Gay Erotic Stories

Ted Baxter was playing street hockey with his friends when the moving van arrived and parked in front of the vacant two-story house on Stanley Street. Vacant, that is, until about an hour earlier when the new owner had arrived to take possession of it. Ted had noticed his arrival, and immediately thought that the thirty-something man who stopped to watch them play their game before he entered the house was someone he should know. Perhaps he saw him last winter at State U., a professor perhaps? Not one of his, but someone else who taught there maybe? Someone he passed in the halls? Certainly he had never been introduced to the guy. The newcomer was about 6 feet tall with dark hair, and well built for an older man, gone a bit soft, perhaps, but not too bad. He was clean-shaven, with a ready smile and clear blue eyes. Whoever he was, Ted was immediately attracted to him and felt that they would meet and become friends. He was sure of it. Roger Morton was not a professor at State U., though his ex-wife was. He had often attended functions there with her before things turned bad. He was a chartered accountant who had just come through a rather unfortunate divorce and, at his own request, had been transferred out of the city to this smaller rural town by head office: a new life in a new town; some quiet time to sort things out. That’s what Roger wanted. He had rented the house for a year. Enough time, he hoped. While waiting for the moving van to arrive, Roger had pulled the lone ladder-backed chair left by the previous tenant over near the living room window to watch and wait. The air conditioner was not installed yet, so he opened the window to let in some air and saw the local boys playing street hockey. He began to take an interest in the game as the sound of their voices drifted in through the open window. Roger had been a hockey player in his youth, and a good one at that. Soccer in the spring, baseball in the summer and basketball in the fall, but hockey all year round, on ice in the winter, mostly in arenas, but pond hockey too. On pavement the rest of the year. An avid sportsman all his years at school and at university, Roger was still in pretty good shape at the advanced age of thirty-three. A little pudgy around the middle, he supposed, but an office job does that to a guy. At first, he had played handball two or three days a week with a guy from the office, and worked out in the gym when he could get the time. For the last few years, however, he found himself working longer hours at the office to support his wife of ten years and spending less time looking after himself. That had been the problem. Work. Only three months before he married Marianne, he had been hired by the company. Starting at the bottom, he worked his way up rapidly, but it meant long hours and often weekends. He left early in the morning to beat the traffic, and seldom got home till late at night, usually dog-tired. Sex on Saturdays was more of a ritualistic chore than a pleasure, and they both knew it. Bad timing, bad vibes, bad sperm, who knew, but their now infrequent mating did not produce any children, and after a while, they were glad of that. He became increasingly wrapped up in his work, and eventually his stay-at-home wife found solace in another man’s arms. The marriage just faded away. No one’s fault. What other choice did she have? What other choice did he have? If the truth be known, he was glad the marriage ended, and he was free again. The ball the boys were playing with rolled under his car, which was parked at the curb to leave the driveway free for the moving van. The older boy, whom he heard the others call Ted, tall, dark-haired, perhaps eighteen or a bit older, muscular, tanned and quite handsome, had thrown himself down spread-eagled on the ground reaching under the car with his hockey stick to get the ball. When he got up, he straightened his clothes, gave a tug at his crotch to straightened things there, and turned to go back to the game. He noticed Roger watching from his window and gave him a wave and a warm smile. To Roger’s amazement, the boy gave his crotch another more exaggerated tug, another wide grin, and another wave and then returned to the game. Roger gave a tug to his own crotch, feeling a stirring there that embarrassed him a bit. After all these years, why was he getting a hard-on just looking at this handsome young man now? That sort of thing had happened a lot in high school and even at university, but he struggled to control those impulses and stayed straight. He even married, for Christ’s sake! He wasn’t gay! Or was he? Perhaps that’s why the marriage didn’t work. Once, when Roger and Marianne were driving to the mall to get groceries, they passed a similar group of boys, most of them quite young, playing street hockey. The boys stopped and moved their net to one side to let them drive through. It happened all the time in their neighborhood. It was a warm day in late spring and Marianne drew Roger’s attention back to the boys by commenting on their styles as he navigated the car past their net. “Look at the shorts those guys are wearing,” she said, “they’re practically falling off!” Roger looked. They were the baggy kind, with pockets on the legs, hanging below the knee from slender hips, held up only by the good grace of God. The boy closest to his side of the car didn’t have a shirt on, and he wore his shorts so low on his hips that the band of his white briefs and much of the material beneath it showed above his shorts. Roger