The usual disclaimer. Don't read this if it's not legal in your jurisdiction. This story contains explicit descriptions of sex between men. If this is offensive to you, then stop reading. If not, enjoy.
He pulled back his foreskin, exposing his cockhead before placing it, gently but firmly, against the opening of my ass. I got the shivers. The hairs of his stubble scraping against my skin as he kissed me, the muscles of his lightly furred, freckled arms bunching and relaxing as he eased my legs onto his shoulders, the crinkles around his eyes when he smiled all made him hotter to me. These feelings were new to me, but they controlled me. They made me willing to suck him. Willing to let him fuck me. Willing to subsume my pleasure to his, and in subsuming, double my own.
I was a straight boy, once. But no longer. I don't mind the change, but I don't understand it either.
*** I partied hard in college, getting drunk with my buds. Not once did I have a drunken grope, JO, BJ scene with any of them. Maybe things would have turned out differently if I had.
I got my fair share of pussy, not a lot, but not a little. Girls got drunk, they put out. For me, it was all about get it up, get it in, get it off, and get her out the door. I liked making out, but it was never the main event, or even an opening act. It was what had to be done.
I jerked off to images of girls in my mind. Their bodies are nice, especially when they're under you and their smooth skin is sweating against you. I was never much into eating pussy; frankly, the idea that giving the girl a good time would increase my enjoyment never crossed my mind. I was pretty rough, sometimes, especially when I was really drunk.
Once I got out of college, of course, this technique didn't work so well. Women wanted a conversation, a "relationship", some "meaning", some "foreplay".
And I got out of shape: my six-pack went to four, then to two, then to nothing. I wasn't getting enough exercise, was getting drunk more often, more aggressive. My boss called me in and told me I had to be nicer to my co-workers. Work as a team. "He wants me to kiss ass," I thought. That shit was for faggots, I thought.
Something had to be done.
I joined a gym. Like all gyms in major metropolitan areas, there were fags there. One day I walked into the sauna, and there were two guys there, sucking on each other. Disgusting, I thought, and told them to "take that shit to San Francisco" before I stormed out.
I was slowly getting into shape, but I wasn't progressing the way I wanted to. I wasn't getting any dates. In my self-centered world, the only possible explanation for that was that my body wasn't hot enough for the betties. I decided to get a personal trainer.
On a notice board in the gym there was an ad for really cheap personal trainers from the health department across the street. They were doing research into how to help people lose weight and get in good physical shape. The ad also had a weird tag line about helping people to explore their relationships to other people and to their own personal pleasure. I didn't care about that, I just wanted to get in shape.
I called the number, and made an appointment at the gym with Ian. Even in my relentlessly straight view of the world, I could see he was well-built. I thought, "I bet he scores with the girls all the time." He was a red head, light gray eyes, the whole nine yards, about 6 feet 175 pounds. He always seemed at ease and positive. I hated people like that, but he was OK.
The initial interview was strange, I thought, for a personal trainer. I was expecting "what are your goals?", "how much lifting have you done?", that kind of thing. He asked that, but he also asked stuff like, "do you get angry often?", "are you successful in your personal relationships?", "how often do you have sex?", "what's your sexual orientation?" I nearly quit after that, wondering how Ian could help fags to pump up and get strong. They should stay weak. But he was cheap, and I needed the help.
At the end of the interview, Ian smiled at me, and said, "Oh, there's one final thing. As part of the study, we're testing a new dietary supplement. You're going to have to change your diet to meet your goals, and this supplement will help out. Since it's experimental, will you please sign this release?"
Odd, I thought. I read the release over. There was a page and half of small print that I didn't bother to read very carefully.
There was one thing I noticed. It said that the supplement may have a mild tranquilizing or mood altering effect. Having done my share of recreational drugs in my time, I figured that was a good thing. Getting pumped up and getting high and the government was paying for it.
