Fraser let his legs drop and his boots take the weight of them back on the floor. Still on the bed I let myself fall forward onto him; I lay on his chest, heedless of the sticky state of his pullover, and we cuddled, hugged and kissed. He said, “I liked that. It was my first ever time.”
I said, “I think I knew.”
And so our lives, Luke’s and mine, moved into a new phase. During the rest of that academic year, and the one which followed it, our last, we shared our pleasures again with Fraser many times, and sometimes too with other friends. But often Luke and I were happy just to be together, the two of us, as we’d been before.
Our paths diverged somewhat after we left uni. Fraser went abroad. Luke’s career took him to Glasgow, mine a little way across the border to Carlisle. But trains run hourly between those two cities, and we still meet up from time to time. We have a drink and then a fuck, at his place or mine. It’s condoms of course, these days, if we’re doing that, but never mind. Sometimes we’re quite happy to pleasure each other by hand. We last measured our cocks when we were twenty-three; haven’t felt the need to since. Mine, on that occasion, came out at six inches exactly, which should be big enough for anyone; his—which stopped growing a little time before mine did—ended up at just over five. But he’s a small, elfin guy, and it’s perfectly in proportion with the rest of him. It suits him so.
As for our balls, those haven’t grown much. We still sport a clutch of two pretty little quail’s eggs each. But, as we often have occasion to tell each other, when exchanging accounts of our adventures with other men in the run-up to our own activities of the day (this gets us nicely into the mood, but on occasion has proved too effective a bit too soon) nobody has ever complained. They work perfectly, after all. They deliver the goods.
TRAINING TYLER
Jace Barton
I’ve never been hopelessly attracted to straight men. If I’m ever into a guy and find out he’s not on my team, my lust evaporates. I’ve always been good at switching that part of my brain off. So it came as quite a surprise when, during my junior year at college, I found myself totally, utterly, hopelessly in lust with my straight roommate, Tyler.
We’d been roommates in a small campus apartment since spring of sophomore year. The first time I met him I couldn’t help but notice his so-black-it’s-blue hair, his eyes the color of espresso, a cocky sideways grin that told me he knew he was hot (so go on and look) and a strong tennis player’s grip as he shook my hand. That’s when a shiver traveled down my spine: I was fantasizing that grip all over my body.
As is my custom, the first thing I told him was my name. Then I told him I was gay.
“So, if that’s a problem…” I was always on the defensive in those days.
“Nah, nah. It’s all good. I’ve got lots of gay friends.”
I immediately rolled my eyes. “Fuck you!”
He laughed. “Maybe later,” he said, his grin widening. And so it went. Turned out he really was cool with me being gay. I told him I was cool with him being straight (“No one’s perfect!” I chirped), and we got along. He talked to me as if I were one of his beer-swilling, football-watching alpha male jock buddies. Bragging about the superiority of his manhood (I’d tell him to prove it). Smacking my ass (I’d tell him to dive right in). We developed a back-and-forth that rivaled his tennis game. Once I caught him eating a piece of pizza I had saved in the fridge and gave him hell for it. He tugged at his crotch and said, “Suck my cock.” I told him, “Maybe later,” and he almost choked on his mouthful of spicy sausage and cold dough. “You sound like you have a mouthful of cock yourself,” I said. He grinned and chugged some soda.
Somewhere along the way, our back-and-forth crossed over into flirty territory, or so I thought. Or maybe I was hoping. Needless to say, this was one of the factors that led to me becoming infatuated with Tyler.
Another big factor was Tyler’s lack of modesty. He was almost never fully clothed in our apartment. He was forever coming from or going to the gym or practice. On the way out he’d still be yanking his clothes on, and as soon as he came back through the door he’d be pulling off sweat-drenched shorts or shirts. In the mornings it would be a typical sight to see him shirtless at the stove. One time I came in and he’d looked over an exquisitely sculpted shoulder, the stubble from his chin audibly scraping his skin, and in his most sexy voice whispered, “Want some?”
I had another of those shivers.
The next shiver came spring of junior year.
It was late April, in the middle of one of those weeks filled with lots of wind and rain. I was on the computer, finishing up a paper for English, thinking about taking a break and spending the next half an hour looking at porn. I had the place to myself, since Tyler was at his girlfriend’s place—Jill or Pam. I’ll call her Jam. He’d been having trouble with her. Tyler was a guy’s guy. He liked armpit farts and beer and just being generally vulgar. Everybody was “dude” or “bro.” She was, I guess you could say… uptight? She’d get instantly mad at any of his many inappropriate comments. And once she was mad, she’d refuse to speak to him, or clack her pink frosted fingernails against each other or snap her gum to show her disapproval. I really didn’t like her.
So that night they had a huge fight and Tyler came home early. A moment of wind and cold and the door slammed shut and he was inside. I spun around in my chair and looked at him. His jacket was wet and clinging to his torso and I was reminded how much I couldn’t wait to jerk off. His hair was getting long, a little shaggy, so he had to wipe it out of his face and then fling rainwater off of his hand. He looked at me and saw the puzzled look on my face.
“Fuckin’ women!”
“What now?”
“Blue fuckin’ balls.”
“Eh?”
He sat down on the sofa.
“Long story.”
“How about a quick summary?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“You’re gay.”
“I am. Next question.”
“Ugh. I’m not in the mood. So. You’re gay. So. That means. You like. Uh… anal sex?”
“The technical term is butt sex. But yes, I tend to enjoy it.”
He rolled his eyes. “Okay. So. Um.” I noticed he was blushing. “So the first time. You had…”
“Butt sex.”
He rolled his eyes again. “Did it hurt?”
I paused and looked at him. I laughed. “The first time? Yeah. I guess.”
He shot up. “Ha! I knew it. I told her!”
I leaned back in the chair. “Wait, wait, wait. Pump the brakes. You need to back up.”
He took off his jacket and tossed it on the floor. This was a recent habit of his. He’d wear a piece of clothing, then when he was through with it he’d just throw it on the floor. Usually he’d run out of clothes unless I did the laundry.
“Okay. So, like, we’re at her place. In her room. She brings up last weekend. She drunk dialed me and so I came over. Whatever. Did I ever tell you she refuses to give blow jobs?”
Tyler was always telling me about his sex life. This, however, he hadn’t mentioned.
“No, you haven’t. But it’s ironic, you know. You always telling everyone to suck your cock and the one person who should won’t.”
“Exactly!” Off came his shoes and his shirt. He went to the fridge and got a beer. “So anyway. Her room. She’s drunk. She decides to blow me. It’s been like, what? Forever since I’ve had a blow job. It’s good. Surprisingly good. She needs to learn proper teeth control, but whatever. No such thing as a bad blow job. Am I right?”