Perhaps you have a secret that you’ve never shared with anyone, and never will. You think about it from time to time, or maybe quite often. Sometimes the secret sleeps peacefully in the remote corners of your mind. Sometimes it rages in your mind like a bull that has caught the scent of a heifer in heat. That’s when it likely your eyes are resting on a man in a pair of well-fitting jeans.

              Maybe he is a passerby in the street. Maybe he’s a guy you know at work. Maybe he is your best friend, which happens to be what the following short story is about. Give it a look. See if you identify with the guy who is telling it.                

Jeans

He is sprawled out on the sofa, dead to the world, dead drunk.

We had spent the evening at my favorite sports pub, a rowdy bunch of guys watching a baseball game, drinking, smoking cigars, served drinks by busty girls with all but nonexistent tank tops. Two or three beers in one evening is about all I can handle; Craig, in the mood to cut loose, had way more than that. When the bar closed I brought him to my house and plopped him on the sofa. Now I’m sitting on the coffee table beside him, staring at him, certain he’s out for the night.

We’ve known each other maybe a year. I meet him three days after he transferred here from Atlanta, offered to show him around Houston. Our wives became friends shortly after that when the four of us went out to dinner. They’re on vacation in New York for a week, attending a bridge tournament.

Like me, he’s an average guy. He always has a five-o’clock shadow, good strong jaw, wavy black hair. Some might say his nose is a bit too large and his eyes are set too close together, others would consider him good looking. Anyone would say he has a great body. Me, I find his body distracting, especially when he’s wearing those jeans.

That’s my little secret. I’ve never shared it with anyone, not my wife, especially not Craig, even though we’ve become such good friends. It would devastate me should something ruin our friendship. He’ll never know I find him so irresistible.

I’ve wondered if his wife takes his body for granted, if seeing him naked is inconsequential, if feeling his body against hers is nothing more than a nightly routine. That’s the way of it around here, after fifteen years of marriage. I can step out of the shower and my wife doesn’t even notice I’m naked, but then my body isn’t as dramatic as Craig’s. I don’t have his broad shoulders, his dark complexion, or his dark patterns of hair landscaping my chest and arms and legs. How many times have I struggled not to stare at him when we’re showering at the gym?

I scoot closer to the edge of the coffee table, lean closer to him. He’s on his back, one knee up against the sofa, an arm splayed back over his head, the other arm and leg hanging off  the cushions. His hair is fussy and uncombed. His shirt is crumpled, half way unbuttoned, partially hanging out of his jeans. I had managed to get his shoes off, but left his socks sagging down around his ankles.

He has a glorious bulge pressed against his upper leg, just next to his fly, indistinguishable as far as the fleshy shapes causing it are concerned. For some the bulge might trigger the imagination, or set off flights of fantasy. For me it calls up images of his dark brooding penis in the locker room shower as water cascades down his chest and runs off the end, which makes it look like he’s peeing.

Should I feel guilty about staring at him this way, taking advantage of his condition by exploring his body with my eyes? Should I feel guilty about wanting to touch him there, to at long last satisfy the curiosities that sometimes keeps me awake at night; not that I’m constantly obsessed with his body, but something is different tonight. Something has made the temptation more beguiling. Maybe it’s being here in this quiet empty house. Maybe it’s because our wives are hundreds of miles away. Maybe his state of oblivion is tempting me to take liberties that he would never know happened.

As I stare a the all to obvious bulge, certain feelings give rise in my hands. I rub them together, clasp them, entwine my fingers and press my palms together. The urge is in them. There may never be another opportunity like the one that has presented itself tonight.

A nervousness comes over me. I look at his face, can’t remember seeing such a dead cold expression. I couldn’t wake him up if I tried. Letting out a sigh, I run my hand down the back of my head. I feel a stirring between my legs, confined by denim and snug fitting briefs. I stand and walk over to the bookcase, stare absently a row of books. What am I thinking? Why are these errant feelings so strong tonight?