had felt his cock begin to stiffen. Embarrassed, he diverted his eyes, perhaps a bit too quickly, and narrowly missed hitting a parked car as he drove on past. That night, he jerked off in the downstairs bathroom to the image of that boy. Did Marianne suspect? Roger didn’t think so, but it was not long after that that he noticed a further cooling off in their sex life, such as it was. Was it his fault? Her fault? He didn’t know. The boys playing street hockey outside his window right now were dressed much the same way: baggy shorts, some with no tee shirts, all lean and all physically attractive. They varied in age and ability, and all were totally absorbed in the game. He couldn’t take his eyes off them, especially the older dark-haired boy they called Ted. Did Ted look towards his window as often as Roger imagined? Did he seem to be staring at Roger when not involved in the play? When the moving van finally pulled up, the game stopped and the boys came over to watch as the driver opened the back. He spoke to them, whereupon Ted and some of the others threw their sticks to the grass and jumped into the back of the van. Soon all the boys were helping unload the furniture and boxes onto the front lawn. Roger straightened his semi-hard cock in his pants once more and then went out the front door to join them and help carry his things back into the house. “Hi guys,” he said when he approached the boys and the van driver. “I’m Roger, Roger Morton. Thanks for helping with my furniture. I’ve got some cold soft drinks on ice inside when you’re finished. Some beer too, if any of you are of age.” He looked at Ted, hopefully, then back to the rest of the boys. “I really appreciate your help.” The driver, Roger, Ted, and the other boys carried the furniture into the house and distributed it among the various rooms. Roger found himself at one end of a mattress with Ted at the other. They carried it in through the front door and up the stairs to the master bedroom to the right of the bathroom. Two other boys followed with the head and foot boards, two with the box spring, and two more with the rails. “I’ll help you put this together,” said Ted. “My name’s Ted, by the way, Ted Baxter.” He held out his and Roger took it. His grasp was firm and, for some reason, Roger was shaking inside, thrilled by the boy’s touch. “I know,” said Roger. “I heard the others call your name as you were playing hockey. I’ll get my tools,” he continued, reluctantly letting the boy’s hand go. It didn’t take long to assemble the large king-sized bed and position it with the headboard against the far wall. They worked quietly, and Roger found himself a bit dizzy, whether from the exertion of assembling the bed, or from the adrenaline that coursed through his body from having Ted working so closely beside him, he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t help noticing Ted’s muscular frame, his bare chest bulging in all the right places, a large bulge just where it should be in his shorts too, and his strong masculine body odor, probably from playing hockey earlier. Roger pulled in his slightly sagging stomach and felt foolish doing it. What was the matter with him, he thought. He hadn’t felt like this around anyone for years, especially not around Marianne. What was it about this boy that made him so self-conscious? “That’s it, Roger,” Ted said. “I can call you Roger, can’t I? You can call me Ted.” “Sure you can, Ted,” said Roger. “Thanks for all your help.” “It was nothing,” Ted said, smiling at Roger. “’Course, you know what they say: you make the bed, you lie in it! Right?” He laughed, his eyes sparkling. Roger laughed too, but could feel his ears burning. “I’ll have to take you up on that sometime,” he said. “Why the fuck did I say that?” he said to himself. “Ted’s going to think I’m queer!” But Ted just laughed and turned toward the door. “You name the night, and it’ll be my - our - pleasure,” he said as he walked out and down the hall. Roger followed behind, awkwardly. “Is this a joke, or is this kid really coming on to me?” Roger wondered. They met up with the others in the kitchen and Roger opened the cooler he had brought in previously from his car. He let everyone help himself to a beverage. Some of the obviously younger boys took Cokes. Ted and one other older boy took beers and twisted the caps off with the ease that came from lots of practice. Roger reached for a beer, too, but then decided on a diet Coke instead: He was tipsy enough without the additional stimulant. After all the furniture was placed and the boxes were put in the various rooms, the driver left. The boys seemed to want to hang around, but Roger thought it was best to have some time to himself. “Thanks guys,” he said, walking toward the door and opening it. “I’ve got some major unpacking to do now and that’ll take me hours. Maybe tomorrow I can join your hockey game, if you don’t mind an old fellow playing. I was pretty good in my high school days. Can someone lend me a stick?” The boys agreed that a spare hockey stick could be found and he could join them whenever he wanted. They shook hands with him as they passed through the door. It was getting too late to continue their game, so most of the boys headed for home. But not Ted. He had pulled on his tee shirt, gathered up the empty Coke and beer bottles and had put them on the kitchen counter, and now was about to be the last to leave the house. After the others were out of earshot, he turned to Roger, flashed his wide smile, and said, “Do you believe in dreams?”