You must be of legal age to read this story, which contains descriptions of male/male sex.
Posing
Part 1.
I was glad to be staying at college this summer. I was coming off a great freshman year as an art major at Minnesota, and was anxious to continue my work. It was all starting to come together. I'm a figurative artist-drawings and painting, and my specialty is the male figure. I've always been as rapturous about the male torso as so many of my favorite artists: Michelangelo, Rodin, the Greeks. There's something about a beautifully proportioned male body that makes it for me the most exciting, intoxicating thing in the world. All right, you probably guessed I'm gay, too. Maybe the two are connected, maybe they're not. But they are for me. My first year at college, though, was better for my art than my sex life. I'm still a little scared, self-conscious, awkward, whatever. I tried showing a few guys I was interested this year, but timidity won out. Towards the end of the year I discovered the very active GLBT student group on campus, and so that was another reason I was happy to be staying on this summer. The chance to stay immersed in my work (I was taking Painting II and Life Drawing, which would be a heavy load, but if I passed them both, I could get studio space next year in the art building), as well as try to learn to be out and happy.
My drawing style was based on the gay porn I started reading in high school: almost a kind of exaggerated male nude, with idealized musculature. I was good at it, and trying to move that kind of illustrative style into more of a fine art direction. I had tons of sketches I did all last year, which I kept in a special portfolio in back of my bed-as I said, I still was not comfortable with everyone knowing I was gay, and I assumed people seeing all my drawings of incredible beefcake, pouting lips, massive torsos, bulging jockstraps, and thick cocks would be an obvious give-away. I also had about ten paintings I'd done in the same style that I was really happy with. They were, I felt, incredibly charged and atmospheric with masculinity. I was trying to move into a direction that fused that stroke-book ideal with a kind of Mapplethorpe depth. I really felt I was getting there, and welcomed the summer to continue my quest. They, too, were stashed out of the way.
I was keeping things especially well-hidden cause my RA told me I was getting a room-mate today. There weren't a whole lot of people in the dorms, but they were keeping a few floors closed off to keep it easier for the housekeepers. Over half the students here this summer were mostly athletes, football players, especially, which was fine with me. The more I was steeped in highly-developed male musculature, the better for my art. Of course, it didn't hurt my libido, either! I've been tempted to ask one to pose for me, but as I say, I'm shy enough, without worry that some defensive lineman was going to beat the shit out of me. My room-mate, I learned, was Jack Thornton, a transfer student from Iowa, who was starting in the summer so he could get as much practice in with the team as possible. Oh well, I'd hoped he was good-looking-hell, I'd settle for pleasant.
It was a beautiful June day, and I spent it with my sketchbook down along the river at a stretch of beach that was 'reserved' for gays. There was a lot of cruising that went on there, which I kept away from. I was just there cause there was a lot of nude tanning that went on, and a nice-looking kid who kept to himself and just did drawing didn't draw much attention. Guys just laying back catching rays kept very still, which is what I wanted. I had all the muscles and cocks I could ask for to practice on. Plus, it allowed me to work on my own tan. I was fairly decent-looking, I thought, and I had the incredibly high standards of someone who styled himself a connoisseur of male beauty. I was 19, blonde, lean and slightly muscled-I worked out a lot, gyms and locker rooms were inspirational for me, not just for the men (though I'd never dare sketch in there, those scenes are highly charged enough as is), but the hyper-ambience of masculinity. Seeing naked guys holding a pose against a wall as they talked, or standing in a jock, or leaning back nude in a sauna-these were images I filed away and then tried to reproduce from memory. It was my art, though, and not my physique, that was showing the most results from all my gym time. I was lean, sure, and had some definition (sometimes I could really get off on my naked body in the mirror), but I knew I was doing something wrong, cause I had plateaued. Oh well, I'd keep at it, if for no other reason than my art!
As I walked down the hall to my room, I peeled off my shirt, ready for a nice hot shower. I opened the door, threw my shirt and art supplies on the bed, and shucked off my shorts (I rarely wore underwear), then turned to grab the towel I kept on the back of the door. I saw my room-mate at the same time I heard, "Hey, don't let me interrupt, dude. Go for it!" Oh shit. I'm sure I turned crimson instantly.
"Hi," I gasped. "Sorry, I'm used to being alone," as I fumbled for the towel to cover my dick.
"No problem, dude," he laughed, and then nodded approvingly. "Lookin' good, no need to be shy!"
