The story below is a work of fiction, set in the format of reality. Any resemblances to real people, alive or dead in the hereafter, is entirely coincidental in nature. It is not meant to accurately reflect upon persons, of continents or islands, in countries, counties, cities, towns, villages, neighborhoods, gingerbread houses, streets, cul-de-sacs, nor governmental or non-governmental areas, which the story is staged. If a sexual scene involving male-to-male relationships offends you, then you get coal in your stocking! Seriously, if guy-to-guy sex stuff makes you barf or is going to screw up your mind, you should not read this story, unless you're a masochist and have a holiday barf bag handy.
Viewer discretion is advised. Various states, countries and the North Pole have rules regarding reading or viewing adult material'. It is up to the reader to research this subject, abiding by their own laws. The pages of this story contain adult material', intended for an `adult audience'. Bypass this warning at your own risk.
% Sexual safety matters. Remember guys, this is fiction. In real life, use protection*.
*Condoms make good stocking stuffers!
Hey dudes, if you have enjoyed reading NiFTy stories as much as I have, over the years, consider adding some support for `internet $pace'. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
^o^ Concluding remarks ~ reading this story could make you stiff or gooey, so I would suggest not reading it with the Santa outfit on, unless you have enough hair to soak it up... jus'-sayin'! :)
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Up oN THe WoOfToP... 01 WriTten by T. Chase McPhee
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"Woof woof woof!" Santa leans into the ear of the elf-cub next to him, singing the old, familiar Christmas tune, a twist to the lyrics.
Looking at the made up Santa, "You're sick, dude," the elf breaks out of the band, taking his big bass drum to the other side of the line of musicians, away from the apparently `gay Santa'.
"I must be slipping," Santa chuckles at himself and ideas about how dudes can look gay, act gay... but apparently wrongful in calling it!
"Problems finding elfs, Dean?"
It was his neighbor's kid. Not really a kid, it was the first time Dean ever toyed with' a dude under the age of 25, "For your information, Michael, they are called elves' and not `elfs'. Geez, don't you learn anything at that college you go to?"
"It's a music school," Michael says of the Manhattan music school he attends!
"Oh." Then to shed the fact he forgot, thought Michael was enrolled at a regular, 4-year college, "Nice that you took my suggestion to come play in the band?"
So only Dean could hear, Michael tells him, "Unless you would rather I play with you?"
Walking a few steps back in time, a dull past, Michael wasn't all this sassy and forward of a dude, with a quick approach to a guy. More, he was the background music to a crowd, wallflower, less than what a wallflower had to offer. Though, because Michael needed to wear glasses and was overly conscious of social withdrawal, camouflaged his inner and outer appearance by wearing a hoodie. It was a comfort to himself and to others, nothing amiss.
This is, until the old couple' next door moved to a sunny location in Arizona, Dean Cord being handed down his parents' residence, in West Windsor, NJ. It had surprised the hell out of him their intentions on moving, having been in the house only a few years. Too, it made him conscious of the fact, he had only been there once, on their' moving day. A father-son relationship didn't happen, not with Dean's coming out.
The day the new neighbor-next-door moved in, Michael made it his business to be home. Quite by accident, he was still panning the internet for a summer job and waiting on the call, had plenty of time on his hands.
A student, he did a little daytime astronomy, gazing at different kinds of heavenly bods floating around the neighborhood. Too shy to descend upon the scene and offer a hand to the dude moving in next door, he literally bit a lip, crying `owch', when he saw the dude come out of the house, shirtless. Not shy about being alone, his hand went down his briefs!
Still with a grip on his lip, Michael knew it was now or never. Too, observing shape and size, he morphed from lip biting to licking them, masses of hair pinned to the front side of his new neighbor's front.
Michael figured he better get a move on it, before the truck was empty. Normal day's coverup, he put on a fresh pair of tightie-whities, jeans, tee shirt and hoodie. Reason he hadn't much on, it was easier working his tool, by hand. The FOTL band below his balls, which he had discovered, the pressure keeping them nice and tight in the sacs, was something he thought of as kinda cool.
