I was extremely excited. An erotic agitation had my entire body on edge, but the tension felt almost pleasant. My dick was rock-solid again, thanks to Zdenek’s expert sucking, but I knew it was going to take me longer to shoot this time. Suddenly, I was no longer reluctant—not at all. Now, I really wanted to reciprocate—to put my mouth on Zdenek’s cock and suck it! In a weird way, when that realization hit me, I was shocked, all right, but precisely because I wasn’t shocked—not in the way I thought I should be. I’d always thought that cocksucking was wrong—perverted—and the idea of actually doing such a thing, myself, still made me feel hot and feverish with lingering shame. But, suddenly, I didn’t give a damn. I wanted to do it—and so I went ahead and did it.
I thought about that sexy French pro bodybuilder whom I idolized. I’d gladly suck his dick for him, if I was ever fortunate enough to meet him, and he wanted me to blow him. The fantasy spurred me on. Right there in front of me was my buddy Zdenek’s stiff dick, a turgid member of flesh and blood, ready for me to practice on. It’d be a bit hypocritical for me to reject Zdenek, when I knew I’d embrace that French stud so wholeheartedly, given the chance.
To commit myself to the act and get it over with before I lost my nerve, I took a deep breath, and then I boldly pressed my parted lips against the smooth pink bulb of Zdenek’s cockhead. It felt like a ball of hard rubber, absolutely inflexible, and there wasn’t much of a distinct taste to it. Thrilled by my own daring and the novelty of what I was doing, I forced my mouth wider open and I pushed my face forward into Zdenek’s groin—letting the whole thick head of his cock fill my oral cavity. I closed my lips around the shaft just below the knob.
Gasping for breath as Zdenek’s hot dick twitched excitedly inside my mouth and the big guy’s thighs tightened around my head, silently encouraging me—indeed, trapping me between them and not giving me much choice in the matter!—I struggled to move my tongue down out of the way, so I could fit more of Zdenek’s meaty prick inside my mouth.
Now what? I asked myself. What do I do now? Yes, I was that naïve, back then. Further proof that cocksuckers may be born, not made; but they still need to learn the basic technique. But of course I did know that, somehow, I had to suck. I breathed in and out rapidly around the cock which was filling my mouth, and then I hollowed my cheeks and I closed my lips more firmly around the shaft. Now I breathed through my nose as I made awkward sucking motions with my lips and cheeks. I remembered what I’d seen Zdenek doing to me—what he was doing to me right now, in fact—and I tried my best to imitate him. I pumped my head up and down between his widespread thighs, to make my wet mouth slide back and forth along his prickshaft. I brought my tongue into play on his penis, licking and rubbing and tickling it. The blood-engorged veins running along his shaft pulsed against the interior of my mouth, startling me. I hadn’t been prepared for that.
I was learning how to suck a cock by trial and error. I was no doubt clumsy, but Zdenek didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, he went into high gear. He blew me as wildly as he had before, grunting and squirming against me like a horny young animal. His mouth devoured my cock and showed me how to do it. With such a good example set for me to follow, I flattered myself that I learned fast.
I was just beginning to get the hang of it, in fact, when I felt the first spurt of Zdenek’s cum slam against the roof and the back of my mouth. I tried not to gag as the semen trickled down my throat. It almost made me puke, because I wasn’t prepared for so strong a salt taste, and I wasn’t sure I could swallow the outpouring fast enough to keep myself from choking on it. There seemed to be an extraordinary amount of thick, slimy fluid, gushing into my mouth all at once!
I pulled back until only the head of the prick was still inside my lips, and I swallowed the semen in quick, deep gulps, as though I was chugging a beer in order to show off in a bar. Zdenek’s hot scum flooded my mouth. It oozed over my tongue, and my taste buds were seared by its tart, sour-yogurt flavor. It slid down my throat, and it warmed my guts with the kind of a tingle you get from drinking liquor on an empty stomach. I was drunk, in a sense—intoxicated by my first taste of gay sex.