Maybe I should put him to bed, get a movie on TV, get my mind on something else, maybe masturbate. I shake my head. Am I the only guy that has feelings like these? And why me? Why do I have to be the one who is plagued by such notions, the guy that gets these crazy ideas? Why, as I get older, do they seem to come on so tenaciously?

I turn and look at the back of the sofa. All I see of Craig is his knee and his arm draping over his head. Stepping back around, looking at him, I let out a breath. Time is passing by. Another opportunity like this may never happen again. Back on the coffee table, watching his face, I reach out and rub my hand down his leg to see if he has a reaction. He doesn’t stir. No sign of awareness of any kind. I’ll have to live with myself, but just now the temptation has consumed me.

My hand inches closer to his crotch, switches to the lower leg. The body heat between his thighs penetrates his jeans as my hand moves closer to the bulge, which makes what I’m doing seem even more intimate, more invasive, more daring than anything I’ve ever done. I hesitate when my hand is close enough to nudge against the fleshy bulge. After a deep breath to steel my resolve, a lightheaded surrender, I lift my hand and rest it on top of the bulge.

His jeans feel warmer here, damp on my palm, heightening my awareness of the hidden presence that feels fleshy and malleable. I let out a long breath, then check his face. No sign of life, no reaction of any kind. He will never know I did this tonight. Only I will. Just me, the guy that, for some unexplainable reason, is willing to secretly exploit his best friend’s unconscious condition.

I pause to catch up with my emotions. My hand has never come in contact with another man’s genitals before. I’m nervous and thrilled at the same time. A sense of gratification has diluted my sense of guilt. I have no idea why I would do something that would humiliate me, but just now that doesn’t matter. Maybe this fleeting moment of intimacy is what I need to get it out of my system, satisfy my curiosity about men, resolve once and for all those misguided and unfulfilled urges I get in my hands. If I can experience it just once, feel the dewy male shapes with my fingers, maybe the urges will become a forgettable part of my past.

My hand closes on the bulge with a light squeeze, a subtle gesture but thrilling. I push at the bulge with my fingertips, exploring the hidden shapes, glancing at his face from time to time. I feel the distinct oval shapes of his testicles, firm and meaty, much too confined in the snug fitting denim. Along side his balls, I can make out the shape of his penis, softer and spongier than his testicles.  It’s all compressed in an irregular, unnatural way—odd we torture ourselves wearing such tight jeans, which just now happens to be the only thing preventing me from lifting his genitals and closing my fingers around them.

I look at his eyes. He’s off in another world, not likely to come back anytime soon. Though it’s nothing more than a figment of my imagination, this surreptitious intimacy seems to change my relationship with him, like we are closer, sharing a secret, finding a new way to enjoy our manhood. As I massage his genitals, aroused by how damp they feel through his jeans, my eyes shift to the buttons along his fly. It occurs to me I could unfasten them without waking him up.

The thought makes my heart race faster. It’s like I’m caught up in an illicit act that multiples temptation, compelling me to further satisfy my curiosity, causing a heedless indifference to the possible consequences. I stare at the buttons for a moment. If I unfasten them I could get my hand inside his jeans. I could wrap my fingers around his penis and at long last know what it’s like to have in my hand another man’s penis. I could cup his balls and squeeze them, even fantasize his unconscious participation is consensual. I would know. The question would no longer haunt me.

The buttons are somewhat stubborn. The nervousness in my hands intensifies as each button opens. Finally all four undone. I gently pull open the fly, lean back and make sure he hasn’t been disturbed. My eyes comb back down to his fly. It’s gaping open. I see his pubic hair, coal black and silky. An anxious feeling settles over me. As compared to what I’ve already done, the risks of what I’m contemplating are increased a dozen times.

I first noticed my errant thoughts as far back as middle school. Oh, I was plenty interested in girls—I desperately wanted to see one naked, to have a girlfriend, to feel her with my hands, to feel my lips pressed against hers. Yet there were times similar curiosities arose about boys, curiosities that defined themselves when I signed on to the basketball team in high school. That was the first time I found myself among other naked guys, dressing out in the locker Continue reading →