Gay Erotic Stories

As I sit here alone on a rainy Halloween night, I scan the club to see if there is anyone worth approaching. The entire place is illuminated by green lights, with white spotlights around the stage, and melted dry ice provides a feeling of classic spookiness. Shall I describe what I am seeing on the dance floor? There are men of all ages crowding the dance floor, and the disco band has kept the music pumping. I enjoy watching all of the guys iron their sweaty bodies against each other. The enormous mirror ball casts small hints of light on gaudy costumes, and warlike face paintings. Leather flanks worn by butch men expose slivers of damp flesh, and practically absorb much of the glint. Scantily clad wallflowers enjoy the random company of men closest to them. The grotesque set pieces are largely ignored as ravenous men tear them down in the heat of passion. From where I am sitting, the smell of musk imbues the air, and my desire for a man skyrockets. As the vapor of dry ice continues to spread, I can see silhouettes of bodies amalgamating, and my memories start to creep. My first glimpse of a man's bare torso came when I was about five years old. It was when I attended a company picnic with my parents. All of the men had just finished playing a rough game of football, and shirts were removed to substitute for towels. Some of them were wearing fitted shorts that came above their knees. Any time one would squirm for the ball, the hem would lift up, and for a brief second you could see the white cotton of their underwear. How I treasured those company picnics. By the time I was seventeen, I started the habit of counting all of the dark hairs on the men's thighs. Sometimes I would volunteer to be the water boy just so I could stand close to these men, and take in a whiff of after shave and sweat. It was so pleasurable seeing these older men panting and heaving. The way their T-shirts and shorts seemed to hug every nook and cranny. Even before sideburns and long hair came into fashion, my father's co-workers had carefully trimmed mustaches. The onset of the seventies also brought forth beards, and I delighted in the sight of salt and pepper stubble. Those were my days of innocence. Just acting as a passive observer. I took great care in making sure I wasn't discovered. So I usually only stared as the men were walking away from me. It was a glorious sight. Their rumps seemed to dance in their shorts like ripe melons. I would picture them naked, and their prized manhood swinging like a pendulum between their legs. Older men had this unabashed sense of manliness that was not compromised by time. In fact, watching former interns mature into ripened huskiness only contributed to my burgeoning feeling of sexual attraction. I never became attracted to boys that were my age. All of them seemed to lack that sexy masculinity that only older men seemed to possess. There were a lot of boys that wanted me in high school. I had jocks and ROTC guys chasing me around. Even some of the Mormon elders liked to come knocking on my door. But as nice and handsome as these guys were, none of them could ever satiate my hunger for older men. Before I went to bed, I would imagine having sex with my neighbor Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones was a retired Navy Seal, but he still seemed to take great care of himself. Even at fifty, Mr. Jones had an extraordinary body from weightlifting and jogging ten miles. Sometimes I used to sit on the porch to do my homework, and Mr. Jones always appeared to perform chore on his front lawn. This did not look conspicuous to anybody in the neighborhood. Even though Mr. Jones never married, most of my conservative neighbors figured that a retired Navy Seal just didn't have the time to settle down. I remember he used to mow the lawn without his shirt on, and I found it so hard to study calculus while trying to catch a glimpse of that sexy fifty-year-old. In summer, the hot sun beamed down on his coppery, woolly chest. The heat became so intense that perspiration cascaded down his hairy biceps. His thick eyebrows overshadowed his squinted hazel eyes. Sun rays dyed his chiseled cheekbones a deep red. I recall noticing Mr. Jones look over at me a couple of times. Whenever I returned his stare, he would turn away and pretend like he was just scratching his blond beard. Sometimes he would bend down in front of me, and I could see the print of his succulent bulge. My mouth would salivate at the glorious sight, and I would imagine myself inside of him. A few weeks after my high school graduation, the day finally came when my fantasies became reality. I remember it clearly. My parents were out of town for the weekend, and Mr. Jones happened to invite me over to see his medal collection. It was a very hot evening so Mr. Jones had all of the fans turned on in his house. Obviously it did nothing to keep him cool for he still had his shirt off. I don't know what him and I discussed that night, but somehow we ended up in his