Last addition, before pulling the hoodie over his dark, auburn head of hair, Michael slips glasses on the bridge of his nose.
With indecision, he flips the hoodie onto his head, followed by, "Nah," pulling, allowing it flop back. Second time the new neighbor comes out from the house, a bit more sweat and shine, Michael decides, like baseball, "Three strikes and I'm out!"
Force of habit, he pulls the hoodie over the head, without even noticing he did it!
Thinking the next trip the new neighbor makes might be the last, he's out his bedroom door, quick as a flash, but made a dead stop after opening his front door. Again, `3 strikes out' hit him and he bolted out the door.
When he got to the white picket fence, dividing properties, Michael wasn't sure what he was going to say, mouthing the words, welcome to the neighborhood,' "Nah. I know," this time practicing out loud, "It's nice to know ya." Critical of himself, "Sounds like saying goodbye, not hullo," he laughs to himself. Leading a quiet life, only one friend to call friend', Michael wasn't good at this stuff. Thinking of why he was even bothering... "Oh damn," the front yard was empty, except a few boxes and one piece of furniture.
Walking around the picket fence, which had belonged to the old couple, Michael parks himself on the inner side of the walk. Placing his arms between the slats, they didn't fit, which causes him to reflect, "I guess those last five months of working out in the basement have paid off!"
"Oh goody, I needed help getting the sofa in the house!"
So engrossed in biceps, holding them up like forward and backward L's, he hadn't noticed the new addition to the front yard, "Oh," he drops his arms, almost a loss of words, tries out some words he's been working on, "need help?"
Right over the fence the arm comes, hand extended, "Hi. I'm your new neighbor, Dean."
More the introvert, Michael returns the handshake, subtle, flimsy, "I'm Michael."
A wall of hair in front of him, it was all Michael could do to not deflect his eyesight!
Customer service and in sales, for a coffee distributing company, which moved from Brooklyn, to the Meadowlands, Dean was no-nonsense over the phone. In person, he could come at a person with a sharp tongue. Sometimes it got him in trouble, other times it came out as joking, "A lot of muscle for a wimpy, little handshake!"
Not meant to return `the compliment', Michael says, "Thanks."
Sometimes looks were stronger than words!
Perhaps a little flirty, Dean says, "It's probably the fence," he nods to the white pickets. "If you were on this side it might be different."
Frankly, Michael didn't know how to answer or toss it back, followup to the gay flirt, going off page, "I can help you with the sofa, if you need an extra set of hands?"
That was that, until a few days later, Michael's mother asking him to go over to the neighbor's house for a cup of sugar.
"But mom," Michael whined, not which he didn't want to skip out on the stud next door, "did you forget we have a new neighbor?"
A little ditzy, Michael put up with his mom, "That's why I need the sugar. I thought maybe our new neighbor might like some of my homemade sugar cookies!"
Michael smiled, his mom seeming as eccentric as the old couple who moved out.
Maybe Michael's mom thought because of her idea, she would be making friends, but a person would not be your friend, if it meant having to go to the dentist for a broken tooth, or worse yet, a gastroenterologist, for a messed up gut. Even though Michael thought, borrowing and giving back, Dean would partially be paying for the cookies himself, yet the next door stud gave new meaning to borrowing and Michael was all for it.
Having brought the sofa in yesterday, Dean didn't push his luck. He had to admit being sneaky, asking Michael if he was old enough to have a beer, but it paid off, because the teen was almost eighteen. Close enough in his book to at least flirt without touching.
Next day shopping, Dean picked up some vitamin water, carrot and cranberry juice, a variety, just in case. Not into soft drinks, he hoped Michael wouldn't ask, because smiling now over the issue, he would not want to cause the 17-year old any misery over turning down the request for a sugary soft drink.
Deja vu, thinking on it, with organizing the kitchen, he's alerted to the side door, "Oh, hello there," he opens it after hearing a few knocks.
A Pyrex measuring cup almost touching Dean's chest, Michael says, "My mom wants to know if she can borrow a cup of sugar?"
"Oh, I don't eat refined products."
Michael stood there, thinking, `what the heck does that mean?'
