Date: Sat, 20 Mar 2004 18:54:13 -0800 (PST)
From: Steve Smith <weakpoetry@yahoo.com>
Subject: Posing 1
You must be of legal age to read this story, which contains descriptions of
male/male sex.
Posing
Part 1.
I was glad to be staying at college this summer. I was coming off a great
freshman year as an art major at Minnesota, and was anxious to continue my
work. It was all starting to come together. I'm a figurative
artist-drawings and painting, and my specialty is the male figure. I've
always been as rapturous about the male torso as so many of my favorite
artists: Michelangelo, Rodin, the Greeks. There's something about a
beautifully proportioned male body that makes it for me the most exciting,
intoxicating thing in the world. All right, you probably guessed I'm gay,
too. Maybe the two are connected, maybe they're not. But they are for me.
My first year at college, though, was better for my art than my sex life.
I'm still a little scared, self-conscious, awkward, whatever. I tried
showing a few guys I was interested this year, but timidity won out.
Towards the end of the year I discovered the very active GLBT student group
on campus, and so that was another reason I was happy to be staying on this
summer. The chance to stay immersed in my work (I was taking Painting II
and Life Drawing, which would be a heavy load, but if I passed them both, I
could get studio space next year in the art building), as well as try to
learn to be out and happy.
My drawing style was based on the gay porn I started reading in high
school: almost a kind of exaggerated male nude, with idealized musculature.
I was good at it, and trying to move that kind of illustrative style into
more of a fine art direction. I had tons of sketches I did all last year,
which I kept in a special portfolio in back of my bed-as I said, I still
was not comfortable with everyone knowing I was gay, and I assumed people
seeing all my drawings of incredible beefcake, pouting lips, massive
torsos, bulging jockstraps, and thick cocks would be an obvious give-away.
I also had about ten paintings I'd done in the same style that I was really
happy with. They were, I felt, incredibly charged and atmospheric with
masculinity. I was trying to move into a direction that fused that
stroke-book ideal with a kind of Mapplethorpe depth. I really felt I was
getting there, and welcomed the summer to continue my quest. They, too,
were stashed out of the way.
I was keeping things especially well-hidden cause my RA told me I was
getting a room-mate today. There weren't a whole lot of people in the
dorms, but they were keeping a few floors closed off to keep it easier for
the housekeepers. Over half the students here this summer were mostly
athletes, football players, especially, which was fine with me. The more I
was steeped in highly-developed male musculature, the better for my art.
Of course, it didn't hurt my libido, either! I've been tempted to ask one
to pose for me, but as I say, I'm shy enough, without worry that some
defensive lineman was going to beat the shit out of me. My room-mate, I
learned, was Jack Thornton, a transfer student from Iowa, who was starting
in the summer so he could get as much practice in with the team as
possible. Oh well, I'd hoped he was good-looking-hell, I'd settle for
pleasant.
It was a beautiful June day, and I spent it with my sketchbook down along
the river at a stretch of beach that was 'reserved' for gays. There was a
lot of cruising that went on there, which I kept away from. I was just
there cause there was a lot of nude tanning that went on, and a
nice-looking kid who kept to himself and just did drawing didn't draw much
attention. Guys just laying back catching rays kept very still, which is
what I wanted. I had all the muscles and cocks I could ask for to practice
on. Plus, it allowed me to work on my own tan. I was fairly
decent-looking, I thought, and I had the incredibly high standards of
someone who styled himself a connoisseur of male beauty. I was 19, blonde,
lean and slightly muscled-I worked out a lot, gyms and locker rooms were
inspirational for me, not just for the men (though I'd never dare sketch in
there, those scenes are highly charged enough as is), but the
hyper-ambience of masculinity. Seeing naked guys holding a pose against a
wall as they talked, or standing in a jock, or leaning back nude in a
sauna-these were images I filed away and then tried to reproduce from
memory. It was my art, though, and not my physique, that was showing the
most results from all my gym time. I was lean, sure, and had some
definition (sometimes I could really get off on my naked body in the
mirror), but I knew I was doing something wrong, cause I had plateaued. Oh
well, I'd keep at it, if for no other reason than my art!
