yeahstr82gay:

The first time I realized that I may be a little … you know, “gay,” or whatever, but not really gay, but whatever–the first time had nothing to do with sex.  Not exactly. 

My college buddy, Mark, and I were trekking across Europe, and we’d just stayed at a hostel in Innsbruck where it was so cramped, our cots were right next to each other.  We both slept just in our shorts–not that I was looking at any guy sexually at that point, but I just remember how his shoulders looked in the room after lights out, and his head on the pillow, and how his chin was a little scruffy, and his hair sort of stuck up–and anyhow, that night I could smell him.  You know what I’m saying?  The air of a place can stick to a guy’s skin, and I could smell the air of the countryside on him–it was spring–and the sausage we’d just had was still on his breath, and it didn’t smell bad at all, and it was all mixed with the  musk of him after hiking all day, and something else, either the shampoo he’d used a day ago or something on the sheets–that smell!  I can still smell it.  That night, I just laid there for a good half hour, exhausted, but so happy I couldn’t sleep yet–you know the feeling?–and I just laid there watching him sleep, and his chest with its Wimpy Man hairs on it (that’s what I’d call them, haha, just to tease him, because he had so few little hairs on it) rising and falling with his breath, and then his smell.  I could smell him, and was so close, and it made me think, just out of nowhere, of his junk, and how musky it must be, and I thought of him in his shorts, with his slender, muscled legs, hairier than the rest of him, poking out of the shorts as he’d slid into bed just a few moments before.  I smelled him, and thought of him, all the parts of him that I didn’t know, and I … I mean, I beat off–you know?  Not in a pervy way.  But I just got hard, so close to him.  I loved being so close to him, and it had been an awesome day, and I kept thinking about his musky cock in his shorts and hiking behind him along a stream earlier, after lunch.

I was quiet, and didn’t care if I came on the sheets.  Those hostels–I’m telling you, they get all kinds of shit on the sheets at the hostels.

But I blew my cover the next morning, when we were having coffee and strudel early at some cafe, and the light was shining down on him in that way that makes any moment memorable–you must know what I’m talking about, when the sun turns into gold around a place–and he was talking, and sort of sneaky his eyes looked, and how much more handsome that made him, and that’s when I realized: “Fuck.  I’m crushing on him.”  I was crushing on my bud.  And something in my face must have changed–I know I was staring at him–because he stopped mid-sentence, and those sneaky eyebrows knit together, and he looked at me and said, “Steve, dude, what?”

“What?”  I snapped out of it, looked away.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Haha!  Like what?  I was looking out the window.”

I must have blushed, and I was clearly lying.  I could have just said that I was thinking about something else.  But I was obviously looking at him, and not the window.

He sort of snorted a laugh, I remember, and then he just looked at me.  I smiled and said, “So, where we going to go today–” but I never finished the sentence.  I felt his leg, that slender, muscled, hairy leg, slide under the table over to mine and press up against mine.  I winced, the way you do, and started to pull back my leg, but he just lowered his brow and looked at me, different than he ever did before that, and slid his leg close to mine again.

He finally said something, something about where we would go next, but I don’t remember it.  I know, later in the day, we napped alongside another creek, after lunch, and we slept with our heads together, and our arms touching.  I know, too, that when we made it to Oberammergau, we sat side-by-side, watching the pageant, our shoulders touching, and that night, in another hostel, he didn’t sleep right away, but lay there, talking to me in quiet tones until someone shooshed us.  I remember his hand fumbling under the covers, stretching across the space between our beds, and I remember my hand finding him in turn, and I remember the muffled rustles of our heat.  Like I said, you just don’t worry about the sheets in those hostels. 

But especially, I know that I miss him.  Not every day, but often.  I wonder what he’s doing at odd times, and if he still smells the same.  I took my kids on a hike the other day, the snow gone now, and my wife leaned in and hugged me when we came to the top of the mountain, and I could smell the air on her, the spring mountain air, and I wondered if he ever misses me. 

metabods:

Handsome Randy Laight is the boytoy of a rich man in San Francisco. Muscular and gifted with a big fat dick that is always hard, Randy isn’t really a whore, he’s a lover, and he works hard for the money. He never cheats, he’s totally versatile, and cleans up well enough for high society functions, dick showing and all!

alakazam1988:

Grow boy, grow!