Cupid's Big Weekendbyxaviermayne©
This story involves acts of both sex and romance between consenting adult males, so if that's not allowed where you live then you should march in the streets. I'm releasing this story under Creative Commons by-sa-nc license, which means you can do pretty much whatever you want with it, as long as you give me credit and don't use it for commercial purposes of any kind. If you enjoy the story, I'd love to hear from you. Thanks for reading.
Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fucking fuck. I'm a dead man.
He's looking right at me. He knows what I've been doing. Now he's going to kill me. My stomach feels like his fist is already in it. All that's left is for him to spit on my crumpled body. I can just imagine him doing it, his lips forming into a sneering "O," his full, pouting lips, his gorgeous, plump, soft, lips...
Fuck! I'm doing it again. I'm about to die and I'm still doing it. I am so fucked.
I didn't come here to stare at him. I came here to get away from him, actually. I didn't think he'd be here. In fact, given my previous observations of his schedule, this is the time that he's normally at his team meeting in the athletic office. The one where he looks serious and engaged right up until he nods off, that cleft chin coming to rest softly on his chest, his baggy sweats tenting up as his apparently ample privates respond to something pleasant in his dreaming. At least that's the way it looks through the window of the basement room where they have the meetings.
Not that I'm a stalker or anything.
It's just that he's so beautiful, so fucking beautiful, I can't help myself. And now he's seen me gawking at him on the bench press, and he's going to come over here and bash my fucking brains in. I didn't intend to stare, you know. I just glanced over--glancing is fine, right? everyone glances, happens all the time--and he was really pushing hard to thrust the bar back up, really straining, and then his legs lurched a bit, the leg of his shorts shifted a bit, and suddenly I could see straight up his leg to, well, all the way up. I was stunned, and who wouldn't be? I think I can be forgiven for gasping. And stepping a little to the side, off the belt of the treadmill, just a touch. And sort of falling off. OK, I made a fucking fool of myself. But at least no one noticed. Or so I thought, until I saw him look over at me. Which is why I'm completely and utterly fucked.
He's looking right at me. And now he's getting up. And coming over.
You know how you learn in Biology class that humans have a "fight or flight" instinct? That when faced with imminent bodily harm we either lash out or run away, without even thinking? Well, I 'm here to tell you that that's bullshit. Complete bullshit. Here I am, lying on the floor of the workout room in a pool of my own sweat and mortification, with the guy I've practically been stalking coming right at me, having caught me staring up his shorts, and ... nothing. No flight, no fight. Just lunch working its way back up my throat, half-digested burrito closing off my air. Somewhere in the distance I can hear Darwin laughing. Clearly I was not meant to survive.
He's right here. Standing right next to me. I can only bring myself to look up as high as his kneecap for fear that I will hose him down with the remains of that ill-advised fiesta of a lunch. He's not moving. He's just standing there. So, the last thing I see before I die is his kneecap. His fucking beautiful kneecap. Who has beautiful kneecaps? He does, that's who. And that is, apparently, what I will be able to tell only angels.
He's not moving.
I swallow back the burrito, try to fix my face with a winning expression of contrition and supplication, and look up at him. I notice two things:
1. His face, which has every reason to be contorted in a grotesque mask of hate, is in fact smiling down at me. Instead of a brow furrowed with rage, I see eyebrows raised expectantly, as if waiting for me to say something.
2. From this angle, I can see directly up the leg of his shorts, which is what landed me in this sorry state in the first place. In fact, I have an even better view now of his balls, which are lightly covered with downy fur and are busily churning up and down for reasons unbeknownst to me.
And then I realize I'm staring at his crotch again. Deathwish, apparently. I look up again, to his angelic face. He's saying something, but all I can hear is the sweet sound of his balls moving up and down in the silken confines of his baggy shorts. I try to listen to his voice.
"I said, are you okay? You took a pretty bad spill there."
Well, yes I did. Mainly because you're so fucking gorgeous that I cannot put one foot in front of the other when you are around.
I don't say this.
"I guess I did. No big deal though, I'm fine." I try to sound nonchalant, as if tumbling off treadmills is something I do daily, just for fun.
"Let me help you up," he offers, extending a hand. Do I need to mention that the last time such a beautiful hand was extended it was captured on the Sistine ceiling? I reach up for it, take it. There is such strength in his grip, and yet such softness to his touch. He pulls, and gravity is no match for those biceps. I rise from the floor; how could I not?
"Thanks," I manage to wheeze as I return to a full upright position. I'm now face-to-face with him, the one that I've seen in my every waking daydream and quite frequently at night, especially those nights when my roommate is banging away at his girlfriend and I'm trying to imagine that I'm either over there with them or somewhere far away with He Who Raises the Doomed from the Floor here. I usually awaken damp.
He's still holding my hand. I make a tentative shaking motion with it, as if we had just been introduced, and he takes the cue. I would say I'll never wash that hand again, but I know that that hand's getting wrapped around my cock as soon as I'm alone tonight, where it will stay until either my wrist or my nuts give out.