"You know," Dean senses bewilderment, "anything in a package? Soda," he made sure he covered that issue.
"Oh sure. I know what you mean," Michael replies, still sketchy. "So, do you have a cup, or...?"
What was he to think, other than maybe Michael has skipped out of school for the past 10 years of his life? Contrary to his thinking, Dean doesn't treat the youth like he would some of his idiot customers at work, putting them on hold until they hung up, "No, it's not that I'm out of it..."
"Oh. So what do you use for sweetness?"
Dean wanted to say something akin to his lips, but was regal in his conversing, "Honey or maple syrup."
"Oh. I was thinking of something hard. I don't think my mom wants liquid stuff, if you know what I mean?"
Partially, Dean knew, but again was trying to steer himself away from being a bad boy, "Of course I know what you mean." Much as Michael had reacted to his nutritional lifestyle, "So, do you want the honey or syrup?" his hand is on the same glass cup.
The reason Michael didn't let go, he couldn't think, just on reaction and it wasn't about sugar. Yet he discovered how playful his neighbor could be, wrestling with the measuring cup, "I don't know," he lets go, "what would you choose?"
Six inches apart, Dean couldn't help take a swipe down the teen frame, "I'd take the honey." At least he would not be accused of molesting, he thought, using the side of the cup as his vehicle for connection.
"Honey is better than syrup?" Michael follows Dean over to a cupboard.
Michael had to lean on the counter, next to Dean's right, watch him remove the cap to a huge container, "Think you have enough of it?"
Much like he would offer up his own creme, freshly warm from being ejaculated, to some guy, Dean's finger is almost in Michael's face, "Here, take a taste."
Shy, to say the least, Michael leaned on one elbow, staring at the finger.
"Go ahead. My finger doesn't bite!"
Not sure, Michael stalls, "Is it clean?"
"Sure it is. I washed it yesterday right after you helped me with the sofa!"
Not sure what to do, Michael remembers the sofa yesterday, backtracking to the `third strike you're out', leaning over and licking off Dean's finger with one swipe of his tongue, "Not bad."
Another guy, Dean might have offered a suck off, or his finger full of `real creme'. Having known the boy next door only 1 official day, sucks his own finger off. Popping it out of his mouth, much like finishing up a blow job, Dean says, "See, it's all squeeky clean!"
"I see," Michael says, not sure what Dean's meaning was here.
Being forward, like he's known Dean for years, he grabs the back of the teen's hoodie, pulling it back, "You don't need that on in here. You're not cold, are you?"
"No," Dean replies, "more my security blanket. At least that's what the school psychologist says."
"You have mental problems?"
"No," Michael drops his chin, like in shame, lifts it, finds Michael staring, like waiting for the truth, "sometimes, but not really. I think they think I do, more than I think I do."
"Thanks for clearing that up," Dean tips the syrupy container back, after reaching the 1-cup mark.
There were just some things a guy didn't boast about, except to a best friend, in this case, Michael's best friend from eons ago, Jeff Pflug. Yet he wasn't into trusting his new neighbor just yet.
"Well, I suppose that's your business, but if you ever need a listening ear, I've had tons of experience listening to peoples' problems?"
"Right. Thanks," Michael wanted to unload his history book, didn't feel like bosom buddies, not as if it were Jeff standing there, or as it has happened, in his bedroom, lying on the bed together, "I'll think on it and oh," he picks up the Pyrex cup, slid across the counter, "when my mom brings over her cookies, it'll have this in it!"
Dean slipt, saying, "`You' can bring them over, if you want?"
After saying it, Dean felt like a total jerk!
"Maybe I'll come with her. This way you don't have to face her alone."
"Oh, why? Is there something wrong with your mother?" Dean asks, walking Michael to the door.
"Oh plenty, but don't get me started!"
No talk was made of the father, Dean closing the door, wondering was up with that. He didn't stalk, but did glance out the window every time he heard a car or car door, but never spotted anyone pull in the drive next door. He only thought, maybe Michael's old man was off on a business trip, yet not discounting the thought of a one-parent relationship. On the other side of the coin, another thought irked him, regarding visiting his parents, feeling guilty, because if Dean did visit more often, he would have caught the boy-next-door in the different stages of growing up. Perhaps they could have been friends a little sooner.
