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Subject: Story
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Date: 16 May 92 16:08:55 GMT
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From S-Tek in Montreal: (514)597-2409

COMING OF AGE PART II - Budding Brad
by Dorian Grey

     Morning practice for the swim team was a real bitch. I had to get up
early. Real early. Before the crack of dawn. And drive to the college and
change. I'd always been a morning person, but this was just too much. 6:00 AM
and I jumped into lane 6, whose affectionate appelation was "Remedial Six," due
to the coach's tendency to put the slowest swimmers in the last lane during
practice and meets. I always thought the whole idea was to get people pissed of
being in the slow lane so they would speed up, but later the supposed real
reason was explained to me: When many people are swimming at the same time in
the same pool, like in a race or in practice, the water moves from the center
of the pool to all corners. When a swimmer is in the outer lanes, lanes 1 and
6, there is much more water movement, and hence more resistance.

     Traditionally, the best swimmers were placed in the centermost lanes so
they could work on their times and getting places. It was rationalized that the
worse swimmers wouldn't win anyway, nor would it make much of a difference in
psychological terms, either in practice or meets.

     That's what really grabbed me when, after our eight lap warmup. I was all
alone in lane six, the worse of the worse, with Brad "the bud" Budney. He was
Olympic material as a junior. And I, being no sack of dead meat in water, but
no Speedy Gonzales either, was more than a little miffed that not only was I
not chosen as a senior captain by the coach, but was forced into lane six just
for missing a few practices. Alright, more than a few, but I did well at meets.
But for Brad to be in lane six was ludicrous, and it was outrageous for none of
the freshman to be in there.

     "Why are you in lane six?" , I asked Brad, who managed to be hot in water
as cold as a York Peppermint Pattie.

     "I saw the coach put you in here," he said, "and didn't think you should
be all alone."

     I found this to be more and more intriguing as I started to swim the
dreaded pyramids. Brad and I had always been on good, if strange terms. He was
so quiet. But from time to time he'd yell out of nowhere, "Hey, Dorian!" or
just "Doriaaaan!" I, the fool that I was, and not willing to be outdone by an
underclassman, always replied, "Braaaaaad!" But that was basically it.

     I didn't see much of Brad because he was a club swimmer: a team member
that swims all year round with an aquatic club. He was, like all club members,
exempt from all but one practice a week. This was unusual for him to be here on
a Monday, especially since our high school had off that week. We only had three
practices at the college as a consequance, and Brad could have claimed
ignorance of them after vacation. But he was here.

     After practice, I showed Brad to "The Club." It was not really a club, but
Kevin and I discovered it the year before, with a sign on the entrance
mentionning something about an alumni club for old sportsmen and coaches of the
college where we practiced.

     Brad gave his "Yeah, cool." reaction to my explanations of the whole
thing, and we entered the private bathroom and shower alone, because the other
upperclassmen who knew of the Club's existence skipped practice that morning.

     I took my shampoo and lathered up, hoping to get rid of that ropy
sensation one feels after an overchlorinated session in a pool. It sounded like
Brad was taking off his suit, and a quick glance confirmed my suspicions.

     Brad stood there, accross from me in The Club, meager team suit pulled one
third off. The suit's line crossed some very interesting territory, and the
manner in which it was positioned one, and I, could not help but noticing the
slimness of Brad's waist, nor his sparse growth of pubic hair that was brown,
unlike his blond head. I bet that he shaved some of the hair recently, because
2 years before he had more as a freshman. It looked sexier. I thought he
probably didn't do it for looks but for racing.

     Brad turned, and I admired how his suit reveal his bulging buttocks, and
his nice, fine crack. I was tantalized for more, but couldn't risk a prolonged
glance since he might turn around any second. His strong but slender handes
seemed to almost massage his hips and the sides of his buttocks before he slid
his suit down and off. I adored the view I got and turned around and pulled my
suit off, too.

     I rinsed my hair, and became upset at its consistent ickiness. I bantered
back and forth with Brad about that special shampoo, UltraSwim, and really
lathered up a second time. Between the water and the rinsing and lathering, I
missed the beginning of Brad's strangeness in talking.

     It sounded.... strange. almost strained. Quiet, and falterning, modulating
in volume and diction. I dropped my suit from its place hanging on the
hot-water-knob on purpose, and ducked down so I could retrieve it and hear Brad
better. I heard his voice pause a second, and a wet, swishing noise go "flick,
flick, flick," a few times and stop.

     I stood up and promptly knocked over my shampoo bottle, and it went
slipping and sliding accross the showers to Brad's side. I turned around, and
caught sight of Brad, with his hand on his penis, masturbating before he
quickly turned around and fetched me my bottle of 'poo. He turned, almost
shyly, and handed me my bottle, and I looked down at his healthy erection while
accepting the proffered bottle. My wet cock stirred in response to Brad's
obvious arousal, and I smiled, and turned around. I had no nerve whatsoever.

     That night, I replayed the whole sequence of event sin my head while in
bed, fondling myself. He was so hot. I've thought of some guys as cute before,
and some as really masculine-let-me-let-you fuck-me-please, but I'd never
really come accross anyone as hot as Brad. And he was interested in me! Or at
least his body was. I blew it, without even getting to blow him! The chances of
another such shower in The Club with Brad, alone and aroused were too slim.
Alas, and alack. What fool, me.