"Sure you're okay?" he asks. He's sincere. I was totally gawking at him, and he's concerned for my health. What did I do to deserve this? If there's a god responsible for watching over Wayward Voyeurs, I will light a candle for him every night for the rest of my life.
"Yeah, I'm good. Just not terribly coordinated." Self-deprecation is my preferred method for impressing guys I'm hot for. It usually doesn't result in the casting off of clothing and the sweaty grappling of muscled flesh. Not sure why.
"Well, then. I guess I'll see ya around." He returns to the bench press, retrieves his workout towel, and heads off in the direction of the locker room.
I know two things now: I am the luckiest bitch in the world, and I am completely in love. Now I just need to find out his name.
The masturbatory performance I gave that night was epic. Luckily, my roommate was out, drilling his girlfriend into someone else's mattress, and that left me the place to myself. I took full advantage, treating myself to great gobs of vaseline and fantasy about my dream man, the one who held my hand in the gym. The hand he held for that electric moment was, as I predicted, called into service repeatedly that evening, coaxing load after load out of my increasingly sore and purpling prick. I wasn't done until well after 2am, when apparently I fell asleep in mid-wank. I know this because that's how my roommate found me the next morning.
"Ugh. Can't you control yourself at all?" he demands as he walks into the room, seeing me sprawled naked on my bed, my cock glistening with lube, my chest crusted with dried spooge. "I swear to god, you fags..."
Now, my roommate isn't homophobic or anything. In fact, he's quite tolerant. But he has certain ideas about The Gays that he shares with me constantly, and his most frequent outbursts have to do with how we're all oversexed. Of course, he's never seen me even touch another guy, but to him we're always either doing it, about to do it, or basking in the glow of having done it. Whatever.
"Sorry, dude. Guess I fell asleep thinking about you." I hadn't, of course. Gross. But this approach always works with him. I don't know if it freaks him out or flatters him, but all I need to do is insinuate that I'm all into him, and he stops with the cracks about my being gay. It's a little warped, but it works for us. Dorm life, right?
"Gonna catch a shower," I mumble as I slip on a pair of shorts and grab my shower kit. I'm out the door before he can say anything else I don't want to hear.
I realize as I make my way down the hall that I have no idea what time it is. There are a few people up and around, but there's no bustle. That means it's either before 8 or after 11. If I had early classes today I'd be worried about the time, but on Friday mornings I can coast--no class until 2:30. I reach the shower room and walk into the steam.
Many of the residence halls at this fine university have individual stalls for showers, complete with a curtain for privacy. Mine doesn't. It's a leftover from the olden times, back before privacy was invented, apparently. Our shower room is a room, one big space with showerheads sprouting from the walls and from a steel column in the middle. It has all the charm and seclusion of a slaughterhouse. But, like a slaughterhouse, the setting matters less than the meat. And there is often plenty of meat on display in our shower.
Take this morning, for example. Already wet and soaping when I walk in are two guys from the other end of the floor. They are roommates, best friends, co-captains of the lacrosse team, and hung like Clydesdales. They always take showerheads next to each other at the center column, and they only have eyes for each other. Seriously, they never look anywhere else. I don't think they're lovers or anything, but sometimes they get so into their conversation that they don't notice when their cocks brush up against each other. I've seen it. The one who always stands on the left has this floppy enormous pole of a penis that rises or falls but never gets larger or smaller, while the one on the right has a ruler-straight monster that grows from a couple of inches to 7 or more when its owner is reminiscing about how much pussy he got the night before (seriously, that's how they talk about women--no names, just "pussy"). When they are both boned up a bit, and they lean in close to make themselves heard over the splash and chatter, I've seen their cocks touch. Sometimes more than once. They never seem to notice. I do.
Around the edges of the room are three or four more guys, none as muscley and sexed-up as the BFFs in the center of the room, but all nice enough to look at. Before coming to college I had no idea male bodies came in so many wondrous varieties. Setting aside the cocks for a moment (there's something I never thought I would say!), the differences even in the balls are extensive. Some guys have a tight, tennis-ball-like scrotum, and some have floppy low-hangers; some come into the shower with a tennis ball and leave with floppers, while others remain somewhere in the middle regardless of temperature. Some nuts move up and down like elevators in a busy skyscraper, while others are almost completely hidden by thickets of hair.
I like the shower. It's educational.
Suddenly, though, I realize that I need to focus and get on my way. Friday morning is when my dream man does stairs at the stadium. Up and down 20 times at a brisk jog; the view from under the bleachers is inspiring, particularly when it's warm out and he's in his little shorts and nothing else. Luckily the space under the bleachers is dark so he doesn't know I'm there.
Now, you might be thinking at this point that I'm demented. Yes, I follow this guy around campus like a puppy. A puppy trained by the KGB. Anyway, I know it's a little off, but you haven't seen him. If you did, you would understand. From the moment I first saw him at freshman orientation three months ago I was obsessed. He's just so beautiful, and every time I see him I see something more beautiful about him. He's like a present you unwrap over and over again, and it just gets better each time. Or, more truthfully, he's a present that you watch someone else unwrap and then you go home and jack off thinking about how awesome it would be if you got to unwrap it someday. Just once.
