Date: Tue, 08 Aug 2000 20:25:29 EDT
From: R T Nicholas <rshellhot@hotmail.com>
Subject: Ken Without Barbie, gay/college & athletics (m:m,oral)

Ken Without Barbie
From Nicky A (rshellhot@hotmail.com)

It was during the fourth week of the term that I found out about my most
inspiring dorm activity - Intramural Sports! Of course there must be some
other justification for such activities, but to me it was an excuse once a
week to suit up in athletic gear and spend a couple hours writhing with
other virile studs in some competition. Afterward we would come back to the
dorm and prance naked together through the showers, then spend the rest of
the night half dressed, consuming mass quantities of beer, and declaring
our individual masculinity as well as our undying affection for each
other. In short it was paradise.

Football was the fall endeavor followed by basketball in the winter and
finally spring and baseball. Oh you'd get teased if your game wasn't up to
par, but it was all good-natured. Surprisingly, you wouldn't get teased if,
in the afterglow of a victory, you got a little too friendly, a little too
personal with nude companions in the showers. It was just taken as a
measure of fidelity, provided you added just the right touch of 'sincere
admiration' with your physical contact. The trick was to cop a feel but
avoid your own natural reaction.  The challenge was pure pleasure.

It was via this vehicle that I was able to mingle with the upperclassmen
who otherwise were unapproachable. A fellow 'Jock' was welcome regardless
of age or status.

It was also in this venue that I first crossed paths with Ken. I never knew
what grade level he was or what he majored in. Since after spring of the
first year I never saw him again, it is probable he was a senior. In Ken's
case it remains irrelevant. Whether he planned it or not he would draw me
into the picture of his life. Whether I suspected it or not I would fill
part of his landscape during that eight months.

Ken was short for an athletic guy. What he lacked in height, however, he
compensated for in muscle. One step shy of a body builder, he was the
proverbial brick shithouse. I never saw him without a ball in his hand. His
wardrobe consisted of gym shorts and a tank, T, or sweatshirt, depending on
the season.  It seems he was not a resident of the floor but a 'good
friend' of most all the upperclassmen. Since no one ever checks the roster,
it was a simple step to include Ken on the Intramural team for each season.

He was likeable; he was also a moving target. I never experienced such a
mass of moving energy. He paced the room while tossing a ball he always
held back and forth from one hand to another. He sat momentarily on your
chair, then moved to the edge of the bed. Even as he carried on a
conversation he would walk out of the room and back in again. It wasn't
that he was looking for anything, He just needed to keep moving.

I found out later that he worked full time while going to school. He drove
a Jaguar, got passable grades and claimed to have a steady girl friend.  My
relationship with him began, when he appeared on Intramural nights as the
star quarterback, running back, and defensive end. Pick a place, Ken would
fill it. After the first nights victory, I was introduced to him over a
beer. By that point in time he was again dressed in his signature gym
trunks and T-top. I hadn't missed him earlier, though, when stripped to his
natural self, he had carried himself out of the shower room on tree like
legs that supported a barrel sized torso. He was a massive display, set off
in the center by an incongruous fat prick mounted on a full, puffy scrotum.

It took all my effort not to stare because I had only seen that sight once
before, in middle school, with a classmate. At that time I first learned
that the capacity to expand was limitless when his tiny lump grew to a most
respectable appendage before spitting a monstrous mucus load onto the
shower room floor. At the time I briefly mused whether Ken's would pack the
same wallop and whether I'd ever get the chance to find out.

After the introduction, the high fives, and the mandatory toast, Ken had
moved on without comment. But there was too much unexplained about him for
me to just let him pass.

My buddy Dan, when cornered, filled me in on most of the rest and I soon
had filed Ken away as another of the Intramural team studs, those who were
to be approached and appreciated only when the groans of manhood mixed with
the camaraderie of athletes. But that was not Ken's thoughts.

Three days later Ken appeared at my door as the other jocks were gathering
for a night of TV football. As usual he paced, passed the ball and searched
the horizon for an unknown vision. It was during this mostly silent
interchanged that he first offered the advice, "Don't stick with a girl who
won't give head."  As quickly as he appeared he was gone again.

During a few later visits I was treated to details about his relationship
I'm not sure anyone would want to hear. As I was willing to listen, the
discussion became more detailed and lengthy. Always, it was animated by
Ken's constant movement.

The gist of his romantic problems boiled down to this, while his lady fair
was a physical beauty she was lacking in erotic inspiration. When pressed
for sex she would make out, and given the 'proper' criteria (anniversary,
birthday, or holiday) she would allow Ken intercourse.

"All I really want is a blow job now and again," he moaned, "Is that too
much to ask for? She's pretty, she's fun, but she just doesn't keep up with
my NEEDS."  That said he disappeared until two weeks later when He walked
through my door one Saturday afternoon. I was surprised, since it was a
football day and I expected him to be joined in the festivities.

"I work too often to justify the cost of tickets," he explained. He talked
idly for a few minutes about the teams potential and the fans justified
dedication.  All the while he continued his pacing and passing of the
football he carried.  This time, however, it all seemed more purposeful and
deliberate. I knew my diagnosis was correct when he suddenly stopped short
and peered right into my face. I saw him stand motionless for the first
time and calmly ask," Do you have a towel? I want to take a shower."

Trying not to look surprised or read too much into it I pointed to a stack
on top of the dresser. "Help yourself," I suggested.

He set the football on the dresser top and kicked off his sneakers. His
shirt was peeled off in a second movement. Then in what I considered a
surprise move he bent down and dropped first his gym shorts, then his white
briefs, exposing his naked ass in a perfect line of vision for my suddenly
alert eyes. As he stood, he turned and wrapped the towel about him, but not
so quickly as to prevent my observing that his penis had decidedly gained
some length and shape, apparently exhibiting the beginning stages of
arousal. With that, he exited the room and turned down the hall toward the
showers. My mouth fell open.

I had just signed off the whole thing as a lost motion in a process whereby
he intended to go relieve himself in the bath, when he just as suddenly
reappeared at my door. This time he purposefully closed and locked the
entrance behind him.  He continued to be controlled, deliberate and
direct. He crossed the room to the desk where I sat and, without a word,
opened his towel exposing now a freshly washed, slightly moist cock, full
but not firm. Tied to his tennis ball scrotum it was unique and
alluring. Responding as he obviously expected, I opened my mouth fully and
swallowed his shaft.

It was a perfect fit. Satisfying yet not engorging. As his hips began the
slow, deliberate thrusting motion I realized there was no need to be
cautious. His pecker was going to get progressively harder but not a bit
longer or larger.  It was one of the most joyous experiences I'd ever had
giving head. Ken never lost pace. Like a carefully timed runner he moved
forward and back, one beat after the other. I would have sworn it was
exactly 100 strokes later when, without any other emotion, he released his
load. My previous experience with the younger classmate proved prophetic.
Ken had dumped an overflowing wad into my cheeks.  I knew the next moment
would foretell the future, so I judged the best course was to say nothing.
With my mouth so full it was not a difficult decision.  Ken simply handed
me the towel, smiled then turned to dress and leave.

After he had pulled back on his briefs, shorts and shoes, he picked up the
football and began to pass it back and forth from hand to hand. I realized
the pace was exactly the one I had been counting a few moments before as he
fucked my encircling lips.

"Thanks, Randy," he said.

It was not the last time I watched him leave with words of gratitude.