Gay Erotic Stories

Outside, he asked Mike to back the truck up to the garage, and he gestured to a large outbuilding close by. It had a conventional door on one end, and four overhead doors on each long side of the building. Steve and I entered through the side, and walked through what seemed to be a sports store. It was a sizeable room filled with skis, golf bags, canoes, baseball equipment, scuba gear, and so forth on shelves and racks. The next room to the left was set up as a gym. Not just with some weight machines, it had a floor exercise mat, a pommel horse, and parallel bars. Rings hung from the ceiling. Passing through we entered into the garage proper, where there was a pair of Chevy trucks, a Mercedes S600 -- his Mom’s car--and a cobalt blue metallic Boxster with Wyoming ‘SRM’ plates. I didn’t see what was in the other half of the garage.

Steve opened the overhead in front of the Boxster and got a foldable tow bar from a rack. As Mike maneuvered the truck, Steve crawled under the Boxster and attached the bar and then secured it to the truck’s hitch. He explained that he rarely drove the Porsche. Going to campus and back he usually drove an old Honda, just as his Mom mostly drove one of the Chevy’s.

Almost immediately we pulled away, and we were on the road. Our goal was Lovelock, Nevada, 865 miles away. Fortunately, it was 865 very scenic miles. At Cheyenne, we finally leave the Great Plains behind us, and there would be mountains and ridges and basins the rest of the way to California. As usual, as soon as we hit the road, we pulled off our shirts.

Steve, sitting by the passenger window said, “So tell me more about you guys. What was it like growing up in Pennsylvania?”

So I began. I explained that our family lived in near New Hope, Pennsylvania, in Bucks County. My father was an architect. He’s a partner in a New York City firm founded by my grandfather (Mike’s father). He works two days a week in the City, taking the train from nearby Princeton Junction, New Jersey. The rest of the time he works in his studio at home. He and my mom have been happily married for just over 18 years. I was born ‘prematurely,’ my mother just 18 at the time; and my father was barely 20 and an architectural student at Cornell. My grandparents were not thrilled with the idea of their daughter ‘having to get married,’ but they did rather like my father. By the time my father had finished his B. Arch., my grandfather had founded a new firm with some partners from his old firm, and he hired my father (now his son-in-law). My father eventually became a partner himself, and he and my grandfather (his father-in-law) get along very well. “They’re almost like father and son, wouldn’t you say, Mike?”

“Well Mikey, that’s an interesting subject. I would have thought by now you would have known, or suspected, or maybe just intuited it, but your dad and mine have been more than just friends, since before you were actually born. Your mom told me many years ago. My dad has had an ongoing relationship with your dad since just after your folks were married, starting when your father was only 20. To you, like most people, it looks like a father-and-son relationship, but in reality it is far more complicated than that.”

That really got me to thinking. What Mike said was certainly congruent with everything I knew, but until this moment I would never had put one and one together. It’s true that they both worked in the City Monday and Tuesday, sharing their little Upper East Side condo when they are in town. And they couldn’t be more affectionate. It’s also true that Granddad built Mom and Dad a house on a lot he owned three doors from his house, but that seemed perfectly normal.

In confusion, I left this subject, and turned to something I thought I knew a lot better, Mike. Mike, I explained, at six years older than I, could always do everything in the world far, far better than I ever could. As far as I was concerned, he lived life on an entirely different plane. He was like a superhero, hell, I thought he could leap tall buildings at a single bound and stop speeding locomotives. I frankly and unabashedly idolized him. He could have easily abused me, mocking my worship, taunting me for my inadequacies, but quite the contrary, he was like an beneficent Olympian god in my little world.