I’d been converted to cocksucking. I loved it. And I knew that, if Zdenek kept blowing me like that, I would blast down his throat, again, too. And so, gasping, slurping, and sucking at each other’s stiff dicks, we clawed at each other’s squirming, sweat-slick bodies. We rolled over on the bed like a couple of rough young male animals going through the motions of a mating ritual, sucking each other off by pure instinct. Finally, I did blow my wad for a second time, and Zdenek ingested just as greedily as he’d swallowed my first load.
That was my first experience with gay sex, but it was hardly my last. Zdenek and I got together regularly after that. Our sex play almost became an extension of our gym workouts.
It didn’t take long for Zdenek to talk me into the next logical step—namely, giving anal intercourse a try.
“You can fuck me if you’ll let me screw you,” he told me. Talk about an offer I couldn’t refuse!
As a result of our experimentation, before that night was over, I was as enthusiastic about ass fucking as I’d become about sucking cock. I’d taken that first, decisive step on the road to becoming a gay man.
Chapter Three: My Anonymous Jock
During my first semester at the University of Debrecen, I lived in one of the dormitories on campus. I could have gone on living at home with my parents. But it would have meant a bit of a commute, to and from my classes. Furthermore, I came from a large family, and I wanted to ease the burden on my parents. But the deciding consideration, of course, was my desire for independence. Our income qualified me to reside in the dorm, so I took advantage of it.
The accommodations weren’t luxurious, but they were good enough. My room, 4G, was on the fourth floor of the building, and I shared it with another guy. We got along well. He was straight, which wasn’t a problem. We quickly worked out a way of dealing with sexual activities taking place in our room. We’d stolen a Do Not Disturb sign from a local hotel, and we placed this on the doorknob when he was entertaining a girl in our room, or I was having sex in there with a guy. I once suggested, only half-jokingly, that we should make good use of both of the beds in our room at once. He could bang a girl while I screwed a guy, and then, just for the hell of it, we’d switch partners. He laughed, not taking me seriously, and so I didn’t get to act out that fantasy. (Well, not then, anyway. Later on, I did have opportunities to indulge in some bisexual experimentation—which was fun, but which did nothing to change my wholehearted commitment to gay sex.)
The dorm had large bathrooms on each floor, and a laundry room in the basement.
I hate to say it, but for me the dormitory turned out to be a distracting hotbed of gay sex. I got so much action from my fellow students that it really interrupted my studies. I didn’t even have to cruise actively. The bathrooms, especially the showers, were popular pickup spots. It seemed as though I could never step under a showerhead without being joined by at least one admirer, who ogled my naked body while he, too, showered. Needless to say, a lot of these guys wanted to do more than just look. If they were halfway decent-looking, I’d often give in.
Even when I had my clothes on, I got into trouble. I’d be in one of the communal areas, or walking along a hallway, minding my own business, when some fellow resident would be attracted to my physique. (Or, I flatter myself, to my face. I wasn’t just a hard, weight-trained body!) He’d make eye contact, strike up a conversation, and before I knew it, I’d either be in his room, or he’d be in mine, and we’d be going at it together.
I’ll share with you just one of many such incidents.
I was coming back to the dorm after class one day, when I saw a jogger dashing across the lawn toward me. At first glance, I could see that he had a good, athletic build, which had obviously benefited from some basic weight training. He wore shorts, a T-shirt, and running shoes.
As he sprinted closer to me, I r
ealized that I hadn’t seen him before.
He had the interesting combination of a very pale skin and very black, glossy hair. That first time I saw him, he was flushed pink from his exertions, and his skin was beaded with sweat. There were dark sweat stains gluing his T-shirt to his torso, and his bare forearms and legs were coated with fine black hairs.
He looked at me as he passed me. He directed a manly grunt of greeting in my direction, and then he ran by me and went into the building. So—he lived in my dorm, which made it seem stranger that we hadn’t run into each other before. I knew most of my fellow residents at least by sight, if not carnally.
It was one of those fleeting moments of eye contact between two men, lasting mere split-seconds, which either leads to nothing—or which can lead to a great deal.