     The next morning I wasn't in lane six anymore. I got moved down to lane
five. Brad moved too, and I was in a mixed state of fear and desperation as I
contemplated my future actions while doing laps with Brad at my side. He didn't
need to come that day. But he did. Maybe he was trying to tell me something.
Maybe he just had no aquatic club practice and wanted to keep his delicious
muscle tone. Maybe. Maybe. I needed an answer.

     The scene in The Club repeated itself in the beginning, with one major
addition: I made sure my shower had a nozel angled so the spray would hit me
below my ears so I could hear every second.

     I began the conversation that day on a totally different, non-shampoo
related topic. Sex. I pulled off my bathing suit early on in the verbal game so
I could be seen. Brad pulled his off, and this time I didn't stop looking at
him while he did so, partly because I was talking to him and to do so would
point the matter out, and partly because I wanted a good gander at his gander.

     "I don't think virginity is either a state of mind OR flesh," I said,
contrasting his previous statement, "I think it's the state of New Jersey."

     Brad had a good laugh at that one, and I enjoyed his laugh. He had a good
laugh. Nice and deep, and I could see his chest shake, in addition to his cock,
which was starting to get slightly plumper as the moments passed.     
"Really," he replied, as he picked up his suit inbetween his toes and put it on
his hot handle, "How many virgins do you think there are in the state of New
Jersey?"      I told him I could not divlge exact figures, as I did not possess
population data and thus could not give him my estimate of percentage.

     "Let's take a smaller population sample," said I, "how about the guys in
the 11th and 12th grades, or on the team, or... no, something even smaller."

     "How about your estimate of the number of virgins in the Club?" Brad said
with a strange tinge to his voice.

     I started to get a major boner, so I began to lather up while feigning
mental calculations. I dropped my shampoo because my hands were still lathered
up from the previous wash, and when I bent over to pick the bottle up, it
slipped between my legs. I tried to reach through them, because I didn't want
to turn around with a raging hard-on.

     It was then that I noted Brad's modulation of volume again. He was
breathing hard. Harder than my cock. I said, with the shrillness of nervousness
in my voice, "Could you pass me my shampoo, Brad?"

     He passed it, alright. Right through my legs, but he was passing it
underhanded instead of overhandend, and his hand touched my balls going and
coming.

     When I finished lathering, Brad was positively panting. I turned to be
rewarded by his jerking off again. He coughed, and turned, and then said that
he was going to get out of the shower early because he had to call and try and
get a ride so he wouldn't have to walk home in the freezing cold weather.

     I stayed in the shower, and jerked-off for a while, but couldn't come
because I have never been able to come while standing up. I decided to go and
get dressed and go home to beat my meat.

     However, when I got to the lockerroom, I saw that all the underclassmen
had already left. I always thought it wwould be kind of kinky to get off in a
locker room, especially the college's locker room. And boy, was I horny!

     I located the perfect place: There was this one bench that was not bolted
to the floor, and I found it in its usual place, facing the bathroom, with the
stalls and piss pots.

     It wasn't very long, only about six or seven feet, but it was wide enough
that I could lie down on it without much trouble. It was hard, like me, so I
put a bunch of towels on it, especially near where my head would be.

     I thought I heard a grunt, or a moan, or someone in pain nearby, but when
I turned my head in the direction from whence it came, the bathroom, I saw no
one in there and no feet were underneath the stalls, so I dropped my suit on
the floor, spread my legs on either side of the bench, and sat and then lied
down. I started to jerk off, and started to talk to myself under my breat.

     Vocalizing is great during masturbation, but you have to be sure no one
can hear you, especially if you're talking out gay fantasies like I do. I then
closed my eyes, to let my imagination run the gauntlet of desire and my rythym
increased. There was a sound almost like light, bare, footsteps, but I ignored
them, as I knew no one had entered since there wasn't any tell-tale sign of
entrance like the creaky door's screaching.

     I reached the epiphany of climax, that delicious moment when you know
you're going to come, because it's inevitable, but you just don't know exactly
when until you feel the echo of a spurt in your balls. Riding the incipient
wave of pleasure, but wanting it all, I started to cry out, "Cum, Brad!" ,
keeping with my fantasy where this peroxide blond with grey eyes and light
brown pubic hair thrusts and thrusts and then pulls out and cums all over me,
"Cum on me, Brad! Cum! Now!" In the back of my mind I wondered if a janitor
could hear me, but I didn't care. A janitor probably couldn't hear me over my
loud breating, anyway, I thought to myself.

     But it wasn't my breathing! I was breathing hard, but not that hard. I
opened my eyes to see Brad, standing there, jerking off, and was surprised and
shocked to suddenly feel that area between my belly-button and my pubic hair
covered with liquidy cum. Cum that was not my own. This got me so turned on
that I came, even though I had pulled back my hand from my cock half a minute
before.

     Brad just looked at me, and smiled. When I recovered my senses and my
breath I asked, "But didn't you leave?!?!?"

     To which my jerk partner replied, "No. I was in the stall, jerking off
with my feet against the door."

     "Oh," I said, becoming shy again, even with two sets of cum all over me.

     "I couldn't get a ride and kept on thinking about that question I asked
that you never answered."

     "Which question?" , I inquired.

     "The one about how many virgins there are in this room right now."

     I gave Brad a little tug on his cock and caught a drop of his juice on the
tip of my index finger and said, "I'll tell you the answer to that question and
more after I take you home (with me) and give you a RIDE you'll never forget."

     Brad smile, and laughed, and I knew the rest of vacation wasn't going to
be as boring as I thought. Remedial Six wouldn't be so bad. With Brad.