This story, modified to protect the anonymity of those involved, blends fact and fantasy.
Reader feedback is welcomed, and the author will do his best to answer questions and respond to comments. Contact him at hairy.jacques@yahoo.com.
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My eyes focused on the address label, where I expected to see my name. I didn't. Instead I saw another name. I didn't believe it at first, so I read it a second time. There it was, plain as day and in all caps: RICHARD SPANGLER.
It took me a moment, but then the thought sank in. Rich also received the Undergear catalog. I had grabbed his copy by mistake--a fact he almost certainly understood since, by now, he had finished sorting the mail.
At that moment my brain sped up. All sorts of thoughts and questions flashed through my head.
If Rich was on the Undergear mailing list, it proved that not everyone who received the catalog was gay. And since he wasn't gay, Rich wouldn't suspect that I was. But what if he was? What if Rich were gay? Was it even possible? Or what if he wasn't but also understood that Undergear had a predominantly gay clientele? Would he figure me out? Would he tell anyone? Would he tell everyone?
It occurred to me to wonder about my International Male catalog. I reached into my backpack and pulled it out, examining the address label. Sure enough, it was addressed to Rich. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach as it dawned on me that he'd discover that I received not one but both of these catalogs featuring shirtless dudes and their bulges. But then it hit me that I knew the same about him. Did he really subscribe just to buy the sorts of clothes these catalogs sold? I couldn't be sure, but, other than his ROTC uniforms, I'd never seen him in anything but stuff that looked like it had been purchased at Walmart and J.C. Penny.
Then my thoughts turned to a more pressing question: What to do? I had seen his eyes focus on the cover of Undergear as I stuffed it into my backpack. Rich knew I took his copies of the catalogs because, when putting out the mail, he must have discovered that I hadn't taken my copies. It occurred to me that I should probably wait and see what his next move would be. Since they were identical anyway, maybe he'd just grab my catalogs for himself and not say another word. But what if he put the copies addressed to me in my mailbox? What then? Would I have to give back the copies addressed to him? I felt relieved when I realized that it would be easy enough to do this. Next time I worked the desk, I could just slide the catalogs addressed to him into his mailbox. The feeling of relief vanished, however, when I remembered how some of my cum had landed on the catalog. I reached down for his copy of Undergear and picked it up. The last two pages were stuck together. How would I ever explain that?
Not wanting to miss dinner, I summoned the courage to pass the front desk on my way to the cafeteria. Much to my relief, Rich was busy talking to two sorority girls. I felt a weird pang of jealousy. They were obviously flirting with him.
As I turned the corner to head toward the cafeteria, I decided to check my mail. I opened the combination lock to my mail box, which contained nothing but my phone bill. He must have just taken my copies of International Male and Undergear. In the cafeteria I sat down with some friends from my floor, ate a burger, and finally felt relaxed. It was one of those long dinners with lots of laughs and a conversation that just kept going. The cafeteria workers were flipping chairs onto tables by the time we left. As I passed the reception desk I glanced over my shoulder. Rich wasn't there. His shift had ended. Instead, behind the desk sat Michelle, who had replaced him.
I took the elevator up to my floor. When I opened my door I looked down to see a manilla file folder that someone had slid through the crack. I picked it up and discovered it contained my copies of International Male and Undergear, which had a Post-It note on the cover: "These are yours, so I guess you have mine? Bring them by my room. I'll be up late! -- Rich"
Sometimes, when I'm in a stressful situation, my mind just flips a switch and I go into autopilot. In hindsight, I should have realized that he viewed these catalogs as best kept on the down-low. Why else place them in a file folder? But I didn't think about it: I just took out the catalogs addressed to me and replaced them in the file folder with the ones addressed to him. I walked to the end of my hallway and took the stairs one flight down to his room. I knocked on his door.
He opened it.
He smiled when he saw me. I smiled back.
"Come in," he said.
I quickly sized up his room. His fraternity pledge paddle hung from the wall at the head of his bed. Over his desk was a poster featuring military helicopters. Overall it looked like Rich kept things pretty basic. The room was more neat than clean. It wasn't musty but just a little bit musky. His closet door was open, displaying his pressed ROTC dress uniforms and camouflage fatigues. Beneath them was a laundry basket nearly overflowing with clothes. My nostrils took in the very faint but very attractive scent of his sweat-soaked gym gear. His room smelled like a hot ROTC fraternity jock lived there, and indeed one did.
