My bedroom was just around the corner from the kitchen, so I awoke, as I did most days, to the morning sounds my roommates made as they prepared to go to work. They were usually a fairly quiet lot, taking pains to keep conversation low and avoiding the use of major appliances, but I almost always woke up anyway, at least for a moment or two. As I worked until late and often didn't get to bed until three or four am, my side of our bargain was to keep the noise down at night when they were asleep. I daresay I'd given them occasional reason to sit up in their beds and ask themselves what the hell I was up to downstairs. But all in all, it was a good arrangement-- certainly the only way any of us could afford to live in a big, well-appointed house in a trendy neighborhood.
Through a curtain of half-sleep, I listened as the last of them split. I glanced at the clock--8:47am--hours early for me, but I was feeling a bit restless and began to convince myself to get up. My head was a little thick and I had that too-many-cigarettes-last-night throat, but my stomach's pH seemed stable enough. In short, I felt like I was about a 'three' on the open-ended hangover scale. Nothing some tylenol, some soda water and plenty of ice wouldn't set right.
Glen, my overnight guest, was snoring softly near the opposite edge of the bed; hunched up fetally on his side with his back to me. He'd let me blow him and spray my spunk onto his tum the previous night, but I didn't know exactly what to expect when he awoke. During the entire episode he'd pretended to be asleep (which was just ducky with me, if that's what he needed to do; minor details like that rarely even slow me down). But what had really touched me was that, just before we finally fell asleep, he shed some of that compelling straight-boy reserve. He'd been 'comatose', while I'd spent over an hour making a midnight smorgasbord out of his furry torso-- and I do mean all of it-- then, once the lights were off and the egos were folded neatly at the foot of the bed, Glen had sidled on over, snuggled up and actually said 'Thanks...' Now, it takes a whole tug-of-war team pulling on my heartstrings to get me gushy; but shit, I'd have rolled over and kissed him if I hadn't been so sure it would freak him out.
Considering the amount of scotch and import ale Glen had scoffed back at Seepy's Bar the previous night, I figured he had at least another hour of shuteye in him, probably more. He might have only been pretending to sleep while we were rubbing weenies, but he was well and truly out of it now--fresh drool stains on a guy's pillow have a way of conveying that.
I hauled myself up, grabbed a fresh pair of white jockeys from the basket on the floor and padded upstairs to the bathroom, where I had a quick shower and shave. While I lathered up, I recalled my surprise and delight when I'd finally gotten Glen naked. I discovered him to be wearing that heart-stopping, absolute beaut of a beat-up jockstrap. How do you *not* do a nose dive onto something like that?
I've always been a sucker for a guy in a nutnet that looks like he's worn it since highschool, and the previous night had been no exception. Glen had a fairly small dick for a cat with his kind of long, lean runner's bod, but Lordy, did he have some balls on him! I calculated that they must have outhung his dick by a factor of three when he was soft.
My cock got three-quarters stiff in the shower from my recollection of that frayed ol' jock, but I resisted the urge to pound off a quick wad while I had it all plump and slippery. If my spike-haired furcub didn't bolt, I'd certainly be on board for a repeat performance--and I sure wanted to have a good load built up if that was in the cards. By reflex, I speculated on what boneheaded set of conditions he might put on the situation if he did wind up staying to mess around. Sometimes it's like that with married guys, but you learn to work with what you've got.
Back at the bar, I'd gotten some inside poop from Seepy that Glen had been very recently wed. Seepy used to tell me everything back then; my bar tab covered half his alimony. That Glen had a wife back in Ontario was a biographical detail my new friend had chosen not to bring up in the course of more than three hours of swapping life stories. But I'd noticed right away that Glen wore a gold band on his left hand. I'm no Hercule Poirrot, but a guy picks up on shit *that* obvious, even when he's smitten.
My rationale in those situations is simple enough: I figure we just aren't put here to judge how the next fella gets his nut. We're here to make sure our own needs are all looked after; and in such a way as to cause the least possible harm. Now, if a married cat can't get everything he needs from the little missus, it's up to him to go out and find it--either that, or learn to live with big chunk of himself missing and try to shut the fuck up about it. But lots can't--Promise Keepers is full of 'em.
I guess for guys like Glen, men whose work keeps them moving, it's easier to be discreet. In a best case scenario, I had Glen pegged for somebody who probably went into into his marriage knowing exactly how he was going to work it all out. And if he'd laid his long, hairy self out on my futon for a tongue-bath a mere month after his nuptuals, it sure wasn't because I'd snuck into his starter home back in Ontario and dragged him out of the marital bed.
I chuckled to myself as I stepped into my soft, classic y-fronts-- I'd entertained my share of gay divorcees before, but Glen was my first gay newlywed. I laid out some towels, a disposible razor and new toothbrush for him and went back downstairs, hoping for the best.
I went straight to my room to check for signs of life. A swell of chagrin hit me broadside when I opened my door to find Glen not only out of bed, but gone altogether.
'Guess he's just not good at long goodbyes' I thought, a little angry for letting myself daydream that he'd stick around. I shook out the duvet a bit more briskly than it deserved, noting that in his haste, Glen had even left his lighter and his socks behind. By the time I'd gathered up the previous night's glasses and made my way to the kitchen I was in a light funk, but nothing I couldn't deal with.
As it happened, I didn't have to deal with it. I rounded the corner and nearly dropped the glassware. My heart leapt when I found Glen poking around in the fridge, his wrinkled shirttail dragging on the tiles where he squatted.
Glen jumped up and wheeled about in one lithe movement when he heard me put the glasses on the countertop. He shot me a broad, disgustingly peppy smile from under that chaotic black brushcut. His heavy brows animated, boyish, he shook the empty Half-and-Half carton he'd found, "Morning! Got any more cream?"
Hard put to pass up an opportuntity for an exchange of smutty innuendo, I bit my lip.
"I think there's some in the other fridge," I told him, as if he'd been helping himself to the contents of my kitchen all his life. I eyed him uneasily. "Uhm, how do you, uh... feel" I asked, wondering how he'd think I meant it.
"Fine, except my head feels a little light... how many shots *did* I put away last night?"
Here it comes, I thought: 'I don't remember a thing....' "I wasn't really keeping count," I told him.
"I checked my wallet. I dropped nearly fifty bucks in that fucking bar." Glen said, patting his back pocket, "I must have been behaving like a sailor on shore leave..."
"In most ways; based on the ones I know... " I assured him, but in fact, all of the sailors I know are far more inclined to be reciprocal than he'd been.
Glen poured cold, stale coffee, left over from the roomies' breakfast, into a mug and took it to the microwave.
I gasped. "Oh God," I told him, "don't nuke that mud! I'm going to make us a fresh pot," I said, plugging in the grinder, adding, "if you'd like..."
"Damn right I'd like! Can't start the day without my mug o' Jo!" Glen said, far more brightly than I thought possible of someone who'd so recently done so much for Scotland's balance of payments.
Now, if there's something my neighborhood had it was coffee joints--one intersection, less than a block away, had a cafe on all four corners. Call it a Vancouver thing, but I'd estimate that within a five minute walk from my door, Glen might have been able to purchase a coffee from any one of three dozen vendors. So naturally, I took the fact that he prefered to stay and have some with me as a very good sign indeed. I decided to push my luck a bit.
"I've set some stuff out for you in the bathroom--if you'd like to freshen up." I can be delicate when I try.
Glen had been reading cut-out comic panels stuck onto the fridge door and spun smartly on his heel, "Freshen up? Girl, I need hosing down! Mercy! I've still got your crusty old pecker tracks in my stomach hair!"
Now there was something! Not only did Glen acknowledge that he had some inkling of what went on between us the previous night--he was using genuine urban faggot-speak to tell me. Before I was able to react, he shot up the stairs, shirt-tails flapping--and with much less clatter than he'd made the night before, just before passing out.
And what had *that* been all about anyway? If he was as conversant with the homosexual argot as he seemed--enough to refer to me as 'girl' and dried ejaculate as 'pecker tracks'--what had been the point of his playing dead while I ate him? Did he have multiple personality disorder? The easy-going, pleasantly goofy, audio tech I'd met in the bar the night before had morphed into some whorehouse parody of Bette Midler, trapped inside a fuzzy studlet. A very complex individual was using my shower, that was certain.
While Glen showered, I whipped him up a quick breakfast of two soft-boiled eggs, some toasted baguette, and a small bowl of fruit salad with yoghurt. Not inclined to squander what was shaping up to be a golden opportunity to have another roll in the hay with him, I loaded his food and the carafe of coffee onto a tray and carried it into my room, arranging everything on the small cafe table in the bay window. Despite his bizarre outburst in the kitchen, I decided he was still far too butch for a napkin ring or a bud vase; Martha Stewart be damned.
When he came back downstairs, Glen had on a white terry bathrobe belonging to one of my roommates, which he'd doubtless found hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It came to just above his knees and when he sat down on the opposite side of the table, it allowed me a mouth-watering panorama of pale inner flank.
"Dig in," I told him.
Dig in he did.
I found myself trying to cop a better peek, through the glass tabletop, of the spot where the front of the robe fell open slightly at the top of his thigh. I imagined he was too much of a gentleman to have put on that cummy jock again after having showered, so I entertained myself by visualizing how his loose genitals would be positioned, given the way his legs were crossed.
"Aren't you going to eat?" Glen asked, repeatedly dipping a finger of toast into soft egg yolk. (More smutty innuendo?)
