” His voice was louder now, edgier, more aggressive.
My mind was racing so fast that I couldn’t respond, but I was shocked by the speed with which Rick leapt at me, crushing me against the wall, his face inches away from mine, an arm across my throat, almost cutting off my air. He had a couple if inches and at least thirty pounds, all muscle, on me. I turned my head away from him and saw that the back of the house was now dark, and I flashed on if Jimbo still watched from the kitchen or if maybe he had followed us in the dark, waiting for a signal to join in.
Rick insisted very slowly and deliberately, “Tell me what Boyd Buchanan said about me.”
I kept my face turned away, but locked my eyes on his and took a deep breath, admitting, “He claimed he fools around with you sometimes.”
He eased off on the pressure on me a bit, but I was still trapped. Rick continued, “What did you think about that?” I shrugged again. “Did you believe him?”
I realized that the best thing to say was, “No way! A big jock like you? Girls all the way, brother!” The worst thing would be to confess, “Well, I’m hoping it’s true!” and just marginally better would be silence, which is the option I took.
Rick repeated, “Did you believe him?” but I still couldn’t answer.
You may be wondering what was making it so difficult for me to respond, and it is this---- Rick was still leaning heavily against me, pressing and pinning me to the wall, and it felt as though he were mashing a can of tennis balls against my thigh.
Something clicked for me with that realization, but I couldn’t process the information, get my head around it. When Rick pulled me away from the wall, I tensed in fear that he was preparing to slam me back, seeking a little more leverage. Instead, one of his hands slipped up the front of my shirt while the other released the pressure on my throat and caught the back of my head in a gentle embrace. I still could not look him in the eye, and my arms were tense at my side until he pulled my lips to his in a kiss that was unexpectedly sweet, just the softest brushing of his mouth against mine, once, then again for a bit longer and then again for longer still,
Rick whispered, “Come into the boathouse with me.”
My heart was banging against my ribs as I asked, “What’s in the boathouse?”
“There’s a guest room upstairs with a bed.”
I looked around, still not quite believing that I wasn’t being set up in spite of another soft kiss and the insistent pressure of his hard cock pushing against me, but I nodded in agreement.
Inside the door, Rick flipped on a light to illuminate the boats, a little nineteen-foot Sunfish with the sail furled around the folded mast and a sleek motorboat for water skiing. He led me up the narrow wooden steps to a dark room smelling faintly of mildew and rotting canvas. In the dim light coming from below I could see a plain bedroom furnished only with a dresser and a bed with a bare mattress, no linens or pillows. I was still hesitant, but when he opened his shirt and guided my hand to his chest, so long the dreamily idealized focus of my desire, my anxiety vanished in a wave of hunger. My hands ran freely over the smooth skin of his broad chest and flat abs, my fingers caressed at last the dark tangle of hair knotted between his nipples.
Our kisses were more deeply intimate as we slowly undressed. My heart almost stopped beating as he stood naked before me in the reflected glow of the light from downstairs, his hard boner jutting out from his belly. It was huge, but I hope that I don’t have to tell you that it wasn’t really as large as a can of tennis balls. That would just sprint right past erotic and run full tilt into carnival side-show freakishness.
He knelt on the floor in front of me and plunged his mouth around my dick, the warm wetness forcing a moan from deep inside of me as his tongue sweetly worked me. I could not take my eyes off this hot jock stud as with one long, teasing stroke after another, my spit-slicked cock appeared and disappeared between his lips, my balls pressed against his chin and his nose buried in my bush. I never had imagined pleasure this intense as he expertly brought me to the point of release and then backed off before I shot my load in his greedy mouth, allowing my dick to slap wetly against my gut as he tongued my nuts now and then. Rick finally decided to put an end to this delicious agony and took me deeper and deeper in his mouth until, arching my back and crushing my head into the mattress, I came in great, shuddering spurts.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his big hand and grinned at me as I lay panting and spent.
“Wow!” I groaned. “That was...” I trailed off at a loss for words.
“You don’t have to say anything. I could tell you kinda liked it,” Rick said as he lay down beside me. He pulled me close, one hand drawing my head to his shoulder, the other kneading my butt. I looked down in the dim light at our legs tangled together, his retaining a good bit of his summer tan. My skin was typical of a redhead . . . if you found me attractive, you might call it “creamy" or “alabaster,” if not, “fish-belly white” might come to mind. Your call.
