Ken Without Barbie From Nicky A (rshellhot@hotmail.com)
It was during the fourth week of the term that I found out about my most inspiring dorm activity - Intramural Sports! Of course there must be some other justification for such activities, but to me it was an excuse once a week to suit up in athletic gear and spend a couple hours writhing with other virile studs in some competition. Afterward we would come back to the dorm and prance naked together through the showers, then spend the rest of the night half dressed, consuming mass quantities of beer, and declaring our individual masculinity as well as our undying affection for each other. In short it was paradise.
Football was the fall endeavor followed by basketball in the winter and finally spring and baseball. Oh you'd get teased if your game wasn't up to par, but it was all good-natured. Surprisingly, you wouldn't get teased if, in the afterglow of a victory, you got a little too friendly, a little too personal with nude companions in the showers. It was just taken as a measure of fidelity, provided you added just the right touch of 'sincere admiration' with your physical contact. The trick was to cop a feel but avoid your own natural reaction. The challenge was pure pleasure.
It was via this vehicle that I was able to mingle with the upperclassmen who otherwise were unapproachable. A fellow 'Jock' was welcome regardless of age or status.
It was also in this venue that I first crossed paths with Ken. I never knew what grade level he was or what he majored in. Since after spring of the first year I never saw him again, it is probable he was a senior. In Ken's case it remains irrelevant. Whether he planned it or not he would draw me into the picture of his life. Whether I suspected it or not I would fill part of his landscape during that eight months.
Ken was short for an athletic guy. What he lacked in height, however, he compensated for in muscle. One step shy of a body builder, he was the proverbial brick shithouse. I never saw him without a ball in his hand. His wardrobe consisted of gym shorts and a tank, T, or sweatshirt, depending on the season. It seems he was not a resident of the floor but a 'good friend' of most all the upperclassmen. Since no one ever checks the roster, it was a simple step to include Ken on the Intramural team for each season.
He was likeable; he was also a moving target. I never experienced such a mass of moving energy. He paced the room while tossing a ball he always held back and forth from one hand to another. He sat momentarily on your chair, then moved to the edge of the bed. Even as he carried on a conversation he would walk out of the room and back in again. It wasn't that he was looking for anything, He just needed to keep moving.
I found out later that he worked full time while going to school. He drove a Jaguar, got passable grades and claimed to have a steady girl friend. My relationship with him began, when he appeared on Intramural nights as the star quarterback, running back, and defensive end. Pick a place, Ken would fill it. After the first nights victory, I was introduced to him over a beer. By that point in time he was again dressed in his signature gym trunks and T-top. I hadn't missed him earlier, though, when stripped to his natural self, he had carried himself out of the shower room on tree like legs that supported a barrel sized torso. He was a massive display, set off in the center by an incongruous fat prick mounted on a full, puffy scrotum.
It took all my effort not to stare because I had only seen that sight once before, in middle school, with a classmate. At that time I first learned that the capacity to expand was limitless when his tiny lump grew to a most respectable appendage before spitting a monstrous mucus load onto the shower room floor. At the time I briefly mused whether Ken's would pack the same wallop and whether I'd ever get the chance to find out.
After the introduction, the high fives, and the mandatory toast, Ken had moved on without comment. But there was too much unexplained about him for me to just let him pass.
My buddy Dan, when cornered, filled me in on most of the rest and I soon had filed Ken away as another of the Intramural team studs, those who were to be approached and appreciated only when the groans of manhood mixed with the camaraderie of athletes. But that was not Ken's thoughts.
Three days later Ken appeared at my door as the other jocks were gathering for a night of TV football. As usual he paced, passed the ball and searched the horizon for an unknown vision. It was during this mostly silent interchanged that he first offered the advice, "Don't stick with a girl who won't give head." As quickly as he appeared he was gone again.
During a few later visits I was treated to details about his relationship I'm not sure anyone would want to hear. As I was willing to listen, the discussion became more detailed and lengthy. Always, it was animated by Ken's constant movement.
The gist of his romantic problems boiled down to this, while his lady fair was a physical beauty she was lacking in erotic inspiration. When pressed for sex she would make out, and given the 'proper' criteria (anniversary, birthday, or holiday) she would allow Ken intercourse.
"All I really want is a blow job now and again," he moaned, "Is that too much to ask for? She's pretty, she's fun, but she just doesn't keep up with my NEEDS." That said he disappeared until two weeks later when He walked through my door one Saturday afternoon. I was surprised, since it was a football day and I expected him to be joined in the festivities.
"I work too often to justify the cost of tickets," he explained. He talked idly for a few minutes about the teams potential and the fans justified dedication. All the while he continued his pacing and passing of the football he carried. This time, however, it all seemed more purposeful and deliberate. I knew my diagnosis was correct when he suddenly stopped short and peered right into my face. I saw him stand motionless for the first time and calmly ask," Do you have a towel? I want to take a shower."
Trying not to look surprised or read too much into it I pointed to a stack on top of the dresser. "Help yourself," I suggested.
He set the football on the dresser top and kicked off his sneakers. His shirt was peeled off in a second movement. Then in what I considered a surprise move he bent down and dropped first his gym shorts, then his white briefs, exposing his naked ass in a perfect line of vision for my suddenly alert eyes. As he stood, he turned and wrapped the towel about him, but not so quickly as to prevent my observing that his penis had decidedly gained some length and shape, apparently exhibiting the beginning stages of arousal. With that, he exited the room and turned down the hall toward the showers. My mouth fell open.
I had just signed off the whole thing as a lost motion in a process whereby he intended to go relieve himself in the bath, when he just as suddenly reappeared at my door. This time he purposefully closed and locked the entrance behind him. He continued to be controlled, deliberate and direct. He crossed the room to the desk where I sat and, without a word, opened his towel exposing now a freshly washed, slightly moist cock, full but not firm. Tied to his tennis ball scrotum it was unique and alluring. Responding as he obviously expected, I opened my mouth fully and swallowed his shaft.
It was a perfect fit. Satisfying yet not engorging. As his hips began the slow, deliberate thrusting motion I realized there was no need to be cautious. His pecker was going to get progressively harder but not a bit longer or larger. It was one of the most joyous experiences I'd ever had giving head. Ken never lost pace. Like a carefully timed runner he moved forward and back, one beat after the other. I would have sworn it was exactly 100 strokes later when, without any other emotion, he released his load. My previous experience with the younger classmate proved prophetic. Ken had dumped an overflowing wad into my cheeks. I knew the next moment would foretell the future, so I judged the best course was to say nothing. With my mouth so full it was not a difficult decision. Ken simply handed me the towel, smiled then turned to dress and leave.
After he had pulled back on his briefs, shorts and shoes, he picked up the football and began to pass it back and forth from hand to hand. I realized the pace was exactly the one I had been counting a few moments before as he fucked my encircling lips.
"Thanks, Randy," he said.
It was not the last time I watched him leave with words of gratitude.