I thought this jock was hot, although, interesting enough, I didn’t get a gay vibe from him. My instincts in such matters were already fairly well-honed. I could usually tell who was gay, who was straight, and who fell into the category of “straight but curious” between those two extremes.
I thought nothing more of it during the next few days.
One afternoon, when I didn’t have a class, I hung out in the dorm, and I decided to do my laundry. I had plenty of it to do. Never mind my ordinary, everyday clothes—I also had, as usual, lots of workout gear which needed to be washed. Grimy, stinking jockstraps—dirty socks—sweat-sodden workout shorts, sweatpants, tank tops, and T-shirts. Every trip I made to the gym seemed to fill my laundry hamper with more items of ripe, pungent workout attire.
I transferred my things to my plastic laundry basket, and I took the elevator down to the basement.
The laundry room was equipped with fluorescent light tubes in ceiling fixtures. A couple of the dryers were humming away. There was only one other person in the room—and who should it be but the jogging jock. He’d just set his own basket of laundry down on the table in the middle of the room. He was beginning to sort through the garments.
He glanced up, and saw me.
“Oh, hi there,” he said.
“Hey,” I replied, blandly, noncommittally.
He was wearing a tight pair of faded and well-worn jeans, and a jersey with the logo of one of Hungary’s soccer teams. Shoeless, he had a pair of white cotton socks on his feet. He looked even better this time than he had during our previous, fleeting encounter.
“You’re Emeric Varady, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yeah, one and the same.”
I was about to attempt to make some small talk with him when he said, “You’re the bodybuilder, aren’t you? I mean, you’re the only real hardcore bodybuilder here on campus. Not just another jock who wants to get all pumped up, so he looks good, or so he’ll be better at his sport. You’re serious about it. You compete.”
“I think I take it seriously. I’ve won a few prizes,” I admitted, modestly. “I’m just a beginner. I have a lot to learn—a long way to go.”
“You look damn fine, to me.”
Neither of us was making any progress with getting our laundry started, while we carried on our conversation. He’d interrupted his clothes sorting, and although I’d set my own basket down on the table near his, I made no move toward one of the washing machines. He was looking at me, studying me from head to foot. He was undressing me with his eyes, and it was obvious to me that he liked what he saw. I felt slightly uncomfortable being the object of such intense scrutiny, which was uncharacteristic of me—but his blatant admiration of my physique also stroked my ego, and made me feel good.
“I wish I could look like you,” he finally said, wistfully.
“Well, the weight room in the athletic center, right here on campus—it’s very well equipped,” I pointed out.
“I know. I use it. But I’m sure I could never lift as heavy as you do.”
“All it takes is dedication. Putting in the time, pumping the iron. And eating right, of course.”
“I guess I’m too fond of junk food,” he admitted.
“You can change that.”
“Maybe. Hey, what’s your room number?”
“4G.”
“Okay,” he said, enigmatically. “4G—I’ll remember that. If I ever need any workout or diet tips.”
He went to one of the washers and opened its door. He was about to start tossing his clothes inside, when he stopped himself, abruptly.
“Oh, fuck,” he muttered. “Forgot something. I’ll be right back.”
He padded back to the elevator. As I heard the whoosh of the car going up, I realized that he hadn’t gotten around to telling me his name.
In a way, I was almost pleased that he was still anonymous to me. It made it easier for me to think of him as a potential sex object. I still assumed he was straight. He’d checked out my physique and expressed his admiration of it. But straight guys did that all the time. He certainly hadn’t cruised me, in the overt way with which I was well acquainted.
I examined his laundry basket. Like me, he had lots of dirty workout gear. His load smelled almost as bad as mine.
I had a sudden attack of—well, of sheer perversity. There’s no other word for it. I selected a particularly damp and pungent pair of jockey shorts from his laundry basket and I pressed the crotch of the briefs to my face. Inhaling slowly, deeply, and appreciatively, I savored the smell of his sweat. He must’ve peeled the underwear from his body quite recently, and I had a vivid mental image of him doing so—which only aroused me more.
