Without meaning to, my eyes shifted down to his crotch.
Under the thin, gray fabric, I could see his dick shift
as he stepped forward. In the locker room, we would have
given him shit for having a chubber - that time when
your cock isn't hard, but it's leaning that way. He moved
to the couch, reaching into the pocket of his shorts
before he sat. I tried to keep my eyes on the TV as he
extracted a condom and a small tube and laid them
deliberately on the coffee table.
He sat close to me, feet flat on the floor with his legs
well apart. His knee touched mine, and though every
instinct in my body told me to move mine away, I didn't.
I could smell him faintly - sweat, some cologne
underneath it. Maybe Polo, which I wore when I went on
dates with women. We watched in silence for a few
minutes. The fan was doing little to alleviate the heat,
and coupled with my nervousness, I was sweating badly.
My every nerve ending seemed alive. I felt the fabric of
the couch against my back, my legs. His knee against
mine. My eyes kept flicking down to the condom package,
to the tube of ointment. It was as wrinkled as a
toothpaste tube closer to empty than full, and was bore a
label I'd never seen before - KY Lubricating Jelly.
Indeed, my eyes didn't heed any of my requests to watch
Sam and Diane. I'd see their antics for a second or two,
then they'd move down to the coffee table again. Then to
the fat man's crotch. The bulge under his shorts was
growing more pronounced.
"Do you like pornos," he asked. I'd seen a lot. My dad
had a collection that he was certain I didn't know about.
I, of course, knew it like the back of my hand. My hand
did a lot of work with them, in fact. Terrible stories,
bad music, and very often, Ron Jeremy banging some nubile
chick in over her head. I *loved* porn.
Finish This Gay Sex Story "August in Midtown" here