Shaking his head, he wondered who he was kidding, with the roughly 10 years difference between them. "Darn it all!" he thought, hand lightly messing with his zipper.
Dean wasn't in the state of a fully charged, head-on erection, but he did feel some palpitations down yonder, "I better take care of this!"
Not which he had to, he could leave it till later and watch some gay porn, but now put on the bad boy attitude and thought he better get it on, with Michael still fresh on his mind.
He didn't think he had to make the trip all the way upstairs to the bedroom, so peeled the zipper right there in the kitchen, with the retrospect of having `been there, done it before'. Hand wrapped around the 7c, Dean looked straight ahead, which made him stop abruptly and utter, "No-o-o."
Yes' was his decision, smiling, grabbing the syrup container. Flicking the tab, he opened and poured a little into the palm of his left hand, his massaging' hand. Whatever crazy idea came into his head, Dean giggled, thinking what a jerk he was for thinking of the outlandish idea, massaging his tube with sticky stuff!
Wanting to get more comfortable, he placed his shirt up, overhead and parked it at the back of the neck. Next, he felt he would rather lie down, instead of standing. He cursed himself out, the sofa full of unpacked junk. Back in the kitchen, the only free space was countertop. Thinking of what was important to himself at the moment, he leaned his ass up on the counter. Lying back a little gave way to moving a leg up and over the edge, giving little care if the toaster and blender smashed up against the wall, "Oh shit," he balked, "I hope I didn't break anything," both actions and cock stood motionless.
Not caring now, if his $500 blender broke or not, he continues his struggle to get off. A struggle it was!
Unlike the greasiness of lube or even spit, the honey-like stuff hampered more than helped!
"Come on," he complained, as if telling a bad cocksucker to get a move on it. "Last time I'm trying this idea!"
Lightening up, he gave up. It just wasn't going to happen, a good idea gone sour. Being critical, he knew if the honey-sap was licked and sucked off, he surely would have come, which drove his mind in reverse, thinking about Michael!
"Oh com'on Dean," he accuses himself, "he's only a kid!"
Now, literally he had a mess on his hands, his stroking left hand gummied up, his right, which had been playing his balls, in the same virtual state.
"Dammit, no!" he exclaims, standing, a really bad idea going horribly wrong, the honey dripping off his globes and into the pocket of his briefs, clinging to the jog pants he had on over them.
Then, to make matters really bad, there came a knock at his back door again, "Oh fuck!"
With quick decision needed to be made, like pronto, seconds, equally he wondered how, how this would all be misconstrued, upon seeing the back of a red hoodie at the window!
He went for the elastic of his jog pants, hoping the briefs would pull right along with them. Easy as pie, Dean still had a complaint, "Yech!" feeling the sticky goo all clogged up in the fabric of his sports briefs. With a second knock, he figured `three strikes and I'm out!'
Opening the door, Dean asks, "Hey, what's up?"
Turning around, Michael was `like wow', but only in his mind. First grabbing his attention, was that hairy chest and stomach Michael spied on yesterday, minus the sweat, "Um," Michael said vaguely, wondering if he should say something about streaks of something other than sweat coursing down Dean's furry front.
Conscious of it, Dean says, "Oh, sorry," reaching behind his head, pulling the tee shirt back, hoping Michael hadn't noticed the gooey stuff making the trail between navel and pubes all shiny.
Michael giggles.
"What?" Dean says, stopping, staring, his tee shirt tight against his pecs, right above the almost hidden nips.
"Nothing. I just thought," Michael didn't want it seem like his eyes were glued to Dean's bod, "you look really scary with your shirt over your face... or something," his voice peters out, "well," he lifts the Pyrex mug, still filled to 1 cup, "my mom says you're a genius, but she has her own syrup. I brought yours back. Who woulda thought she knew... about your idea?"
Already, the wetness of the sticky goo had pierced the fabric of Dean's briefs, working it's way through the fleece pants. The shirt already show nearing the waistline, "Oh, you could have kept it," he wiggles the waistband.