As I walked down the hall to my room, I peeled off my shirt, ready for a
nice hot shower. I opened the door, threw my shirt and art supplies on the
bed, and shucked off my shorts (I rarely wore underwear), then turned to
grab the towel I kept on the back of the door. I saw my room-mate at the
same time I heard, "Hey, don't let me interrupt, dude. Go for it!" Oh
shit. I'm sure I turned crimson instantly.
"Hi," I gasped. "Sorry, I'm used to being alone," as I fumbled for
the towel to cover my dick.
"No problem, dude," he laughed, and then nodded approvingly.
"Lookin' good, no need to be shy!"
My hands were shaking so bad, my towel fell. I was utterly
flustered. But not too flustered to register that the guy I was looking
at, who was now grinning and walking towards me ("Allow me," he laughed),
was incredible-looking. He was like one of may paintings come to life: a
jock ideal, big and beefy, but graceful and lithe. He was dressed only in
gym shorts, tight shorts, which revealed a nice bulge. The definition was
perfect, totally ripped, no fat at all. Just pure ripply power.
As he bent down to get my towel, I said, "You don't have to do
that."
"No problem, " he said, and as he bent in close the top of his head
brushed my dick. I was getting dangerously hard.
I was able to wrap the towel around me, tuck one end in quickly,
regain what composure I could, and make an introduction. But as I reached
to offer my hand ("Hi, I'm your room-mate, Tom Stark"), my damn towel fell
again. This time we both laughed, and I finally got myself under control.
He's just going to have to deal with a naked guy.
"Look, I'm just gonna forget the fucking towel if you don't mind!"
"Not a bit, stud."
"Well, welcome to the room," I laughed. "Uh, I hope that side's OK
with you?" Our room was like a T, with the door into it being the bottom
of the T, closets on either side, then at either end of the top of the T
was each of our spaces.
"Fine, they both look sort of the same to me."
It was obvious we were checking each other out. I tried to be as
casual as I could with half a hard-on rising up from my blond bush, and
couldn't notice help that he was showing a little wood in those shorts.
But it was his upper body I was raking over, as nonchalantly as I could.
Perfection. Beautiful slabs of pecs, with gorgeous round nipples on each,
and those nice little eraser-point nubs I lavished so much time shading
perfectly in my sketches. Broad shoulders. Hair short but raggedy, very
jock-preppy, and a rugged, all-American face. His thighs and calves, which
I noticed from the gym most guys don't work as much, were exceptional. Not
muscle-builder over-bulky, but Greek statue perfect. I forced myself to
make a little more conversation before I hit the showers to (now) madly
jerk off.
"So, Stephen, the RA, says you're on the football team? A
transfer?"
"Yep," he said coolly, with a roguish eyebrow still-cocked, and a
roguish eye still peeping down to my dick every now and then, which was
only natural, I knew: guys always check out dicks, straight or gay. I took
it for nothing. He was a football player, so he was probably straight.
"I'm from Ames? Iowa?"
"Right, I know where that is. Iowa State's there. They have a
good museum on campus. I went there for a show last year, of boxing art."
"Right!" he animated. "I saw that show! My freshman English class
had to write about it. Cool show. But you'd go all the way to Ames to see
an art exhibit? You must like art!"
"It's my major. Painting and Drawing."
"Cool! I hope I can see your work some time?"
I froze inside. I thought of my sketchbook there, filled to the
brim with lovingly rendered dicks and pecs and asses and thighs of nude men
sunning on Bareass Beach.
"Yeah, sure. Whenever. Listen, I'll remove my naked, humiliated
self from your presence and take that shower now. You probably want to
finish putting your stuff away."