"I'm a chef," I explained, exhaling smoke over my shoulder, "I make it a point never to put food on an empty stomach. Coffee and Dunhills are all I need until about four in the afternoon. But enough about me, Glen. How about you reconciling that shy-- PASSED OUT-- young man from last night with your little diva number in the kitchen a while ago..."
"Well, I *do* like to keep a guy on his toes," Glen let me know with a smirk, "Last night in the bar you were so cute and earnest-- so 'adolescent' with all that thigh-pressing and meaningful glances bullshit. Basically, I let you think you were charming my drunken pants off, which of course you were. Soon as I had you sized up, I thought I'd relax and pound a few shots. But all that scotch didn't really kick in until we got here."
To nobody in particular, staring into the garden, he added, "I do believe I may be losing my tolerance for malt, " he shuddered in mock horror, "God--what a thought!"
Glen started to return his attention to his fruit salad, but he looked up and caught my eye, suddenly serious. His spoon suspended in midair between us, he asked "Would you believe it? The whole time you were blowing me, I was chokin' back major puke-o-rama?"
"I've been known to have that effect on people," I ventured somewhat icily; astonished to note that he could use an expression like 'puke-o-rama' and then immediately knock back a big spoonful of yoghurt and diced mango. Glen might have been every day of twenty-five, but I was beginning to believe I'd encountered the world's oldest living fourteen yearold.
I smoked another cigarette and drank that all-important second cup of coffee, watching him finish eating, wondering where this was going to go. I didn't have long to wait. Glen dabbed his mouth with the napkin and stood up with a demure burp, casually brushing a few crumbs from the front of the robe.
Still chewing the last bit of his toast, he stretched provocatively and asked, "Got any Ivory Snow? I'm going to go rinse out my jock."
My throat tightened in panicked reflex. "The HELL you are!" I blurted out, startling myself with the coarse, drill-sergeant tone I'd suddenly adopted. But mostly, I was mortified that he'd so off-handedly consider desecrating it that way--now that our blended essenses had embellished it to near-perfection. I would have been more inclined to display it in a glass case.
I'm far too much of a muffin to be very convincing at the whole authoritarian schtick, but nevertheless, Glen was taken aback. "What do you mean?" he asked, eyes squinting under a furrowed brow, "I think I'd rather wear it damp--than like this..." He drew the crusty jock out of the pocket of the robe with the tips of his fingers, holding it with his arm outstretched, as though he had a dead fish by the tail. I had to look away to maintain my composure.
"I mean..." I said, deftly recovering, "I mean I've got a whole slew of 'em. You can have your pick of the litter!" I stood up, indifferent to the obvious outline of my plump, but spongy dick where it protested against my jeans. I strode over to the carved oak armoire and pulled both massive doors open. Of the two rows of drawers I revealed, I chose one of the larger ones near the bottom. Pulling it all the way out, I carried it back to the table where the light was better. I put the drawer-full of jocks on the floor between our chairs and waited while Glen put a cd into the player. I was beguiled by the easy way he made himself at home.
Now, I've got lots of friends (of whom some even claim to be gay, it saddens me to say) whose idea of 'enough' underwear would fit into one standard dresser drawer. Worse, if they own a jock at all, they only wear it a couple of times a year for pickup touch-football or Sunday afternoon frisbee. I pity folks like that; the way you pity a passed-out wino.
It's not like I actually wear a jock myself very often--I have an almost exclusive allegiance to white department store y-fronts, in and out of the sack. Truth is, the reason I keep such a comprehensive pile of jocks around is because almost nothing turns me on more than messing with a man who's wearing one.
Lamentably few casual acquaintances these days come pouch-equipped and they sure don't stock them at the Seven Eleven, so it behooves a cat to keep a few nice ones tucked away. Sure, I know, 'straps will become the fetish du jour from time to time, but you just can't lay store in the caprices of public taste: diligent foresight is everything to the serious cup queen. Glenny was shaping up, in my fondest imaginings, as someone whose penchant for nutnets might just mesh with mine, so to speak. I was itching to see his reaction to my stash.
Glen chose to play John Coltrane's, 'Impressions'. "Excellent choice," I muttered, as the drums and piano began those lurching, complex opening bars of 'My Favorite Things'.
"Whoa!" exclaimed Glen in a trailing tone. But it wasn't the strident tone of 'Trane's soprano sax joining the rhythm section that made him say it--he'd spied my box of goodies. He dropped to his knees in front of the multicolored assortment of pouches, cups and posing straps like he was a pilgrim at some roadside shrine. He gawked up at me, speechless. I saw how the flush of awe had darkened his cheeks and became pretty sure he was mine.
"Like I said, pick any one you like. All my serious favorites are uh... elsewhere."
Whistling low, Glen leaned forward and ran his fingers through the tangle of dick mitts like it was pirate treasure. He spent some minutes clucking to himself and rooting around, gradually narrowing his options to only a couple. By the time the 'Trane's second soprano solo was over, Glen had more or less made his choice.
"Are these all yours?" Glen asked. Not really such a stupid question if you know me.
"Well, some of them *used* to be other peoples'" I couldn't resist a smirk. I thought back on a certain salmon fisherman posessed of seemingly limitless endurance, who'd kept my feet in the air for the better part of a long weekend. He'd been the previous tenant of the tumeric-yellow Bike classic Glen was examining that very minute; its slack pouch bulging lasciviously only a few inches from his freshly shaved face.
"Like it?" I cooed.
"Cool color," Glen made a fist and punched the cup as though he were tenderizing a new baseball glove.
"Custom-dyed it myself... it's starting to fade a bit, though. Try it on!" (hope, hope, hope)
"Sure!" (whew...)
Glen turned his back to me and stepped into the jock like a stripper in reverse. I didn't even get a peek at his peaches when he lined up the legstraps because he didn't bend over far enough for the back of the robe to ride up that high. He took an inordinate amount of care arranging his package. Then at last, with a final, resolute snap of the waistband, he gathered up the flaps of the robe and brought them together in front of him. He spun on one heel and faced me, his arms across his chest like someone in a straight-jacket, each hand grasping one flap of the robe.
"Okay...." Glen winked at me; in that corny, burlesque way Clark Kent always used to wink at the reader in the last panel of a Superman comic.
"Ready?" The bugger was obviously set on milking the moment for every spare iota of suspense.
Finally: "Ta-DA!!" He flashed the robe wide open; arms and robe spread out like wings. Except for the questioning tilt of his bushy eyebrows, his expression was absolutely deadpan when he asked, "does it look alright?"
I could barely speak. If my marathon man of a salmon fisherman had packed that yellow pouch with more cock than Glen did, he certainly hadn't framed it any better. I swallowed hard.
"Looks are secondary," I lied, "How does it feel?"
He dropped his arms and pondered the question; placing one bare foot on the other and staring into space with that earnest, faraway expression of a dilettante at a wine tasting.
"Like my bag's being held in a soft, warm hand," said Glen finally, gabbing one of his asscheeks roughly with each palm, using them to push his pelvis out slightly.
"Then it can't look anything *but* good." I assured him.
A major understatement. At that moment, Glen was a vision that would have made Mother Teresa squishy-- that wide, striped waistband holding snug to his smooth, acute pelvic ridge and his cotton-clad genitals plumping the loose-knit, pliable fabric. His flaccid cock was obvious in the arrangement. It angled downwards, slightly to the left, giving his package an appearance that was, at once, lewd and yet somehow also innocent-looking. On impulse, he pinched the legbands, pulled them very tight and then let them snap back onto his ass in tandem. The report was loud enough to get the attention of Onan, the cat, who'd been licking his memories on the window sill.
Glen's left hand and most of the fingers of his right had progressed to some obscene, hidden baton twirling behind the stretched pouch. I could see the tip of his knob: a large bulge standing out and away from a turbulent cotton sea of smaller bulges that were his ruffling knuckles between his balls and the taut fabric. I silently cursed all Corsican waiters in the name of the one who'd borrowed my camera.
"I think I'll take it!" he declared, adding (a little too diffidently for it to have been genuine) "..that is, if the offer's still good."
"Ah... Monsieur has such enlightened tastes." I lisped, clasping my hands and fluttering my lashes in a vague caricature of an effeminate Parisian haberdasher. Glen's generous reaction to my stupid antic was four bars of angelic smile. That sent an express message to my almost-hard dick, and the message was: boing.
Elegantly, like a jungle cat, Glen rolled his shoulders and expanded his downy chest, arms at his sides. Thus, he allowed the white terry robe fall away, otherwise unaided. I stepped backwards a few paces when it fell. I wanted a better vantage point from which to take in the entire hot tableau of Glen standing, lean and freshly pouched, between me and the shimmering sunlight beating down on the panes of the french doors behind him. But he had other ideas.
Impishly, he sashayed his concave asscheeks over to the full-length mirror on the outside of the closet door and began to pose for himself. He stood innocently enough at first, examining himself in three-quarters profile, standing as modestly as his sexy attire would permit. But within a few seconds he'd begun to make fuck faces at himself, pantomiming rude parodies of the expressions one sees on the models in the slicker newsstand smut. My furcub clearly had a capacity for play that he'd barely hinted at ten hours before. As if oblivious to my presence, he half-squatted with his back to the mirror and peered between his legs at the refection of his spread cheeks, each bisected by a diagonal yellow leg band.