Eyebrows pointed downwards, behind the specs, Michael asks, "Something wrong?"
Only thing Dean could conjure up, "Nah. Just a little jock itch."
Such a little idea opened Michael up, "Oh. No problem. I mean it could be a problem. Had it once. Talcum powder is good, but you should shower first and make sure..." he didn't want to name parts, "everything um, down there, is dry... before shaking the powder over...," Michael swallows, "it."
Sounded like it could lead to something steamy, even though Dean has treated this before, "Shower, huh?"
"Or you can go to the drug store and ask for something. You can tell them it's for jock itch or just fungus around your... um, you know?"
Dean sure does know, sorry he hadn't brought himself to the brink ahead of this conversation, "I'll do that."
"Well, here's your cup. I've gotta go. Gotta practice my trombone," Michael says, still trying to visualize what his neighbor looked like before fixing his shirt all the way down his stomach, yet smiled, seeing streaks of soaking!
Perhaps Dean did finally get off, after his shower, but for Michael, practicing his trombone was put aside until he got his cock in shape to spout off. Picturing Dean at the door, he had him taking off the shirt instead of planing it down his stomach. He didn't take inventory, but was rock hard, Dean peeling his pants down over the jock-itch parts, not afraid to say when alone, `cock.' Not really interested in cleaning the sticky stuff off, Michael had Dean offering to lube up his cock and then change course of action, Michael slipped into oblivion, from thinking, to blowing his load!
That's how the two had met last summer. They had a good laugh over the cookies, Dean having lost a filling from chomping on the first one.
Sitting at the table, having the cookies, with almond milk, Michael had a feeling Dean was gay, having met two visiting friends on the front lawn, a hug and kiss to the lips.
Sure it was the case, after his first chomp, Michael comes out, "By the way, I don't know if you notice, but I'm gay?"
Knowing how Michael probably came by this information, Dean lies, "Oh really? I'm straight!"
Michael's cookie fell out of his hand, as his jaw drops open, slow drawl following in disbelief, "You are? I mean, aren't, I mean, you're straight," said as a statement, not questioning.
Cocky smile, Dean says, "Nah. I'm the same as you, but you should have seen the disappointment on your face!"
It's not that Michael was stupid, just wanting to get the facts straight, "So, you're gay?"
As if announcing it for the first time, Dean says, "You're gay, I'm gay. Ain't it a happy world?"
Sarcastically, figuring he could talk to an adult this way, "You're a little weird too!"
That's how it happened, over cookies, Dean finding out he was a little weird, but the best part, they were on the same page whereas `gay' was concerned.
On the same day, same page, Michael finds out all about how Dean came to live in the house, "Well how come I never saw you before this?"
"You might have. I've been here once," Dean replies, dunking his cookie, to soften it up.
Regardless, Michael, who was more a friend to Dean's mother, than his father, says, "I never could admit it to my mom, but your mother made better cookies than her."
Putting 2+2 together, Dean feels comfortable in traveling down a different path, looking into Michael's eyes, "She was okay with it, but my dad, he wasn't too keen on the subject."
"You lost me."
"The reason I lost physical contact with them. My dad wasn't keen on us fairies!"
Getting the message and from what resources the internet could offer, Michael states, "They call it homophobic and yeah, I rarely said anything but `hello' to your dad. Now I know why he was so standoffish. Though, I hardly ever saw him."
More history which had been in the making, Dean relays, "Yeah, well their marriage was sort of on the rocks. I suspect he disguised his affair with another woman as running off to play golf at the club' or working late at the office', depending on the time of day."
"Well, I think he had your mother fooled," Michael takes a bite of his mother's cookie, spits it out in his hand.
Dean laughs, then settles back on business, "You've hit the nail right on the head. Exactly why mom called me at least twice a week, to complain about my father."
"She knew?"
"She knew," Dean didn't elaborate how. "Sometimes it's easier to explain things with a lie, than the truth. Truth of the matter, dad moved out to Arizona. Mom, she lives down the shore. When they moved into this place, it was right after I came out to them. Dad, he didn't take it at all well, as you already can guess, but mom..."