I went on: “Since we lived only three houses apart, I saw him very often until he went away to college. He came to my house--his sister’s--very frequently, maybe to have dinner when his parents were in the City, or to baby-sit me and my little sister, or just on some errand, or, it seemed to me, just to drop by to see me and hear what my Cub Scout pack was doing or how my piano lessons were going (I studied piano before taking up the trombone), or whatever. But far more often I was at his house (my grandparents? place of course). Occasionally I’d spend the night if my parents were in New York or Philadelphia, and sometimes I’d sleep in Mike’s bed with him. It would be a big treat for me--he was so big, so strong, so talented, so extremely handsome, had so many friends, and, best of all, was so goddamn sweet and indulgent to me. Though I was deeply cherished by my parents, they didn’t put up with any crap, and they had certain expectations of me. Not that it was ever an issue because frankly I was the kind of kid who always seemed to go with the program, and everything in my life has sorta come easy. I dunno. So far anyway…

But Mike was completely indulgent, and I could crawl all over him and he didn’t seem to mind; he swung me around; he got down on the floor with me; he’d play those insanely stupid card games like battle that little kids like and most adults hate; but best of all he’d teach me stuff, like the best strategies in Monopoly or the secret tricks in electronic games of the day, or how to make a whistle out of a willow twig, or the best way to climb that old maple in the back yard. And watching sports on TV with him was like a post-graduate course…

It was a sad time for me when he went off to college so far away; but he came home for holidays and vacations, he always found ways to spend some time with me.

As for me, while he was away at school, I would actually hang out in his room, reading on his bed, etc. As I grew older and bigger, I’d ‘borrow’ an old shirt from his closet, or a pair of shorts, or some of his old under shorts to wear myself. I loved them much better than anything I had…”

“Did you ever miss any of that stuff, Mike?”

“I didn?t care, Mikey. Probably I guess I just assumed that Mom had tossed my old stuff out, something. On a couple of occasions when I thought I’d seen you in something pretty damn familiar, though, some ratty old shorts or some well-worn sweatshirt, it just made me smile a little. And anyway, I’ve given you plenty of stuff like that.”

I continued: “There was always a lot of touching and closeness--you know, the rough-housing stuff--that sort of thing. And yes, when I was younger, I did occasionally sleep over in Mike’s bed with him. But it was all very, uh, chaste. It always, always thrilled me to be close to Mike, and much more actually to be in real contact with him, but it never crossed my conscious mind that there was any possibility of any other kind of contact.”

“But,” turning directly to Mike, I said, “I hope this isn’t going to gross you out, there was an important exception. Let me explain first, though.”

“I started beating off regularly at age 12, to climax. By 13, I’d got my rocks off--my first ejaculate. And from that day to this there has virtually never been a day in which I haven’t beat off at least once; most often twice, and when the opportunities present themselves, three, four, or five times a day--or even more. Even now, except on a day when I know I’ve got a big date where I’m sure to score, it’s at least a twice a day thing. And in the last five years I’ve had a lot of practice. I’ve done it alone, or around a campfire with a dozen kids; in the shower after a big game or hard practice with all my teammates; with stroke books, or just sexy ads in magazines, and god knows with videos, and computer porn. I’ve been dating and fucking since before I was 14, and a lot of my jackoff sessions featured my current hot number or somebody who clearly wanted to jump my bones.

I guess it’s nothing less than the truth to say that there always seemed to be a few girls lining up to get as close to me as they could. But in addition to all that, I often would think of some teammate or some guy I saw at the pool or something like that; but far, far more often, in fact on a very regular basis, I jacked myself thinking about you, Mike. Visualizing you fucking one of your girlfriends, with (I assumed) a gigantic cock going in and out, or better, one of your girlfriends sucking you, caressing your hot body; or still better, you pleasuring yourself; or, a thousand times at least, I bet, it was you and me together.”

“So while I never even dreamed of touching you in reality, I have fantasized about you, or you and me, most days of my life in the last five years.”

I went on. “And sometimes some special image would stick in my mind. You with your big shoulders and hairy chest and belly and with your curly blond hair reaching up to grab a pass in a backyard football game, shirtless and with short, tight shorts. Or maybe a quiet moment, when you and I would be at the ball park, side by side, leg to leg, both shirtless, sharing a bag of peanuts while the Phillies go down in flames, and you with your big arm over my shoulder. Those images would stick in my mind, and for months I’d beat off to them.”