There was a loud thump from downstairs, and we froze, not breathing, waiting to hear if the sound was repeated. After several agonizing moments, he whispered, “One of the boats must have been knocked against the slip by a wave,” and I relaxed against him again, only to tense up as he suddenly slid one of his fingers into the crack of my ass and press it against my pucker.
“Just relax,” Rick instructed me. “I really want to take your ass. Will you let me?”
I eyed his huge prick doubtfully. “I’ve never, uhh . . . I don’t know if I can take all that.”
“It’ll just hurt for a second and then you’ll get used to it. You’ll love it.” He curled on top of me and began rolling his hips slowly, rubbing his cock between my thighs, his eyes concentrated on mine. It really felt good.
I swallowed hard and agreed. He tuned me over onto my stomach and positioned me at the edge of the bed and himself between my thighs. He spat into his hand and slicked first his cock and then my hole.
I know what you’re thinking. What about the condom? All I can say is that we were eighteen years old, and “mortality” was not a word in our vocabulary in any of its many senses. We were giddy in those days and intoxicated by our own youthful lust.
Rick pushed his demanding cock against my pucker, murmuring, “Just relax.” I was okay all the way up to the point where he actually achieved some penetration, and the searing stab of pain made me try to jerk away, but he had a firm grip on my hips so he was able to hold me against him, still urging me to relax, but as more I tried to relax, the more tense my ass became. Finally I was able to squirm away from him, and watched warily as he breathed hard and tried to sweet talk me back into position.
“No way!” I squawked from the far side of the mattress. “That hurts worse than being kicked in the balls!” I was exaggerating for effect, but not too much. Rick caressed one of my feet against his chest as he wheedled his way back into my ass, but I continued to refuse.
Finally, he gave me one of boyish grins, and agreed, “That’s something we can leave for next time, ‘kay?”
Flooded with relief, I couldn’t help but smile, “There’s a next time?”
“Sure! Now that I’ve had a little taste of you, I want more!” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and held me close as he pressed my hand against his throbbing hard-on. “But do you want to do something with this?”
I nodded enthusiastically . . . jerking him off was an act I knew something about and I fisted his thick dick with vigor, sliding his foreskin over the head with one hand as I rolled his nuts around within their velvety sac with the other. Rick was propped up on his elbows, watching me for a while, then he closed his eyes and groaned softly when my speed and pressure increased, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. I could feel him swell in my hand as with contorted face and sharply inhaled breaths, his hot cum jetted out, spraying all over his chest and stomach. His chest was heaving as he used two fingers to scoop the sticky fluid up, and with a naughty grin held it up to my mouth. I hesitated and then parted my lips to lick his fingers clean, watching Rick’s sparkling eyes as I did.
Over the next few weeks, Rick and I hooked up a few more times, but I was never able to relax enough for anal sex, so eventually he lost interest in me and moved on to other relationships.
The following year, Luke and I ended up on the other end of the state at the same university about three hundred miles away. He and I stayed friends for a few years, and I even dated his younger sister for a couple of months while I was still finding the boundary between gay and straight a world of shifting sands and uncertain footing. It is difficult to say which of the three of us was the most relieved when she discovered that her philosophy professor made a better trophy boyfriend than I did, but we parted as friends.
Rick, who could never get scores on the college board exams high enough to qualify for a scholarship to the high-profile schools that were courting him, ended up at the university in the town we all grew up in, as did Boyd Buchanan and several of our team mates. At a fraternity party one night, several beers past legally drunk by any reasonable legal standard, Rick noisily announced that he and Buchanan had been screwing around for several years. Everyone there, at least the ones that could make any sense of Rick’s slurred rambling, would have found the story as unbelievable as I had except that the frantic reaction of Boyd lent it credibility, his panic driven by a fear, correct as it turned out, that the charming and athletic Rick would be cut a little slack that would not be extended to himself.
Okay, so that's my story. A few minutes wasted from your life, but I warned you up front it was lame, so no refunds.
And our faces! Our freshly-scrubbed and new-penny-bright faces, self-consciously arranged in intimidating scowls. How young we all look. It must be a trick of photography, because I can’t imagine that I was ever that young.
