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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.