I was losing it. I'd been rubbing my plumping log through my jeans and I knew from that familiar coolness that it'd begun to drool. I unbuttoned my fly and reached in to form a ring just below my cotton-clad dickhead with my thumb and index finger. My cock flexed its gratitude as I applied light friction to the ridge of my glans, inspired by Glen's horny preoccupation with his own reflection. I must have made some kind of sound; probably something pathetic and needy.
Giggling, Glen straightened himself up and strode over to me, bounding on and off the futon like it wasn't there.
"Well, well," he said, when he saw me withdraw my hand from my fly. He grabbed me by the wrists and said in a clipped, businesslike tone, "C'mon guy, let's you and me get ourselves horizontal," mocking, exactly, my words and timbre of the previous night.
"Do I really talk like Rodney Dangerfield?" I asked, feigning petulance.
"A little. I'm just glad you don't *look* like Rodney Dangerfield," Glen offered, along with another knee-capping smile. He drew me nearer, backwards toward my bed.
"Well then, show me some respect," I told him, when his heels stopped their backwards shuffling at the edge of the futon. My damp, white bulge poked out my open fly and met the vertical, mesh-encased sausage that was Glen's cock. I stared into his clear emerald eyes, their pupils contracted to pinpoints by the brilliant sunshine. Every time I leaned in to press my dick against his with just a little more pressure, Glen would pull his butt backards denying me the contact I craved.
"You are one hot, PRICK TEASING, little fuck." I moved in to kiss him. There was a fleeting moment when it seemed like he might only offer me the curved nape of his neck, like the willing victim of a vampire; but at the last possible instant, Glen deked his face sideways and lined his mouth up with mine. Eyes wide open, he clamped onto my open lips with a great, urgent sucking.
I'd never been on the receiving end of a kiss that conveyed so much so quickly. Glen drew my surprised, flaccid tongue into his mouth as far as it would go, sucked on it twice and then rammed it back into my mouth with his own; jabbing randomly at my back teeth for a couple of seconds before abruptly pulling off me. It was my turn to say "Whoa!"
Grinning, he let himself fall backwards onto the futon, locking my gaze. Propping himself up on his elbows, Glen splayed his bent knees, giving me a lewd flash of his fuzzy nether regions. Random pubes stuck out from all sides of the jock's soft pouch, in exquisite contrast to the stretched saffron cotton and his pale, lean inner thighs. The sides of the stressed mesh could barely contain those heroic nuts of his-- the exaggerated twin orbs brought side by side by the gentle insistence of elastic fabric. The tip of Glen's cock formed damp, mesh-covered knob that protruded aggressively upwards and outwards, in front of the waistband. The inverted V, where the golden legbands met at the gathered base of the pouch, made a perfect frame for his upturned crack. Glen's hole itself was obscured by a forest of light fur, but I had a brief, vivid recollection of how that hidden pucker had spasmed on the tip of my tongue the night before.
He cocked a supercillious eyebrow, leering like one of the pin-ups he'd been aping a few moments before. "Want this?" he purred rhetorically, willing his cock to perform three volultary pulses in the jock, as if I needed clarification of what he'd meant by 'this'.
By way of an answer, I dropped my jeans and stepped out of them; proudly boned in my bleached jockey classics. My cock lay off to one side, throbbing gratefully in somewhat gentler confines. I pinched along its outline through the soft cotton, felt the spreading blot of lube near the swollen tip. Reaching in past the waistband, I laid my hot stick on the vertical and squeezed a clear pearl onto my fingertips before snapping the elastic waistband back over it. I palmed my dick against my belly as I twiddled one of my tits with my precum-moistened thumb and forefinger. Every so often I'd move my hand away to give Glen a different view of my cock and the various ways it tented the front of my briefs.
Glen was pinching the tip of his own clothbound hardon and licking his lips as he watched the show. "That looks good enough to eat," he observed.
Now, it might have only been the kind of cuddly, gratuitous remark one makes in these situations, but I took it as an invitation to become lunch. Ever since meeting him, I'd visualized Glen's face planted on a pair of my whites. I staddled Glen's form, still gripping my dick through the supple material. I decided I just had to find out if he was as fond of chewing bone through cotton as I was. Besides, I figured he owed me a bit of mouthwork after the inspired, unrequited blowjob I'd laid on him the previous night.
I traveled Glen's length until I stood astride his lean, furred chest. Like an elevator car that's been cut from its cables, I dropped into a squat over him, catching myself just before the point of contact. The front of my briefs only a couple inches from his face, Glen excited me all the more when he sniffed the air in front of him hungrily, without any pretense or subtlety. I tried to image what he was inhaling: a freshly bathed and jockeyed me always exuded hints of my shower soap and fabric softener. But recent events would have added to the mix the acrid pungency of newly generated sweat and that unmistakable musk of imperative need.
I felt Glen pass his warm hands into the rear of my briefs, palming a globe in each. He pulled my crotch closer to his face and traced a long, dry trail along the underside of my cock through the fabric with the tip of his tongue, taking full measure of my stick of cotton candy. When he came to the cleft of my glans he drilled his quivering tongue-tip into its depression, causing me to flinch from the directness of his approach. Apparently pleased with himself at my reaction, Glen tittered softly before swallowing my whole jockey-covered cockhead, bathing it with an abundance of warm spit while he teased the ridge with his bared front teeth. I couldn't look at him-- it was all I could do to keep from feeding him a wad right then, using my briefs pouch to seive the goo.
All my fidgeting and gasping must have clued Glen in to the fact that I was on too much of a hair-trigger. He just had to stop all that dickhead munching, and I would have told him so if I'd been capable of speech. I caught some much-need breath when he finally eased off my glans and focused on my slightly less sensitive shaft, mouthing it like a kid eating a cob of corn. He must have known how near I'd been to shooting, because when I looked down at him again I could swear he was trying to grin at me with a wet mouthful of my bone. Glen's face glimmered with smeared spit; in fact, I marveled at the amount of saliva he was producing. He fairly slathered my steamy crotch-- noisily, with a lot of smacking and erratic, snorking breaths. I could only close my eyes, rub his sexy spikey-haired head and hum my encouragement (while I tried desperately to remember the names of all my primary school teachers, in chronological order).
Evidently satisfied that I wasn't going split any time soon, Glen withdrew one hand from the back of my briefs and I could feel the telltale friction of his upper arm against my inner thigh as he began rubbing his own cock. Once he'd darkened the fabric that defined the position of my dick, Glen turned his lapping to my aching balls. I lowered myself onto his face to better accomodate him, bringing his firm, strong chin hard up against my perineum while he laminated my nuts with saturated cotton.
Glen's free hand in the back of my jockeys had recently graduated to exploring the length of my crack. He started out gently, exploring my entire cleft, but by the time he'd soaked my bag completely, one lube-less fingertip was already probing insistently at my asshole. Not that I was the slightest bit adverse to having Glen diddle my hole-- for the rest the day, if that was how he wanted it-- but I needed a faceful of man and I needed it now.
Pulling away from him, I swung a leg around so that my soaked, throbbing briefs hung directly over Glen's face. I rudely yanked his jacking hand off the front of his jock and replaced it with my own, grabbing his modest tool to define the dickhead against the jock's taut mesh. Clear dickdrool oozed through the weave when I squeezed his shaft. He moaned. Who wouldn't?
Glen pulled my crotch down onto his face just as I was clamping my lips around his pouched knob. His finger, now mercifully slickened with his spit, once again poked at my hole. He'd exposed my balls by pushing my jockeys aside and was giving them a noisy punching-bag workout with his nose and flailing tongue as they dangled above him. My untended prick throbbed in its damp, clinging prison out of sheer joy.
Sensing that I had all of Glen's sweet dew sucked from the fabric sheathing his cockhead, I decided to go straight to the source: I yanked his dick out of the side of the pouch, its crimson tip shiny with slime. Taking only the smallest part of his glans in my mouth, I began to play my tongue sideways across the pursed lips of his piss slit in a vigorous thrumming motion. That excess prompted Glen to gobble up both my nuts with one great muffled croak of lust. He reached into the leg of my drawers again and extracted my wet cock, beginning to jack it in short, erratic, vibrator-like flurries. Despite his new interest in my dick, Glen never let up vigorously finger-fucking me, using the torque of his entire forearm.
I felt unable to resist launching a full-scale assault on those massive stones of Glen's a second longer, so I treated his bared cockhead to a half-dozen perfunctory visits to my esophagus, then abruptly lifted off it, relishing its turgid backflip onto his flat, fuzzy tum. One of Glen's balls had already escaped the jock and was hanging suspended against his inner thigh. I peeled back the taut curtain of mesh and the other one tumbled out like a bungie diver; coming to rest, with an noticable bounce, next to its mate. I gathered up the loose scrotal skin between Glen's nuts and his crotch and squeezed. His cock jumped involuntarily as his balls protruded from my tightened fist; the stretched, hairy skin that covered them shining from the snugness of my grip. I descended on them with a husky growl, jamming them both into my mouth like Glen was Siamese twins, joined at the dickhead.
The refined chaos of sixties jazz pouring from the stereo's speakers formed the perfect soundtrack for our thrashing. Glen and I rolled around wildly, on and off the futon in our enthusiasm-- shifting positions every few seconds, but rarely letting go the mouthlock we had on each others' cloth-encased cocks and free-hanging cum factories.
