Gay Erotic Stories

I had passed my fortieth birthday without ever having had a physical encounter with a guy, other than some pubescent activities in the early development stages. Not that I hadn’t thought about it on occasion, but it just never happened and I just never pursued it. I was a pretty straight arrow. Married. Maybe some lust for a male in my mind but had never had one on my sheets. My health club was well equipped with every machine known to ever pull or push a muscle. In a medium sized city in the South, it was as much a social center as it was a fitness center, and just about everyone you knew was a member of the club. I worked out there, not strenuously, but consistently, several days each week. My locker was in a corner, and I had my own combination lock on it. There were a couple of lockers adjacent that were not assigned and seemed unused since I was never aware of anyone using them while I was in the club. One day, however, I noticed one of the locker doors slightly ajar, and for whatever reason, out of curiosity I opened it. Inside, there was just one single item: a jockstrap. My initial reaction was to ignore it and I softly closed the door, almost as though I did not want to be caught looking at a jockstrap. However, some curious urge inside of me caused me to open the door up again. I picked up the jockstrap and examined it, looking around and over my shoulder to make sure that no one could see me doing this. It had been worn; it looked as though some man had left a load in it. Yes, I sniffed it. Then I stuffed it into my gym bag. No one saw me do it. At home, when I was alone in the bedroom, I retrieved this purloined article. It had an almost magical spell over me, and I did not have any idea why. Holding it was giving me an erection. The scent of it was heady and erotic. I was intrigued by it, and I had to wear it. I admired myself in the full-mirrored closet door. My erection was as full as it could be restrained only by the supporter’s fabric. I thought I looked sexy in it: I was in good shape, I was hot, and I could feel my pre-cum lubricant wetting the material. I masturbated, and let my hot semen fill the pouch. I felt very macho in it, and strutted around, showing off in the mirror, before pulling it off. The fact that some other man had worn it in a similar fashion, and with a similar orgasmic conclusion, was obviously a stimulus for me. It went through the laundry, and I took it back to the club with me the next visit. I did not know if the owner had misplaced it or had lost it, but I had stolen it and I wanted to return it. I waited until the locker room area was clear before I opened the locker door to return it to its place. I was startled to find another one in the same spot, similar to the one I had taken but a different brand and style, also worn and obviously used in the same manner. I picked it up, sniffed it to confirm my suspicions. My cock started to twitch; again I was intrigued. Unaware of any logic for doing so, I took the used one, replacing it with the one that I had laundered. At home, I repeated the private actions that I had done with the first jock, but I was even more totally turned on with this second event. Did these two jockstraps belong to the same guy? Or was it a coincidence of extraordinary proportions? Who was the owner? Were these articles left for someone else? Could anyone possibly know that I had taken them? I wore this one for several solitary jack-off sessions, conjuring up some male sexual fantasies of the other cock that had been in the same jockstrap, a rock hard dick that stretched the fabric, the prick that spurted heavy puddles of protein right where I was aiming my own. Male fantasies were something that I had never done but I did not feel that I needed any instruction to do them. When the jock was on, I had no heterosexual thoughts, simply thoughts of macho manly masculinity. I laundered the jock a few days later after several uses and abuses, and took it back to the club. If I thought I had been startled before, I was in such an advanced state of being startled this time, I was almost in shock. A third time was not coincidence: this was a pattern. And quite deliberate. Just as before, there was the one lonely jockstrap, obviously worn and showing the residue of a male. I did the exchange again, wondering if this were a game that some mysterious stranger was playing with me or if this were just an enormous coincidence of some sort for which I had no explanation? Why me? Did this person even know it was me, or were they doing this completely anonymously? Over the next few weeks, it was a repetitive maddening variation on a theme. A game played by mad men and I was one of the mad men playing the game. But what were the rules? Once I forgot to bring back the clean laundered jock, but there was another one there and I took it of course. Was that OK by the rules, could I take it without leaving one? Next time, I brought both of them back, clean and laundered, and took the one that was waiting for me there, as I just somehow knew it would be. And the next time, there were the same two again, both worn, with the obvious cum tracks. The jockstraps sometimes, but not always, appeared to be the same jocks. The brand name and the style were frequently different. Whoever was leaving them was obviously a connoisseur, and a collector. Though the game was driving me slightly mad, it also was providing me with some of the most erotic private sexual sessions that I had ever had in my life. I began to spend hours in front of the mirror, watching myself show off and strut and flex, and play with my hard on, wearing these jockstraps that some other man had worn. And he had filled the pouch with his cum. I always filled them with my own ejaculate at the end of these highly charged sessions. Then one day, I was momentarily embarrassed when I pulled the jockstrap from my bag with the quick realization that I had not yet laundered it. It was definitely displaying my cum tracks along with the residue of the other’s dried load. For some strange reason I was slightly titillated with the knowledge that I could actually leave this stained jock in the locker with my own cum stains. After all, I was receiving the jocks with obvious wear and cum stains. Why not return one in like fashion? Inside, I felt that this was all terribly naughty and adolescent, but I did it anyway. I could hardly wait to get back to the club next day to see if there was a measured reaction to my leaving a stained jockstrap for my unknown jock collector. I finished my own workout and had showered, waiting for the locker room to empty. Of all days, there seemed to be a crowd of lingering, slow-to-dress-and-leave guys. I did the steam room, and showered several times before they were gone. As soon as I was alone, I quickly opened the locker door, to find the anticipated jockstrap. I picked it up. It was damp. I knew immediately that the dampness was fresh cum. My cock went to a full erection instantly and I was glad that there was no one to see it spring to full tilt that quickly. The damp was so obviously recent, and it had that unmistakable odor that every man is familiar with, the heady perfume of physical release. I secreted the jockstrap in my bag, with great anticipation of getting it home and putting it on while it was still damp. I succeeded in that goal, and added my own wetness to the damp pouch very quickly with an orgasm of an extraordinary monstrous volume. Afterward, I was sheepish and embarrassed at just how much highly charged pleasure that this private fetish was giving me. I told myself this had to stop, but I was powerless to tell myself how to stop something that was giving me so much pleasure. Addicted? I was also aware that I was not the only one playing in this game. Some other man was obviously deriving his own pleasure from this exchange, and I had no idea who that might be. Just as certain, I knew that whoever he was, he could not possibly know who I was. Or could he? Yes, it was driving me to agitation, if not total madness. The mystery of it all was beginning to add stress to the pleasure. Over and over in my mind: how could he ever know who was taking the jocks, or who I was? No matter what day or time of day that I went to the club, however, there was almost always a jockstrap waiting for me in the mysterious vacant locker. On the few occasions that it was not there, I was frantic. Worried. Concerned that it might not continue. Now most of the time, it was a damp one. Whoever it was, he was pretty damned good at timing his cum shots with my workout time. I became desperate to know who was doing this, who was playing with my mind this way. I had run through many plans as to how I might discover my mystery man but came to the conclusion that it would likely just have to be by accident, since I could not devise a precise enough plan to make the discovery. Patience and time would tell. Wouldn’t it? If you are interested in knowing how it was resolved, let me know. NC252GRN@aol.com