"No hurry," he smiled, roguishly again. Was this guy fucking with
my mind or what. And he managed to have posed himself provocative against
the wall, hands folded over chest and hips jutting out. His cocktip was a
big thick outline in his pulled-taught shorts; it was just the kind of dick
I liked to exaggerate a little in my work, with that lovely flared ridge
majestically circling a cut head. I knew I was going to think an awful lot
about licking it as I showered. Suddenly he bolted up and headed toward me
again, "And here, allow me. Let's get it right this time!"
And damned if he didn't reach down to grab my towel again. And
damned if he didn't brush my now hardened dick with his head again, this
time the side of his cheek.
"Jesus, careful!" he said, laughing, as he rose, staring down at my
almost fully-hard cock. "You can put someone's eye out with that thing!"
Embarrassed laughter from me.
"You better take care of that thing in the shower!" he'd yelled as
I couldn't wait to get out of the room.
My mind was a whirl as I walked down the hall to the showers. Was my
room-mate flirting with me? I dismissed the idea, at first. He's a
football player. He grew up around good-looking naked guys. He's
comfortable with nudity and with sexual, masculine horseplay. A dick is
just another exposed body part to him. I settled down into my shower and
immersed myself in thoughts of a year with that beautiful body in the same
room with me. I hoped he was the kind of jock I'd seen around my floor who
wears boxers at most, but more often jockstraps or nothing. God, he was
gorgeous. My mind's eye traced every sexy curve as I beat my
six-and-a-half inches in the steamy heat. I had visions of him posing nude
for me, or in a jock. I rubbed faster and climaxed hard and loud. As I
toweled, I decided that if he was still in the room, waiting to see my
naked-ass self again, maybe even having stripped down himself, he was
either consciously or unconsciously gay. When I got back to the room,
clean from the beach, calm from my nervous first meeting with Jack, and
nuts most satisfyingly drained, he was gone. I stretched out naked on my
bed, opened the windows full, and fell asleep, logy from all the sun I had
gotten earlier and still full of fantasies about my room-mate's wetdream of
a body.
It was dusk when I woke up. The cool breeze felt wonderful wafting over my
sun-burned body. I woke with a hard-on and idly started fingering it as I
thought again about my new room-mate. I started rubbing it harder,
bringing my other hand in to rub my balls and play with my ass.
"OK," a voice said, and I knew whose, and I froze. "I'm cool with
us being naked around the room; in fact, I was wondering how I'd broach the
subject with you cause I'm almost always naked around the dorm. And I
guess I could get off on jacking off in front of you, too."
"Jesus Christ, Jack," I sat up and saw him, naked, grinning at me
as he sat on his bed, leaning back against the headboard, arms folded
across his chest. "Oh fuck," one arm instantly draped itself across my
hard-on, "I'm so fucking sorry. I'm just not used to a room-mate, I guess.
Shit, you must think I'm a pervert."
He laughed and crossed his arms behind his head, giving me full
view of not only that gorgeous body I had been fantasizing about every
conscious (and unconscious, judging from the dick-thickening dream I must
have been having) since I met him, but now my eyes could rivet on his now
exposed 7 inch soft, thick slab of dick that lopped lazily across one
thigh.
"I don't think you're a pervert, I think you're a horny 19 year-old
American male, same as me. I'm just not used to being so public about it."
He started rubbing his own shaft sexily and moaning, "but I can learn how
you city boys do it."
"Fuck you," I said getting up, looking for my shorts. "Hey, you
had dinner yet."
"I was just hanging around, waiting for you to wake up, to see if
you wanted to grab something."
By now he was on his feet and I had a chance to drink in, I tell
you, the most perfect male torso I'd ever seen in the flesh. My awe just
bubbled right out of me.
"Jack, excuse me staring, man," I said, shorts in one hand, but too
dumbfounded to put them on, "but you are about the best-built guy I have
ever seen in my life. Do you do anything else besides work out."
Jack laughed again and grinned, he was a natural charmer.
"Nice of you to say, man," he looked at his body and started posing
a little for me, pumping his biceps, which were totally carved, adjusting
his torso so his beautiful eight-pack rippled, all the while that sweet
dick dangled maddeningly. "I do spend a lot of time in the gym. I did two
sports in high school, wrestling and football, so maybe I'm a bit better
conditioned than most guys my age."
