Gay Erotic Stories

I don't remember much about the rest of the day, just that I went into this time warp where everything seemed to go by in slow motion. I mean, c'mon: Aaron Friesen was coming to my dorm room Saturday evening! Aaron-un-fucking-believably-good-looking-Friesen was going to model for me! What else could possibly matter? Well...maybe that my place was a brutal mess. And I don't just mean the usual college guy junk of six-week-old pizza crusts hidden under piles of dirty clothes and textbooks plopped atop a dozen CD cases whose contents hung from stickpins rammed into a cork bulletin board. Oh, I had that, sure (with empty beer bottles and Dr. Pepper cans and juice cartons mingled in) but I also had sketches I'd crushed and slung aside in frustration or ripped in half and never picked up off that ugly gray carpet. And I had empty plastic peanut butter jars (I like creamy "Jif") I'd washed out and used for water for my acrylics or to dilute my oils with a dash of turpentine for a flat feel. I had colors from paintings I'd worked on back in September crusted on the rails of my unmade twin bed and artist's table, and my easel had nothing but a mass of smudges to prove I used it (no tubes of paint or used brushes or discolored canvas or indented pad). Y'know, the only undamaged work of art in my room was a sketch of a guy in a "Polo" ad I'd started on a blank wall using a charcoal stick but had never finished. It was a caricature of the worst that a dorm room could be (minus nude pictures or posters taped to the walls) and I hadn't realized how bad it was until I came back to it after my last class. Brother! I couldn't have Aaron see what a slob I am, could I? Problem was, where to start? That's when I felt this wave of apathy sweep over me. I'd been feeling it a lot this year, and that sketch on the wall...it was like a monument to everything I've been going through: started but not finished; interest lost halfway through. Critical eye taking over faster than the brush or pen could find completion. Even that painting that Aaron liked, the one hanging in the refectory, I hadn't completed the guy's backpack or locker; I'd just declared it done, even though deep inside I knew it wasn't. That's why there were smudges of paint on my bed -- from all the times I'd collapsed on it, brush still in hand, fingers coated with color, heart lost in disgust because my latest work was turning out to be crap. Perspective off. Color choices wrong. Original intent lost in the details of transcription. I had a thousand fancy phrases excusing me from doing anything about what I wanted to do and slamming myself for not doing it. Typical. What it meant was, I'd been having this feeling more and more that my choice of careers was just not going to happen. I mean, who did I think I was, Picasso? I liked to paint, but I had no burning need to. I enjoyed sketching, but for fun, not to focus the world on my vision. I knew I was good enough and capable of being better, but I didn't have the ego to proclaim myself a genius or say that I was the future of art. I was dabbling...playing with my minimal skills as if I could be the next Rembrandt or Degas or even Sergeant (since I really liked portraiture the most) but knowing I didn't have the spark you need for greatness. The fact was the only things in my room that even hinted at being good art were my sheets. They used to be white, but now they had this sort of Jackson Pollack feel to them from all the times I'd flopped on the bed before cleaning the paint off. Wouldn't it be funny if I get the most beautiful guy I'd ever met in here by promising to paint his picture...and not be able to complete it? To keep from thinking about that, I set about cleaning the place up: Nothing like self-flagellation to kick yourself into action. I pulled all my jars together and picked up the papers and long-gone food and made trip after trip after trip to the Dumpster. I wound up with six loads of laundry, including pillows and comforters (I wash them because I found it cuts down on my allergies, though this year I hadn't cared enough to bother). As for the paint on my bed, I added more to make it look deliberate. My freshman art teacher once said, "All mistakes are deliberate...and if they aren't, make it look like they are." I swept. I dusted. I washed away the charcoal sketch...though it didn't completely vanish (sticking around to haunt me, huh?). By the time got to scrubbing my bathroom, I was dirtier than my dorm ever had been. I stripped off to do the shower. This was going to be the hard part, there was so much mineral residue from limestone in the water...and some rather creepy looking fungus-type things building in the corners. I had an old tooth brush so I used it and some dish soap to dig into the mess. I think it was close to midnight before I had it gone (or mostly gone) and was sweating like a pig from the exertion and hot water I used to wash it away with when I heard, "Hey!" come from behind me. I jumped around...and there was Aaron, standing in the bathroom door, grinning at me! "Didn't mean to spook you," he said. "You left your door open...an' I knocked..." "Oh, that...that's okay," I stammered...and dammit, Joe, you're naked! Shit! I grabbed for a towel but