My hands were shaking so bad, my towel fell. I was utterly flustered. But not too flustered to register that the guy I was looking at, who was now grinning and walking towards me ("Allow me," he laughed), was incredible-looking. He was like one of may paintings come to life: a jock ideal, big and beefy, but graceful and lithe. He was dressed only in gym shorts, tight shorts, which revealed a nice bulge. The definition was perfect, totally ripped, no fat at all. Just pure ripply power.
As he bent down to get my towel, I said, "You don't have to do that."
"No problem, " he said, and as he bent in close the top of his head brushed my dick. I was getting dangerously hard.
I was able to wrap the towel around me, tuck one end in quickly, regain what composure I could, and make an introduction. But as I reached to offer my hand ("Hi, I'm your room-mate, Tom Stark"), my damn towel fell again. This time we both laughed, and I finally got myself under control. He's just going to have to deal with a naked guy.
"Look, I'm just gonna forget the fucking towel if you don't mind!"
"Not a bit, stud."
"Well, welcome to the room," I laughed. "Uh, I hope that side's OK with you?" Our room was like a T, with the door into it being the bottom of the T, closets on either side, then at either end of the top of the T was each of our spaces.
"Fine, they both look sort of the same to me."
It was obvious we were checking each other out. I tried to be as casual as I could with half a hard-on rising up from my blond bush, and couldn't notice help that he was showing a little wood in those shorts. But it was his upper body I was raking over, as nonchalantly as I could. Perfection. Beautiful slabs of pecs, with gorgeous round nipples on each, and those nice little eraser-point nubs I lavished so much time shading perfectly in my sketches. Broad shoulders. Hair short but raggedy, very jock-preppy, and a rugged, all-American face. His thighs and calves, which I noticed from the gym most guys don't work as much, were exceptional. Not muscle-builder over-bulky, but Greek statue perfect. I forced myself to make a little more conversation before I hit the showers to (now) madly jerk off.
"So, Stephen, the RA, says you're on the football team? A transfer?"
"Yep," he said coolly, with a roguish eyebrow still-cocked, and a roguish eye still peeping down to my dick every now and then, which was only natural, I knew: guys always check out dicks, straight or gay. I took it for nothing. He was a football player, so he was probably straight. "I'm from Ames? Iowa?"
"Right, I know where that is. Iowa State's there. They have a good museum on campus. I went there for a show last year, of boxing art."
"Right!" he animated. "I saw that show! My freshman English class had to write about it. Cool show. But you'd go all the way to Ames to see an art exhibit? You must like art!"
"It's my major. Painting and Drawing."
"Cool! I hope I can see your work some time?"
I froze inside. I thought of my sketchbook there, filled to the brim with lovingly rendered dicks and pecs and asses and thighs of nude men sunning on Bareass Beach.
"Yeah, sure. Whenever. Listen, I'll remove my naked, humiliated self from your presence and take that shower now. You probably want to finish putting your stuff away."
"No hurry," he smiled, roguishly again. Was this guy fucking with my mind or what. And he managed to have posed himself provocative against the wall, hands folded over chest and hips jutting out. His cocktip was a big thick outline in his pulled-taught shorts; it was just the kind of dick I liked to exaggerate a little in my work, with that lovely flared ridge majestically circling a cut head. I knew I was going to think an awful lot about licking it as I showered. Suddenly he bolted up and headed toward me again, "And here, allow me. Let's get it right this time!"
And damned if he didn't reach down to grab my towel again. And damned if he didn't brush my now hardened dick with his head again, this time the side of his cheek.
"Jesus, careful!" he said, laughing, as he rose, staring down at my almost fully-hard cock. "You can put someone's eye out with that thing!"
Embarrassed laughter from me.
"You better take care of that thing in the shower!" he'd yelled as I couldn't wait to get out of the room.
My mind was a whirl as I walked down the hall to the showers. Was my room-mate flirting with me? I dismissed the idea, at first. He's a football player. He grew up around good-looking naked guys. He's comfortable with nudity and with sexual, masculine horseplay. A dick is just another exposed body part to him. I settled down into my shower and immersed myself in thoughts of a year with that beautiful body in the same room with me. I hoped he was the kind of jock I'd seen around my floor who wears boxers at most, but more often jockstraps or nothing. God, he was gorgeous. My mind's eye traced every sexy curve as I beat my six-and-a-half inches in the steamy heat. I had visions of him posing nude for me, or in a jock. I rubbed faster and climaxed hard and loud. As I toweled, I decided that if he was still in the room, waiting to see my naked-ass self again, maybe even having stripped down himself, he was either consciously or unconsciously gay. When I got back to the room, clean from the beach, calm from my nervous first meeting with Jack, and nuts most satisfyingly drained, he was gone. I stretched out naked on my bed, opened the windows full, and fell asleep, logy from all the sun I had gotten earlier and still full of fantasies about my room-mate's wetdream of a body.