Rude awakening, Michael says, based on his own account, "I told you're mom I was gay. She took it like nothing!"
"What?!" Dean says, like Michael mentioned something controversial.
"Yeah," Michael smiles. "Your mom.. she was the second person I ever told I was gay, to."
"Second?" Dean probed.
Dean already knew, his mom could be more mature on the subject of sexual diversity, unlike his homophobic father. In a way he wasn't upset over the separation of his parents. Contrary to thought, it was their life and not his. Moving on with Michael, "And who was the first?"
"Jeff Pflug," Michael replies, tight-lipped.
"Well, am I going to have to water-board you, to get it out of you?" Dean laughs, getting up from the table.
He thought it might be more relaxing for both of them, if they took their conversation out to the sofa.
Very comfortable with his neighbor, even after only knowing Dean for two days, Michael doesn't have a problem with sharing one end of the sofa, "So, what do you want to know?"
"Why don't you start at the beginning and work your way into the steamy parts?"
A giggle, not meant to be funny, in Michael's own right, `pathetic', yet inclined to tell the history of his gay life thus far, to someone who could be understanding and not pass judgement, "Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint you, because there's not much of the steamy part!"
Figuring he could be a smartass, comfortable with it, Dean says, "I'm already hard over it!"
"Really?" Michael exclaims!
Clapping hands together, it was a big joke for Dean, "Gets'em all the time!"
Clamming up, on purpose, Michael hugs himself around the middle, places his legs in a macho-man stance, left ankle up to his knee, instead of the `girly' leg-cross, "It's not nice to take advantage."
"Like, oh my god," Dean sees Michael disturbed, but not totally bent out of shape, "you're such a woos!"
Dropping his foot to the floor with a clunk, Michael lays bent-spine position on the sofa, untucking his arms, "Gotcha!"
He did indeed `get' Dean, him admitting, "I think I have to start watching you," said on the sly, squinty eyes.
"Oh really?" Michael has already gotten wise, "I'm sure you've already done your homework!"
Based on guys in his everyday life, business, pleasure on the side, calling on clients, in Jersey, mid-town and other places in Manhattan, Dean replies, "Of course. Before business I always scout out the pleasure. Then, sometimes it's only business and no pleasure!"
"I'm not sure I'm getting what you mean. I don't think I'm as edu-gay-ted as you are."
That threw Dean for a loop! Thinking he's found a new purpose in life, Dean first needs to find out where Michael is, "So, tell me about your friend Jeff?" he leans on the other arm of the three-seater sofa, legs up on the edge, crossed, sole of his bare foot almost touching his teen friend's knee.
Not too strange from any football hero's life, Michael tells of a jock, trying to pass through high school in the closet. Not only an education for Jeff, Michael soon became advisor, thinking up ways he and Jeff could get it on, both keeping things incognito.
Upon hearing the first encounter, Dean calls Michael a stud, upon hearing the football jock wanting to be the one on his knees, "That's what I like... a man who knows what he wants!"
"It wasn't me," Michael sends a conflicting message. "That first time, I didn't even know how to go about doing anything gay. Jeff, he was the more assertive one, getting right down on his knees, hand on my belt. It's like he had everything all rehearsed!"
"Probably did," Dean sits up, moves over, ass falling in the crack of two sofa pillows.
"I wasn't sure at first, but after he sucked on my cock a long time, I asked him if I was his first time?" Michael relays.
"And were you?"
"Physically, yes. Mentally, Jeff had rehearsed it over and over in his mind. `Said it was how it helped him get his jollies." Michael smiles. Provoked by Dean just staring at him, "Jeff says I gave him the biggest orgasms and at the time I really didn't even know him!"
"Yeah, I know how it goes," Dean says, "like last night. I hope you don't mind that I fantasized about what happened after you helped me move the sofa!"
"Really?" Michael shifted his weight around. Facing Dean, his leg up, casually sitting there, facing his adult friend's side, "Like how did that go?"
Not sure how Michael would take it, like he was a teen-rapist or something, "Um, maybe some things are better left unsaid!"
