Disclaimer: This is an Adam's Gay Reader pulp story (#239) written by Derek Olson. There is no copyright on it, so I wanted to share it with others before it gets lost forever. This story includes sex between adult males. If this is unappealing or illegal in your location, please do not read this story.
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-DurtyRiter
Chapter 4: FELIPE
Doug, did you really think I was making a play for your frog that night we were shooting pool in the basement? Hell, I had my own frog by then: Felipe. Fuh-LEE-pay.
Hobey, Jesse, you guys remember Felipe?
Okay, I'll start at the beginning. Last September. I'd been on the swim squad my first three years and gotten real tight with Coach Hawkins, so when he asked me to he team manager it didn't come as a big surprise.
Still, I was pleased. Skip Schaeffer, Swim Team Manager -- I liked the sound of that. Plus, it meant I'd he getting paid for doing nothing more than riding herd on the rest of the team through the practice season.
I knew most of the guys on the squad well enough to know they wouldn't give me too hard a time about being their unofficial ass-kicker. They knew I'd always be twice as hard on myself as I was on them.
The frogs, though, they didn't know me -- they had only just arrived at Tuxhill -- and I guess some of them resented me. Each of them had been a standout on his high school team, so you had a lot of oversized egos to deal with.
This one kid, Felipe, was from Albuquerque. He'd been New Mexico state champion in the 200 and 400 freestyle. Felipe Duran. Only Hispanic kid on the varsity squad. One of only three Hispanics in the entire freshman class at Tuxhill!
Northern Vermont isn't exactly the first place an Hispanic kid thinks of going to college, is it?
Well, this guy had trouble written all over him from day one. He didn't want to get the standard haircut. He didn't like the Speedo suits we all wore. He thought the practices went too long. Said that wasn't how his coach had done it in Albuquerque.
Felipe had "cojones." Balls to you, Hobey. You couldn't just tell him to do something. If you tried that, those deep brown eyes of his would flash and, I swear, you felt like he might erupt if you didn't back off and find some other way to make your point.
He had the ideal swimmer's build -- lithe, powerful, but not overly muscular. There was no extra bulk on him, just a perfectly proportioned body for knifing through the water. His hair was long, black, wavy -- until the day we had the barber in to crewcut everybody. Felipe and I almost came to blows over that, but in the end I got him to go along.
Three weeks into practice I still wasn't sure I'd ever get through to Felipe. He hadn't made any friends on the team and Coach was beginning to worry that he might quit. We couldn't afford to lose a swimmer of his caliber. And besides, the guy was an incredible turn-on to me, which of course he didn't know.
At the end of practice one day, Coach Hawkins assembled the team in the locker room.
"Okay, guys, listen up. Something's come to my attention -- one of my JV kids this morning had a couple head lice."
Total silence. Puzzled looks. Some of the guys had never even heard of head lice. They all were wondering what this had to do with them.
"It's nothing to panic about. Happens about every five years. But when one guy on the team has them, we have to take precautions.
"So, fellas, we've ordered up special shampoo and body soap and we'll line you up to use 'em before you leave. Just do what Skip tells you."
A long groan went up, but then the line formed.
Each guy stepped into the shower room, stood under a hot shower and got himself wet. He'd lather his head with the shampoo and his body with the soap, and then I'd rinse him off with a hand-held shower head at the end of a hose.
Coach Hawkins insisted that I rinse each athlete just to be sure he had soaped himself all over. Coach didn't want word of this thing getting out. Lousy P.R. He wanted to nip it in the bud.
"Hey, Schaeffer, you get off rinsing hunky guys' bodies?" shouted one wise-ass sophomore near the front of the line.
I quickly adjusted the shower head to a narrow blast of cold water, swung around and aimed it right at the bastard's groin.
"Holy shit!" he yelped. Everybody broke into raucous laughter.
I noticed that Felipe was near the end of the line, looking more sullen than usual. When it was his turn he strode in, got himself wet, grabbed the shampoo tube from me, lathered his head, and soaped his body. Most of the guys had cracked jokes when it was their turn. Not Felipe. He was stone silent.
Seeing that copper-toned skin of his all soapy, in every nook and cranny, gave me a sex-jolt. Luckily I was wearing my swim-trunks, the tight kind that competitive swimmers always wear. That kept me from throwing a boner on the spot.
I passed the rinse spray across Felipe's broad back, then down his spine to his golden buttocks, making sure the lather had worked into the crack.
"Okay, turn," I deadpanned.
With barely concealed rage at the indignity of it all, he spun around and faced me.
"Raise your arms," I ordered. Hadn't he seen what all the guys ahead of him had done?
He raised his arms, clasping them behind his neck, and I aimed the spray into his pits. He closed his eyes. Why? I had no idea.
"Okay," I said, and the arms came down.
Next I passed the spray across Felipe's tight-muscled chest, noticing how smooth it was, and how large the deep-toned nipples were. I chased the gathering suds down across his trim belly and into the lush growth of his pubes. Again Felipe closed his eyes.