It was dusk when I woke up. The cool breeze felt wonderful wafting over my sun-burned body. I woke with a hard-on and idly started fingering it as I thought again about my new room-mate. I started rubbing it harder, bringing my other hand in to rub my balls and play with my ass.
"OK," a voice said, and I knew whose, and I froze. "I'm cool with us being naked around the room; in fact, I was wondering how I'd broach the subject with you cause I'm almost always naked around the dorm. And I guess I could get off on jacking off in front of you, too."
"Jesus Christ, Jack," I sat up and saw him, naked, grinning at me as he sat on his bed, leaning back against the headboard, arms folded across his chest. "Oh fuck," one arm instantly draped itself across my hard-on, "I'm so fucking sorry. I'm just not used to a room-mate, I guess. Shit, you must think I'm a pervert."
He laughed and crossed his arms behind his head, giving me full view of not only that gorgeous body I had been fantasizing about every conscious (and unconscious, judging from the dick-thickening dream I must have been having) since I met him, but now my eyes could rivet on his now exposed 7 inch soft, thick slab of dick that lopped lazily across one thigh.
"I don't think you're a pervert, I think you're a horny 19 year-old American male, same as me. I'm just not used to being so public about it." He started rubbing his own shaft sexily and moaning, "but I can learn how you city boys do it."
"Fuck you," I said getting up, looking for my shorts. "Hey, you had dinner yet."
"I was just hanging around, waiting for you to wake up, to see if you wanted to grab something."
By now he was on his feet and I had a chance to drink in, I tell you, the most perfect male torso I'd ever seen in the flesh. My awe just bubbled right out of me.
"Jack, excuse me staring, man," I said, shorts in one hand, but too dumbfounded to put them on, "but you are about the best-built guy I have ever seen in my life. Do you do anything else besides work out."
Jack laughed again and grinned, he was a natural charmer.
"Nice of you to say, man," he looked at his body and started posing a little for me, pumping his biceps, which were totally carved, adjusting his torso so his beautiful eight-pack rippled, all the while that sweet dick dangled maddeningly. "I do spend a lot of time in the gym. I did two sports in high school, wrestling and football, so maybe I'm a bit better conditioned than most guys my age."
"A bit? Jesus, I'll say," and I prayede he didn't see me as I unconsciously licked my lips.
He stopped posing and stared at me.
"But, and you excuse me now, you're kind of a hottie yourself. Lean, of course, but filled out quite nice. You must not have any problems with the ladies." Now he was walking towards me, that lovely cock dangling again, hypnotizing me. "You've got really nice abs," he nodded, as he-I couldn't believe it-actually rubbed his hand down my six-pack (my best feature; the only one that had really responded to my workouts). I was getting hard again. Is this what athletes did to themselves? How do they stand it? Get a grip, I thought. You're the hip young artist who fancies himself the poet of raw masculinity. Enjoy your rawness. Then he felt along my arms and shoulder.
"It's your upper body that needs the work," he said.
"Maybe you can give me some pointers, " I said, daring to touch his biceps, an electric thrill going through me and getting me now totally hard. He chuckled. "Clearly this," and he ran his hand up and down the shaft, and I thought I'd squirt right there, "needs no definition!" "Shit," I batted his hand away for God knows what reason, "excuse this fucking dick. I'm not used to being so intimate with guys."
"No sweat," he said, and gave it another playful squeeze. "And don't be so self-conscious. It's a nice-looking dick."
Then he walked over to his dresser and, as he opened a drawer, turned to me and said, "And yes, by the way, I'd love to have a work-out partner. I have one weight session with the team every morning at 6, but we're on our own for the afternoon." He found a jock strap and put it on. Oh Christ, did he look good in it. It was, again, the painting I'd been searching for. The soft mesh outlined his thick shaft and beautifully flanged head perfectly. "Any afternoon you want, let's hit the gym together. I'll have you a bit bulkier in no time."