I hadn’t thought about those guys in a while, but as I looked at that row poised between worlds, the large feet anticipating the manhood we were entering, the frail ankles a poignant reminder of the boyhood we were abandoning, I was unaccountably nostalgic as I recalled an incident from that season.
This is an unremarkable story about my first time, the first with another guy, I mean. Everyone has a story like this, and they are all alike in that there are the same basic body parts groped or slurped, quivering with anticipation or release, nothing too exotic or, when you think about it, too memorable except to the parties actually involved. Maybe by now your attention has already wandered to contemplating how bad the traffic will be on the way to the theater, or trying to remember if tonight is the episode where Chad Michael Murray wakes up naked in bed with some dude. Well, all I can say is, trot on along to check it out . . . it will be more satisfying then this tale.
I don’t know why I have this compulsion to unravel the story for you, but you don’t have to indulge me in it, except that if you leave now, I will almost certainly have something snotty to say about you behind your back, but then you are probably used to that from me, I am somewhat ashamed to say. I am ready to start with one last warning. If I become too weepy and sentimental, please feel free to remove the Chardonnay and replace it with a cup of coffee, black, no sugar.
So if you have a morbid taste for this sort of thing and you’re still with me, here’s the story.
Midway through October of that last year in prep school, our coach announced that anybody could be excused from our normal Saturday practice if they wanted to go eighty miles up the interstate to see a tournament that featured the top-ranked high school team in our region, one that we would still play in the regular season and then would probably see later in the playoffs. I was jazzed about going until he added that Boyd Buchanan, a senior like me and our student equipment manager, would be driving his van to the matches.
There was something about Buchanan that creeped me out. Whenever I saw his plump, cherubic face it seemed to have a vaguely lecherous expression behind his wire-framed glasses, like he was prowling for someone to drug and sell to a Bangkok brothel. All he really had to do for the team is make sure that there were enough balls for the games and that the nets were up before and down after, but he expanded his duties to included lurking outside the shower to congratulate guys on their play and try to sneak a peek of some guy’s ass.
This should tell you all you need to know about him. One time the previous year, I needed a new pair of shorts and went to him in his equipment cage, his little “kingdom.” He handed me the shorts and, now get this, followed me back to the locker room to watch me change into them, muttering that “The sizes run a little small.” As soon as I had stripped down to my jock, he snatches the new shorts from me and makes this big display of checking the label to be sure that he had given me the right size as I stood there with my bare butt hanging out for him to study.
Now you might wonder why I didn’t give him the ass-kickin’ he deserved. Here are a couple of things about me. One, I was really shy, almost afraid of my own shadow. Two, I was pretty slender, downright scrawny, actually, and while Buchanan was mostly fat, he made about two of me.
Well, anyway, I’ve meandered around enough that you get the idea about this son of a bitch, and why I had no interest in going anywhere with him. However, my friend, Luke McCorkle, really wanted to go, since as a six-two defender with a solid, meaty keister that could feed a family of cannibals for a week, he had not attracted the greedy interest of the equipment manager. I told Luke no way I was going, so he applies a little pressure, literally, by grabbing my tit between his thumb and forefinger and grinding away as tears pour out of my eyes until I agree.
Having witnessed that tender moment, I can understand if you are confused and think that this story might involve Luke in a featured role, but you would be wrong because, his lack of hesitation in assaulting my intimate male parts aside, he was pretty relentlessly straight for as long as I knew him. Of course, when we first met, so was I. As a Freshmen, I was seriously heterosexual, that morphing into a more curious attitude as a sophomore. In my junior year, I decided that there was a slight possibility that I was bi, and now as a senior I had eased into full-fledged, if closeted, fagdom. I tried not to think about what was waiting for me next year. The mind reels, but all this shifting orientation was all kind of theoretical at this point, no actual sex having taken place.
I can tell you what Luke looked like, not that it is relevant, as I said, to this yarn. He was big, thick chested, with a substantial ass that he was mildly sensitive about, so, of course, I brought it up every chance I could. He had blondish red hair and clear blue eyes and freckles scattered all across his bluff, hearty face. He had a heart of gold and an infectiously lopsided smile that I couldn’t help sharing. I said that his appearance isn’t relative, but maybe it is, because it explains why I couldn’t refuse him when he asked me to go along to the tournament, too, my bruised nipple aside.
