Two men. Gay, straight or in between, two men together can be a beautiful thing. Good buddies or intimate companions, it doesn’t matter. It’s there … the connection, the camaraderie, the mutual understanding of what it’s like being male. It’s having things in common like egos and certain fears, like ambition and insecurity, like sex drive and powerful desires, like integrity and trust. It’s wondering and not knowing if other men have these same thoughts.
There is nothing quite like a pair of testicles hanging low between a man’s legs. Every man likes the way it feels. Visually, the testicles are an anomaly in the smooth flowing lines and angles of the male body, an anomaly that sets imaginations sailing and affects body chemistry in both male and female. It’s the variety of colors, always darker than the rest of the owner’s skin. It’s the texture and malleability, fascinating as they are to fondle and hold. It’s their firm meaty shape, like two eggs hanging in a fleshy sac. It’s the vulnerability they represent, inherent in every man, equalizing his superior strength. It’s the visual that inspires flights of fantasy.
The male body. It’s something many of us think about quite a lot. Young guys dealing with their sexuality, curious guys wondering what it’s like to be intimate with another man, guys that secretly harbor same sex fantasies. Even married men have their secrets … it’s just part of being a man. But since most men decide to conform to what’s expected of them, and want they want, they go on to carve out traditional lives, get on with careers and raise families, leaving their notions of intimacy with another man to live only in their minds. These images are for them.
These images are for gay guys who enjoy celebrating their sexuality, for bisexual guys that want to validate their identity, for straight guys that find beauty and mystery in the male form, and for women that like to contemplate the mysteries of the male form and the balances in life.
Over time her hips have rounded out. Her body body has taken on the characteristics of a female. Her body hair has thinned and now grows less aggressively, which she has treated with a laser hair removal procedure. She has developed breasts, probably achieved a cup size of B or possibly C. She may consider breast augmentation surgery.
Her testicles have shrinked and may eventually cease sperm production. Her erections have probably lost their masculine dynamics, though some girls continue to achieve them and are able to use them as they always have.
Eventually the hormones have transformed her. She is physically more female than male, except for her genitals. She is thinking about genital reassignment surgery, a process that, if she chooses to bear the enormous expense and if she is in competent hands, will complete her transition.
But what if she decides to forgo the surgery or can’t afford it? If she wants to fall in love with a man, she’ll need a man that accepts her the way she is, a man that thinks he’s found the most beautiful woman in the world, that recognizes the intimate possibilities many men could never fathom.
It’s food for thought, given the fact there are so many men that are attracted to both genders. According to the poll on this page, many men would find themselves in paradise being loved by such a woman. Think about it: he can take her home to meet his unsuspecting parents; he could walk hand-in-hand with her in public without anyone being aware of their little secret.
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.
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 readingPin It