Bob and Carl had been neighbors for 9 years, and become fast friends, hitting the bars together and picking up the women. Both handsome, they'd had an incredible string of good luck with the ladies, right up until this last Friday night.
Finigan's Pub had an Irish night. Plenty of lasses about, but Bob and Carl were striking out, every time. They hadn't come together, and it was an hour before one realized the other was there.
They acknowledged each other with the stereotypical head back-nod and half-smile, a "hi, I'm not having any luck either" signal.
By 1 a.m., they were both wearing a frown and the bar was shutting down.
"Hey, Carl," the sandy brown-headed Bob said, "Guess your luck is as good as mine tonight."
"Yeah, nothing," the black-headed gym rat said. "Most of them were ugly anyway."
"You blind? They were good lookin'; they just weren't lookin' our way," Bob said, checking his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "Or too young. Did youth always equal stupid?"
Bob was an engineer/architect. He jogged, did marathons, had that runners build and metabolism. Carl was a teen model who couldn't make the transition to adult modeling, or acting. He'd gone into advertising, wooing companies run by middle-age and older women, looking for a little excitement from their ad agent. It helped that he was good, too.
"I know what you mean. I was talking to a college girl and asked her if she was taking any philosophy classes," Carl said. "She said she didn't have any math classes this semester."
"She probably didn't," Bob snickered. "You're wearing your 22 tee, man."
Carl looked at his T-shirt, the navy blue tee with "2+2=22" on it.
"Ah, crap," he said.
"I'd invite ya over for a beer, but I'm out, man," Bob said.
"Come over to my place," Carl said. "I'm fully stocked, and just a block away. We can walk."
The pair headed out the door and to the right. At Carl's stoop, Bob spotted Minnie.
"Damn, she's pretty hot," Bob smiled.
"She's a whore," Carl said under his breath. "She is hot, but..."
"Let's ask her..."
"NO. Um, she's a literally whore," Carl whispered. Louder, he said, "Hi, Becky. How's it going?"
"Slow night, and Mickey's pitching a fit that he wants to move to Florida to be near his best friend Donald," she whined in her uniquely high-pitched voice.
"I thought Goofy was his best friend," Carl consoled.
"I don't know what the hell Goofy is," Minnie barked. "Florida. Ugh, old, wrinkly men."
She sauntered off, and around the corner. Bob and Carl heard, "Fucking Donald. I'm callin' Daisy!"
"Wow. She always that uptight?" Bob asked, following Carl up the stairs and into the building.
"No, she's pretty loose," Carl winked.
"Oh, that is bad, dude," Bob slapped his forehead. "Don't give up the day job."
Carl started up the stairwell.
"Carl. Elevator still not fixed?"
"Bob. It's your building, too! You know the damn place doesn't have an elevator," Carl said. "Are you drunk?"
"I don't think so. I only had a dozen or so beers. And some Jello shooters. And some Irish drinks..."
"That would be beer."
"Oh. Maybe I am drunk."
"I hate it when you're drunk. You're mellow and can't find anything," Carl growled, unlocking his C5 door. "No keys, right?"
Bob tried some keys in C4, but had no luck.
"Come sleep on the couch, dude."
Three hours later Bob was stretched out on the couch, naked, barely covered by a sheet, drool running down his left cheek.
The ringing phone 5 minutes ago didn't wake him. Neither did Carl's voice.
"...dammit, Maggie, it's 4 in the fucking A. M.! I am not going to work on your damn ad. Just take your pills and we'll deal with it Monday," Carl raged, slamming the phone down. "Glad I didn't give that cow my cell number."
Carl stopped when he realized he was in the living room. A slight movement by Bob caught his attention and he stared at his slumbering neighbor.
Moonlight shone off Bob's smooth, sculpted chest, pit hairs barely peaking from under his arms, and a trail forming at his belly button and slipping down to his rock hard cock. The sheet covered Bob's left arm and leg.
"That must be some wet dream!" Carl thought.
Bob's 8-inch cock throbbed and bobbed, precum oozing out, glistening in the moonlight as it started winding its way down the rigid staff, toward the nest of sandy pubes.
Carl stared, entranced, with the subtle movements of the penis of his neighbor. Bob's abs slightly rippled. Carl looked. His neighbor wasn't the physical specimen Carl was. Carl was beefed up, in the gym at least 4 days a week, but Bob jogged, ran, marathoned. Carl was beef. Bob was a runner.
Carl was turned on. He slept nude, too. He looked down as his own hard cock, a member which straightened as he watched his neighbor in slumber, the drool running down his cheek.
Bob was starting to moan, to verbalize, but nothing intelligible; Carl didn't recognize a word. Bob started more noticeable movements, this cock swaying in the living room air. Carl stood transfixed, unable to move, unable to take his eyes of his neighbor, his naked neighbor laying across his couch, the site making Carl's cock rock hard, his mind going where it hadn't before.
Bob moaned more, his dick coated in precum, shimmering in the moonlight. His sounds made out to be closer to words, yet not quite. Carl's cock ached, leaking more clear man juice which clung to his balls, Carl acutely aware of his physical state.
Bob moaned loudly, his cock arching, a line of white fluid flinging itself from Bob's dick. "CARL!"
The one moan turned word shocked Carl, his own cock responding, his cock releasing its cum across the coffee table as Bob's released rope after rope across the runner's chest, creating a sheen of milky white on his abs, mingling with the treasure trail.
Carl shifted his weight. The only clear word, Carl's name, only escaped Bob. He didn't wake. His dick eventually softened; his cum would harden, and Bob would wake, vaguely remembering the dream.
Carl eventually moved, his cock still rock hard. He wiped the coffee table clean with an old shirt in the living room, then went to his bed room. His cock was still hard.
"Bob," he thought, a tear running down his cheek, mirroring the drool of the runner on his couch.
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Master Terra D masterterradil@yahoo.com