So on Saturday, we all are hanging around in a parking lot at school, waiting for Buchanan to show up with his piece-of-crap van, O’Brien, Tereshinski, Wilkinson, Luke and me. I loudly proclaim that as the leanest of the group I would share a seat with Luke’s fat ass, and he aimed for my nipple again, but I’m quick in an open field, so I mockingly elude his raging fury. You might want to know what I look like, or maybe you want to picture your self in here, but this is my story, so you’re gonna be stuck with me. . . a little under six feet, weighing maybe a buck forty soaking wet, dark red hair, green eyes.
I see you thoughtfully stroking your upper lip, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Wait, you think to yourself, two of the three characters so far have red hair? Isn’t that a little odd? That’s the sort of detail that lets you know this is a true story, not the usual made-up shit I dump on you.
Anyway, we get to the tournament, which was held in the stadium of a small college, and watch the St Ignatius team overpowering their opponents, and, of course, we are cheering our butts off for the other team, getting these seriously funny drop-dead-asshole glares from the Iggy fans, which just makes us yell louder. It didn’t make any difference, our support, I mean. The other team was made up of dimwits that hardly knew which goal was theirs as the St Ignatius juggernaut rolled over them, but we felt better cheering for the thick-skulled pussies.
In the second half, I really have to pee, and when I get to the restroom, I see that it is deserted. It stinks in there like there might be urine left over from the Civil War puddled underfoot, but I just hold my breath and plunge in. I’m a little uneasy, thinking that one of the slack-jawed St Ignatius fans might wander in and pop me a couple of uppercuts on account of us pulling against their team and all, so I am totally focused getting out of there as quickly as possible, and that’s why I didn’t realize someone had come in until I feel a hand slip around me from behind and make a power grab at my nuts.
Aha! you gloat. At last we get to the juicy parts. No such luck, amigo, because the hand that grabbed me privates at the urinal belonged to Boyd Buchanan, and I already made it clear that this jackass was a scratched entry as far as I was concerned. If you have a cruelly perverse sense of humor, you may eye this scene with amusement as I try to twist away from the unwanted attention without, you know, spraying my sneakers with piss. I am trying to shove his hand away from my crotch while he is leering over my dick and moaning how big it is, and with most guys, I must admit I’ve used it with some success through the years, a little flattery of that sort does usually grease the path to pleasure, but not in this case.
Now, I hesitate to bring up this next bit since in spite of my protests to the contrary, you might try to interpret this as reflecting some interest on my part in the pervert, but my attention was suddenly riveted to Boyd’s cock, which he had out and hard and squeezed in his fist. If I am allowed a bit of bragging, I have seen any number of dicks in my career, in prep locker rooms, in college dorms, in the shower at the gym, in beds, on couches, on beaches, under bushes, on a pool table once in a frat house (don’t ask), but I had never seen one before nor one since that was as repulsive as this one. Maybe it was just . . . I don’t know . . . the head was dry-looking and shriveled. Anyway, I am standing there, stuffing myself back into my khakis and zipping up, and he has this obscene leer on his pudgy face, and I can’t tear my eyes away from this wrinkled, pruney-looking boner, and Buchanan is trying to keep his belly from slopping over his belt , ‘cause he has totally mistaken my stare, and he thinks I need a better look. Then he says something that as long as I live will always be the most shocking statement ever said to me even including if the King of Sweden calls some day to tell me I had won the Nobel freaking Prize for Physics; he says, “But it isn’t as big as Rick Bradshaw’s. I swear he is this big hard,” and drops his dick to mime with both hands holding something maybe like the size of a can of tennis balls.
My mouth flops open, and I yelp, “Bradshaw? The goalie?” Rick was by far the best player on our team. Colleges were jostling to get in line to sign him up, not just the local ones, either, but national powers like Indiana, Virginia, UCLA.
He nods smugly and resumes squeezing his crotch. “Yeah, he and I mess around all the time.”
Before this weird conversation could continue, the door opened, and as Buchanan dove into a stall to hide his hard-on, I saw my opportunity and bolted out of the door. I sprinted all the way back to the stands to make sure that Buchanan didn’t catch up with me, arriving just in time to see Luke and Tereshinski getting all up in the face of some St Ignatius forward’s mother, and she looked like she could have knocked them seven ways to Sunday without breaking a sweat, so they could have needed my help.
