We tried to figure out what was for dinner in the cafeteria.
“Before we even consider heading out, we need a shower,” I told him.
“A shower. We could save time and water if we showered together.”
“It’s being environmental, really.”
“Just one thing, though.”
“What?”
“I want to know the truth. Did you really never jerk off thinking about me?”
I blushed. “Okay. Once.” Since we were being so open with each other, I decided to tell him the whole truth. “Just once. Right after I picked your funky underwear off the floor and almost took a whiff.”
He laughed. “Really?”
“Really.” I sat up.
Tyler stood and surveyed the room. He found what he was looking for. His underwear. He tossed them to me. “Have a souvenir. Of our first time.”
I saw he was getting hard. I took a sniff of the underwear and nodded in approval. I was getting hard too. “You know,” I said. “Showers are excellent places for next times.”
We grinned at each other. He took my hand. We raced to the bathroom. We didn’t bother closing the door.
YOUR JOCK
Simon Sheppard
Even the worst sex can be grist for a decent story. The same with emotional train wrecks. An author should be grateful for whatever inspiration pops up, for the intervention of even the most unattractive of muses. So I want to thank you—and your jockstrap—for this particular piece.
It’s the depths of January. You show up at my door just three minutes after the time we’d arranged, which pleases me; punctuality is at a premium when it comes to sex that’s been arranged for online.
And—why not just say it?—I’ve really been looking forward to your arrival. For several reasons.
First off, I have—perhaps stupidly—something of a fetish for English guys. I have no idea where that comes from, though I suspect it might date back to my formative years, when the Rolling Stones were king and “English” equaled “cool.” And yes, I know full well that some white boy from London looks like some white boy from New Jersey, that it’s really just a matter of accent… and the increased probability of foreskin. Nevertheless, when I saw that your email header read Brit boy, my dick took tumescent notice.
Then, too, there’s the way you look… of course. Not impeccably gorgeous, but then, that was never my thing. Perhaps it stemmed from my own insecurity, or I took it as a maybe-accurate sign of vulnerability on your part, but the trace of zits in your attached JPEG—combined with your full lips and the almost-challenging look in your eyes—had made my dick even harder. And there was, yes, a second shot, too: a close-up of your erect cock wrapped in a rubber, shoving its way out of ripped-up, ostentatiously stained white briefs. Pervert’s paradise!
You were, too, apparently quite kinky… charmingly so, judging by our one and only phone conversation (when I’d happily wallowed in the sound of your accent, rubbing myself all the while). But then, I’m perverse enough to love any sex-based conversation that ends with, “Okay, I’ll stop at Trader Joe’s before I get there.”
Which you have. When I open the door, there’s a grocery bag on the hallway floor. You’ve put it there because we’ve arranged that you’ll de-pants in the hall, and sure enough, by the time I first see you, you’ve already kicked off your shoes and are unzipping your fly. And yes, you are hot, so hot, as you stare into my eyes while, only a bit awkwardly, taking off your jeans. And then there you are, clad only in your T-shirt, patterned socks and jockstrap. A moderately bulging jockstrap, nicely stained, just north of slim and very hairy thighs.
Your jock.
Which is not to say that I have any sort of a jock fetish. You do, though, and that makes this hot.
Your jock.
Your fucking jock.
You’re standing there, looking expectant. I’d be happy just gazing at you a good long time, but there’s someone who lives just across the hall, and he’s a Republican.
“Pick up your stuff and come in,” I say, aiming for a tone of quiet dominance. Who knows, maybe I achieve it.
You walk in, shopping bag in one hand, pants and shoes in the other, and I point the way to the bedroom, following your delightfully hairy ass—oh, excuse me, arse—that’s framed, irresistibly, by stretchy white elastic.
Proud as an eight-year-old, you set down the grocery bag and show me what you’ve brought: whipped cream, yogurt, a dozen eggs. I try to exhibit enthusiasm. I did warn you that I wasn’t particularly into food play. But hey, I’m a top; unlike many a self-styled submissive bottom, I aim to please.
What immediately follows is the Usual Basic Stuff. You whip out your dick, uncut as expected, though I could have done with a bit more foreskin, and, pleasingly, sporting a nice thick drop of precum at the tip. I slap your ass. You suck my cock. All the while, I keep glancing over at the can of whipped cream, anticipating the main event.
I’d quickly found out in that phone call that you, like me, are overeducated; when I’d mentioned Foucault’s notion of power, you’d known without further explanation just what I meant. And we’d talked about The Story of the Eye, a famous transgressive novel by Georges Bataille, a famous French drunk. There was a scene in that book in which a naked woman sits in a bowl of raw eggs. Now life was about to imitate art. Or something.
Of course, the French think too much about everything, and then talk about it even more. So perhaps it’s permissible to point out that the Bataille book used the egg as a symbol of generative power, albeit perverted, redirected toward pleasure, not reproduction. But that was a het scene; when it’s a matter of two men, things are bound to get symbolically mucked up. Nevertheless, I’m more than willing to live with that. Especially since my cock is so goddamn hard.
I get you on all fours. You have, as per my request, not showered, and your ass is, I already can tell, fairly ripe. I reach over for the whipped cream, shake the can, spread your buttcheeks and plant a graceful little rosette right in the middle of your hairy crack. Oh, yum. I dive in, licking away the cream until I get to the hole, eating a funk sundae.
“And now,” I say, your smell on my lips, “time for the main course.”
Once we get to the bathroom, I strip down and join you in the tub. We stand face-to-face, me suddenly noticing how very, very blue your eyes are. I reach over into the carton perched on the back of the toilet and pluck out an egg. I crack the shell on the curtain rod. Your blue eyes widen. The egg is still cold in my hand. I hold it in front of your face, pull apart the shell, and let the raw goo ooze down over your hairy chest.
You sigh, then moan. It is, if not precisely my erotic dream of a lifetime, exciting enough to keep my dick fully charged. When I reach over for another egg, you say, “Put it in my jock. Please. Sir.” So how can I resist? I crack open the shell, pull your jock away from your hard dick with one hand, and do a one-handed egg dump into the pouch with the other, dexterous as Julia Child. And then a second one, the stretchy, prestained pouch starting to fill up, egg white, then yolk, oozing out of the elastic mesh.
The floor of the tub, spattered with raw egg and broken shells, has gotten perilously slippery. Unsafe sex for sure, but I still manage to get three more eggs broken into your athletic supporter without falling down.
And then you say, in that charming accent of yours, “I’ve really got to piss, Sir. Please?”
I nod gravely, orphanage owner to your Oliver Twist.
And piss spurts out of your pouch, not one stream, but several, jetting off in divergent directions.