I sniffed repeatedly, and I even dared to coax a wad of the sodden cotton between my lips and inside my mouth, so I could suck on it, and taste his lingering body residue as well as smell it. While I indulged myself in the shameless act, I remembered the day I’d first glimpsed him, outside the dorm. He’d looked good. He’d left a trail of hot, manly sweat in the air as he passed by me. I pictured his thick, hard-muscled, hairy legs, and I thought about how sexy they’d feel rubbing restlessly against me in the throes of intimacy. I hadn’t seen his cock, of course, except for the bulge it had made in the front of his running shorts. But that didn’t prevent me from imagining it as exceptionally large. In my mind’s eye, I could see my hands grabbing hold of his sweaty jockstrap and yanking it down to free his genitals. I visualized his long, thick, hard cock jutting out from his groin, aimed at my eager mouth. It needed to be sucked, and I was just the man for the job.
I heard the warning whoosh of the elevator as it descended, which jolted me out of my erotic reverie. Without even realizing what I had been doing, I had been massaging my cock through my jeans. I was as hard as a rock. Aware of his approach, I threw his tantalizing briefs back into his laundry basket, and I began unloading my own clothes into one of the available washing machines.
I heard the thud of his stocking feet as he rejoined me in the laundry room.
“I forgot my goddamn detergent,” he said. He was indeed holding a plastic jug.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I responded. “I thought you forgot something you wanted to wash. I’d have let you borrow some of mine, if I’d known,” I assured him, indicating my own jug of detergent.
“Thanks, anyway.”
We busied ourselves filling our washers, feeding coins into their slots, and getting them started. Then we rode the elevator together. He hit the button for the third floor.
I was about to ask him his name, when the door opened and he stepped out of it.
“See you around, big guy,” he told me, amicably.
“Sure.”
A wash cycle took about forty-five minutes. When that amount of time had expired, I went back to the basement. I put my things in the dryer. His clothes were still in the washer, which like mine had shut itself off. I actually lingered for a few minutes, hoping he’d come to put his load in a dryer. But then I went back upstairs.
After an hour, I returned to the laundry room. My clothes were dry—and his were still spinning away, inside another one of the dryers. Once again, I’d missed him. Shrugging, I took my
clean clothes upstairs.
Another hour or so passed, during which I actually cracked open a textbook and did some studying.
I happened to be taking a break, standing there, in the middle of my room, facing the closed door, when I saw a piece of paper being pushed under the door.
I retrieved it. It was an ordinary sheet of paper, folded twice. I opened and read it.
The note had been scrawled in pencil, and in such haste, apparently, that at first I had trouble making out a couple of the words. Once I deciphered the message, though, I had to admit that it was admirably direct and to the point.
To the big muscle stud in 4G—
What a fucking body!
If you want a horny cocksucker to work on those muscles of yours, come to Room 3B. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll suck your dick. Worship your muscles. Lick your ass. You can fuck me. I bet you’ve got a big cock. If you do, so much the better. I want it up my ass. Don’t keep me waiting, big guy. I’m so fucking hard up I can’t stand it.
Come right now. Please.
Don’t let anybody read this. I’d be too ashamed. But I will do anything you want.
P.S. I’m not kidding, you really can fuck me. I’m so hot for your cock.
Interestingly enough, it didn’t occur to me that my mysterious correspondent might be my anonymous laundry buddy. He’d gotten off on the third floor, to be sure, but a lot of guys lived on the third floor.
At first, I thought this must be somebody’s idea of a joke—a setup. I’d knock on the door of 3B, and it’d be opened to reveal a bunch of my fellow students, who’d jeer at me because I was so hot to trot that I’d accept such a crude, anonymous sexual invitation.
Well, in that case, I could always bluff it out. I could just laugh and claim I knew it was a setup all along. I could ask exactly which one of them was the “horny cocksucker” in question. We’d all have a good laugh, and no harm done.
But my curiosity was piqued. What if this was a genuine proposition?
Bodybuilder in Blue Page 3