I sat as far away from Buchanan as I could, and didn’t say much in the second half, not even joining in the hooting when some lame Iggy third-stringer slammed in an own-goal, and you know over that kind of shit I always have a smart-ass comment to make.
We were back at the school parking lot just after dark and I darted to my car to leave as quickly as possible. Luke caught up with me and was trying to get me to go for pizza, but Boyd Buchanan was still hanging around by his van and I was watching him as warily as a bird watches a stalking tomcat. Fed up with not being the center of attention, Luke poked me hard in the ribs, and demanded, “What’s your issue here, Andy?”.
I knew I should have kept my trap shut, but I sang like I was angling for a spot in the witness protection program, I am not proud to have to admit. Luke’s jaw got tighter and his eyes narrowed, at least until I got to the part where Boyd claimed to be regularly putting the blocks to Rick Bradshaw, and then his eyes widened in disbelief. He kept saying over and over, “I gotta kick Buchanan’s ass!” Fortunately, Boyd had already left or Luke might have made good on the threat to pound him.
After I got that off my chest, I did feel better and went for pizza, but after a while I was getting tired of Luke asking me, “He really said he’s fucking around with Bradshaw?” about every ten minutes.
I kept warning, “Don’t say nothing to nobody! He’s just a mega-perv lying to make himself look good. I won’t be able to show my face at school if everybody thinks I’m fucking getting felt up in the crapper all the time, so shut up!”
I spent all day Sunday sprawled on my bed listening with the music cranked up really loud, replaying what creepy Boyd said about messing around with the goalie. I just couldn’t get an image into my head of the pasty equipment manager and the macho jock stud together, then I thought about me in Buchanan’s place, me and Rick fooling around, and that really freaked me out. I was shaking it bugged me so much. I tried not the think that I should be sorry that I told Luke, although I knew he would hold it over me like I did him and his fat bum. One thing about Luke was that although he was actually two months younger than me, he always acted like I was the younger brother he never had, and it annoyed the hell out of me, which is why he did it so much.
Of course, I couldn’t keep the story to myself, so you won’t be surprised to hear that Luke didn’t bother to keep it corked, either. On Monday, I kept a low profile until I saw that Buchanan wasn’t in school that day, but in third-period English, Luke flopped into the seat next to me, looking cocky as all fuck, saying, “Bradshaw says it’s all lies.”
“Huh?” I grunted.
He grinned, “I told him you said he was screwing Buchanan, and he said no effin way.”
“Why did you do that?” I hissed, the teacher having come into the room and fixing me with the Evil Eye. “I told you to keep it quiet. Why didn’t you let it go?”
Luke was really surprised. He shrugged, “I just had to find out, bro.”
I spent the rest of the day with my gut tied in knots, scared that Rick was going to find me and knock my balls up around my ears for spreading rumors about him, but as my luck runs, we had soccer practice scheduled after classes ended, so there was no way to avoid him.
Coach was in my face all afternoon screaming about my crappy play, but I couldn’t focus on anything since every time I spied Rick in goal, and you better believe it was out of the corner of my eye and not a direct glance, he was watching me with this inscrutable stare. All I could think about was getting home alive, and as soon as the last wind-sprint was done and the last drill completed and the last whistle blown, I bolted for the locker room and snapped into the shower.
With just a towel around my waist, I went to get dressed and found . . . don’t try to tell me you don’t see it coming . . . Rick Bradshaw leaning casually up against my locker with that bland, unreadable expression on his face.
“You and me,” he growled, “We gotta talk. I got questions, and you better have the right answers.”
I nodded, and he continued, “I’ll drive you home. Meet me in the parking lot.”
It occurs to me that I have mentioned Rick several times without telling you much about him. He was handsome in an easy-going jock way, short, dark hair; full lips and square All-American Boy jaw; dark eyes edged with thick lashes that all the girls squealed over. His thighs were thick with muscle and tapered to narrow hips and a tight butt; his shoulders were broad, but it was his chest that always caught my attention . . . just enough definition to the muscle to be interesting but not too much, and a tuft of dark hair nestling between his pecs. Sociologists can debate all they want about what it is that orients someone to being gay, all that “nature versus nurture” crap, but since this is my story, I will tell you flat out . . . That year, my first sighting of Bradshaw’s bare chest with its nest of dark hair is what turned me gay, simple enough, that’s all there is to say. Before I saw him, I still had a fighting chance at the two-point-five offspring and the white picket fence in the ‘burbs, but that eyeful sealed the deal, and now he was waiting outside to beat the snot out of me.
