Thanks much if you could post this story in Encounters. My best to you.
Hi, fellow Nifty readers and writers. Thanks for reading my stories. I'm a retired journalist living in Boston and Fort Lauderdale. I've enjoyed many of the tales on here. Lots of hot, entertaining writing.
We have to do more than read these sexy gems. We all need to donate to the site as it relies on us to stay vibrant and alive.
Other stories I've posted are The Bass Player (Sept. 13, '17), The Pact (Sept. 13,'17), James (Jan. 26, '18) -- all Encounters; Drink It (Sept. 24, '18) and Lesson at Rock River (Nov. 6, '18, both Urination); Aaron's Basement (Jan. 12, '18, Adult Youth); Taken in the Woods (May 28, '18, Authoritarian); the 4-part Camping with Josh (Sept. 24, '18, Camping) and "William the Great" (3 parts, Jan, 16, '19, High School, .
Be glad to hear from you if these stories excite you. doctordestiny@comcast.net mailto:doctordestiny@comcast.net
By Dudley Jarvis-North
I am on my way to Lord & Taylor on Boylston Street in Boston. I have run out of clean underwear and need to replace the ones that have seen better days. While buying new undies can give a guy like me a boner -- I'm an underwear fetishist -- I have no idea what is in store for me on this hot summer day.
As I approach the rack, a fellow catches my eye as he inspects the dozens of choices. Given that he looks fetching, I can't help but wonder what kind of undies he is wearing. It's times like these that make me wish I had X-ray-vision eyes.
He is perhaps 6 feet and 180 pounds, dark hair. I'd guess late 40s. I sidle closer for a better look. Brown eyes, good build, short dark hair. I don't want to be too obvious in my lust, so I try to sneak mini-peeks, rather than ogle him overtly. He is wearing a yellow summer shirt that perfectly matches his crisp khaki slacks. The pants embrace him tantalizingly -- bulging pouch, butt curved the way a man's butt should curve. His arms are covered with delectable hair. He is part jock, part preppy hunk.
Oh-oh, my fantasy hits a raincloud when I spy a wedding ring on his left hand. Damn-damn-damn. At least the pressure is off. Sometimes, a fantasy with an unavailable hottie can be fun as well.
I look at the neat packages on the rack -- every imaginable kind. White briefs and boxer-briefs, two or three to a package. Colors from burgundy to gray to blue to mustard. Some have white elastic bands on top. There are also boxers -- plain white and light blue, and some with narrow stripes. Boston's stodgy business types likely favor those.
I measure the style of the day by the undies spied at Boston Sports Club, where I work out. Mostly, guys wear boxer briefs -- check. Almost always vivid colors -- check. Almost always high-end brands -- check. I told you I was a fetishist.
BSC is an expensive gym, so it's rare to see Hanes, Fruit of the Loom, or BVD brands. I never see anyone in boxers -- those are definitely out at a gay gym. White Jockeys are seldom in evidence, even though I find them ultra-hot.
My handsome underwear shopper is looking at boxer-briefs exclusively -- Calvin Klein, Donna Karan, etc. I look over and smile and am surprised when he smiles back. He has a beautiful smile.
What the hay. I might as well see where this might go.
"Hi, bud," I muster in my friendliest voice, "I remember when it was easy to buy underwear, when there weren't 50 brands to choose from. It's not easy anymore."
There is a silence for about 20 seconds that makes me wonder if I have violated Cardinal Rule No. 1: "Thou Shalt Not Speak to a Straight Man While He's Buying Underwear."
In time he turns toward me and says, "You are so right. I'm completely flummoxed by all these choices. Truth to tell, my wife used to buy my underwear, but she works full time now and doesn't have time."
"I'd be glad to offer advice," I say, "if you're comfortable with that."
"Well, thank you; I would very much like some help. There seem to be no sales people at these stores. My first question would be, `How do you know how long the legs are on these boxer-briefs when they're sealed in a package?' I like them to be medium length -- not as far down as lower thigh but not so short that they ride too high and pinch me."
My thoughts turn to an image of short briefs "pinching" his equipment the way I want to do, but I tell myself to cool it and get back to advising him.
"I would avoid brands like Papi," I opine, "and stick with 2(x)ist or Calvin Klein -- they tend to be medium length and would work for you. Lucky brand are also medium length, and they're comfortable. Those DKNYs you are holding are on the short side. I have a few of those and I doubt you'd be happy with them. If you look at the back of the package, there is often a small picture of a model that might help you check length. But that's not foolproof."
My sweet Lochinvar smiles, "Thank you so much. That's exactly what I needed to hear. You sound as if you're an underwear salesman. Are you?"
"Nah, I'm a journalist. But, yep," I say laughing, "I sound like a salesman."
"You sold me. By the way, my name is Mark and, as he puts the DKNYs back in their slot, he extends his hand, "and you are?"
"Peter. I'm glad I could help."
You really did," he says. "I'm going to buy one package of the 2(x)ists and one of these Lucky packs, even though the prints might be too loud for me," and he shows me one with green shamrocks against a light blue background and one with yellow elephants on a field of black."