Having something to barter for, Michael says, "Oh, then I guess you don't want to hear about Jeff wanting me to fuck him?"
It reversed the current real quick, Dean saying, "Wasn't much. Just had us both lying in bed next to each other," he fibbed a little. "Now, you and your football jock?"
It would forever keep his hand busy, for the remainder of his senior year, Michael telling how he almost fucked his first guy, but that he kept his cool with just rubbing his dick along the crevice of Jeff's hairy ass, telling, "First it was spit, but then Jeff borrowed some of his baby brother's lotion. Funny, his mom never missed the tube!"
They both laughed, but Dean, he wasn't at all interested in Jeff's baby brother, as he was Jeff, nor as curious to, "What made you two, um?"
"I don't know. I suppose I already had it in my mind I didn't want to..." what Michael was thinking about Dean, "I mean, how many times have you fucked a guy, just to fuck him?"
Placing hands at his side, it was a mistake, using them to cover up their lazy gay chat, "Oops!" Dean's chin slacked, to looking at what his loins were telling him.
It made Michael laugh out loud, being able to judge the obvious, "Are you as hard as yesterday's dream?"
Not being able to hide his horny feelings, Dean separates his thighs a little, revealing guilty pleasures, "And you're not?" reflecting on what is now.
Michael dummies-up, happy feeling dropping off his face faster than a decline in the stock market, "Um," his face feels flush.
It was Dean's turn to laugh, though he did it in a way as not to cause Michael too much embarrassment, scoots his butt over to his right a bit, "Looks to me like I'm not alone?" he cocks one eye, spies with the other!
He didn't find out until seconds later, looking down into the valley of no return, Michael pulls up on his dipped chin, "Uh, yeah, I guess I am," slides his left hand down his thigh.
Second day knowing each other, Dean squares off, "Tell me, how old were you on your last birthday?"
"Huh?" Michael swiftly looks to his left, almost causing his own whiplash.
Seeing the look on Michael's face, Dean has seen the look of wanting to know dozens of time, only relates it to, "Usually when I catch a guy with his jaw dropped open, it means..."
Michael quickly clamps his jaws shut.
They both freeze, apparently in deep thought.
Dean, from experience, having taking an older looking guy's age for granted, internet hookup, learned his lesson years before, a dude's picture did not do justice to the physical hookup. Nowadays too, teen guys could look a lot older than their physical years, "About that last birthday?"
Not stupid, neither in high-schooling years at his studies, nor through exploration with his high school jock-stud, Michael has wised-up some, cracks an innocent smile, "We're making each other hard, aren't we?"
"Making?" Dean still keeps hands to himself, allows eyes to wander.
Still dumb at this stuff, Michael says, "Um, do you like, want to see how hard I am?"
"Ever play tennis?"
"Not really, but I've watched the game," Michael says, thinking he only did it, seeing two high school dudes go at it, in the hot sun, with their shirts stripped, admitting to himself he had no interest in the game, but to see two hot guys get sweaty over running around the court, catching balls on their rackets!
"A tennis buff?" Dean looks for deeper meaning.
"Not really," Michael smiles, not minding there were other reasons for following a sport.
Okay, so he knew Michael's intentions, but continued towards his own goal, "Well, the other player, not pitching the ball, he's on his guard. When the ball goes into action, it's a gut feeling, both readying for the ball, whether or not it's in either player's court?"
"I'm lost," Michael says. Glancing down, then up, not only his hand is telling him, which he's not reluctant to say, "and I'm soft too!"
It was the darnedest thing, two guys, less than 10 years apart in age, getting along like they had been best friends forever. First their hands met on the cushion between. Feeling safe to cross lines, their wrists scraped past each other, then venturing up the side of each other's thighs, their eyes locked on each other, Dean asks, "Are you okay with this?"
"Uh, yeah, I am. Are you?" Michael counters.
"Would I have crossed the line, if I were not?"
Actions speaking louder than words, both hands, Dean's right, Michael's left, travel over the mount, sinking into the valley...
"Oh-h," Michael quivers.
"Oh my god!" Dean exclaims.