I slung my gym bag over my shoulder and, with a moaning sigh, went to face the music. As I exited the building, Rick waved me over to his car and jerked his thumb to the passenger seat for me to get in.
As he pulled out onto the street, he turned left when he should have turned right to go to my house, but when I started to say something, he mumbled, “Gotta go by my house first.” I didn’t say anything, but his family lived at least ten miles the other way. We just rode in silence, which was kinda weird considering that he snagged me so we could talk, but I figured I would let him throw the first punch, so to speak. I edgily eyed him a little, especially his thick, veined forearm lit by the dashboard lights as he shifted the transmission from one gear to the next. He was so hot, and he was so gonna kick my butt if I didn’t say the right thing. Damn Luke and his big fuckin’ mouth!
We pulled up to his house, a big gabled place with cedar shingles all over the walls and about a bazillion windows, I swear. No lights were on in the front, which looked spooky and raised my anxiety a couple of notches. He parked by the front door and snapped, “C’mon!” to me.
The house was as impressive inside as out, exposed wood beams and rough stone walls, a lot of dark leather upholstery and intricately-loomed rugs. Didn’t look much like a home, more like a picture from a magazine. I guess it was somebody’s lame idea of a lodge on the coast of Maine or something, but I didn’t have much room to talk. My parents’ house was an imitation English manor house that was supposed to make you want to go fox hunting or some shit like that. I followed Rick to the back of the house, where there was a light on in the kitchen. When I saw who was sitting at the table eating a sandwich, I knew that I was in for a whuppin’ for sure.
It was Rick’s younger brother, Jimbo.
A little back story on Jimbo, who was a year younger than me, will clue you into why he hated my guts as much as anybody possibly could. Twice in the past couple of years girls that Jimbo was dating dumped him and started dating me, this all taking place before I knew which way the wind was blowing, alternative lifestyle-wise. I had nothing to do with the breakup either time, and both times a few weeks had passed before I moved in on the ex, but he still would as soon kick me as look at me.
I looked from one brother to the other nervously, figuring they were going to jump me together, but Jimbo still hadn’t said a word or moved since we walked into the kitchen, just sat staring at me with a suspicious expression. Rick was rooting around in the refrigerator, and I kept a careful watch on both of them, my mind racing. One thought I had was that they didn’t look much alike. Jimbo was short and stocky with a face like a pugnacious bulldog. He also had a shaggy mop of bright, coppery hair.
Hell, Andy! I can hear you. This is the third redhead in this story. That’s too much of a coincidence for me to swallow. I could lie and say that a couple of us had dark hair or were blond, but what’s the point? It was whatever it was.
Rick fished some beer out the refrigerator, and pointed to the back door. “We’re going down to the lake.” Jimbo, still mute, just watched us as we went out into the unusually warm night. Halfway down the long sloping lawn that descended to the water, I turned back and saw the younger brother standing at the window watching us, his squat body silhouetted by the light. My legs were so rubbery they would hardly hold me up.
At the shore there was a dock built out over the lake and a two-story boathouse designed with the same shingled sides and dormer windows as the main house. There wasn’t much light down there, since it was about a mile across the lake , and the neighbors on either side were hidden behind the trees. I followed as Rick swaggered out onto the dock, and sat when he did on a bench that ran along the side of the boathouse. We popped the caps off the bottles, and I sat, staring straight ahead at the water, sensing that Rick was watching me, but not seeing that for sure. I was biting my lower lip so hard I was almost drawing blood. After an awkward silence, he finally asked, “I hear that you and Boyd Buchanan had a run in at the Iggy game.”
I shrugged, not sure what to say that wouldn’t irritate him, settling on “You know what a jerk he is.”
He grunted in agreement, then said, “I asked him about it and he says that you felt each other up.”
I whipped my head around, squeaking, “He snuck up and grabbed my balls; I didn’t touch him!”
It was Rick’s turn to shrug. “That’s not the story he’s telling.”
I jumped up and paced nervously. “It’s a lie! I didn’t do anything.”
“Luke McCorkle told me my name came up.”
I swore to myself that I would bloody Luke’s nose next time that I saw him, but I remained quiet.
