This story, modified to protect the anonymity of those involved, blends fact and fantasy.
Reader feedback is welcomed, and the author will do his best to answer questions and respond to comments. Contact him at hairy.jacques@yahoo.com.
Thanks for visiting Nifty, a great site that for years has rendered a great service. Please consider making a donation: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
In college I earned free room and board by working the front desk of my dorm. It was an easy job that consisted of answering the phone, buzzing in visitors, and using the master key when residents got locked out of their rooms. Since I usually worked the afternoon shift, I also sorted the mail. Mostly I just occupied myself by reading for class.
The dorm was a high-rise with eight floors and about 400 residents. A lot of people moved off campus after their freshman year, but I decided to stay. The opportunity to live for free was a big part of it, but I also liked the dorm's location and amenities, which included an attached cafeteria, a fitness center and weight room, and even a swimming pool.
What I liked most of all were the residents. The building was loaded with hot guys. ROTC cadets were required to live there. They were hot and fit and looked great in their uniforms. The wrestling team also had to live there since it was close to their practice facility and because their coach feared the distractions of off-campus apartments. Those guys, no matter what weight class, were total studs. Another big constituency was fraternity guys. The dorm was pretty much surrounded by frat houses, few of which had enough rooms for all the brothers, so we were the next best option. Add it all up, and the dorm was about two-thirds male. There was never any shortage of eye candy.
While I could look, I couldn't really touch. It was the early '90s. I wasn't "out." Being gay seemed to guarantee pariah status. For the most part I played it straight.
My only real release was porn, and before the internet, you had to acquire porn the old fashioned way. Every once in a while I'd summon the courage to go to the video store the next town over. They had an adult section that included some gay videos, so when I was really horny I'd rent a couple of movies and bring them back to my single room. Only once did I go to the local newsstand. I grabbed copies of Playgirl as well as gay magazines such as Inches and Mandate. When the old dude behind the counter handed me my change, he said "Have a fairy nice day." I was mortified.
That didn't stop me from enjoying the magazines back in my room, edging myself toward an epic orgasm as I paged through the photos and read the erotic stories. I came into my cupped hand and then sampled my cum. I had to admit, I really liked the taste and texture. Even the distinctive smell of it--just a little bit like bleach--turned me on.
While I lacked the guts to subscribe to Playgirl or (better yet) Inches, Mandate, Honcho, or Freshmen, the fact that I frequently ended up sorting my dorm's mail gave me the confidence to settle on a middle course. I signed up to receive the International Male and Undergear catalogs and I subscribed to a fitness magazine called "Exercise: For Men Only." All three had photos of hot, nearly-nude guys, and not a single one of the three was explicitly gay. (I have to say that over time it dawned on me that all were at least implicitly aimed at gay guys. Not many straight guys wore the sort of revealing underwear for sale in those catalogs--and none of them would want to see what it revealed about the muscular, well-endowed models. I'm pretty sure even the exercise magazine was targeted at gay dudes. The emphasis was less on the exercises and more on the photos of shirtless guys exercising. All these studs were really ripped and also really attractive.) The fact that these publications weren't overtly gay, plus the fact that I nearly always sorted the mail and deposited it in the residents' mailboxes, gave me the confidence to subscribe. I'd have no problem flying under the radar.
Or so I thought.
One September afternoon during my sophomore year, the mailman arrived really late--about 15 minutes before the end of my afternoon shift. I knew that my Undergear and International Male catalogs were set to arrive any day, so I started digging through the bag of mail, starting first with magazines and catalogs, which I quickly inserted into the dorm's residents' mailboxes. When finally I found my International Male catalog, I checked to see that no one was looking and stuffed it into my backpack. Glancing at the clock, I started to claw through the bag of mail looking for my copy of Undergear. My shift would be up soon! Just as I grabbed it and spun around to reach for my backpack, I saw Rich Spangler, the guy scheduled for the next shift, getting settled at the front desk. I saw his eyes dart down to the cover of my catalog, then glance back up to meet my startled stare. As I stuffed the R-rated semi-porn into my bag, he smiled. "Looks like your relief has arrived," he said.