Without really even thinking about it, I'd begun to mirror the fingerfucking Glen was giving me in his own tight hole. The juncture of his jock's legstraps rubbed against the backs of my knuckles as I repeatedly plunged the entire length of two fingers into his depths. I abandoned eating his balls and sat back on my heels next to him, absently watching myself jack his cock with one hand and rummaging around in his upturned ass with the other.
I was relieved that Glen sensed I thought a short breather was in order. He pulled one of my pubes from between his teeth and looked up at me with an indecent grin. Inside his anus, my two fingers were indolently curling and uncurling in that gesture universally understood to mean 'come here'. Temporarily deprived of access to my butt, Glen reached inside the pee hole of my briefs and extracted my dripping cock, easily falling in synch with the gentle rhythm of wanking I was treating him to.
Now, I knew both our asses were twitching to be plugged with something more substantial than a couple of spitty digits, but I wanted to ascertain exactly what Glen's wants were, the better to fulfill them. As much as I wanted to be 'first'-- to have his spare, but randy, poker sliding into me-- I also fancied he felt ready for some bowel stretching. Rather than search around for a coin to flip, I opted for the direct approach: "Do you want me to fuck you?" I wondered out loud.
"After all that pinky pokin'? You fuckin' well BETTER!" said Glen, shaking his head in disbelief and breaking into a low chuckle that dripped with sarcasm; as if he'd just discovered he'd been doing foreplay with the doziest faggot west of the Rockies. He reached down between his legs and tugged at my forearm. I took the hint, and extracted my gooey fingers from his ass. I could only watch, spellbound, as Glen gracefully rolled over. He placed one side of his face flat on the pillow and raised his lean, furry rump high in the air, in that classic pose of eager submission.
Arresting as that perspective of a man's body can be at any time, I found the visual enhancement of his 'new' jock's bright yellow legstraps, twisted up by our recent exertions, absolutely stupifying. For a some minutes I guess, I just lost myself in slack-jawed appreciation of it and unconsciously pulled on my pud. By the time I returned to the here and now, Glen had packed his goods back into the jock and was already stroking his own cock in anticipation of my bone.
"Well?" he called over his shoulder.
I smiled to myself. Impatient to get sweaty-- I like that in a bottom.
I reached into the small wooden chest next to the bed and grabbed the tube of lube. Once again hauling my goods out of a leghole, I squeezed a generous blob of the clear fuck-jelly onto my dickhead and whipped it into a slick, frothy paste; blending it with my precum and Glen's endless studspit.
I'd have loved to spend some time snacking on the black candyfloss that lined Glen's crevice first, but I'd already been to the edge of cumming a few times in the last half hour and I knew an oral detour to his holy-of-holies could only end with me squirting onto the backs of his calves. So I sidled up to him on my knees until my slicked-up cock was poised. Scooping up some spare lube from where it had matted in my pubes, I applied it to Glen's hole.
He met my fingers with a sexy, wriggling backward thrust of his torso. His back and elbow shook in mute evidence of the pounding he was laying on his cock. A couple of seconds later I was slipping my glans past Glen's anal ring. I threw myself into the task of finding that magic, elusive tempo of anal thrusting-- the one we could both live with for the longest possible time. With both hands, I grabbed the back of the saffron waistband for leverage as I jack-hammered Glen's prostate, pulling the elastic several inches away from his hunched, heaving back.
As I pistoned, my glazed eyes happened to fall on the white terrycloth robe where it had fallen next to the futon. In a rush of lustful recollection, I noticed that the cummy jock Glen had worn the previous evening was still half-sticking out of the pocket. I released one hand's grasp of Glen's waistband and scooped up the funky pouch. I brought it to my face and inhaled deeply, the impact of its secret vapors causing my cockhead to swell with glee somewhere in the depths of Glen's bowels. With a muffled, animal growl, I stuffed as much of that spunky mesh into my mouth as it would hold. My senses on overload, I fell into a frenzy of thrusting so violent that it demanded Glen let go of his cock and brace himself on the bed both palms. The rabbit-punch thuds of my belly slamming against his cheeks caused lovely rhythmic undulations that followed the curve of his fur-dusted rump and disappeared up his back.
I knew I would be a instant goner if I kept that pace up for more than a couple of minutes, so I tried to slow down a bit and turned my attention to Glen's goods. Still systematically saturating that mouthful of Bikeburger, I reached around him and jammed my hand down the front of his jock. Bypassing his dick altogether, I clenched his nuts and as much of that loose scrot as I could hold. The web that had held them stretched warm and damp across the back of my hand.
Glen moaned at the pressure on his balls and, as though his dick would accept whatever contact was forthcoming, he began to urgently fuck my inner forearm. He was evidently much closer to spunking than I'd thought. Glen's 'oof-oof-oof'-- in rock-steady 4/4 time with my thrusting, was getting louder by the second. His vocalizations stopped abruptly with one final gasp and I felt the urgent twitching of his cock against the inside of my forearm signal the arrival of his orgasm. I gripped his balls still tighter inside the pouch of the yellow jock. Pulling him upwards, I mashed his primed and ready dick against his furry belly. He groaned as he spunked. I thrilled to the three forceful blasts of hot, wet jizz as they flooded the crook of my elbow, simultaneous to the contractions Glen's sphincter was making at the root of my dick.
That, and the cool sensation of Glen's load dribbling along my inner forearm was enough to bring me to the point of no return, despite the fact that I'd stopped all thrusting when Glen began his climax. I could feel my cockhead beginning to pulse. Recklessly chancing one last withdrawl, I pulled almost all the way out. I treated myself to a quick look at my slimy cock, gleaming in the bright mid-morning sunshine, with Glen's jelled-up crack hairs plastered to the base of it in several curly, wet cowlicks.
A charming vista, but I had no time-- I plunged back in with everything I had and put all my weight onto Glen's back, causing him to flatten onto the futon with a grunt. His dick still pulsing at my forearm, I unleashed seemingly endless torrents sperm into Glen's churning gut. Halfway through my climax, I spit Glen's last-night jock onto the back of his neck and accompanied my spunking with a such a florid, eccumenical barrage of curses that Glen turned his head and eyed me quizzically, spent and disoriented as he was.
Finally drained myself, the wracking spasms ebbing, I began to be acutely aware of the fact that the hiked legband of my y-fronts, forgotten in all our thrashing about, was chafing a deep and painful furrow into my crotch under my exhausted weight.
With a sigh of profound regret, I pulled my softening dick out of Glen's dripping ass, eliciting a shudder from him. I rolled onto my back, as did he, and lay spread-eagled, panting like a spaniel. Without opening my eyes, I slid the damp, sticky jockeys off and tossed them blindly towards the foot of the bed, making a mental note to baggie those babies the instant they dried, for future amusement.
Still too messed up for conversation, we just lay there, alone together. In another touching gesture, reminiscent of the one the night before, Glen broke my solitude after some long moments went by. He grasped my spunky palm and clumsily interlocked his fingers with mine, like we were five yearolds lining up for a fire drill.
"Awesome, man," he said finally, "but my plane takes off in three hours and I still have to pick up a bunch of shit at the hotel."
'So much for having to call in sick for work,' I thought to myself. I'd have done that without a second thought, if it had turned out Glen still had some time on his hands.
We don't live in a very happy world; it's easy to get cynical. But I was beginning realize that, his inherent goofiness aside, Glen was quite possibly a member of that most under-appreciated fraternity-- the Nice Guy. That he had a wife back in Ontario diminished that impression only a little.
Glen's whisper in my ear as he ruffled my sticky pubes: "So, do you ever get to Toronto?"
"Only for weddings and funerals..."
"Well, the next time you do, you gotta look me up! Plenty of room for overnight company," I opened my eyes to see that he was leering across at me letcherously.
"Sure, that sounds gr...." I was going to say, until it hit me. "Hey! Wait a minute! What about the little woman?" I asked him, punching him on the biceps, a little harder than I meant to. I was stymied how anyone, even someone with *his* balls, could offer to put up an out-of-town fuck buddy-- in the marital home!
"What little woman?" he asked, genuinely confused.
"Your wife, you phoney little pisher! What's this?" I grasped him roughly by the wrist of the hand that was toying with my bush and shook it in front of his face accusingly. I couldn't resist a condescending smirk.
"It's a ring. Used to be my dad's. You think I'm married?" he broke into a toothy grin, crossed his eyes and cocked his eyebrows at an angle that said: 'What me, married?'He made as if to speak again, but I cut him off.
"Don't even *try* to hand me a line of shit, I warned him, "Seepy told me about how you went on and on about your honeymoon!"
"Oh! The BARTENDER!" Glen broke up laughing; throwing his head back in a braying guffaw as a tidal wave of understanding washed over him. I watched his adam's apple bounce before his pointed, upturned chin and stifled the urge to calmly lean over and start licking it.
"You want something known in that bar, you tell Seep'," I told him, when the volume of his laughter diminished to the point where I thought he might actually hear me. I waited for him to calm down enough to explain his philandering self. I wasn't pissed that he'd avoided discussion of his marital status-- you get used to that-- I was pissed that he'd apparently thought I was stupid.
"Boy did you get a wrong number!' Glen said finally, gasping and wiping tears away with the back of his arm. "I just handed him that load of crap about my honeymoon to get him to stop hitting on me. I can see why they call him 'Seepy'! Does he always drool like that?"
I pictured it in my head as I'd seen it in life: Seepy leaning over the bar into the face of some recently-legal, boy-next-door type, using that tired old 'is that something in your eye?' gambit.