As the warm spray played across the guy's, cock, something amazing happened. It hadn't happened with any of the earlier swimmers. Felipe's rod came instantly to life. When a guy's stirred up, it sure doesn't take long to crank up!
Felipe's eyes shot open and a look of panic came over him. He looked at me as if I could help him.
I guess the guy was terrified that the last swimmers in line would see his boner (no way they couldn't if he walked out now), and he would become the butt of endless jokes.
I gotta take some credit -- I was quick thinking in the situation. I immediately switched the water to cold, icy cold, and aimed it at that gorgeous piece of meat now pointing straight at me. Felipe opened his mouth to yell, but he, too, was a quick thinker and thought better of it. No way did he want to draw attention to himself.
In seconds, his cock had shriveled to its normal dimensions. Without saying a word, he stalked out of the shower.
A while later I took my own shower and went back to my locker to towel off and dress. Everyone had gone by now. As I stood there naked, twirling my combination lock, I thought about what had just happened.
Just picturing the whole scene in my mind was enough to excite me. My prick began to lift itself. It was a nice-sized, pale, cut prick that I had always been extremely proud of. In fact I've always been proud of my whole body, from the powerful shoulders and lightly haired chest down to my muscular legs.
I stand 5'11" and weigh 155 so, like Felipe, I don't have a lot of extra muscle on me, just enough to make me a good (well ok, a great) swimmer. Okay, Hobey, laugh all you want -- and then go take a look at the ribbons and plaques on my wall.
Anyway, I figured it was safe to let my rod grow since no one was around. And thinking about the incident with Felipe was just too sweet. I really couldn't stop myself.
That's when he appeared at the end of the row of lockers. Out of nowhere, it seemed. He had been waiting for me, I now realized. But why?
"Felipe! What are you doing here?" I said.
It was too late to wrap my towel around my waist. I couldn't turn away from him. In fact, anything I did to hide my half-erect meat would draw more attention to it and would only embarrass both of us.
He saw, of course.
"Well, I wanted to . . . uh, thank you." He was looking me in the eye and then looking down at my cock, then up, then down. Jesus!
"Thank me?"
"Yes ... for your help, in the shower."
"Oh. That's alright. I knew you wouldn't want the other guys . . ."
"You're right. They wouldn't have understood. So, thanks."
I stood there naked, facing Felipe, trying to think what to say next. My dick hadn't stopped filling. I guess by now I was feeling pretty weird about the whole situation. Felipe wasn't leaving. He kept glancing down at my predicament. And every time he did, it seemed to prod my meat a little higher.
I tried to laugh it off.
"No telling when your meat's gonna act up . . ."
Felipe took a step closer. It was hard to read his thoughts. His handsome Hispanic-Indian face was a blank mask. Those brown eyes of his seemed to be searching for meaning, for clues, for a way to solve a puzzle.
". . . like yours did," I continued.
He was six feet from me now and staring at my cock, at full stand. He was breathing rapidly. Then he looked up into my face, searching for answers, finding only more questions.
I started to speak but couldn't form the words.
He took one more step toward me, reached out, and grasped my cock. Almost instantly he let go of it, as if it had been red-hot.
"No!" he hissed. He turned and ran.
"Felipe!" I shouted. But he was gone.
Full of frustration, I went back into the shower and turned on the water. I was so angry I didn't give a damn what happened or who saw it. I worked up a thick soap lather around my cock and halls and began to stroke my meat. It was hard in seconds.
I was facing the wall, giving my rod the long, smooth strokes it so desperately needed. All the time, I was thinking about Felipe. Damn him. A cocktease! And full of shit. A goddamned macho spic who couldn't face the truth that maybe he was turned on by another male.
I had spread my legs, closed my eyes, and tightened my grip. I was pretending it was Felipe's hand on my dick, pulling and prodding and smoothing and caring for it. Making it hot and hard.
And it WAS Felipe!
My heart skipped about three beats as my eyes flew open and I saw a long brown arm next to mine, reaching from behind me, taking hold of my meat and continuing the stroking. The rhythm was exactly as it had been before. The grip was tight. The lather was thick and viscous, and my pre-cum mixed with it to keep the stroking smooth.
"Felipe," I said quietly. His other hand circled to cover my mouth, and the cock-stroking gained momentum. He pulled my butt back against him, against his tight jeans. I could feel the mound inside.
The hand over my mouth slipped away, slid down over my chest and held me.
I was lost. Just totally lost. At this point nothing made any sense, but I didn't care as long as the sweet stroking action on my rod didn't stop. It didn't.
He began to rock me forward and backward with his mound. Pressing it hard against me, he pushed me forward into his hand, then pulled me back with the same hand. Back and forth. Back and forth.
It was strange . . . totally strange, but no incredibly erotic that before long I felt my balls tighten in their sac, and then: eruption! My hot cum spewed out onto Felipe's hand, mixing with the froth that already coated it. He worked the jizzy mix back along my dick and gave me a few final strokes.
And then he was gone.
We had said nothing. We hadn't even looked at each other.
But something had been started between us. I was left so weak, my legs wobbled under me. I could barely remember the combination on my lock. And I didn't give a shit. Tomorrow I'd see Felipe.