“So did Buchanan say something about me?” There was a belligerent tone to Rick’s voice that told me he was serious. “What did he say?” He was still seated on the bench, coiled tightly. I leaned against the wall of the boathouse, several feet away from him, the tension thick between us. “Did you just make up that crap you told McCorkle or did Buchanan really say it?” His voice was louder now, edgier, more aggressive.
My mind was racing so fast that I couldn’t respond, but I was shocked by the speed with which Rick leapt at me, crushing me against the wall, his face inches away from mine, an arm across my throat, almost cutting off my air. He had a couple if inches and at least thirty pounds, all muscle, on me. I turned my head away from him and saw that the back of the house was now dark, and I flashed on if Jimbo still watched from the kitchen or if maybe he had followed us in the dark, waiting for a signal to join in.
Rick insisted very slowly and deliberately, “Tell me what Boyd Buchanan said about me.”
I kept my face turned away, but locked my eyes on his and took a deep breath, admitting, “He claimed he fools around with you sometimes.”
He eased off on the pressure on me a bit, but I was still trapped. Rick continued, “What did you think about that?” I shrugged again. “Did you believe him?”
I realized that the best thing to say was, “No way! A big jock like you? Girls all the way, brother!” The worst thing would be to confess, “Well, I’m hoping it’s true!” and just marginally better would be silence, which is the option I took.
Rick repeated, “Did you believe him?” but I still couldn’t answer.
You may be wondering what was making it so difficult for me to respond, and it is this---- Rick was still leaning heavily against me, pressing and pinning me to the wall, and it felt as though he were mashing a can of tennis balls against my thigh.
Something clicked for me with that realization, but I couldn’t process the information, get my head around it. When Rick pulled me away from the wall, I tensed in fear that he was preparing to slam me back, seeking a little more leverage. Instead, one of his hands slipped up the front of my shirt while the other released the pressure on my throat and caught the back of my head in a gentle embrace. I still could not look him in the eye, and my arms were tense at my side until he pulled my lips to his in a kiss that was unexpectedly sweet, just the softest brushing of his mouth against mine, once, then again for a bit longer and then again for longer still,
Rick whispered, “Come into the boathouse with me.”
My heart was banging against my ribs as I asked, “What’s in the boathouse?”
“There’s a guest room upstairs with a bed.”
I looked around, still not quite believing that I wasn’t being set up in spite of another soft kiss and the insistent pressure of his hard cock pushing against me, but I nodded in agreement.
Inside the door, Rick flipped on a light to illuminate the boats, a little nineteen-foot Sunfish with the sail furled around the folded mast and a sleek motorboat for water skiing. He led me up the narrow wooden steps to a dark room smelling faintly of mildew and rotting canvas. In the dim light coming from below I could see a plain bedroom furnished only with a dresser and a bed with a bare mattress, no linens or pillows. I was still hesitant, but when he opened his shirt and guided my hand to his chest, so long the dreamily idealized focus of my desire, my anxiety vanished in a wave of hunger. My hands ran freely over the smooth skin of his broad chest and flat abs, my fingers caressed at last the dark tangle of hair knotted between his nipples.
Our kisses were more deeply intimate as we slowly undressed. My heart almost stopped beating as he stood naked before me in the reflected glow of the light from downstairs, his hard boner jutting out from his belly. It was huge, but I hope that I don’t have to tell you that it wasn’t really as large as a can of tennis balls. That would just sprint right past erotic and run full tilt into carnival side-show freakishness.
He knelt on the floor in front of me and plunged his mouth around my dick, the warm wetness forcing a moan from deep inside of me as his tongue sweetly worked me. I could not take my eyes off this hot jock stud as with one long, teasing stroke after another, my spit-slicked cock appeared and disappeared between his lips, my balls pressed against his chin and his nose buried in my bush. I never had imagined pleasure this intense as he expertly brought me to the point of release and then backed off before I shot my load in his greedy mouth, allowing my dick to slap wetly against my gut as he tongued my nuts now and then. Rick finally decided to put an end to this delicious agony and took me deeper and deeper in his mouth until, arching my back and crushing my head into the mattress, I came in great, shuddering spurts.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his big hand and grinned at me as I lay panting and spent.
“Wow!” I groaned. “That was...” I trailed off at a loss for words.
