GUY-WATCHER
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I loved men, lusted after them, adored everything about them, from day one. Nonetheless, fate permitted me little direct contact with guys. My parents, Methodists in word and deed, kept me in check. The small town I lived in, a conservative Midwest community, upheld a strict definition of "man-woman" relations. A private college operated nearby, about 2500 students. This too, in a fashion, restrained me: even when males were at their most rowdy, the social noise never strayed from a chorus of Heterosexual, Heterosexual, Heterosexual .... This town tolerated no one who stepped off course, let alone a queer.
But God there were men! My teen years whirled by dizzily: Junior High's adolescent jolt -- pubic hair, testosterone, and unrelenting erections. High School hit me; the boys grew big. I recall dark, horselike penises in the locker room, thick-matted arm pits, broad, muscled torsoes and calves. Masculine faces smiled; my face flushed. And I held such great affection and horniness in a single knot ... and such loneliness ... that I could hardly bear it.
It was the college men who affected me most. Strolling down Main or Sunset on a Saturday morning, yelling in packs after the bars closed, or simply going to and from errands (with required girlfriends), these were real, 100-percent men. The High School football teem seemed like kids compared to these guys. In addition, while some students lived on campus, a fair number resided in town. Houses in various stages of disrepair dotted the community. In the usual manner, guys roomed with guys and girls with girls. The 4000 or so townspeople only slightly outnumbered the pupils and college staff. So no matter how strictly folks acted, or how closely they watched and talked, I could always find a beautiful man somewhere. True: the mere sight of a guy could not make me happy, but it did give me hope.
Until my senior year in High School, I never saw anything dramatic. I do remember, though, one special day. I was sitting in a restaurant with my parents. My fifteenth birthday had just passed. Mom and dad chatted in their usual, clipped manner. The table stood next to a large window which faced Main street. Across the way, some hunk was talking to a girl. She was one of those uniform blonds: trim, collegiate, husband-hungry. Light chatter, it appeared, rushed from her lips. She would look at the guy coyly, then glance away, and next would dart a stare straight at him. The man, however, absorbed all my attention. No doubt a college guy, maybe in his fourth year (?), he masked a pair of lean, sturdy legs beneath his jeans. The guy wore his pants loosely, but the thighs and buttocks showed clear-cut each time he moved. What startled me -- a tremendous shock in fact -- was what he did as he spoke: his hand repeatedly pulled on his cock! That stud would laugh, smile, chat ... continuously drill his stare into the girl. At the same time, his right hand would curl around something lumpy in his pants; he would tug hard on the mass. I had seen guys adjust themselves before. It always shook me up. But those grabs were quick. In this case, the guy just kept kneading himself! He reached down at least every half minute!
My parents rattled on. I continued to eat, watching ... but I would lower my eyes toward the plate, regularly, so as not to be too obvious. Memory brings back the man's curly, chestnut hair; his darker-than-normal (for this region) skin; his very white, very even teeth; the tempting smile; those wide, bulky shoulders which filled out his flannel shirt. Toward the end of the couple's talk (it only lasted maybe 5, 10 minutes), I caught something more; the guy's cock was clearly visible! The denim outlined a lengthy, cylindrical bump. The packet curved down the man's right thigh. That was it! That really was his dick! And he was starting to get hard! Did the girl know it? How could she not notice? That bulge was nearly as wide as his fist!
I sat at the table, my face hot. My young dick stuck stiff against my belly. My legs kept opening and closing, nervously. It would be a good hour before I could wrap my own fingers around my cock, release everything that was bottled up, pump and pump warm cum into the towel I stowed under my mattress.
The man and woman finished. She waved, said a few words. He commented. The two took opposite paths. The hunk seemed to walk normally enough, given what he was pocketing. I never saw him again. Still, the image of that hand probing the meat, the right arm jerking lightly up and down, and the expression on his face, all made a fierce impression on me.
From then on I watched guys as often as possible. Men might try to hide their bodies, with certain clothes, in certain ways. They might cloak themselves in toughness and with women. But their own natures would always shine through. Like that glorious hunk across Main street, guys could not help but be guys. And as time went on, I would notice many more things about men. Particularly, in my last year of High School, chance -- plus my own invention -- would yield some memorable surprises. Some other time, perhaps, I will recount them.
LGV