The following is a true story.
It happened to me earlier this afternoon, December 17, 2004.
If you are not eighteen or older, or if reading materials which refer to male/male sexual activity is illegal where you live, please go elsewhere for your entertainment. The following depicts (to the best of my recollection) an actual event.
Precious Jewels
Every year in our area shopping mall, two young men lease a kiosk and offer their trove of fine jewelry to the buying public. Each piece is custom made, the jewels themselves being imported from Europe; handpicked by the two men and brought to the U.S.A. by them on one of their several yearly junkets. And every year, sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas, my wife and I end up trudging through the mall, spending like crazy, and usually purchasing one or more new pieces of bling-bling from these two lovers.
Yes ... they are lovers ... they are both in their mid-thirties, young attractive and charismatic. They are business partners together; skilled craftsmen and fine artisans. They are the cream of the crop as far as jewelry artists are concerned. And they are gay lovers who share more than a business interest, together.
One of these fellows, I'll call him Jeff, is blond (with a touch of early grey), svelte, muscular, wiry and every bit as adorable as his fine jewelry. He dresses like a college stud, but never obtuse. He seems to prefer sweaters and corduroy slacks that are a little snug, showing his impressive package as proudly as his counter-top displays of jewelry.
Two weeks ago we purchased a small dangle of silver and stone as a gift for one of our grand daughters. When we got home, we discovered it had been assembled "backward," so I called the shoe and got one of the boys to the phone. Within a few seconds, the problem was solved ... I would send them the piece and they would repair it and ship it back before Christmas. Problem solved.
But only three days after I'd mailed it, I needed to be in the area of the mall, and stopped by their stand to discover they had received the mailing the day before and were repairing the item at that very moment. I waited. And while he repaired the jewelry, Jeff and I bantered a bit. Somehow in those few minutes, I managed to allude to his prominent bulge and was referred to the other man for comments. There was much laughter and innuendo, and I left forty-five minutes later with the repaired jewelry in hand.
On my way home, my mind wandered over the encounter and the bi-genetics in my dreaming stirred thoughts about Jeff and his as yet concealed jewels.
Today we were back in the mall. And as custom moves us, we stopped by the kiosk even though we had no intentions of purchasing jewelry. We bantered, visited a few minutes about nothing in particular, and then it was time to move on to the other stores. Two hours later found me waiting on a bench outside a department store while my wife searched the cosmetics counters.
Suddenly Jeff was standing in front of me. He teased about going broke and we talked about the economy and their relationship and about the consistent quality of their merchandise. Then my wife joined us and Jeff excused himself to return to their stand. Ten minutes later I was carrying overweight bags of purchases to the car, agreeing to meet my wife at a designated area in a half-hour.
In the parking lot, I changed venue and re-entered the mall through a service entrance near their community rooms. There is a restroom in that area that is often a meeting place for autonomous sexual encounters ... O.K. it's not a glory hole, but damn, a lot of guys give blowjobs or get played with while in there.
There were three stalls occupied, and the guy in the fourth seemed like he was dancing (footwork was very interesting under the wall). Another guy was waiting by the door ... he looked a bit exasperated. "Full house," I said to no one in particular, and he looked at me with a pinched expression. I leaned against the wall near one of the waste cans.
In a few minutes, the "dancer" stood, flushed his throne, and came out of the stall. My fellow-waiter immediately entered the booth and produces numerous sounds of gas and solid. Then he flushed and left. I took his stall.
In the next few minutes several people entered and left the restroom, and the people in the other stalls left ... except the guy next to me. He had not moved at all ... I was frankly beginning to wonder if he wasn't dead.
Since there were only the two of us, I tapped my toe two times. Nothing. I lifted my toe (a little more obviously) and tapped it slowly, twice. Still no reaction. The main door opened and someone came in and used the urinal next to me. He flushed and left.
And the guy next to me stood up as if to leave. After a few seconds, he turned toward our shared wall. He stood like that for almost a minute. The he dropped down and slid his knees and lower body under the wall; hi flaccid penis hung just under the edge of the wall.
His cock was soft but fairly long. The circumcision scar was bright red ... almost angry ... and the glans was the size of a small plumb.
Of course I reached for it ... I may be a fool, but not that foolish as to ignore such an offer. I reached under his cock and hefted his balls. What little hair showed was very light in color and wispy in character. I rubbed under his balls and up and over the shaft. There was a perceptible flexing in the shaft.
I formed a ring with my thumb and forefinger and began lightly stroking him, taking my other hand and stroking the glans and that little notch on the underside. There was a perceptible gasp from the other guy. I kept stroking.
I alternated between lightly stroking and playing with the glans ... sometimes doing both (as if my fingers were multiple tongues). And his pecker swelled ... to a full nine inches, maybe two inches across, with a soft bulbous head ... and a flexing shaft.
Four minutes, maybe five, the breathing from the other guy became audible gasping, "Uh... uhhh... oh...ummm... ahh..." And then the obvious ... he erupted. This wasn't a short spurt or two of cum. This wasn't a watery dribbling. This was a spurt after spurt ... six or seven or more ... and considerable pooling of thick, white cream on the restroom floor.
I squeezed out the last drops. He pulled back and sat on his commode. There was obvious heavy breathing, gasping for air. I drew a fistful of toilet paper and wiped the floor. He stood in place, fastened his pants, and flushed.
I pulled myself into a standing position and pushed my face into the corner to see him through the crack by the door as he left.
A man came into the room, and the door on the stall next to mine opened and a young man rushed out, past the man who had just come into the room. I saw the side of his face in the mirror across from me. I saw the short-cropped, grayish blond hair. I noted the blue coarse-brushed sweater, the corduroy pant leg and tan loafer. I couldn't swear to it, but I was pretty sure.
Twenty minutes later, I had caught up with my wife outside a toy store. We were just up the mall from the jewelry kiosk. And on our way to the parking lot ... we were headed to WalMart ... we wished a joyous Merry Christmas to our jeweler friends. Jeff, I noted, was wearing a coarse-brushed, blue sweater and light, cream-colored corduroy slacks.
He had a twinkle in his eyes and wished us both a Merry Merry.