bedroom. As we kissed on his bed, I could feel his mustache hairs tickling my nostrils. He slowly ran his hands over my body-- feeling my chest and cradling my backside in his strong arms. I responded to this newfound pleasure by biting him on the lip. When he withdrew in astonishment, I pinned him down and sucked on his erect nipples. He let out a grunt, and before Mr. Jones could recover from the shock, I yanked down his athletic shorts. Now, his black boxer shorts were exposed. I placed my entire left hand inside (it was still cold from handling an icy Dr. Pepper). He seemed to jump out of his skin when I did this. His breathing grew harder, and I gave him a moment to remove my clothes. I lay there next to him. My entire body hot like an oven. His mouth was wide open, and he devoured my body with his eyes. I drew my body against his, and he sighed with anticipation as I pulled down his boxers. His erection popped out, and it was rubbing innocently against my belly-- looking for an opportunity. We started making out again, but this time it was my turn to explore. First, I ran my fingers down his muscular back, feeling each bone quiver in excitement. I ran my hands along his spine until they were firmly planted on his hairy buttocks. By this time, my lips were appreciating the boundary between Mr. Jones' beard and his muscular neck. I started nibbling at his neck while placing a finger inside his damp aperture. He squealed with relish, and became tremulous as I moved my index in a circular motion. I stopped for a moment to grab the massage oil that he kept on the nightstand. I placed some on my finger, and went back to exploring him. While doing this, I started sucking the wrinkled flesh of his scrotum. He groaned like an animal, and spread his tanned legs to show me his gratitude. As my tongue danced around the length of his shaft, two of my fingers found their way back into his orifice. His husky chest rose with intense gasps for air. Lowering my mouth onto his crimson erection, he cried out in happiness as his penis erupted in surrender. I was definitely not expecting this to happen so soon. In a way, I was even dissatisfied by it. But when I looked up at his face, his eyes were peacefully closed. A furrowed grin underneath his golden, bushy mustache. This sudden revelation made me feel very proud, but that alone did not satisfy my yearnings. Just then, Mr. Jones lifted his hips off the bed, and starting pulling me close to him. I made eye contact with him, and I knew what he was allowing me to do. I slowly slid my lubricated penis inside him, and a flood of adrenaline filled my veins. Upon insertion, nerves that I never knew I had fluttered. The hairs on my testicles stood straight up. A deep sigh escaped from my mouth, and my mind plunged into nirvana. I wrapped his legs around my waist, and I started thrusting. It was like composing a symphony. I gave him deep strokes with quick ones. Alternated hard kisses with soft pecks. Even as the hours passed, positions shifted in what felt like suspended time. We started off face-to- face with my pubic hair massaging his warm jewels. Then he rose on top of me -- placing both his palms beside my knees for balance. For a moment I withdrew so he could lay on his side, and then I penetrated him again. My arms were wrapped around his stomach, and my motions were more tender. The saltiness of his sweat danced on my young tongue. At one point, Mr. Jones had his face buried in a pillow, and his lower body was in a bowed position. By the time he had himself spread out before me, Mr. Jones' body was sunburned red, and his face was flushed with rapture. The harder I thrust, the more I craved for him to engulf me. I ran my fingers in the hairy jungle that covered his chest, and the wet bush surrounding his sweaty cleft. He raised his upper body to push himself against me. His beautiful mouth agape. The skin around his face tightened. I gently pinned him down, and my thrusting increased to the point of madness. I could feel orgasm finally consuming my entire body. Tears were streaming down my eyes, but I could not stop for even a moment. My hands were pressed firmly against each cheek as I held my swollen penis deep inside. The bedpost shook as my body surrendered in giving, and Mr. Jones shuddered in receiving. I moaned so loud that the windowpanes trembled, and the heat of my breath made all of the mirrors fog up instantly. That night took place only four years ago. There were many experiences with older men that have followed since, but none are as satisfying as my sexual encounters with Mr. Jones. Eventually, he maintained enough control that he was able to penetrate me for hours at a time. Our compassion and respect for each other makes the sex really enjoyable. Even as I peruse the dance floor again, I'm looking for men that resemble him. I see plenty of facial hair and muscles, but nothing compares to the apotheosis of Mr. Jones. I pay for my drinks and make my way toward the phone booths -- hoping to reach him.