There were two possible ways to interpret his comment. Given the situation, it made sense to presume innocence. There was approximately zero percent chance that Rich--one of the hottest studs residing in the dorm--would know anything about the hot dudes in the International Male catalog and the relief they'd bring to my raging hard-on. There was no way he even knew that the catalog contained photos of hot, shirtless guys in underwear, swimsuits, and jock straps. And there was absolutely no way that he was also into guys. Not Rich.
He was a senior, two years older than me. His was tall, with a tight, muscular body. His pecs and shoulders were broad and well-defined. He was all-man. A future Army officer, he was ROTC. A Kappa Sig brother, he always struck me as a good old boy. The strong but silent type. He hunted. He fished. He drove a beat-up F-150. The back pocket of his jeans had a faded circle revealing the customary location of his Copenhagen can. (And yes, I liked to stare at his tight ass!) It's true he had a sensitive side. He was a journalism major, a writer for the college paper. But he had southern manners and a southern drawl ("yes, ma'am") and a crew cut to match. We had to wear dress shirts and ties while on shift, but instead of the all-cotton Oxfords and silk ties I preferred he always showed up wearing polyester ties and 60/40 short sleeve white "dress" shirts that highlighted not only his hairy, muscular forearms but also, given the almost translucent quality of the thin shirt fabric, the sleeveless, ribbed wifebeater shirts he always wore underneath. No matter the time of day he always seemed to have a five o'clock shadow, and I'd seen him often enough in unbuttoned polo shirts to notice that he also had a hairy chest. His hair was dirty blond, maybe a little bit on the reddish side. His chest hair was more brownish, however: a shade or two darker than the hair on his head. It looked so sexy swirling up over his collar bones, lush and thick as it reached toward his adam's apple.
He stared back at me as I absentmindedly stared at him, suddenly self-conscious that my cock, inspired by him as well as the catalogs, was throbbing in my khakis.
I could feel the sweat gathering on my forehead. Meanwhile, he seemed cool and collected. He smirked and raised his left eyebrow. I smiled back, thanked him for taking over, and hurried off to my room.
As soon as I locked the door behind me, I got down to business. With one hand I unbuckled and unzipped while the other reached into my backpack. I pulled out the Undergear catalog. Damn, the guys were hot. I flipped through, admiring the models' bulges and asses and abs and pits and pecs. Each guy was attractive in his own special way. Each guy was a fantasy fulfilled. As I reached the end I zeroed in on the photo of a guy in a plain, white jockstrap. He had arms raised up, flexing his muscles. He was very hot, but in an unassuming, dude-next-door sort of way. He had hair fanning over his pecs and a light treasure trail descending toward the waistband that supported his jock's overstuffed pouch. He was perfect. He was my focus. He was going to make me cum.
My hips thrust forward, fucking a spit-lubed fist made almost blurry by its frantic jacking. I felt my balls tighten. I felt my nipples harden. My cock, leaking precum, throbbed at full stiffness. I felt myself cresting the wave, convulsing as maximum tension crossed into peak release. My dick contracted once, then twice, then again. I was spewing cum all over the place. Streams of semen landed on the floor, on the edge of my desk, on my chest, and on the last page of the catalog. I paused for a second, catching my breath. I reached for a tissue and did my best to wipe my spooge from the catalog. I then flipped to the back cover.
My eyes focused on the address label, where I expected to see my name. I didn't. Instead I saw another name. I didn't believe it at first, so I read it a second time. There it was, plain as day and in all caps: RICHARD SPANGLER.
It took me a moment, but then the thought sank in. Rich also received the Undergear catalog. I had grabbed his copy by mistake--a fact he almost certainly understood since, by now, he had finished sorting the mail.
To be continued...
PEASE SEND YOUR FEEDBACK and ideas to me at hairy.jacques@yahoo.com. I'd love to hear from you!