“You don’t have to say anything. I could tell you kinda liked it,” Rick said as he lay down beside me. He pulled me close, one hand drawing my head to his shoulder, the other kneading my butt. I looked down in the dim light at our legs tangled together, his retaining a good bit of his summer tan. My skin was typical of a redhead . . . if you found me attractive, you might call it “creamy" or “alabaster,” if not, “fish-belly white” might come to mind. Your call.
There was a loud thump from downstairs, and we froze, not breathing, waiting to hear if the sound was repeated. After several agonizing moments, he whispered, “One of the boats must have been knocked against the slip by a wave,” and I relaxed against him again, only to tense up as he suddenly slid one of his fingers into the crack of my ass and press it against my pucker.
“Just relax,” Rick instructed me. “I really want to take your ass. Will you let me?”
I eyed his huge prick doubtfully. “I’ve never, uhh . . . I don’t know if I can take all that.”
“It’ll just hurt for a second and then you’ll get used to it. You’ll love it.” He curled on top of me and began rolling his hips slowly, rubbing his cock between my thighs, his eyes concentrated on mine. It really felt good.
I swallowed hard and agreed. He tuned me over onto my stomach and positioned me at the edge of the bed and himself between my thighs. He spat into his hand and slicked first his cock and then my hole.
I know what you’re thinking. What about the condom? All I can say is that we were eighteen years old, and “mortality” was not a word in our vocabulary in any of its many senses. We were giddy in those days and intoxicated by our own youthful lust.
Rick pushed his demanding cock against my pucker, murmuring, “Just relax.” I was okay all the way up to the point where he actually achieved some penetration, and the searing stab of pain made me try to jerk away, but he had a firm grip on my hips so he was able to hold me against him, still urging me to relax, but as more I tried to relax, the more tense my ass became. Finally I was able to squirm away from him, and watched warily as he breathed hard and tried to sweet talk me back into position.
“No way!” I squawked from the far side of the mattress. “That hurts worse than being kicked in the balls!” I was exaggerating for effect, but not too much. Rick caressed one of my feet against his chest as he wheedled his way back into my ass, but I continued to refuse.
Finally, he gave me one of boyish grins, and agreed, “That’s something we can leave for next time, ‘kay?”
Flooded with relief, I couldn’t help but smile, “There’s a next time?”
“Sure! Now that I’ve had a little taste of you, I want more!” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and held me close as he pressed my hand against his throbbing hard-on. “But do you want to do something with this?”
I nodded enthusiastically . . . jerking him off was an act I knew something about and I fisted his thick dick with vigor, sliding his foreskin over the head with one hand as I rolled his nuts around within their velvety sac with the other. Rick was propped up on his elbows, watching me for a while, then he closed his eyes and groaned softly when my speed and pressure increased, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. I could feel him swell in my hand as with contorted face and sharply inhaled breaths, his hot cum jetted out, spraying all over his chest and stomach. His chest was heaving as he used two fingers to scoop the sticky fluid up, and with a naughty grin held it up to my mouth. I hesitated and then parted my lips to lick his fingers clean, watching Rick’s sparkling eyes as I did.
Over the next few weeks, Rick and I hooked up a few more times, but I was never able to relax enough for anal sex, so eventually he lost interest in me and moved on to other relationships.
The following year, Luke and I ended up on the other end of the state at the same university about three hundred miles away. He and I stayed friends for a few years, and I even dated his younger sister for a couple of months while I was still finding the boundary between gay and straight a world of shifting sands and uncertain footing. It is difficult to say which of the three of us was the most relieved when she discovered that her philosophy professor made a better trophy boyfriend than I did, but we parted as friends.
Rick, who could never get scores on the college board exams high enough to qualify for a scholarship to the high-profile schools that were courting him, ended up at the university in the town we all grew up in, as did Boyd Buchanan and several of our team mates. At a fraternity party one night, several beers past legally drunk by any reasonable legal standard, Rick noisily announced that he and Buchanan had been screwing around for several years. Everyone there, at least the ones that could make any sense of Rick’s slurred rambling, would have found the story as unbelievable as I had except that the frantic reaction of Boyd lent it credibility, his panic driven by a fear, correct as it turned out, that the charming and athletic Rick would be cut a little slack that would not be extended to himself.
Okay, so that's my story. A few minutes wasted from your life, but I warned you up front it was lame, so no refunds.