The next couple of weeks were a little strange, as I got used to Ian's style of training. Instead of being forceful and domineering like the coaches I'd had in school, he took the time to explain to me that breathing and technique were the most important aspects of building yourself up. He encouraged me both verbally and physically, tracing out the muscle groups on my body. He signed me up for massages after the workouts, saying that would increase the blood flow to the muscles as they were building up. At first, there was a girl named Susie who did the massages. She really worked me over, but oddly, I didn't find it particularly arousing. She wasn't my type, being more muscular and assertive than the girls I generally dated, but she wasn't bad looking. You'd think I'd be enjoying the massages as more than an after workout muscle relaxation. I didn't really think about it, though.
I started feeling more relaxed, less angry. Maybe that experimental supplement was working. It sure was working on my body. I was losing weight, and feeling better about myself when I looked in the mirror. I found myself looking forward to working out more and more. I almost forgot the reason I had started, which was to attract women to date.
About a month after I started the program, I went out to a bar to see if I could pick up a girl for the night. I saw a cute blonde in the back, and started talking to her. I was horny, but I found that I wasn't as desperate as I used to be. I didn't feel the need to get really drunk to talk to her. I was wearing a tank top that showed off my hard work, and she appreciated it. This was just the kind of girl I'd always had success with. Not too bright, a little slutty: perfect, I thought.
He leaned over me, kissing me on my neck just at that spot on the base that drives me crazy.
I kissed him back, asking, "Where do you want my mouth on you? How can I make you happy?".
He said, "Bite on my nipples. I'll let you know when it's too hard." I tentatively brought my mouth down his chest, nibbling gently as I went along. I got to his left nipple, biting gently.
"Harder", he said, so I bit harder. He was starting to shake.
"Even harder". I bit harder. I looked down at his beet red dick, it was definitely leaking now. He had his head thrown back, his eyes closed, concentrating on the pleasure I was giving him with my mouth. It made my dick start to leak knowing that I was responsible for this feeling in another guy. Looking up at his big Adam's apple, I knew I was right where I was supposed to be. It felt so right to be making love to him.
I moved down his treasure trail, kissing, licking and blowing through his body hair. I took a side trip to that sensitive spot at the top of the hip, where worked out guys have their belt of Apollo. Kissing and blowing right there, he quivered again. He moaned, and I got harder. He sighed, and my dick jumped.
I loved this part of making love, now. Watching a man surrendering to the feeling of pleasure that I was giving to him.
Giving, receiving, it's all mixed up when you're with a guy. You both know what it's like to stick your dick in a hole and pump into another person, invading their body. You've both been there, fucking and driving the person you're fucking wild by the feeling that your dick is giving them. That's something only men can do, bring pleasure to others by penetrating them.
Straight men who don't fuck around with guys or gay men who only top don't know the other half of the equation. The joy of being penetrated and showing that joy to the guy that's fucking you. The freedom of letting yourself go. Not to mention the happy accident of the prostate, being rubbed back and forth, back and forth, each stroke of your buddy's dick giving you a good time, making you hard, making you leak, making you cum. His arms, the muscles tight with the effort of keeping his body above yours. His sweat dripping down on you and mixing with your own.
The girl's name was Jennifer. I bought her a drink, starting touching her shoulder, putting the make on her.
She pushed my hand away, saying, "Whoa, boy. Moving a little fast, aren't we?"
I thought I was being remarkably restrained, but I guess that's the difference between men and women.
I said, "Hey, honey, what's the problem? I'm hot, you're hot, we're both adults, what about it?"
She said, "I'm not in the habit of going to bed with guys I just met in a bar".
"Oh, and what habit are you in? That of teasing guys in a bar that's an obvious pick-up joint?"
She pouted at that, and ran away to join her friends. I nursed my drink, and started looking around at the other merchandise in the bar. My new found expertise in working out lent me a new appreciation of some of the guys there, seeing that while most had perfect hair and grooming, a lot had overdeveloped upper bodies and spindly lower ones. Before working with Ian, I had never noticed other guys, much. But lately, as I was getting into better shape, I found myself comparing my body to other guys'. It didn't feel odd, it was just something that happened. It didn't look like that night was going to work out, so after about 3 drinks I gave it up and went home.
Ian was a task master who didn't let me get away without working on my legs. He'd walk around me when I was doing squats, checking my form. He'd linger behind me, making suggestions and giving me encouragement. One day Susie was not available to give me a massage, so Ian filled in. I felt a little weird about letting him massage me, but I was tired after my workout, and needed some bodywork.
