Date: Wed, 3 Aug 2016 05:23:18 +0000 (UTC)
From: Hairy Jacques <hairy.jacques@yahoo.com>
Subject: Male Sorting, part 1

This story, modified to protect the anonymity of those involved, blends
fact and fantasy.

Reader feedback is welcomed, and the author will do his best to answer
questions and respond to comments. Contact him at hairy.jacques@yahoo.com.

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---------------

In college I earned free room and board by working the front desk of my
dorm. It was an easy job that consisted of answering the phone, buzzing in
visitors, and using the master key when residents got locked out of their
rooms. Since I usually worked the afternoon shift, I also sorted the
mail. Mostly I just occupied myself by reading for class.

The dorm was a high-rise with eight floors and about 400 residents. A lot
of people moved off campus after their freshman year, but I decided to
stay. The opportunity to live for free was a big part of it, but I also
liked the dorm's location and amenities, which included an attached
cafeteria, a fitness center and weight room, and even a swimming pool.

What I liked most of all were the residents. The building was loaded with
hot guys. ROTC cadets were required to live there. They were hot and fit
and looked great in their uniforms. The wrestling team also had to live
there since it was close to their practice facility and because their coach
feared the distractions of off-campus apartments. Those guys, no matter
what weight class, were total studs. Another big constituency was
fraternity guys. The dorm was pretty much surrounded by frat houses, few of
which had enough rooms for all the brothers, so we were the next best
option. Add it all up, and the dorm was about two-thirds male. There was
never any shortage of eye candy.

While I could look, I couldn't really touch. It was the early '90s. I
wasn't "out." Being gay seemed to guarantee pariah status. For the most
part I played it straight.

My only real release was porn, and before the internet, you had to acquire
porn the old fashioned way. Every once in a while I'd summon the courage to
go to the video store the next town over. They had an adult section that
included some gay videos, so when I was really horny I'd rent a couple of
movies and bring them back to my single room. Only once did I go to the
local newsstand. I grabbed copies of Playgirl as well as gay magazines such
as Inches and Mandate. When the old dude behind the counter handed me my
change, he said "Have a fairy nice day." I was mortified.

That didn't stop me from enjoying the magazines back in my room, edging
myself toward an epic orgasm as I paged through the photos and read the
erotic stories. I came into my cupped hand and then sampled my cum. I had
to admit, I really liked the taste and texture. Even the distinctive smell
of it--just a little bit like bleach--turned me on.

While I lacked the guts to subscribe to Playgirl or (better yet) Inches,
Mandate, Honcho, or Freshmen, the fact that I frequently ended up sorting
my dorm's mail gave me the confidence to settle on a middle course. I
signed up to receive the International Male and Undergear catalogs and I
subscribed to a fitness magazine called "Exercise: For Men Only." All three
had photos of hot, nearly-nude guys, and not a single one of the three was
explicitly gay. (I have to say that over time it dawned on me that all were
at least implicitly aimed at gay guys. Not many straight guys wore the sort
of revealing underwear for sale in those catalogs--and none of them would
want to see what it revealed about the muscular, well-endowed models. I'm
pretty sure even the exercise magazine was targeted at gay dudes. The
emphasis was less on the exercises and more on the photos of shirtless guys
exercising. All these studs were really ripped and also really attractive.)
The fact that these publications weren't overtly gay, plus the fact that I
nearly always sorted the mail and deposited it in the residents' mailboxes,
gave me the confidence to subscribe. I'd have no problem flying under the
radar.

Or so I thought.

One September afternoon during my sophomore year, the mailman arrived
really late--about 15 minutes before the end of my afternoon shift. I knew
that my Undergear and International Male catalogs were set to arrive any
day, so I started digging through the bag of mail, starting first with
magazines and catalogs, which I quickly inserted into the dorm's residents'
mailboxes. When finally I found my International Male catalog, I checked to
see that no one was looking and stuffed it into my backpack. Glancing at
the clock, I started to claw through the bag of mail looking for my copy of
Undergear. My shift would be up soon! Just as I grabbed it and spun around
to reach for my backpack, I saw Rich Spangler, the guy scheduled for the
next shift, getting settled at the front desk. I saw his eyes dart down to
the cover of my catalog, then glance back up to meet my startled stare. As
I stuffed the R-rated semi-porn into my bag, he smiled. "Looks like your
relief has arrived," he said.