He turned full frontal, and it seemed like he was luxuriating in his bodily perfection, clothes now in that skimpy, sexy uniform of masculine athleticism. I knew I was staring but couldn't help it. "So where should we eat?" he asked, all chipper, like there was nothing weird about Adonis arrayed in a jockstrap, displayed before me. "I'm at your mercy. I know nothing about this town."
"OK, let's think about this," I said, jumping back into bed, still naked, still hard, using this as an excuse to watch him some more, hoping he'd put no more clothes on. He didn't; instead he walked over and sat those firm carved ass cheeks down about an inch from my thigh. "Uh, what do you like to eat?" I managed to choke out.
"Hmm," he said, and laughed again, almost to himself. Then leaned back on an elbow and brought his legs up opposite my head. "Mexican, Italian. Japanese. Those are my favorites, but anything, really."
"Money a problem?" I asked, idly, lightly, stroking my rock-hard dick again. Two can play at this teasing, I thought. Let him deal with it.
"Not really, why?" The fucker started casually brushing the back of his hand against his own jock-covered dick, as if it was the most innocent thing in the world-the exact effect I was trying for.
"Well, there's a great Mexican place right off campus; it's a bit pricy, like with beers and dinner and chips, we'll probably pay about 25 bucks each."
He jumped out of bed.
"Perfect! We can celebrate the start of our year together!"
He threw on a nicely faded pair of jeans that draped perfectly on his lower body and a short-sleeved button-down that he left open.
Then he laughed again, "You want me to wait out front while you . . . " he nodded his head toward raging (and could he tell dripping?) hard-on and made a little jack-off motion with his hand.
"FUCK YOU!" I laughed, jumping up and somehow managing to pull my cargo shorts up quickly over my precum-slick fuckstick.
"No underwear," he observed. "You are one sexy stud, Tom." Then, "Hey, why not?" And he stripped off his jeans, ripped off the jock, and then pulled his jeans back on, giving me a big grin and making a show out of placing his dick. "The Randy Young Room-mates!" he crowed, "Letting the ladies see all we have to offer."
Dang, this guy was rapidly becoming my favorite person in the world.
(I welcome comments! weakpoetry@yahoo.com)You must be of legal age to read this story, which contains descriptions of male/male sex.
Posing
Part 1.
I was glad to be staying at college this summer. I was coming off a great freshman year as an art major at Minnesota, and was anxious to continue my work. It was all starting to come together. I'm a figurative artist-drawings and painting, and my specialty is the male figure. I've always been as rapturous about the male torso as so many of my favorite artists: Michelangelo, Rodin, the Greeks. There's something about a beautifully proportioned male body that makes it for me the most exciting, intoxicating thing in the world. All right, you probably guessed I'm gay, too. Maybe the two are connected, maybe they're not. But they are for me. My first year at college, though, was better for my art than my sex life. I'm still a little scared, self-conscious, awkward, whatever. I tried showing a few guys I was interested this year, but timidity won out. Towards the end of the year I discovered the very active GLBT student group on campus, and so that was another reason I was happy to be staying on this summer. The chance to stay immersed in my work (I was taking Painting II and Life Drawing, which would be a heavy load, but if I passed them both, I could get studio space next year in the art building), as well as try to learn to be out and happy.
My drawing style was based on the gay porn I started reading in high school: almost a kind of exaggerated male nude, with idealized musculature. I was good at it, and trying to move that kind of illustrative style into more of a fine art direction. I had tons of sketches I did all last year, which I kept in a special portfolio in back of my bed-as I said, I still was not comfortable with everyone knowing I was gay, and I assumed people seeing all my drawings of incredible beefcake, pouting lips, massive torsos, bulging jockstraps, and thick cocks would be an obvious give-away. I also had about ten paintings I'd done in the same style that I was really happy with. They were, I felt, incredibly charged and atmospheric with masculinity. I was trying to move into a direction that fused that stroke-book ideal with a kind of Mapplethorpe depth. I really felt I was getting there, and welcomed the summer to continue my quest. They, too, were stashed out of the way.