"Those are cool," I assure him. "Why not have fun with your underwear since you're picking them out yourself these days? Your new shopping life has begun today at Lord & Taylor."
Mark laughs. "It's done then. You've given me the courage to experiment. What kind are you buying?"
"These," and I hold up a DKNY three-pack with one lime green, one white and blue striped and one red boxer brief with black band and piping."
"I like those," he says. "I admire a man who knows how to shop for clothes.
"Hey, Peter, let me throw another question at ya. I'm off work today. And my wife is on a business trip, wanna grab a drink? If you're free, that is."
For all of my bravado, the moment of truth has arrived. I wasn't expecting the sudden offer, but how could I pass up a chance like this? I'd kick myself to the end of days if I didn't take it.
My heart begins to race. "Sure," I say. "I could use a drink. There's a quiet bar up the street. Let's go there."
We make our purchases and head the two blocks to Exeter Street. It is 3:00 p.m., so it's not happy hour with the workday crowd swarming the place.
"This is perfect, " Mark says, "It's great that you know where to go. Do you live around here?"
Now that's a line out of a pickup joint, but he says it so innocently I don't flinch.
"Yes, I live a few blocks from here in the South End. Native son, did college here; guess I'm a confirmed city dude."
Do you own your own place, Peter?"
"Yes, I do. A condominium."
"Do you live alone?"
"Yes, I do."
We find a booth in a corner of the bar and I go for drinks. "Bourbon on the rocks, he says. "Jim Beam OK?" "Yes," he says. "Thank you." I just love polite white boys like him.
When I get back to the table, he is full of questions. "What was it like being a journalist. Must have been a hoot. Did you work in print or other media?"
"Print. Boston Globe. I edited stories for many years, but a few years ago I got a buyout. I'm loving my life as a retired person."
"What department did you work in, if you don't mind my asking? I read the Globe all the time."
I started in the sports department as a copy boy, then got a promotion and became an editor. A few years later I moved to the Living/Arts & Films department, supervising the copy desk and helming the music and movie sections. I finished my career editing in the political section. I had a good run."
"You worked in sports? That's great. You must know all the sportswriters. I used to coach football for a high school team and still play tennis and flag football with a group of guys. I left coaching to open a business with a friend."
"That's impressive," I say. "I do the gym and shoot hoops occasionally. Mostly, I'm a fierce watcher of Boston's teams."
"I'm excited to meet a sports fan," He says. I go to lots of Bruins and Celtics games."
"I go to Fort Lauderdale in the winter," I say. "So the best I can do is catch them on TV. I try to get to Fenway Park as much as possible in the summer."
"You have a fun life, I imagine. You're single?"
"Yes."
I hear Fort Lauderdale is a super place -- I have a friend who used to go there, but he moved to Seattle. Great beaches. Do you go a lot?"
"Yes. Mostly hang out there with friends. There's a place called Sebastian Beach." I take a chance by referring to one of the city's gay beaches, figuring Mark wouldn't know one from another."
I was wrong.
"That's the beach my friend went to. I heard lots of stories about that one."
My heart shot to the roof of my mouth. I didn't know what to say, so I changed the subject.
"I'll get us another drink. My Mojito was strong. How was your drink?"
"Nice. Now I'm feeling more relaxed talking with you. This is really new to me."
I take this in, although I wonder what he means by `this'?
I get our drinks and take a large gulp. I am going to need more than one drink.
"So, you must have a blast as a single guy, Mark says. "You're a handsome guy. Are you Italian?"
"Yes, I am," I say, pleased by the compliment. "You're nice looking yourself." Was he coming on to me?
"You have blue eyes and you're Italian," Mark chuckles. I'm Polish and have brown eyes. "Go figure. Shouldn't you have the brown and me the blue?"
I am impressed that this alleged straight guy has noticed my eye color. How straight was he?
To answer your question, Mark, I'm Sicilian. That island had so many conquerors. My blood lines involve many cultures -- blue eyes, but olive skin, dark hair, but brown, not black. And you, my friend, probably come from the Slavic part of Poland -- Warsaw, not Cracow, where the blond, blue-eyed guys are.
We both laugh.
The second Mojito is helping me sink into possibilities. "What does he look like under those preppy clothes? His arms are hairy; what about the rest of him? And he's Polish. Wonder if the stereotype is true about Polish sausages. I am drooling over these fantasies when he throws another stunner at me.
"Why don't we go back to your place? I'm really curious about the South End -- I mean, if you don't have any plans."
"I don't really. I'm free for the rest of the day."
We finish our drinks and off we go to my condominium.
We walk up the four flights and I pump up the AC. "Make yourself comfortable, Mark." The AC will cool off the place soon. Hope you don't mind if I take off my shirt. How about another bourbon?"
I get us drinks as Mark sits on one end of my leather sofa. I think about taking the chair across from him, but sit close to him on the sofa.
"Take off your loafers," I say, "and put your legs on the coffee table.
"Thanks, my feet get really sweaty in the heat," he says, pushing another of my buttons.
"Mine, too. I took a course in reflexology at the Boston Center for Adult Education. Do you know what that is?"