"A bit? Jesus, I'll say," and I prayede he didn't see me as I
unconsciously licked my lips.
He stopped posing and stared at me.
"But, and you excuse me now, you're kind of a hottie yourself.
Lean, of course, but filled out quite nice. You must not have any problems
with the ladies." Now he was walking towards me, that lovely cock dangling
again, hypnotizing me. "You've got really nice abs," he nodded, as he-I
couldn't believe it-actually rubbed his hand down my six-pack (my best
feature; the only one that had really responded to my workouts). I was
getting hard again. Is this what athletes did to themselves? How do they
stand it? Get a grip, I thought. You're the hip young artist who fancies
himself the poet of raw masculinity. Enjoy your rawness. Then he felt
along my arms and shoulder.
"It's your upper body that needs the work," he said.
"Maybe you can give me some pointers, " I said, daring to touch his
biceps, an electric thrill going through me and getting me now totally
hard. He chuckled. "Clearly this," and he ran his hand up and down the
shaft, and I thought I'd squirt right there, "needs no definition!"
"Shit," I batted his hand away for God knows what reason, "excuse this
fucking dick. I'm not used to being so intimate with guys."
"No sweat," he said, and gave it another playful squeeze. "And
don't be so self-conscious. It's a nice-looking dick."
Then he walked over to his dresser and, as he opened a drawer,
turned to me and said, "And yes, by the way, I'd love to have a work-out
partner. I have one weight session with the team every morning at 6, but
we're on our own for the afternoon." He found a jock strap and put it on.
Oh Christ, did he look good in it. It was, again, the painting I'd been
searching for. The soft mesh outlined his thick shaft and beautifully
flanged head perfectly. "Any afternoon you want, let's hit the gym
together. I'll have you a bit bulkier in no time."
He turned full frontal, and it seemed like he was luxuriating in
his bodily perfection, clothes now in that skimpy, sexy uniform of
masculine athleticism. I knew I was staring but couldn't help it. "So
where should we eat?" he asked, all chipper, like there was nothing weird
about Adonis arrayed in a jockstrap, displayed before me. "I'm at your
mercy. I know nothing about this town."
"OK, let's think about this," I said, jumping back into bed, still
naked, still hard, using this as an excuse to watch him some more, hoping
he'd put no more clothes on. He didn't; instead he walked over and sat
those firm carved ass cheeks down about an inch from my thigh. "Uh, what
do you like to eat?" I managed to choke out.
"Hmm," he said, and laughed again, almost to himself. Then leaned
back on an elbow and brought his legs up opposite my head. "Mexican,
Italian. Japanese. Those are my favorites, but anything, really."
"Money a problem?" I asked, idly, lightly, stroking my rock-hard
dick again. Two can play at this teasing, I thought. Let him deal with
it.
"Not really, why?" The fucker started casually brushing the back
of his hand against his own jock-covered dick, as if it was the most
innocent thing in the world-the exact effect I was trying for.
"Well, there's a great Mexican place right off campus; it's a bit
pricy, like with beers and dinner and chips, we'll probably pay about 25
bucks each."
He jumped out of bed.
"Perfect! We can celebrate the start of our year together!"
He threw on a nicely faded pair of jeans that draped perfectly on
his lower body and a short-sleeved button-down that he left open.
Then he laughed again, "You want me to wait out front while you
. . . " he nodded his head toward raging (and could he tell dripping?)
hard-on and made a little jack-off motion with his hand.
"FUCK YOU!" I laughed, jumping up and somehow managing to pull my
cargo shorts up quickly over my precum-slick fuckstick.
"No underwear," he observed. "You are one sexy stud, Tom." Then,
"Hey, why not?" And he stripped off his jeans, ripped off the jock, and
then pulled his jeans back on, giving me a big grin and making a show out
of placing his dick. "The Randy Young Room-mates!" he crowed, "Letting the
ladies see all we have to offer."
Dang, this guy was rapidly becoming my favorite person in the
world.