I was keeping things especially well-hidden cause my RA told me I was getting a room-mate today. There weren't a whole lot of people in the dorms, but they were keeping a few floors closed off to keep it easier for the housekeepers. Over half the students here this summer were mostly athletes, football players, especially, which was fine with me. The more I was steeped in highly-developed male musculature, the better for my art. Of course, it didn't hurt my libido, either! I've been tempted to ask one to pose for me, but as I say, I'm shy enough, without worry that some defensive lineman was going to beat the shit out of me. My room-mate, I learned, was Jack Thornton, a transfer student from Iowa, who was starting in the summer so he could get as much practice in with the team as possible. Oh well, I'd hoped he was good-looking-hell, I'd settle for pleasant.
It was a beautiful June day, and I spent it with my sketchbook down along the river at a stretch of beach that was 'reserved' for gays. There was a lot of cruising that went on there, which I kept away from. I was just there cause there was a lot of nude tanning that went on, and a nice-looking kid who kept to himself and just did drawing didn't draw much attention. Guys just laying back catching rays kept very still, which is what I wanted. I had all the muscles and cocks I could ask for to practice on. Plus, it allowed me to work on my own tan. I was fairly decent-looking, I thought, and I had the incredibly high standards of someone who styled himself a connoisseur of male beauty. I was 19, blonde, lean and slightly muscled-I worked out a lot, gyms and locker rooms were inspirational for me, not just for the men (though I'd never dare sketch in there, those scenes are highly charged enough as is), but the hyper-ambience of masculinity. Seeing naked guys holding a pose against a wall as they talked, or standing in a jock, or leaning back nude in a sauna-these were images I filed away and then tried to reproduce from memory. It was my art, though, and not my physique, that was showing the most results from all my gym time. I was lean, sure, and had some definition (sometimes I could really get off on my naked body in the mirror), but I knew I was doing something wrong, cause I had plateaued. Oh well, I'd keep at it, if for no other reason than my art!
As I walked down the hall to my room, I peeled off my shirt, ready for a nice hot shower. I opened the door, threw my shirt and art supplies on the bed, and shucked off my shorts (I rarely wore underwear), then turned to grab the towel I kept on the back of the door. I saw my room-mate at the same time I heard, "Hey, don't let me interrupt, dude. Go for it!" Oh shit. I'm sure I turned crimson instantly.
"Hi," I gasped. "Sorry, I'm used to being alone," as I fumbled for the towel to cover my dick.
"No problem, dude," he laughed, and then nodded approvingly. "Lookin' good, no need to be shy!"
My hands were shaking so bad, my towel fell. I was utterly flustered. But not too flustered to register that the guy I was looking at, who was now grinning and walking towards me ("Allow me," he laughed), was incredible-looking. He was like one of may paintings come to life: a jock ideal, big and beefy, but graceful and lithe. He was dressed only in gym shorts, tight shorts, which revealed a nice bulge. The definition was perfect, totally ripped, no fat at all. Just pure ripply power.
As he bent down to get my towel, I said, "You don't have to do that."
"No problem, " he said, and as he bent in close the top of his head brushed my dick. I was getting dangerously hard.
I was able to wrap the towel around me, tuck one end in quickly, regain what composure I could, and make an introduction. But as I reached to offer my hand ("Hi, I'm your room-mate, Tom Stark"), my damn towel fell again. This time we both laughed, and I finally got myself under control. He's just going to have to deal with a naked guy.
"Look, I'm just gonna forget the fucking towel if you don't mind!"
"Not a bit, stud."
"Well, welcome to the room," I laughed. "Uh, I hope that side's OK with you?" Our room was like a T, with the door into it being the bottom of the T, closets on either side, then at either end of the top of the T was each of our spaces.
"Fine, they both look sort of the same to me."
It was obvious we were checking each other out. I tried to be as casual as I could with half a hard-on rising up from my blond bush, and couldn't notice help that he was showing a little wood in those shorts. But it was his upper body I was raking over, as nonchalantly as I could. Perfection. Beautiful slabs of pecs, with gorgeous round nipples on each, and those nice little eraser-point nubs I lavished so much time shading perfectly in my sketches. Broad shoulders. Hair short but raggedy, very jock-preppy, and a rugged, all-American face. His thighs and calves, which I noticed from the gym most guys don't work as much, were exceptional. Not muscle-builder over-bulky, but Greek statue perfect. I forced myself to make a little more conversation before I hit the showers to (now) madly jerk off.
"So, Stephen, the RA, says you're on the football team? A transfer?"
"Yep," he said coolly, with a roguish eyebrow still-cocked, and a roguish eye still peeping down to my dick every now and then, which was only natural, I knew: guys always check out dicks, straight or gay. I took it for nothing. He was a football player, so he was probably straight. "I'm from Ames? Iowa?"