I directed my gaze at Rich. Damn, what a stud. Gone were the tie and short-sleeve dress shirt he had on before. He'd also changed out of his khakis. He stood before me, smiling in his Army PT shorts and wifebeater undershirt. He was both more hairy and more muscular than I'd imagined. The ribbed cotton on his sleeveless shirt literally clung to his pronounced pecs, accentuating his wide lats and narrow waistline. The deep scoop exposed his thick tangle of chest hair, which thinned and softened as it reached up to cascade over the muscles of his boulder shoulders.
A lot of guys aren't into body hair, but I'm not one of them. Rich, in my eyes, was masculine perfection. I noticed the dense reddish-brown stubble sprouting from his square jaw. I admired how the cleft of his chin pointed down toward his adam's apple and thick neck, bristling with stubble and chorded with muscles. I could see the damp, dark hair of his armpits peeking out between his muscular shoulders and pecs.
My eyes darted down below his waistline to the slightly tented front of his nylon shorts. I didn't allow my attention to linger on the big, broad head of his cock, clearly visible through the sheer fabric. Instead, I kept glancing lower, marveling at the thickness of his thighs and how all their muscles seemed to come together at his knees. His calves were long and strong and, like his upper legs, covered with a soft golden fuzz perfectly silhouetted by the bright light of the lamp on his desk.
Then there were his feet. They were huge. They seemed much too big for his six-foot frame, and while some guys had pretty feet it was pretty clear that his, instead, were utilitarian. They were muscular -- ripped, even -- with big veins traversing across their tops and light tufts of hair punctuating the knuckles of his toes. I'm not sure that anyone would hire him to model flip flops, but his feet were perfect for military ruck marches.
It occurred to me that Rich was just about my physical opposite. He was big and hairy, handsome and masculine. At 5' 9" and 140 lbs. I was shorter and less substantial. My chest was hairless. My features were delicate. The word girls always used to describe me was "cute."
I looked up as he cleared his throat. He patted his mattress as he sat on his bed. "Have a seat," he said.
I sat down next to him. I could just barely feel the heat of his body. He was only about two feet away.
"So," he said, "you have the catalogs."
He gestured toward the file folder I'd been clutching in my hand. I passed it to him, worried that he'd see the growing erection it had been concealing.
He started to slowly turn the pages. "You ever buy anything from here?" he asked.
"No," I admitted, "not yet." Then I turned the question back at him: "Have you?"
He laughed. "Hell," he said, "I don't even wear underwear unless I absolutely have to."
That was a hot little fact worth tucking away in my brain. It also explained why I had been able to see so clearly the head of his cock beneath his shorts. But it also begged a question.
"So why do you get these catalogs?" I asked.
He didn't flinch or hem and haw. "I like looking at the guys in the photos," he admitted. Then he clarified, sort of. "They're, um, inspiring."
Maybe he was saying that the models were inspiring because they inspired him to work out and further develop his body. Then again, when he said "inspiring" he sort of changed the tone of his voice, as if to put quotes around the word to signify that the guys inspired him to do something else -- like beat off.
I decided to have some fun with the conversation. "Which guy's body inspires you the most?"
He thoughtfully flipped through the pages, stopping at a photo of a cute guy in bikini briefs. "I'll go with him," Rich said, pointing. "He's blond, good body but not overly muscled, long legs, swimmer's build. He reminds me a little bit of you."
I could feel myself blush. "Thanks," I said.
Then Rich asked: "Which guy inspires you the most?"
I paused for a second, then decided to go for broke. "Actually," I said, "the guy on the inside back cover inspired me a bit too much."
Rich flipped to the back of the catalog, discovering the pages that had been stuck together. This caused him to smile broadly as he carefully, almost playfully peeled apart the pages to reveal the photo that had caused me to cum. It was the one of the hairy guy flexing his muscles and wearing a jockstrap.
I turned to face Rich. "He kind of reminds me of you."
He looked up, smiling, and stared into my eyes for a long second. He exhaled, reaching behind me to place his big hand on the back of my head. He pulled me gently toward him while he leaned in and kissed me.
To be continued...
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