"I mean, it's not that he's unattractive or anything," Glen went on, "he was just trying too hard. I told him a bunch of stuff about my vacation down in Mexico last winter and just made up a wife to go with it. Actually, I went south with my aunt and me dear old widowed mum." Glen started tittering. "Pretty oedipal, huh?" he added, breaking up laughing all over again.
This time I joined him.
Through a curtain of half-sleep, I listened as the last of them split. I glanced at the clock--8:47am--hours early for me, but I was feeling a bit restless and began to convince myself to get up. My head was a little thick and I had that too-many-cigarettes-last-night throat, but my stomach's pH seemed stable enough. In short, I felt like I was about a 'three' on the open-ended hangover scale. Nothing some tylenol, some soda water and plenty of ice wouldn't set right.
Glen, my overnight guest, was snoring softly near the opposite edge of the bed; hunched up fetally on his side with his back to me. He'd let me blow him and spray my spunk onto his tum the previous night, but I didn't know exactly what to expect when he awoke. During the entire episode he'd pretended to be asleep (which was just ducky with me, if that's what he needed to do; minor details like that rarely even slow me down). But what had really touched me was that, just before we finally fell asleep, he shed some of that compelling straight-boy reserve. He'd been 'comatose', while I'd spent over an hour making a midnight smorgasbord out of his furry torso-- and I do mean all of it-- then, once the lights were off and the egos were folded neatly at the foot of the bed, Glen had sidled on over, snuggled up and actually said 'Thanks...' Now, it takes a whole tug-of-war team pulling on my heartstrings to get me gushy; but shit, I'd have rolled over and kissed him if I hadn't been so sure it would freak him out.
Considering the amount of scotch and import ale Glen had scoffed back at Seepy's Bar the previous night, I figured he had at least another hour of shuteye in him, probably more. He might have only been pretending to sleep while we were rubbing weenies, but he was well and truly out of it now--fresh drool stains on a guy's pillow have a way of conveying that.
I hauled myself up, grabbed a fresh pair of white jockeys from the basket on the floor and padded upstairs to the bathroom, where I had a quick shower and shave. While I lathered up, I recalled my surprise and delight when I'd finally gotten Glen naked. I discovered him to be wearing that heart-stopping, absolute beaut of a beat-up jockstrap. How do you *not* do a nose dive onto something like that?
I've always been a sucker for a guy in a nutnet that looks like he's worn it since highschool, and the previous night had been no exception. Glen had a fairly small dick for a cat with his kind of long, lean runner's bod, but Lordy, did he have some balls on him! I calculated that they must have outhung his dick by a factor of three when he was soft.
My cock got three-quarters stiff in the shower from my recollection of that frayed ol' jock, but I resisted the urge to pound off a quick wad while I had it all plump and slippery. If my spike-haired furcub didn't bolt, I'd certainly be on board for a repeat performance--and I sure wanted to have a good load built up if that was in the cards. By reflex, I speculated on what boneheaded set of conditions he might put on the situation if he did wind up staying to mess around. Sometimes it's like that with married guys, but you learn to work with what you've got.
Back at the bar, I'd gotten some inside poop from Seepy that Glen had been very recently wed. Seepy used to tell me everything back then; my bar tab covered half his alimony. That Glen had a wife back in Ontario was a biographical detail my new friend had chosen not to bring up in the course of more than three hours of swapping life stories. But I'd noticed right away that Glen wore a gold band on his left hand. I'm no Hercule Poirrot, but a guy picks up on shit *that* obvious, even when he's smitten.
My rationale in those situations is simple enough: I figure we just aren't put here to judge how the next fella gets his nut. We're here to make sure our own needs are all looked after; and in such a way as to cause the least possible harm. Now, if a married cat can't get everything he needs from the little missus, it's up to him to go out and find it--either that, or learn to live with big chunk of himself missing and try to shut the fuck up about it. But lots can't--Promise Keepers is full of 'em.
I guess for guys like Glen, men whose work keeps them moving, it's easier to be discreet. In a best case scenario, I had Glen pegged for somebody who probably went into into his marriage knowing exactly how he was going to work it all out. And if he'd laid his long, hairy self out on my futon for a tongue-bath a mere month after his nuptuals, it sure wasn't because I'd snuck into his starter home back in Ontario and dragged him out of the marital bed.
I chuckled to myself as I stepped into my soft, classic y-fronts-- I'd entertained my share of gay divorcees before, but Glen was my first gay newlywed. I laid out some towels, a disposible razor and new toothbrush for him and went back downstairs, hoping for the best.
I went straight to my room to check for signs of life. A swell of chagrin hit me broadside when I opened my door to find Glen not only out of bed, but gone altogether.
'Guess he's just not good at long goodbyes' I thought, a little angry for letting myself daydream that he'd stick around. I shook out the duvet a bit more briskly than it deserved, noting that in his haste, Glen had even left his lighter and his socks behind. By the time I'd gathered up the previous night's glasses and made my way to the kitchen I was in a light funk, but nothing I couldn't deal with.
As it happened, I didn't have to deal with it. I rounded the corner and nearly dropped the glassware. My heart leapt when I found Glen poking around in the fridge, his wrinkled shirttail dragging on the tiles where he squatted.
Glen jumped up and wheeled about in one lithe movement when he heard me put the glasses on the countertop. He shot me a broad, disgustingly peppy smile from under that chaotic black brushcut. His heavy brows animated, boyish, he shook the empty Half-and-Half carton he'd found, "Morning! Got any more cream?"
Hard put to pass up an opportuntity for an exchange of smutty innuendo, I bit my lip.
"I think there's some in the other fridge," I told him, as if he'd been helping himself to the contents of my kitchen all his life. I eyed him uneasily. "Uhm, how do you, uh... feel" I asked, wondering how he'd think I meant it.
"Fine, except my head feels a little light... how many shots *did* I put away last night?"
Here it comes, I thought: 'I don't remember a thing....' "I wasn't really keeping count," I told him.
"I checked my wallet. I dropped nearly fifty bucks in that fucking bar." Glen said, patting his back pocket, "I must have been behaving like a sailor on shore leave..."
"In most ways; based on the ones I know... " I assured him, but in fact, all of the sailors I know are far more inclined to be reciprocal than he'd been.
Glen poured cold, stale coffee, left over from the roomies' breakfast, into a mug and took it to the microwave.
I gasped. "Oh God," I told him, "don't nuke that mud! I'm going to make us a fresh pot," I said, plugging in the grinder, adding, "if you'd like..."
"Damn right I'd like! Can't start the day without my mug o' Jo!" Glen said, far more brightly than I thought possible of someone who'd so recently done so much for Scotland's balance of payments.
Now, if there's something my neighborhood had it was coffee joints--one intersection, less than a block away, had a cafe on all four corners. Call it a Vancouver thing, but I'd estimate that within a five minute walk from my door, Glen might have been able to purchase a coffee from any one of three dozen vendors. So naturally, I took the fact that he prefered to stay and have some with me as a very good sign indeed. I decided to push my luck a bit.
"I've set some stuff out for you in the bathroom--if you'd like to freshen up." I can be delicate when I try.
Glen had been reading cut-out comic panels stuck onto the fridge door and spun smartly on his heel, "Freshen up? Girl, I need hosing down! Mercy! I've still got your crusty old pecker tracks in my stomach hair!"
Now there was something! Not only did Glen acknowledge that he had some inkling of what went on between us the previous night--he was using genuine urban faggot-speak to tell me. Before I was able to react, he shot up the stairs, shirt-tails flapping--and with much less clatter than he'd made the night before, just before passing out.
And what had *that* been all about anyway? If he was as conversant with the homosexual argot as he seemed--enough to refer to me as 'girl' and dried ejaculate as 'pecker tracks'--what had been the point of his playing dead while I ate him? Did he have multiple personality disorder? The easy-going, pleasantly goofy, audio tech I'd met in the bar the night before had morphed into some whorehouse parody of Bette Midler, trapped inside a fuzzy studlet. A very complex individual was using my shower, that was certain.
While Glen showered, I whipped him up a quick breakfast of two soft-boiled eggs, some toasted baguette, and a small bowl of fruit salad with yoghurt. Not inclined to squander what was shaping up to be a golden opportunity to have another roll in the hay with him, I loaded his food and the carafe of coffee onto a tray and carried it into my room, arranging everything on the small cafe table in the bay window. Despite his bizarre outburst in the kitchen, I decided he was still far too butch for a napkin ring or a bud vase; Martha Stewart be damned.
When he came back downstairs, Glen had on a white terry bathrobe belonging to one of my roommates, which he'd doubtless found hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It came to just above his knees and when he sat down on the opposite side of the table, it allowed me a mouth-watering panorama of pale inner flank.
"Dig in," I told him.
Dig in he did.
I found myself trying to cop a better peek, through the glass tabletop, of the spot where the front of the robe fell open slightly at the top of his thigh. I imagined he was too much of a gentleman to have put on that cummy jock again after having showered, so I entertained myself by visualizing how his loose genitals would be positioned, given the way his legs were crossed.
"Aren't you going to eat?" Glen asked, repeatedly dipping a finger of toast into soft egg yolk. (More smutty innuendo?)
"I'm a chef," I explained, exhaling smoke over my shoulder, "I make it a point never to put food on an empty stomach. Coffee and Dunhills are all I need until about four in the afternoon. But enough about me, Glen. How about you reconciling that shy-- PASSED OUT-- young man from last night with your little diva number in the kitchen a while ago..."