(I welcome comments! weakpoetry@yahoo.com)You must be of legal age to read
this story, which contains descriptions of male/male sex.
Posing
Part 1.
I was glad to be staying at college this summer. I was coming off a great
freshman year as an art major at Minnesota, and was anxious to continue my
work. It was all starting to come together. I'm a figurative
artist-drawings and painting, and my specialty is the male figure. I've
always been as rapturous about the male torso as so many of my favorite
artists: Michelangelo, Rodin, the Greeks. There's something about a
beautifully proportioned male body that makes it for me the most exciting,
intoxicating thing in the world. All right, you probably guessed I'm gay,
too. Maybe the two are connected, maybe they're not. But they are for me.
My first year at college, though, was better for my art than my sex life.
I'm still a little scared, self-conscious, awkward, whatever. I tried
showing a few guys I was interested this year, but timidity won out.
Towards the end of the year I discovered the very active GLBT student group
on campus, and so that was another reason I was happy to be staying on this
summer. The chance to stay immersed in my work (I was taking Painting II
and Life Drawing, which would be a heavy load, but if I passed them both, I
could get studio space next year in the art building), as well as try to
learn to be out and happy.
My drawing style was based on the gay porn I started reading in high
school: almost a kind of exaggerated male nude, with idealized musculature.
I was good at it, and trying to move that kind of illustrative style into
more of a fine art direction. I had tons of sketches I did all last year,
which I kept in a special portfolio in back of my bed-as I said, I still
was not comfortable with everyone knowing I was gay, and I assumed people
seeing all my drawings of incredible beefcake, pouting lips, massive
torsos, bulging jockstraps, and thick cocks would be an obvious give-away.
I also had about ten paintings I'd done in the same style that I was really
happy with. They were, I felt, incredibly charged and atmospheric with
masculinity. I was trying to move into a direction that fused that
stroke-book ideal with a kind of Mapplethorpe depth. I really felt I was
getting there, and welcomed the summer to continue my quest. They, too,
were stashed out of the way.
I was keeping things especially well-hidden cause my RA told me I was
getting a room-mate today. There weren't a whole lot of people in the
dorms, but they were keeping a few floors closed off to keep it easier for
the housekeepers. Over half the students here this summer were mostly
athletes, football players, especially, which was fine with me. The more I
was steeped in highly-developed male musculature, the better for my art.
Of course, it didn't hurt my libido, either! I've been tempted to ask one
to pose for me, but as I say, I'm shy enough, without worry that some
defensive lineman was going to beat the shit out of me. My room-mate, I
learned, was Jack Thornton, a transfer student from Iowa, who was starting
in the summer so he could get as much practice in with the team as
possible. Oh well, I'd hoped he was good-looking-hell, I'd settle for
pleasant.
It was a beautiful June day, and I spent it with my sketchbook down along
the river at a stretch of beach that was 'reserved' for gays. There was a
lot of cruising that went on there, which I kept away from. I was just
there cause there was a lot of nude tanning that went on, and a
nice-looking kid who kept to himself and just did drawing didn't draw much
attention. Guys just laying back catching rays kept very still, which is
what I wanted. I had all the muscles and cocks I could ask for to practice
on. Plus, it allowed me to work on my own tan. I was fairly
decent-looking, I thought, and I had the incredibly high standards of
someone who styled himself a connoisseur of male beauty. I was 19, blonde,
lean and slightly muscled-I worked out a lot, gyms and locker rooms were
inspirational for me, not just for the men (though I'd never dare sketch in
there, those scenes are highly charged enough as is), but the
hyper-ambience of masculinity. Seeing naked guys holding a pose against a
wall as they talked, or standing in a jock, or leaning back nude in a
sauna-these were images I filed away and then tried to reproduce from
memory. It was my art, though, and not my physique, that was showing the
most results from all my gym time. I was lean, sure, and had some
definition (sometimes I could really get off on my naked body in the
mirror), but I knew I was doing something wrong, cause I had plateaued. Oh
well, I'd keep at it, if for no other reason than my art!