"I do know -- manipulating pressure points on the feet and toes, he says. "I could use that right now."
This unmistakable cue hits me in the face. I admire that Mark says pretty much what he's thinking. My nature is to be more guarded, but I take the bait.
"Let's do it. Who knows the next time you'll get this opportunity. I'll get a towel and some intensive care lotion."
I place the towel on the coffee table under Mark's feet and tell him to lie back. "Just relax, this is going to feel good."
I pull off his moist socks.
"I hope my feet aren't too ticklish," he says. "Never did this before."
"We'll start slowly," I say as I rub the lotion mixed with aloe onto his soles and use my thumbs in search of various points. His feet are warm and have the manly fragrance of an athlete. I massage his soles with more vigor and insert my fingers between his toes and turn them.
Mark by now is writhing in pleasure. "That feels amazing. I'm glad you took that course."
I move my hands to the tops of his feet heading toward his ankles.
This cream is on the greasy side, Mark. Why don't we get your pants off so we don't get lotion on them."
Without hesitation he unbuckles his belt and shimmies his khakis past his hips. I do the rest, shucking them past his ankles. I toss them onto a chair and when I stare up, I get a look at a pair of snug black boxer-briefs holding in what looks to be a hefty package.
"That's better," I say, fighting to take my eyes off his crotch. "I can give your ankles and calves a good rub now.
His legs are very hairy as his thighs disappear into his shorts. I'm sure he's hard.
I move back to his ankles and squirt more lotion onto them and his calves.
"You have athletes' legs." I offer. "Nicely developed calves. Tennis is a great creator of muscular legs."
He thanks me and mentions that he once broke his ankle playing sports and appreciates the attention I'm giving it.
"You are such a nice guy," he says. "I'm really happy I met you, but I need to ask you a question? "
"Shoot," I say, expecting some advice about his ankle injury.
"Would it be too forward if I kissed you?"
That's when the room starts spinning as he pushes me back on the rug and is on top of me, his lips glued to mine.
After a minute we come up for air. "Hope I didn't come on too strong," he says. I've been wanting to do that since we were in Lord & Taylor's. I think you're very sexy."
I don't know what to say, so I just smile.
He grabs my hand and kisses me again.
"I suppose you're wondering why a married guy is on top of you," he says sheepishly.
"The thought occurred to me," I say with a laugh. "It's not every day I find doing this with a guy like you."
"I've always been attracted to men -- especially older guys like you," he says. But I rarely do anything about it. I'm paranoid about getting caught, of someone seeing me talking to a guy in a public place, afraid someone from my neighborhood or one of the kids I coached in school will see me and know my story. Meeting you seemed about as easy as it could get."
Then he took the lead again.
"Wanna go to your bedroom?"
"Jeezus."
He follows me to the back of the condo and in 5 seconds he is unbuckling my Levi's as he pushes me onto the bed.
"You're a tiger," I say. "And that's a compliment."
He has my pants and socks off and his lips are back on mine. "I hope you like kissing," he says. I guess I'm a romantic at heart."
He pulls off my willing mouth and scopes my body.
"I see you're wearing 2(x)ist. They look really sexy on you. At Lord & Taylor, I was fantasizing what you looked like in underwear. You have a really nice body."
Mine body is nice, but it is very different from Mark's. I am 5-9 and a wiry 157 pounds. My hairiness begins at mid-stomach and gets thicker as you move south. My legs and butt are quite hairy. Mark is taller, has a thicker trunk and full thick chest hair that leads to a treasure trail down to his boxer-briefs. I am eager to get those off and experience every inch of him.
We embrace on the bed as I unbutton Mark's shirt. His nipples are dark and large. I kiss his chest hair and move my tongue toward his nipples. My tongue sandpapers one and then the other. I use my teeth to see how sensitive they are. "Do you like having your nipples played with?" I ask.
He answers with an "ohhhh, yes."
It is time for more as I sit him on the edge of the bed and kneel before him. I grip his undies and pull them downward. And there it is -- the most beautiful circumcised dick you can imagine. Long -- 8 inches, -- thick and meaty with a beautiful vein running from the root to the perfect mushroom cap.
I tongue the head and lick all around the beveled edge, tasting his sweat and precum. I nuzzle my nose into his pubic hair -- black and thick -- and take in his scent..
He lets me take his cock all the way inside my mouth and his groans tell me he is loving my technique.
"Please keep doing that," he says, as if I needed the request. "I can't believe how good that feels."
I continue lathering his cock with all the skills I have. But I want this to last. I expect that getting blown to the root isn't something he is used to, so I want to teach him the joys of being edged.
I take a breather from his cock and head downward, where his two plump, hairy balls seem to beckon me. I lick the sweat off them -- I love what summer does to a man's crotch smell -- and put one and then the other in my mouth. They are too big to get both in at the same time.
I absorb his scent and lick his balls, lathering them with my saliva. He grabs my hand and squeezes. With his other hand, he brushes the top of my head and rubs my cheeks.
I lift his legs just enough to see his furry taint and wonder what I should do next.
(to be continued)