"What?" Michael's hand stiffens.
"You've got such big balls!"
Michael laughs out loud, probably part of being nervous as hell, touching an older man's manhood!
"Jeff never gave me that reaction," Michael reports, looking down into his own crotch.
Then it all became about him, Dean saying further, "Are you still soft?"
"Semi," Michael replies, "why?"
Their shenanigans, what seemed like a bunch of gay hooey, drove them into being comfortable with each other, Dean taking the first step, in seeing Michael visually, "Dayam!"
"What?" Michael says, all pretentious-like!
"Don't tell me, you don't know what you're hiding in here," Dean's left hand tugs at the waistband of Michael's briefs, extracting the massiveness of the teen's meatiness!
"Wait! What time is it?" Michael jumps up, casting off Dean's hand.
"If you didn't want my hand on your cock, you should have said something," Dean says.
"No, it's not that," Michael claims, having seen the clock on the wall, realizing something.
"Oh? Then what's your excuse?" Dean sits there snugly, hugging himself, one hand lower than the other.
Walking over, in front of Dean, Michael dares, "Go ahead. Touch it. Get your jollies!"
"Never mind. No good if I'm not turned on for it!"
Moving on, Michael says, "You wouldn't want to drive me over to the high school. Jeff is waiting for me," Michael smiles.
"Sure, go and hollar at me, then go and get sweet on me!" Dean claims.
"Do you think you can put it past you? I like was supposed to meet Jeff, like, five minutes ago?"
Pushing himself up off the sofa, Dean would have bowled Michael over, if he didn't step back, "Jeff, huh?"
Designating himself limo driver, Dean takes up the slack, whereas Michael laments, "If you don't drive us, my mom will and trust me, she wouldn't be as fun as you!"
"Is that right?" Dean drops his ass in the seat behind the wheel.
Grabbing the handle of the passenger side, he's pulled back, it being locked!
"Sorry `bout that," Dean says, unlocking the door, admitting his passenger. "By the way, how old are you?" he has question on his mind, other than age.
"I already told you, 19. I'll be 20 in a few weeks."
Dean does remember, at the time calling Michael a `Christmas-baby', born on December 24, "I know, but what I'm driving at..." he stutters, laughs...
"I'm glad you're having fun!"
"What I was going to say, what I was driving at, how come you don't have your own transportation? Get it?"
"Yeah, I got it."
"A car?"
"I get it," Michael got it. "I don't have my own wheels because my mom says she's waiting until my sophomore year of college. She wants me to concentrate on schooling first and then if she sees I'm really into it, maybe she'll think about a car. Told you already she's a weird parent?"
"In my day, they called it `concern'?"
"Whateva," Michael brushes it aside.
"So, you don't know how to drive?" Dean asks, backing out of the drive.
"I know how to drive. Anytime you want me to prove it?" Michael says sarcastically.
"If you think I don't believe you... hey, want to drive?" Dean starts out serious, turning slick!
"Sure. Wreck your Corvette and then ruin it for me and mom."
"I thought you said you were a good driver."
Michael refutes, "You asked me if I could drive. I didn't say I was a good driver or bad?"
"Are you a good driver?" Dean tires of the cat and mouse game.
"I haven't had any wrecks yet," Michael replies.
Halfway up the block he pulls over, "Well, try not to wreck this?"
"Wait. Where are you going?" Michael watches Dean step out of the car and keep walking.
"Keys are in the ignition. Just have it back before tomorrow morning? Some of us have to work?"
"But Dean," Michael suddenly clammed up.
Knowing how much an almost new Corvette could go for, even sitting behind the wheel, without the engine chugging, was enough to make his hands shake!
Even though they were both in college, Jeff attending Columbia University, Michael had gotten a call, Jeff picking up a few bucks, helping to coach their former high school football team.
Signature nervous gesture, Michael bit his lip as he fired up the sports car.
%
©2014 T. Chase M©Phee
`Up oN THe WoOfToP...' and developing segments of this story, may not be sold, nor made part of any collection, without prior consent from the author, or Santa Bear and his little cubs won't visit you this year.