As I walked down the hall to my room, I peeled off my shirt, ready for a
nice hot shower. I opened the door, threw my shirt and art supplies on the
bed, and shucked off my shorts (I rarely wore underwear), then turned to
grab the towel I kept on the back of the door. I saw my room-mate at the
same time I heard, "Hey, don't let me interrupt, dude. Go for it!" Oh
shit. I'm sure I turned crimson instantly.
"Hi," I gasped. "Sorry, I'm used to being alone," as I fumbled for
the towel to cover my dick.
"No problem, dude," he laughed, and then nodded approvingly.
"Lookin' good, no need to be shy!"
My hands were shaking so bad, my towel fell. I was utterly
flustered. But not too flustered to register that the guy I was looking
at, who was now grinning and walking towards me ("Allow me," he laughed),
was incredible-looking. He was like one of may paintings come to life: a
jock ideal, big and beefy, but graceful and lithe. He was dressed only in
gym shorts, tight shorts, which revealed a nice bulge. The definition was
perfect, totally ripped, no fat at all. Just pure ripply power.
As he bent down to get my towel, I said, "You don't have to do
that."
"No problem, " he said, and as he bent in close the top of his head
brushed my dick. I was getting dangerously hard.
I was able to wrap the towel around me, tuck one end in quickly,
regain what composure I could, and make an introduction. But as I reached
to offer my hand ("Hi, I'm your room-mate, Tom Stark"), my damn towel fell
again. This time we both laughed, and I finally got myself under control.
He's just going to have to deal with a naked guy.
"Look, I'm just gonna forget the fucking towel if you don't mind!"
"Not a bit, stud."
"Well, welcome to the room," I laughed. "Uh, I hope that side's OK
with you?" Our room was like a T, with the door into it being the bottom
of the T, closets on either side, then at either end of the top of the T
was each of our spaces.
"Fine, they both look sort of the same to me."
It was obvious we were checking each other out. I tried to be as
casual as I could with half a hard-on rising up from my blond bush, and
couldn't notice help that he was showing a little wood in those shorts.
But it was his upper body I was raking over, as nonchalantly as I could.
Perfection. Beautiful slabs of pecs, with gorgeous round nipples on each,
and those nice little eraser-point nubs I lavished so much time shading
perfectly in my sketches. Broad shoulders. Hair short but raggedy, very
jock-preppy, and a rugged, all-American face. His thighs and calves, which
I noticed from the gym most guys don't work as much, were exceptional. Not
muscle-builder over-bulky, but Greek statue perfect. I forced myself to
make a little more conversation before I hit the showers to (now) madly
jerk off.
"So, Stephen, the RA, says you're on the football team? A
transfer?"
"Yep," he said coolly, with a roguish eyebrow still-cocked, and a
roguish eye still peeping down to my dick every now and then, which was
only natural, I knew: guys always check out dicks, straight or gay. I took
it for nothing. He was a football player, so he was probably straight.
"I'm from Ames? Iowa?"
"Right, I know where that is. Iowa State's there. They have a
good museum on campus. I went there for a show last year, of boxing art."
"Right!" he animated. "I saw that show! My freshman English class
had to write about it. Cool show. But you'd go all the way to Ames to see
an art exhibit? You must like art!"
"It's my major. Painting and Drawing."
"Cool! I hope I can see your work some time?"
I froze inside. I thought of my sketchbook there, filled to the
brim with lovingly rendered dicks and pecs and asses and thighs of nude men
sunning on Bareass Beach.
"Yeah, sure. Whenever. Listen, I'll remove my naked, humiliated
self from your presence and take that shower now. You probably want to
finish putting your stuff away."
"No hurry," he smiled, roguishly again. Was this guy fucking with
my mind or what. And he managed to have posed himself provocative against
the wall, hands folded over chest and hips jutting out. His cocktip was a
big thick outline in his pulled-taught shorts; it was just the kind of dick
I liked to exaggerate a little in my work, with that lovely flared ridge
majestically circling a cut head. I knew I was going to think an awful lot
about licking it as I showered. Suddenly he bolted up and headed toward me
again, "And here, allow me. Let's get it right this time!"