"Right, I know where that is. Iowa State's there. They have a good museum on campus. I went there for a show last year, of boxing art."
"Right!" he animated. "I saw that show! My freshman English class had to write about it. Cool show. But you'd go all the way to Ames to see an art exhibit? You must like art!"
"It's my major. Painting and Drawing."
"Cool! I hope I can see your work some time?"
I froze inside. I thought of my sketchbook there, filled to the brim with lovingly rendered dicks and pecs and asses and thighs of nude men sunning on Bareass Beach.
"Yeah, sure. Whenever. Listen, I'll remove my naked, humiliated self from your presence and take that shower now. You probably want to finish putting your stuff away."
"No hurry," he smiled, roguishly again. Was this guy fucking with my mind or what. And he managed to have posed himself provocative against the wall, hands folded over chest and hips jutting out. His cocktip was a big thick outline in his pulled-taught shorts; it was just the kind of dick I liked to exaggerate a little in my work, with that lovely flared ridge majestically circling a cut head. I knew I was going to think an awful lot about licking it as I showered. Suddenly he bolted up and headed toward me again, "And here, allow me. Let's get it right this time!"
And damned if he didn't reach down to grab my towel again. And damned if he didn't brush my now hardened dick with his head again, this time the side of his cheek.
"Jesus, careful!" he said, laughing, as he rose, staring down at my almost fully-hard cock. "You can put someone's eye out with that thing!"
Embarrassed laughter from me.
"You better take care of that thing in the shower!" he'd yelled as I couldn't wait to get out of the room.
My mind was a whirl as I walked down the hall to the showers. Was my room-mate flirting with me? I dismissed the idea, at first. He's a football player. He grew up around good-looking naked guys. He's comfortable with nudity and with sexual, masculine horseplay. A dick is just another exposed body part to him. I settled down into my shower and immersed myself in thoughts of a year with that beautiful body in the same room with me. I hoped he was the kind of jock I'd seen around my floor who wears boxers at most, but more often jockstraps or nothing. God, he was gorgeous. My mind's eye traced every sexy curve as I beat my six-and-a-half inches in the steamy heat. I had visions of him posing nude for me, or in a jock. I rubbed faster and climaxed hard and loud. As I toweled, I decided that if he was still in the room, waiting to see my naked-ass self again, maybe even having stripped down himself, he was either consciously or unconsciously gay. When I got back to the room, clean from the beach, calm from my nervous first meeting with Jack, and nuts most satisfyingly drained, he was gone. I stretched out naked on my bed, opened the windows full, and fell asleep, logy from all the sun I had gotten earlier and still full of fantasies about my room-mate's wetdream of a body.
It was dusk when I woke up. The cool breeze felt wonderful wafting over my sun-burned body. I woke with a hard-on and idly started fingering it as I thought again about my new room-mate. I started rubbing it harder, bringing my other hand in to rub my balls and play with my ass.
"OK," a voice said, and I knew whose, and I froze. "I'm cool with us being naked around the room; in fact, I was wondering how I'd broach the subject with you cause I'm almost always naked around the dorm. And I guess I could get off on jacking off in front of you, too."
"Jesus Christ, Jack," I sat up and saw him, naked, grinning at me as he sat on his bed, leaning back against the headboard, arms folded across his chest. "Oh fuck," one arm instantly draped itself across my hard-on, "I'm so fucking sorry. I'm just not used to a room-mate, I guess. Shit, you must think I'm a pervert."
He laughed and crossed his arms behind his head, giving me full view of not only that gorgeous body I had been fantasizing about every conscious (and unconscious, judging from the dick-thickening dream I must have been having) since I met him, but now my eyes could rivet on his now exposed 7 inch soft, thick slab of dick that lopped lazily across one thigh.
"I don't think you're a pervert, I think you're a horny 19 year-old American male, same as me. I'm just not used to being so public about it." He started rubbing his own shaft sexily and moaning, "but I can learn how you city boys do it."
"Fuck you," I said getting up, looking for my shorts. "Hey, you had dinner yet."
"I was just hanging around, waiting for you to wake up, to see if you wanted to grab something."
By now he was on his feet and I had a chance to drink in, I tell you, the most perfect male torso I'd ever seen in the flesh. My awe just bubbled right out of me.