hadn't brought any into the bathroom! "Uh, excuse me. I'll be right out." He glanced me over then ran a finger over the dirt on my right forearm and smirked, "Maybe you better take your time." Then he showed me the tip of his finger; it was almost black. I blushed and stepped back into the shower, muttering, "It...it'll rinse off. Will you toss me a towel? They're in the big basket by the bed -- the door." He strolled away and I watched his rear roll under those "OP" shorts then started soaping up, fast. Oh, this was perfect: Aaron-un-fucking-believably-good-looking-Friesen comes wandering in when I look like something from the garbage dump and probably reeked like that, too. Shit. But then I wondered what was I worried about? He's got a girlfriend and what little gaydar I had was down at zero, so far as Aaron was concerned. Did I really think we'd wind up in bed? Man, I'm way too prone to wishful thinking! He returned with the whole basket and set it by the bathroom door...then kept looking at me. I could see him through the now almost clear shower door. "Got soap?" he asked. "Yeah," I stammered. "Thanks. What's up?" "Just thought I'd come by, see what you're up to. Spring cleanin'?" "Yeah. I...there wasn't anyplace to set up my easel, so I...I got started making space...and one thing kind of led to the other and here I am." He laughed...and the deep sexiness of it ripped through me...and I couldn't help but get a hard-on. "I was gonna ask you if you wanted t' head out for a beer," he said, "but..." and he opened the shower door and glanced me over and his smile widened as he continued, "...looks like I came at a bad time." I just gazed at him, surprised. I didn't realize my dick was pointing at him, as if at attention, until he ran his finger over the top of it and said, "You clean yet?" I jerked back, so startled I couldn't think of a word to say. "What?" he asked. "You never had a jerk-off buddy before?" "Y-yeah," I stammered out, "but...but..." "But what?" he asked as he climbed into the shower, fully clothed except for his shoes. The square basin was barely big enough for us both, and in seconds Aaron's shorts and shirt were wet and clinging to his perfect body. I could see the darkness of his nipples under the white cotton, erect and ready and promising joy. The golden hair darkened under the effect of the water and it playfully swirled over his chest and down the center of his smooth abs to a neat little "innie" of a belly button. And I could tell he was wearing boxer-briefs from the bulge in his "OP" shorts that swung to the left. The beauty of it...the perfection...kept me speechless. Impulsively, I grabbed his shirt and pulled him close and felt the warm wet cotton press against my body as I kissed him. Oh man, his lips were so...so smooth and moist and fit my own so perfectly. And his nose brushing the side of mine gave me a rush like nothing I'd ever experienced before. His hands trailed around to my back, strong hands; a guy's hands. They danced down my spine and grabbed my ass and crushed me closer to him. My dick wound up slipping between his legs, just under his balls, and he pressed his thighs together and the combination of the soft wet hair and the hem of the shorts tickling the head of my dick almost drove me insane. I pulled at his shirt but he took my hands and stretched them down to my side and crushed his whole body hard against mine, pressing me against the tiles as he kissed me even harder. Through the shorts, I could feel he was as hard as I was. His dick was rubbing up and down against my belly, rolling under the material, and I wanted to hold him...to touch him...but he wouldn't let go of my hands. He just kept grinding his body against mine, the cotton and corduroy gliding over my skin and my tits and my pubes until I was sure I was going to go crazy. The water kept steaming and his tongue kept probing against mine and his body kept rubbing me and suddenly I could feel him pushing harder and harder and jerking in spasms as he came in his shorts. I shot my load between his thighs and he crushed even harder against me and lightning roared down the inside of my legs and -- The hot water ran out! I took a cold blow back to reality and Aaron vanished into the back of my mind, as I slammed out of the shower with a yelp, my hard-on now cold and limp. Shit, couldn't I even have a moment to enjoy the explosion I was feeling? I sagged onto the toilet, my head in my hands, and tried to bring back the picture of being with Aaron...but it was gone. Man, right there is the story of my life: lusting after a straight guy who wouldn't give me a second look except that he wants something. I knew all I'd ever get out of him was a masturbation fantasy, and wound up having that in a shower that went cold faster than it got hot. Irritating...and typical...and so damn depressing. I finally rose and peed and dried off and flopped naked onto my now-clean bed (something I never do; I usually sleep in a pair of boxers) in my now-clean dorm room and drifted into sleep, thinking about Aaron...knowing in the back of my little brain I was beginning to fixate on him...and not caring that I was. Which was also typical...and also depressing. Why is it that all I ever want is what I can't have?