"Well, I *do* like to keep a guy on his toes," Glen let me know with a smirk, "Last night in the bar you were so cute and earnest-- so 'adolescent' with all that thigh-pressing and meaningful glances bullshit. Basically, I let you think you were charming my drunken pants off, which of course you were. Soon as I had you sized up, I thought I'd relax and pound a few shots. But all that scotch didn't really kick in until we got here."
To nobody in particular, staring into the garden, he added, "I do believe I may be losing my tolerance for malt, " he shuddered in mock horror, "God--what a thought!"
Glen started to return his attention to his fruit salad, but he looked up and caught my eye, suddenly serious. His spoon suspended in midair between us, he asked "Would you believe it? The whole time you were blowing me, I was chokin' back major puke-o-rama?"
"I've been known to have that effect on people," I ventured somewhat icily; astonished to note that he could use an expression like 'puke-o-rama' and then immediately knock back a big spoonful of yoghurt and diced mango. Glen might have been every day of twenty-five, but I was beginning to believe I'd encountered the world's oldest living fourteen yearold.
I smoked another cigarette and drank that all-important second cup of coffee, watching him finish eating, wondering where this was going to go. I didn't have long to wait. Glen dabbed his mouth with the napkin and stood up with a demure burp, casually brushing a few crumbs from the front of the robe.
Still chewing the last bit of his toast, he stretched provocatively and asked, "Got any Ivory Snow? I'm going to go rinse out my jock."
My throat tightened in panicked reflex. "The HELL you are!" I blurted out, startling myself with the coarse, drill-sergeant tone I'd suddenly adopted. But mostly, I was mortified that he'd so off-handedly consider desecrating it that way--now that our blended essenses had embellished it to near-perfection. I would have been more inclined to display it in a glass case.
I'm far too much of a muffin to be very convincing at the whole authoritarian schtick, but nevertheless, Glen was taken aback. "What do you mean?" he asked, eyes squinting under a furrowed brow, "I think I'd rather wear it damp--than like this..." He drew the crusty jock out of the pocket of the robe with the tips of his fingers, holding it with his arm outstretched, as though he had a dead fish by the tail. I had to look away to maintain my composure.
"I mean..." I said, deftly recovering, "I mean I've got a whole slew of 'em. You can have your pick of the litter!" I stood up, indifferent to the obvious outline of my plump, but spongy dick where it protested against my jeans. I strode over to the carved oak armoire and pulled both massive doors open. Of the two rows of drawers I revealed, I chose one of the larger ones near the bottom. Pulling it all the way out, I carried it back to the table where the light was better. I put the drawer-full of jocks on the floor between our chairs and waited while Glen put a cd into the player. I was beguiled by the easy way he made himself at home.
Now, I've got lots of friends (of whom some even claim to be gay, it saddens me to say) whose idea of 'enough' underwear would fit into one standard dresser drawer. Worse, if they own a jock at all, they only wear it a couple of times a year for pickup touch-football or Sunday afternoon frisbee. I pity folks like that; the way you pity a passed-out wino.
It's not like I actually wear a jock myself very often--I have an almost exclusive allegiance to white department store y-fronts, in and out of the sack. Truth is, the reason I keep such a comprehensive pile of jocks around is because almost nothing turns me on more than messing with a man who's wearing one.
Lamentably few casual acquaintances these days come pouch-equipped and they sure don't stock them at the Seven Eleven, so it behooves a cat to keep a few nice ones tucked away. Sure, I know, 'straps will become the fetish du jour from time to time, but you just can't lay store in the caprices of public taste: diligent foresight is everything to the serious cup queen. Glenny was shaping up, in my fondest imaginings, as someone whose penchant for nutnets might just mesh with mine, so to speak. I was itching to see his reaction to my stash.
Glen chose to play John Coltrane's, 'Impressions'. "Excellent choice," I muttered, as the drums and piano began those lurching, complex opening bars of 'My Favorite Things'.
"Whoa!" exclaimed Glen in a trailing tone. But it wasn't the strident tone of 'Trane's soprano sax joining the rhythm section that made him say it--he'd spied my box of goodies. He dropped to his knees in front of the multicolored assortment of pouches, cups and posing straps like he was a pilgrim at some roadside shrine. He gawked up at me, speechless. I saw how the flush of awe had darkened his cheeks and became pretty sure he was mine.
"Like I said, pick any one you like. All my serious favorites are uh... elsewhere."
Whistling low, Glen leaned forward and ran his fingers through the tangle of dick mitts like it was pirate treasure. He spent some minutes clucking to himself and rooting around, gradually narrowing his options to only a couple. By the time the 'Trane's second soprano solo was over, Glen had more or less made his choice.
"Are these all yours?" Glen asked. Not really such a stupid question if you know me.
"Well, some of them *used* to be other peoples'" I couldn't resist a smirk. I thought back on a certain salmon fisherman posessed of seemingly limitless endurance, who'd kept my feet in the air for the better part of a long weekend. He'd been the previous tenant of the tumeric-yellow Bike classic Glen was examining that very minute; its slack pouch bulging lasciviously only a few inches from his freshly shaved face.
"Like it?" I cooed.
"Cool color," Glen made a fist and punched the cup as though he were tenderizing a new baseball glove.
"Custom-dyed it myself... it's starting to fade a bit, though. Try it on!" (hope, hope, hope)
"Sure!" (whew...)
Glen turned his back to me and stepped into the jock like a stripper in reverse. I didn't even get a peek at his peaches when he lined up the legstraps because he didn't bend over far enough for the back of the robe to ride up that high. He took an inordinate amount of care arranging his package. Then at last, with a final, resolute snap of the waistband, he gathered up the flaps of the robe and brought them together in front of him. He spun on one heel and faced me, his arms across his chest like someone in a straight-jacket, each hand grasping one flap of the robe.
"Okay...." Glen winked at me; in that corny, burlesque way Clark Kent always used to wink at the reader in the last panel of a Superman comic.
"Ready?" The bugger was obviously set on milking the moment for every spare iota of suspense.
Finally: "Ta-DA!!" He flashed the robe wide open; arms and robe spread out like wings. Except for the questioning tilt of his bushy eyebrows, his expression was absolutely deadpan when he asked, "does it look alright?"
I could barely speak. If my marathon man of a salmon fisherman had packed that yellow pouch with more cock than Glen did, he certainly hadn't framed it any better. I swallowed hard.
"Looks are secondary," I lied, "How does it feel?"
He dropped his arms and pondered the question; placing one bare foot on the other and staring into space with that earnest, faraway expression of a dilettante at a wine tasting.
"Like my bag's being held in a soft, warm hand," said Glen finally, gabbing one of his asscheeks roughly with each palm, using them to push his pelvis out slightly.
"Then it can't look anything *but* good." I assured him.
A major understatement. At that moment, Glen was a vision that would have made Mother Teresa squishy-- that wide, striped waistband holding snug to his smooth, acute pelvic ridge and his cotton-clad genitals plumping the loose-knit, pliable fabric. His flaccid cock was obvious in the arrangement. It angled downwards, slightly to the left, giving his package an appearance that was, at once, lewd and yet somehow also innocent-looking. On impulse, he pinched the legbands, pulled them very tight and then let them snap back onto his ass in tandem. The report was loud enough to get the attention of Onan, the cat, who'd been licking his memories on the window sill.
Glen's left hand and most of the fingers of his right had progressed to some obscene, hidden baton twirling behind the stretched pouch. I could see the tip of his knob: a large bulge standing out and away from a turbulent cotton sea of smaller bulges that were his ruffling knuckles between his balls and the taut fabric. I silently cursed all Corsican waiters in the name of the one who'd borrowed my camera.
"I think I'll take it!" he declared, adding (a little too diffidently for it to have been genuine) "..that is, if the offer's still good."
"Ah... Monsieur has such enlightened tastes." I lisped, clasping my hands and fluttering my lashes in a vague caricature of an effeminate Parisian haberdasher. Glen's generous reaction to my stupid antic was four bars of angelic smile. That sent an express message to my almost-hard dick, and the message was: boing.
Elegantly, like a jungle cat, Glen rolled his shoulders and expanded his downy chest, arms at his sides. Thus, he allowed the white terry robe fall away, otherwise unaided. I stepped backwards a few paces when it fell. I wanted a better vantage point from which to take in the entire hot tableau of Glen standing, lean and freshly pouched, between me and the shimmering sunlight beating down on the panes of the french doors behind him. But he had other ideas.
Impishly, he sashayed his concave asscheeks over to the full-length mirror on the outside of the closet door and began to pose for himself. He stood innocently enough at first, examining himself in three-quarters profile, standing as modestly as his sexy attire would permit. But within a few seconds he'd begun to make fuck faces at himself, pantomiming rude parodies of the expressions one sees on the models in the slicker newsstand smut. My furcub clearly had a capacity for play that he'd barely hinted at ten hours before. As if oblivious to my presence, he half-squatted with his back to the mirror and peered between his legs at the refection of his spread cheeks, each bisected by a diagonal yellow leg band.
I was losing it. I'd been rubbing my plumping log through my jeans and I knew from that familiar coolness that it'd begun to drool. I unbuttoned my fly and reached in to form a ring just below my cotton-clad dickhead with my thumb and index finger. My cock flexed its gratitude as I applied light friction to the ridge of my glans, inspired by Glen's horny preoccupation with his own reflection. I must have made some kind of sound; probably something pathetic and needy.