And damned if he didn't reach down to grab my towel again. And
damned if he didn't brush my now hardened dick with his head again, this
time the side of his cheek.
"Jesus, careful!" he said, laughing, as he rose, staring down at my
almost fully-hard cock. "You can put someone's eye out with that thing!"
Embarrassed laughter from me.
"You better take care of that thing in the shower!" he'd yelled as
I couldn't wait to get out of the room.
My mind was a whirl as I walked down the hall to the showers. Was my
room-mate flirting with me? I dismissed the idea, at first. He's a
football player. He grew up around good-looking naked guys. He's
comfortable with nudity and with sexual, masculine horseplay. A dick is
just another exposed body part to him. I settled down into my shower and
immersed myself in thoughts of a year with that beautiful body in the same
room with me. I hoped he was the kind of jock I'd seen around my floor who
wears boxers at most, but more often jockstraps or nothing. God, he was
gorgeous. My mind's eye traced every sexy curve as I beat my
six-and-a-half inches in the steamy heat. I had visions of him posing nude
for me, or in a jock. I rubbed faster and climaxed hard and loud. As I
toweled, I decided that if he was still in the room, waiting to see my
naked-ass self again, maybe even having stripped down himself, he was
either consciously or unconsciously gay. When I got back to the room,
clean from the beach, calm from my nervous first meeting with Jack, and
nuts most satisfyingly drained, he was gone. I stretched out naked on my
bed, opened the windows full, and fell asleep, logy from all the sun I had
gotten earlier and still full of fantasies about my room-mate's wetdream of
a body.
It was dusk when I woke up. The cool breeze felt wonderful wafting over my
sun-burned body. I woke with a hard-on and idly started fingering it as I
thought again about my new room-mate. I started rubbing it harder,
bringing my other hand in to rub my balls and play with my ass.
"OK," a voice said, and I knew whose, and I froze. "I'm cool with
us being naked around the room; in fact, I was wondering how I'd broach the
subject with you cause I'm almost always naked around the dorm. And I
guess I could get off on jacking off in front of you, too."
"Jesus Christ, Jack," I sat up and saw him, naked, grinning at me
as he sat on his bed, leaning back against the headboard, arms folded
across his chest. "Oh fuck," one arm instantly draped itself across my
hard-on, "I'm so fucking sorry. I'm just not used to a room-mate, I guess.
Shit, you must think I'm a pervert."
He laughed and crossed his arms behind his head, giving me full
view of not only that gorgeous body I had been fantasizing about every
conscious (and unconscious, judging from the dick-thickening dream I must
have been having) since I met him, but now my eyes could rivet on his now
exposed 7 inch soft, thick slab of dick that lopped lazily across one
thigh.
"I don't think you're a pervert, I think you're a horny 19 year-old
American male, same as me. I'm just not used to being so public about it."
He started rubbing his own shaft sexily and moaning, "but I can learn how
you city boys do it."
"Fuck you," I said getting up, looking for my shorts. "Hey, you
had dinner yet."
"I was just hanging around, waiting for you to wake up, to see if
you wanted to grab something."
By now he was on his feet and I had a chance to drink in, I tell
you, the most perfect male torso I'd ever seen in the flesh. My awe just
bubbled right out of me.
"Jack, excuse me staring, man," I said, shorts in one hand, but too
dumbfounded to put them on, "but you are about the best-built guy I have
ever seen in my life. Do you do anything else besides work out."
Jack laughed again and grinned, he was a natural charmer.
"Nice of you to say, man," he looked at his body and started posing
a little for me, pumping his biceps, which were totally carved, adjusting
his torso so his beautiful eight-pack rippled, all the while that sweet
dick dangled maddeningly. "I do spend a lot of time in the gym. I did two
sports in high school, wrestling and football, so maybe I'm a bit better
conditioned than most guys my age."