Mike didn’t seem grossed out at all. In fact, he reached over and put his hand on my arm and gave me a really big smile. “Mikey,” he said, “Let me tell you a little secret. It’s true that I have always loved you more than anything. You’ve always been such a great kid. I’ve never once seen you when you didn’t light up like a fucking Christmas tree when you saw me. You were so easy to please: Not to please, but, it seemed to me, to send to Mars, with just the slightest effort on my part. Ruffling your hair, giving you a shitty little stick of gum, for god’s sake.

But in addition to that, you were the cutest little thing from day one. But as you grew you became a very impressive kid. You were a real boy’s boy. In Little League, always hitting the clutch double, or in middle school football, somehow grabbing that wobbly pass and hanging on to it, or in Scouts being willing to scrabble up the rocky cliff when none of the other kids wanted to try. And of course you played the piano and later the ‘bone like an angel. You’ve always been a natural leader, extremely popular with kids of both sexes, and teachers and coaches. And goddamn it, Mikey, when you got your sudden growth spurt, you grew into being the hottest-looking kid around.

By then I was already at school, but when I’d come back home a few months later you’d have shot up another four inches and put on another fifteen pounds. And from being a little boy, you got this manly face, those broad shoulders, those hairy arms and legs; you became a really serious sex object. And in the couple of years you’ve put on more muscle, and become, well, fucking beautiful. And of course you act like you don’t have a clue about the effect you have on others.”

“So, Mikey, I hope this doesn’t gross YOU out, but in the last few years, I’ve had to calm myself down and watch out that I don’t pop a log when I get close to you. Yes, I’ve been more or less constantly in a relationship with one girl after another since I was 14, and I’m totally crazy in love with Alice. To tell you the god’s truth, I’d die for her. But I’ve had a certain amount of more varied experience too. You’re not the first guy I’ve ever been with, Mikey, not by a very long shot. And I can tell you that I’ve often fantasized about you and that body of yours and your floppy yellow hair and absurdly handsome face.”

“But,” he continued, “maybe you are wondering about last Friday night in that motel in Clarion. That wasn’t you, Mikey. It was my doing--I set that all up. I called you into the bathroom, with that atlas thing; I wanted to you rub my shoulder, but it wasn’t because it was stiff. Another part of me was stiff.”

(By this point in Mike?s recital, a certain part of me was very stiff also!)

“Actually, as soon as I asked you on this trip, weeks ago, I was hoping it would turn out this way. And now, Mike, I think we have something really wonderful together that we can always count on, like money in the bank.”

“Now this part will probably really surprise you. Until last Friday night--maybe not until just a minute ago--you may not have known how I felt about you, sexually. But Alice has known for months. She’s quite a special woman, this Alice. Seeing us together back home she figured it out all on her own, as I said, long before you did, maybe even before I really, truly understood myself. And she’s fine with it. She and I have a very profound relationship and a very special sympathy. Over the last month we’ve talked a lot about it and she’s told me that there’ll always be room in our relationship for you. Hell, she loves you too! In fact, last Saturday morning at the motel coffee shop when I called her, I told her what had happened the night before. I’d been hoping for it, and she’d been expecting it, but of course until we knew how you’d react to my little ploy, we couldn’t be sure. There was a chance I’d have to come on a little more directly than I did, and of course a chance that even though you wanted it (we were pretty sure you did at some level), you might not be able to handle it.”

I was stunned by what I had learned in the last five minutes. Stunned, but totally elated. Both my past, my present, and my future seemed to be, in reality, far, far better than I had ever dreamed of hoping. My heart was pounding; but it was singing too. Of course it took me a while to sort all this out. And it took a lot more explaining to Steve before he had the entire picture. And Mike had to do most of the explaining, since I was still in kind of a daze--a delighted daze.

When he’d heard the whole story, his face was all smiles. He grinned from ear to ear and said, “You lucky guys! You dumb-fuck lucky guys! What a deal!”

But Steve owed us some stories too.

To be continued.