"Jack, excuse me staring, man," I said, shorts in one hand, but too dumbfounded to put them on, "but you are about the best-built guy I have ever seen in my life. Do you do anything else besides work out."
Jack laughed again and grinned, he was a natural charmer.
"Nice of you to say, man," he looked at his body and started posing a little for me, pumping his biceps, which were totally carved, adjusting his torso so his beautiful eight-pack rippled, all the while that sweet dick dangled maddeningly. "I do spend a lot of time in the gym. I did two sports in high school, wrestling and football, so maybe I'm a bit better conditioned than most guys my age."
"A bit? Jesus, I'll say," and I prayede he didn't see me as I unconsciously licked my lips.
He stopped posing and stared at me.
"But, and you excuse me now, you're kind of a hottie yourself. Lean, of course, but filled out quite nice. You must not have any problems with the ladies." Now he was walking towards me, that lovely cock dangling again, hypnotizing me. "You've got really nice abs," he nodded, as he-I couldn't believe it-actually rubbed his hand down my six-pack (my best feature; the only one that had really responded to my workouts). I was getting hard again. Is this what athletes did to themselves? How do they stand it? Get a grip, I thought. You're the hip young artist who fancies himself the poet of raw masculinity. Enjoy your rawness. Then he felt along my arms and shoulder.
"It's your upper body that needs the work," he said.
"Maybe you can give me some pointers, " I said, daring to touch his biceps, an electric thrill going through me and getting me now totally hard. He chuckled. "Clearly this," and he ran his hand up and down the shaft, and I thought I'd squirt right there, "needs no definition!" "Shit," I batted his hand away for God knows what reason, "excuse this fucking dick. I'm not used to being so intimate with guys."
"No sweat," he said, and gave it another playful squeeze. "And don't be so self-conscious. It's a nice-looking dick."
Then he walked over to his dresser and, as he opened a drawer, turned to me and said, "And yes, by the way, I'd love to have a work-out partner. I have one weight session with the team every morning at 6, but we're on our own for the afternoon." He found a jock strap and put it on. Oh Christ, did he look good in it. It was, again, the painting I'd been searching for. The soft mesh outlined his thick shaft and beautifully flanged head perfectly. "Any afternoon you want, let's hit the gym together. I'll have you a bit bulkier in no time."
He turned full frontal, and it seemed like he was luxuriating in his bodily perfection, clothes now in that skimpy, sexy uniform of masculine athleticism. I knew I was staring but couldn't help it. "So where should we eat?" he asked, all chipper, like there was nothing weird about Adonis arrayed in a jockstrap, displayed before me. "I'm at your mercy. I know nothing about this town."
"OK, let's think about this," I said, jumping back into bed, still naked, still hard, using this as an excuse to watch him some more, hoping he'd put no more clothes on. He didn't; instead he walked over and sat those firm carved ass cheeks down about an inch from my thigh. "Uh, what do you like to eat?" I managed to choke out.
"Hmm," he said, and laughed again, almost to himself. Then leaned back on an elbow and brought his legs up opposite my head. "Mexican, Italian. Japanese. Those are my favorites, but anything, really."
"Money a problem?" I asked, idly, lightly, stroking my rock-hard dick again. Two can play at this teasing, I thought. Let him deal with it.
"Not really, why?" The fucker started casually brushing the back of his hand against his own jock-covered dick, as if it was the most innocent thing in the world-the exact effect I was trying for.
"Well, there's a great Mexican place right off campus; it's a bit pricy, like with beers and dinner and chips, we'll probably pay about 25 bucks each."
He jumped out of bed.
"Perfect! We can celebrate the start of our year together!"
He threw on a nicely faded pair of jeans that draped perfectly on his lower body and a short-sleeved button-down that he left open.
Then he laughed again, "You want me to wait out front while you . . . " he nodded his head toward raging (and could he tell dripping?) hard-on and made a little jack-off motion with his hand.
"FUCK YOU!" I laughed, jumping up and somehow managing to pull my cargo shorts up quickly over my precum-slick fuckstick.
"No underwear," he observed. "You are one sexy stud, Tom." Then, "Hey, why not?" And he stripped off his jeans, ripped off the jock, and then pulled his jeans back on, giving me a big grin and making a show out of placing his dick. "The Randy Young Room-mates!" he crowed, "Letting the ladies see all we have to offer."
Dang, this guy was rapidly becoming my favorite person in the world.
(I welcome comments! weakpoetry@yahoo.com)