"A bit? Jesus, I'll say," and I prayede he didn't see me as I
unconsciously licked my lips.
He stopped posing and stared at me.
"But, and you excuse me now, you're kind of a hottie yourself.
Lean, of course, but filled out quite nice. You must not have any problems
with the ladies." Now he was walking towards me, that lovely cock dangling
again, hypnotizing me. "You've got really nice abs," he nodded, as he-I
couldn't believe it-actually rubbed his hand down my six-pack (my best
feature; the only one that had really responded to my workouts). I was
getting hard again. Is this what athletes did to themselves? How do they
stand it? Get a grip, I thought. You're the hip young artist who fancies
himself the poet of raw masculinity. Enjoy your rawness. Then he felt
along my arms and shoulder.
"It's your upper body that needs the work," he said.
"Maybe you can give me some pointers, " I said, daring to touch his
biceps, an electric thrill going through me and getting me now totally
hard. He chuckled. "Clearly this," and he ran his hand up and down the
shaft, and I thought I'd squirt right there, "needs no definition!"
"Shit," I batted his hand away for God knows what reason, "excuse this
fucking dick. I'm not used to being so intimate with guys."
"No sweat," he said, and gave it another playful squeeze. "And
don't be so self-conscious. It's a nice-looking dick."
Then he walked over to his dresser and, as he opened a drawer,
turned to me and said, "And yes, by the way, I'd love to have a work-out
partner. I have one weight session with the team every morning at 6, but
we're on our own for the afternoon." He found a jock strap and put it on.
Oh Christ, did he look good in it. It was, again, the painting I'd been
searching for. The soft mesh outlined his thick shaft and beautifully
flanged head perfectly. "Any afternoon you want, let's hit the gym
together. I'll have you a bit bulkier in no time."
He turned full frontal, and it seemed like he was luxuriating in
his bodily perfection, clothes now in that skimpy, sexy uniform of
masculine athleticism. I knew I was staring but couldn't help it. "So
where should we eat?" he asked, all chipper, like there was nothing weird
about Adonis arrayed in a jockstrap, displayed before me. "I'm at your
mercy. I know nothing about this town."
"OK, let's think about this," I said, jumping back into bed, still
naked, still hard, using this as an excuse to watch him some more, hoping
he'd put no more clothes on. He didn't; instead he walked over and sat
those firm carved ass cheeks down about an inch from my thigh. "Uh, what
do you like to eat?" I managed to choke out.
"Hmm," he said, and laughed again, almost to himself. Then leaned
back on an elbow and brought his legs up opposite my head. "Mexican,
Italian. Japanese. Those are my favorites, but anything, really."
"Money a problem?" I asked, idly, lightly, stroking my rock-hard
dick again. Two can play at this teasing, I thought. Let him deal with
it.
"Not really, why?" The fucker started casually brushing the back
of his hand against his own jock-covered dick, as if it was the most
innocent thing in the world-the exact effect I was trying for.
"Well, there's a great Mexican place right off campus; it's a bit
pricy, like with beers and dinner and chips, we'll probably pay about 25
bucks each."
He jumped out of bed.
"Perfect! We can celebrate the start of our year together!"
He threw on a nicely faded pair of jeans that draped perfectly on
his lower body and a short-sleeved button-down that he left open.
Then he laughed again, "You want me to wait out front while you
. . . " he nodded his head toward raging (and could he tell dripping?)
hard-on and made a little jack-off motion with his hand.
"FUCK YOU!" I laughed, jumping up and somehow managing to pull my
cargo shorts up quickly over my precum-slick fuckstick.
"No underwear," he observed. "You are one sexy stud, Tom." Then,
"Hey, why not?" And he stripped off his jeans, ripped off the jock, and
then pulled his jeans back on, giving me a big grin and making a show out
of placing his dick. "The Randy Young Room-mates!" he crowed, "Letting the
ladies see all we have to offer."
Dang, this guy was rapidly becoming my favorite person in the
world.
(I welcome comments! weakpoetry@yahoo.com)