Giggling, Glen straightened himself up and strode over to me, bounding on and off the futon like it wasn't there.
"Well, well," he said, when he saw me withdraw my hand from my fly. He grabbed me by the wrists and said in a clipped, businesslike tone, "C'mon guy, let's you and me get ourselves horizontal," mocking, exactly, my words and timbre of the previous night.
"Do I really talk like Rodney Dangerfield?" I asked, feigning petulance.
"A little. I'm just glad you don't *look* like Rodney Dangerfield," Glen offered, along with another knee-capping smile. He drew me nearer, backwards toward my bed.
"Well then, show me some respect," I told him, when his heels stopped their backwards shuffling at the edge of the futon. My damp, white bulge poked out my open fly and met the vertical, mesh-encased sausage that was Glen's cock. I stared into his clear emerald eyes, their pupils contracted to pinpoints by the brilliant sunshine. Every time I leaned in to press my dick against his with just a little more pressure, Glen would pull his butt backards denying me the contact I craved.
"You are one hot, PRICK TEASING, little fuck." I moved in to kiss him. There was a fleeting moment when it seemed like he might only offer me the curved nape of his neck, like the willing victim of a vampire; but at the last possible instant, Glen deked his face sideways and lined his mouth up with mine. Eyes wide open, he clamped onto my open lips with a great, urgent sucking.
I'd never been on the receiving end of a kiss that conveyed so much so quickly. Glen drew my surprised, flaccid tongue into his mouth as far as it would go, sucked on it twice and then rammed it back into my mouth with his own; jabbing randomly at my back teeth for a couple of seconds before abruptly pulling off me. It was my turn to say "Whoa!"
Grinning, he let himself fall backwards onto the futon, locking my gaze. Propping himself up on his elbows, Glen splayed his bent knees, giving me a lewd flash of his fuzzy nether regions. Random pubes stuck out from all sides of the jock's soft pouch, in exquisite contrast to the stretched saffron cotton and his pale, lean inner thighs. The sides of the stressed mesh could barely contain those heroic nuts of his-- the exaggerated twin orbs brought side by side by the gentle insistence of elastic fabric. The tip of Glen's cock formed damp, mesh-covered knob that protruded aggressively upwards and outwards, in front of the waistband. The inverted V, where the golden legbands met at the gathered base of the pouch, made a perfect frame for his upturned crack. Glen's hole itself was obscured by a forest of light fur, but I had a brief, vivid recollection of how that hidden pucker had spasmed on the tip of my tongue the night before.
He cocked a supercillious eyebrow, leering like one of the pin-ups he'd been aping a few moments before. "Want this?" he purred rhetorically, willing his cock to perform three volultary pulses in the jock, as if I needed clarification of what he'd meant by 'this'.
By way of an answer, I dropped my jeans and stepped out of them; proudly boned in my bleached jockey classics. My cock lay off to one side, throbbing gratefully in somewhat gentler confines. I pinched along its outline through the soft cotton, felt the spreading blot of lube near the swollen tip. Reaching in past the waistband, I laid my hot stick on the vertical and squeezed a clear pearl onto my fingertips before snapping the elastic waistband back over it. I palmed my dick against my belly as I twiddled one of my tits with my precum-moistened thumb and forefinger. Every so often I'd move my hand away to give Glen a different view of my cock and the various ways it tented the front of my briefs.
Glen was pinching the tip of his own clothbound hardon and licking his lips as he watched the show. "That looks good enough to eat," he observed.
Now, it might have only been the kind of cuddly, gratuitous remark one makes in these situations, but I took it as an invitation to become lunch. Ever since meeting him, I'd visualized Glen's face planted on a pair of my whites. I staddled Glen's form, still gripping my dick through the supple material. I decided I just had to find out if he was as fond of chewing bone through cotton as I was. Besides, I figured he owed me a bit of mouthwork after the inspired, unrequited blowjob I'd laid on him the previous night.
I traveled Glen's length until I stood astride his lean, furred chest. Like an elevator car that's been cut from its cables, I dropped into a squat over him, catching myself just before the point of contact. The front of my briefs only a couple inches from his face, Glen excited me all the more when he sniffed the air in front of him hungrily, without any pretense or subtlety. I tried to image what he was inhaling: a freshly bathed and jockeyed me always exuded hints of my shower soap and fabric softener. But recent events would have added to the mix the acrid pungency of newly generated sweat and that unmistakable musk of imperative need.
I felt Glen pass his warm hands into the rear of my briefs, palming a globe in each. He pulled my crotch closer to his face and traced a long, dry trail along the underside of my cock through the fabric with the tip of his tongue, taking full measure of my stick of cotton candy. When he came to the cleft of my glans he drilled his quivering tongue-tip into its depression, causing me to flinch from the directness of his approach. Apparently pleased with himself at my reaction, Glen tittered softly before swallowing my whole jockey-covered cockhead, bathing it with an abundance of warm spit while he teased the ridge with his bared front teeth. I couldn't look at him-- it was all I could do to keep from feeding him a wad right then, using my briefs pouch to seive the goo.
All my fidgeting and gasping must have clued Glen in to the fact that I was on too much of a hair-trigger. He just had to stop all that dickhead munching, and I would have told him so if I'd been capable of speech. I caught some much-need breath when he finally eased off my glans and focused on my slightly less sensitive shaft, mouthing it like a kid eating a cob of corn. He must have known how near I'd been to shooting, because when I looked down at him again I could swear he was trying to grin at me with a wet mouthful of my bone. Glen's face glimmered with smeared spit; in fact, I marveled at the amount of saliva he was producing. He fairly slathered my steamy crotch-- noisily, with a lot of smacking and erratic, snorking breaths. I could only close my eyes, rub his sexy spikey-haired head and hum my encouragement (while I tried desperately to remember the names of all my primary school teachers, in chronological order).
Evidently satisfied that I wasn't going split any time soon, Glen withdrew one hand from the back of my briefs and I could feel the telltale friction of his upper arm against my inner thigh as he began rubbing his own cock. Once he'd darkened the fabric that defined the position of my dick, Glen turned his lapping to my aching balls. I lowered myself onto his face to better accomodate him, bringing his firm, strong chin hard up against my perineum while he laminated my nuts with saturated cotton.
Glen's free hand in the back of my jockeys had recently graduated to exploring the length of my crack. He started out gently, exploring my entire cleft, but by the time he'd soaked my bag completely, one lube-less fingertip was already probing insistently at my asshole. Not that I was the slightest bit adverse to having Glen diddle my hole-- for the rest the day, if that was how he wanted it-- but I needed a faceful of man and I needed it now.
Pulling away from him, I swung a leg around so that my soaked, throbbing briefs hung directly over Glen's face. I rudely yanked his jacking hand off the front of his jock and replaced it with my own, grabbing his modest tool to define the dickhead against the jock's taut mesh. Clear dickdrool oozed through the weave when I squeezed his shaft. He moaned. Who wouldn't?
Glen pulled my crotch down onto his face just as I was clamping my lips around his pouched knob. His finger, now mercifully slickened with his spit, once again poked at my hole. He'd exposed my balls by pushing my jockeys aside and was giving them a noisy punching-bag workout with his nose and flailing tongue as they dangled above him. My untended prick throbbed in its damp, clinging prison out of sheer joy.
Sensing that I had all of Glen's sweet dew sucked from the fabric sheathing his cockhead, I decided to go straight to the source: I yanked his dick out of the side of the pouch, its crimson tip shiny with slime. Taking only the smallest part of his glans in my mouth, I began to play my tongue sideways across the pursed lips of his piss slit in a vigorous thrumming motion. That excess prompted Glen to gobble up both my nuts with one great muffled croak of lust. He reached into the leg of my drawers again and extracted my wet cock, beginning to jack it in short, erratic, vibrator-like flurries. Despite his new interest in my dick, Glen never let up vigorously finger-fucking me, using the torque of his entire forearm.
I felt unable to resist launching a full-scale assault on those massive stones of Glen's a second longer, so I treated his bared cockhead to a half-dozen perfunctory visits to my esophagus, then abruptly lifted off it, relishing its turgid backflip onto his flat, fuzzy tum. One of Glen's balls had already escaped the jock and was hanging suspended against his inner thigh. I peeled back the taut curtain of mesh and the other one tumbled out like a bungie diver; coming to rest, with an noticable bounce, next to its mate. I gathered up the loose scrotal skin between Glen's nuts and his crotch and squeezed. His cock jumped involuntarily as his balls protruded from my tightened fist; the stretched, hairy skin that covered them shining from the snugness of my grip. I descended on them with a husky growl, jamming them both into my mouth like Glen was Siamese twins, joined at the dickhead.
The refined chaos of sixties jazz pouring from the stereo's speakers formed the perfect soundtrack for our thrashing. Glen and I rolled around wildly, on and off the futon in our enthusiasm-- shifting positions every few seconds, but rarely letting go the mouthlock we had on each others' cloth-encased cocks and free-hanging cum factories.
Without really even thinking about it, I'd begun to mirror the fingerfucking Glen was giving me in his own tight hole. The juncture of his jock's legstraps rubbed against the backs of my knuckles as I repeatedly plunged the entire length of two fingers into his depths. I abandoned eating his balls and sat back on my heels next to him, absently watching myself jack his cock with one hand and rummaging around in his upturned ass with the other.