I had never gotten a hardon when Susie was working on me, which was a relief, because I wouldn't have known what to do, especially as I got mellower and less stressed about things. I think the first month I was working with Ian and getting massaged by Susie, I would have welcomed it as a sign of virility, or macho, or something. Oddly, that had become less important to me lately. So relaxing and giving myself over to a strong woman to work on my muscles was something that I was relieved, not excited about.
That was why I didn't even worry about getting a massage from Ian; I thought if Susie didn't get me excited, there'd be no way I'd get excited with him. His massage was different than Susie's. It had something to do with his strength, and something to do with his confidence. Somehow I knew that I could trust him to make me feel good. I decided that he gave a much better massage than Susie, so I asked him if he could massage me from then on.
He smiled, and said, "Sure, if that's what you really want".
"Yes, it is. You give a really good massage, and I feel comfortable and safe afterwards". What kind of shit was I saying? I would never have said that six weeks before, yet somehow now it seemed OK.
After his massage, I went out again to the same bar. Jennifer was there, and this time she came up to me.
"Hi there," she said. "You ran off last week before I could give you my number, and I really wanted to."
"Now you're changing your tune," I said, sipping at my beer.
"Well, you were a little too forward for a sweet little innocent old girl like me," she drawled in her best Scarlett O'Hara imitation. Not very good, by the way, but I was in it for a quick fuck. "But you're really hot, and you don't seem like you're a jerk, despite what you said last week. I feel comfortable around you."
Now, I'd been around lots of girls in my time, and none of them had ever said they were comfortable around me. And I didn't make the connection with what I had told Ian, just a couple of hours before.
"OK," I said, "where do we go from here? My place or yours?".
"Mine," she said.
And so we did.
I starting nibbling on his inner thighs, strong with muscle and covered with the kind of light blond hair that looks like gold in the late afternoon sun. The skin after the sweat cooked between his balls and his legs all day had that masculine smell I had known only subliminally until I started exploring him. It now made me into a licking, sucking machine. I would never be able to walk into a locker room again without getting an erotic charge out of it. He had trimmed his pubic hair just enough so that it tickled pleasantly against my mouth.
I brushed my goatee against the smooth skin of his inner thigh, knowing that my beard would add to his stimulation. I knew enough to hold off on what I really wanted, his cock in my mouth, until he was a little harder, a little more desperate. He started whimpering, pleading with me to suck his cock. Mine got rock hard as I listened to him. I licked up the side of his, covering it in slobber, and gently brushing against it with my beard. It was hard and shiny, and ready for me to take it.
I teased it at first, just barely rimming the head with my lips, with feather light kisses, jabs with my tongue. He bucked. I frowned, my concentration interrupted. I closed my eyes as I brought my mouth down over the head of his penis, wetting it, flicking my tongue over the glans, lowering my head till it reached the back of my throat. I pulled back, sucking, dragging my tongue over the bottom, making sure I stimulated the underside as I brought it back over the top. Down my throat, back up over the head. Over and over. I got lost in the rhythm of it.
"Stop," he said. "My turn". Reluctantly, I let him push me off him, and lay back on the bed. He started kissing me, on the lips, on the neck, down my chest, to my nipples.
I had never played with my nipples when I was straight, never really explored my body or those of the girls I fucked. How would I know? You're a straight man; you don't talk about technique, really, with anyone. If you and the girl are both drunk and brought up with the "Wham bam thank you ma'am" style of sex, where are you going to pick it up? In the pages of Maxim? I doubt it. Which perhaps explains the surprise I had in store for me when we got to Jennifer's place.
She had a nice place in one of those suburban complexes where you can spend hours looking for an apartment in the maze of identical buildings, with a pool, a tennis court, a few laundry rooms and a pathetic "get-together" once a week which was a desperate substitute for a real sense of connection. But you're not reading this for my ideas on suburban alienation, you're reading it to find out how I went from getting ready to score with Jennifer to being a card-carrying homosexual. But not right now, because this is the end of Part 1.