There were two possible ways to interpret his comment. Given the situation,
it made sense to presume innocence. There was approximately zero percent
chance that Rich--one of the hottest studs residing in the dorm--would know
anything about the hot dudes in the International Male catalog and the
relief they'd bring to my raging hard-on. There was no way he even knew
that the catalog contained photos of hot, shirtless guys in underwear,
swimsuits, and jock straps. And there was absolutely no way that he was
also into guys. Not Rich.

He was a senior, two years older than me. His was tall, with a tight,
muscular body. His pecs and shoulders were broad and well-defined. He was
all-man. A future Army officer, he was ROTC. A Kappa Sig brother, he always
struck me as a good old boy. The strong but silent type. He hunted. He
fished. He drove a beat-up F-150. The back pocket of his jeans had a faded
circle revealing the customary location of his Copenhagen can. (And yes, I
liked to stare at his tight ass!) It's true he had a sensitive side. He was
a journalism major, a writer for the college paper. But he had southern
manners and a southern drawl ("yes, ma'am") and a crew cut to match. We had
to wear dress shirts and ties while on shift, but instead of the all-cotton
Oxfords and silk ties I preferred he always showed up wearing polyester
ties and 60/40 short sleeve white "dress" shirts that highlighted not only
his hairy, muscular forearms but also, given the almost translucent quality
of the thin shirt fabric, the sleeveless, ribbed wifebeater shirts he
always wore underneath. No matter the time of day he always seemed to have
a five o'clock shadow, and I'd seen him often enough in unbuttoned polo
shirts to notice that he also had a hairy chest. His hair was dirty blond,
maybe a little bit on the reddish side. His chest hair was more brownish,
however: a shade or two darker than the hair on his head. It looked so sexy
swirling up over his collar bones, lush and thick as it reached toward his
adam's apple.

He stared back at me as I absentmindedly stared at him, suddenly
self-conscious that my cock, inspired by him as well as the catalogs, was
throbbing in my khakis.

I could feel the sweat gathering on my forehead. Meanwhile, he seemed cool
and collected. He smirked and raised his left eyebrow. I smiled back,
thanked him for taking over, and hurried off to my room.

As soon as I locked the door behind me, I got down to business. With one
hand I unbuckled and unzipped while the other reached into my backpack. I
pulled out the Undergear catalog. Damn, the guys were hot. I flipped
through, admiring the models' bulges and asses and abs and pits and
pecs. Each guy was attractive in his own special way. Each guy was a
fantasy fulfilled. As I reached the end I zeroed in on the photo of a guy
in a plain, white jockstrap. He had arms raised up, flexing his muscles. He
was very hot, but in an unassuming, dude-next-door sort of way. He had hair
fanning over his pecs and a light treasure trail descending toward the
waistband that supported his jock's overstuffed pouch. He was perfect. He
was my focus. He was going to make me cum.

My hips thrust forward, fucking a spit-lubed fist made almost blurry by its
frantic jacking. I felt my balls tighten. I felt my nipples harden. My
cock, leaking precum, throbbed at full stiffness.  I felt myself cresting
the wave, convulsing as maximum tension crossed into peak release. My dick
contracted once, then twice, then again. I was spewing cum all over the
place. Streams of semen landed on the floor, on the edge of my desk, on my
chest, and on the last page of the catalog. I paused for a second, catching
my breath. I reached for a tissue and did my best to wipe my spooge from
the catalog. I then flipped to the back cover.

My eyes focused on the address label, where I expected to see my name. I
didn't. Instead I saw another name. I didn't believe it at first, so I read
it a second time. There it was, plain as day and in all caps: RICHARD
SPANGLER.

It took me a moment, but then the thought sank in. Rich also received the
Undergear catalog. I had grabbed his copy by mistake--a fact he almost
certainly understood since, by now, he had finished sorting the mail.

To be continued...

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