I was relieved that Glen sensed I thought a short breather was in order. He pulled one of my pubes from between his teeth and looked up at me with an indecent grin. Inside his anus, my two fingers were indolently curling and uncurling in that gesture universally understood to mean 'come here'. Temporarily deprived of access to my butt, Glen reached inside the pee hole of my briefs and extracted my dripping cock, easily falling in synch with the gentle rhythm of wanking I was treating him to.
Now, I knew both our asses were twitching to be plugged with something more substantial than a couple of spitty digits, but I wanted to ascertain exactly what Glen's wants were, the better to fulfill them. As much as I wanted to be 'first'-- to have his spare, but randy, poker sliding into me-- I also fancied he felt ready for some bowel stretching. Rather than search around for a coin to flip, I opted for the direct approach: "Do you want me to fuck you?" I wondered out loud.
"After all that pinky pokin'? You fuckin' well BETTER!" said Glen, shaking his head in disbelief and breaking into a low chuckle that dripped with sarcasm; as if he'd just discovered he'd been doing foreplay with the doziest faggot west of the Rockies. He reached down between his legs and tugged at my forearm. I took the hint, and extracted my gooey fingers from his ass. I could only watch, spellbound, as Glen gracefully rolled over. He placed one side of his face flat on the pillow and raised his lean, furry rump high in the air, in that classic pose of eager submission.
Arresting as that perspective of a man's body can be at any time, I found the visual enhancement of his 'new' jock's bright yellow legstraps, twisted up by our recent exertions, absolutely stupifying. For a some minutes I guess, I just lost myself in slack-jawed appreciation of it and unconsciously pulled on my pud. By the time I returned to the here and now, Glen had packed his goods back into the jock and was already stroking his own cock in anticipation of my bone.
"Well?" he called over his shoulder.
I smiled to myself. Impatient to get sweaty-- I like that in a bottom.
I reached into the small wooden chest next to the bed and grabbed the tube of lube. Once again hauling my goods out of a leghole, I squeezed a generous blob of the clear fuck-jelly onto my dickhead and whipped it into a slick, frothy paste; blending it with my precum and Glen's endless studspit.
I'd have loved to spend some time snacking on the black candyfloss that lined Glen's crevice first, but I'd already been to the edge of cumming a few times in the last half hour and I knew an oral detour to his holy-of-holies could only end with me squirting onto the backs of his calves. So I sidled up to him on my knees until my slicked-up cock was poised. Scooping up some spare lube from where it had matted in my pubes, I applied it to Glen's hole.
He met my fingers with a sexy, wriggling backward thrust of his torso. His back and elbow shook in mute evidence of the pounding he was laying on his cock. A couple of seconds later I was slipping my glans past Glen's anal ring. I threw myself into the task of finding that magic, elusive tempo of anal thrusting-- the one we could both live with for the longest possible time. With both hands, I grabbed the back of the saffron waistband for leverage as I jack-hammered Glen's prostate, pulling the elastic several inches away from his hunched, heaving back.
As I pistoned, my glazed eyes happened to fall on the white terrycloth robe where it had fallen next to the futon. In a rush of lustful recollection, I noticed that the cummy jock Glen had worn the previous evening was still half-sticking out of the pocket. I released one hand's grasp of Glen's waistband and scooped up the funky pouch. I brought it to my face and inhaled deeply, the impact of its secret vapors causing my cockhead to swell with glee somewhere in the depths of Glen's bowels. With a muffled, animal growl, I stuffed as much of that spunky mesh into my mouth as it would hold. My senses on overload, I fell into a frenzy of thrusting so violent that it demanded Glen let go of his cock and brace himself on the bed both palms. The rabbit-punch thuds of my belly slamming against his cheeks caused lovely rhythmic undulations that followed the curve of his fur-dusted rump and disappeared up his back.
I knew I would be a instant goner if I kept that pace up for more than a couple of minutes, so I tried to slow down a bit and turned my attention to Glen's goods. Still systematically saturating that mouthful of Bikeburger, I reached around him and jammed my hand down the front of his jock. Bypassing his dick altogether, I clenched his nuts and as much of that loose scrot as I could hold. The web that had held them stretched warm and damp across the back of my hand.
Glen moaned at the pressure on his balls and, as though his dick would accept whatever contact was forthcoming, he began to urgently fuck my inner forearm. He was evidently much closer to spunking than I'd thought. Glen's 'oof-oof-oof'-- in rock-steady 4/4 time with my thrusting, was getting louder by the second. His vocalizations stopped abruptly with one final gasp and I felt the urgent twitching of his cock against the inside of my forearm signal the arrival of his orgasm. I gripped his balls still tighter inside the pouch of the yellow jock. Pulling him upwards, I mashed his primed and ready dick against his furry belly. He groaned as he spunked. I thrilled to the three forceful blasts of hot, wet jizz as they flooded the crook of my elbow, simultaneous to the contractions Glen's sphincter was making at the root of my dick.
That, and the cool sensation of Glen's load dribbling along my inner forearm was enough to bring me to the point of no return, despite the fact that I'd stopped all thrusting when Glen began his climax. I could feel my cockhead beginning to pulse. Recklessly chancing one last withdrawl, I pulled almost all the way out. I treated myself to a quick look at my slimy cock, gleaming in the bright mid-morning sunshine, with Glen's jelled-up crack hairs plastered to the base of it in several curly, wet cowlicks.
A charming vista, but I had no time-- I plunged back in with everything I had and put all my weight onto Glen's back, causing him to flatten onto the futon with a grunt. His dick still pulsing at my forearm, I unleashed seemingly endless torrents sperm into Glen's churning gut. Halfway through my climax, I spit Glen's last-night jock onto the back of his neck and accompanied my spunking with a such a florid, eccumenical barrage of curses that Glen turned his head and eyed me quizzically, spent and disoriented as he was.
Finally drained myself, the wracking spasms ebbing, I began to be acutely aware of the fact that the hiked legband of my y-fronts, forgotten in all our thrashing about, was chafing a deep and painful furrow into my crotch under my exhausted weight.
With a sigh of profound regret, I pulled my softening dick out of Glen's dripping ass, eliciting a shudder from him. I rolled onto my back, as did he, and lay spread-eagled, panting like a spaniel. Without opening my eyes, I slid the damp, sticky jockeys off and tossed them blindly towards the foot of the bed, making a mental note to baggie those babies the instant they dried, for future amusement.
Still too messed up for conversation, we just lay there, alone together. In another touching gesture, reminiscent of the one the night before, Glen broke my solitude after some long moments went by. He grasped my spunky palm and clumsily interlocked his fingers with mine, like we were five yearolds lining up for a fire drill.
"Awesome, man," he said finally, "but my plane takes off in three hours and I still have to pick up a bunch of shit at the hotel."
'So much for having to call in sick for work,' I thought to myself. I'd have done that without a second thought, if it had turned out Glen still had some time on his hands.
We don't live in a very happy world; it's easy to get cynical. But I was beginning realize that, his inherent goofiness aside, Glen was quite possibly a member of that most under-appreciated fraternity-- the Nice Guy. That he had a wife back in Ontario diminished that impression only a little.
Glen's whisper in my ear as he ruffled my sticky pubes: "So, do you ever get to Toronto?"
"Only for weddings and funerals..."
"Well, the next time you do, you gotta look me up! Plenty of room for overnight company," I opened my eyes to see that he was leering across at me letcherously.
"Sure, that sounds gr...." I was going to say, until it hit me. "Hey! Wait a minute! What about the little woman?" I asked him, punching him on the biceps, a little harder than I meant to. I was stymied how anyone, even someone with *his* balls, could offer to put up an out-of-town fuck buddy-- in the marital home!
"What little woman?" he asked, genuinely confused.
"Your wife, you phoney little pisher! What's this?" I grasped him roughly by the wrist of the hand that was toying with my bush and shook it in front of his face accusingly. I couldn't resist a condescending smirk.
"It's a ring. Used to be my dad's. You think I'm married?" he broke into a toothy grin, crossed his eyes and cocked his eyebrows at an angle that said: 'What me, married?'He made as if to speak again, but I cut him off.
"Don't even *try* to hand me a line of shit, I warned him, "Seepy told me about how you went on and on about your honeymoon!"
"Oh! The BARTENDER!" Glen broke up laughing; throwing his head back in a braying guffaw as a tidal wave of understanding washed over him. I watched his adam's apple bounce before his pointed, upturned chin and stifled the urge to calmly lean over and start licking it.
"You want something known in that bar, you tell Seep'," I told him, when the volume of his laughter diminished to the point where I thought he might actually hear me. I waited for him to calm down enough to explain his philandering self. I wasn't pissed that he'd avoided discussion of his marital status-- you get used to that-- I was pissed that he'd apparently thought I was stupid.
"Boy did you get a wrong number!' Glen said finally, gasping and wiping tears away with the back of his arm. "I just handed him that load of crap about my honeymoon to get him to stop hitting on me. I can see why they call him 'Seepy'! Does he always drool like that?"
I pictured it in my head as I'd seen it in life: Seepy leaning over the bar into the face of some recently-legal, boy-next-door type, using that tired old 'is that something in your eye?' gambit.
"I mean, it's not that he's unattractive or anything," Glen went on, "he was just trying too hard. I told him a bunch of stuff about my vacation down in Mexico last winter and just made up a wife to go with it. Actually, I went south with my aunt and me dear old widowed mum." Glen started tittering. "Pretty oedipal, huh?" he added, breaking up laughing all over again.
This time I joined him.