Okay, that's a little pathetic.
Off to the bleachers.
Poetry. The man is pure poetry in motion. He's made 17 trips up and down the stadium steps, and now he's glistening in the morning sun. With every stair his entire frame pops up, the heavy layer of muscle bounding skyward as his foot lands lightly on the next. Some mornings I can't decide where to look: at the fluid half-moons of his pectorals as they rise and fall, at the rock-steady 8-pack of his abs (there were 6 when I started watching him--there are definitely 8 now that he's been training hard), or at the puppet show in his shorts. I'm not sure why he doesn't wear a strap for doing the stadium, as I can see all parts of his crotch in motion as up and down he pounds, my heart beating in time to the rise and fall of his tackle, struggling to be free from its whisper-thin prison of nylon. Oh, how I wish for it to be free.
And that's 20. At the bottom of the bleachers he picks up his water bottle and cools off by walking slowly up and down the lowest set of stairs as he drinks. Sometimes I think this is the best part: his muscles flushed with blood and oxygen, his ribs heaving--he pauses every few steps to shake out his taut legs, sending sweat beads flying from the sandy brown hairs that darken down toward his ankles. As he paces up and down the corded muscles begin to relax to a softer fullness; it's at this point that, as he cools down, his nipples perk up, responding to evaporation with a fetching engorgement. I used to think that nipples on men were a pointless remnant of some earlier evolutionary turn; I see now that his are points about which the universe turns.
His cool down complete, he always does the same thing: picks up his shirt and walks back to the locker room. Except that this morning he doesn't. Instead, he walks back up the steps, up to the level of my eyes, and then he turns and sits on the bleachers. He's never done this before.
"That's about the most disgusting thing I can think of," he says quietly.
Fuckity fuck fuck fucking fuckity fuck. I'm a dead man. Again.
I pretend not to hear. How quickly can I make my way out of here? Did he see my face clearly enough to describe me to the campus police?
"I mean, someone's got to do it, but still," he continues, then takes another swig from his water bottle.
What? What does that mean? Does he really think that the universe requires that somebody watch him work out? This is really strange. I start backing away, retreating into the darkness of the under-bleachers, toward the loose boards that allow me into this den of voyeurism.
"You know, it's funny," he chuckles. I disagree. "One time my grandpa bought a Buick, and suddenly all I saw on the street were Buicks."
Oh my god, the man is insane. Instead of worrying about escape I start wondering if I should call for help--mental help, for him.
"I saw you at the gym yesterday, and now you're here this morning. Funny." I am still not laughing. "How much do they pay you?"
I'm rarely at a loss for words. Ask anyone. But I had no idea how to respond to this query. Did he think I was in the employ of Campus Stalker magazine, tasked with tracking him? I am completely at sea.
"Those Thursday night game crowds are the worst. I see the crap they throw down there. Last week, some girl drank too much vodka at halftime and during the third quarter she horked up everything she'd eaten all week. Then the chick next to her lost it, and then the next. I think all six of them must have puked a gallon and a half, and it all ended up down there. You must have pissed someone off pretty bad to draw that job, cleaning up under the bleachers on Friday mornings." He turns now, and looks sympathetically at me with eyes the color of a summer twilight.
"Uhhh, yeah," I struggle to grunt. "It's a disgusting job, but someone's got to do it." Nice conversation, huh? All I can think to do is give him back his own words while I try to think of some way out of this.
"Well, I gotta get cleaned up for class. You about done?"
Now, this is a tough one. If I tell him that I've still got cleaning to do, I'll have to keep up this charade for a while--he'll pass by here again on his way to class, and if I'm not here that will seem strange. But if I leave now, he'll see that I don't have any cleaning supplies with me. And why is he asking me if I'm done? Think! What am I going to say?
"Ummm, actually, I don't clean under the bleachers. I mean, anymore. I mean, I got a new job. But I came back, this morning. To, uhhh, look for something. My, uhhh, watch, yeah that's what I was looking for. I must have dropped it down here last week." I point at my wrist without thinking, as if this makes my lie more believable.
"Looks like you found it," he says, nodding at my watch. Which is on my wrist. The wrist I just pointed at.
"Errr, yeah, I did! Got lucky. No one puked on it or anything!" Oh god why can't I say something suave and winning instead of blurting toilet words like a flustered eighth-grader?
"So, you gonna stay down there like the troll under the bridge, or what?" he asks, as he tips his water bottle all the way up. My heart leaps--a literary man! Okay, so "Three Billy Goats Gruff" isn't Hemingway, but it's in a book. A literary allusion is a good sign.
"Yeah, I'm about done here." Duh. Maybe I should just grunt and slobber. That would give a more intellectual tone to my small talk. He gets up, and I bolt for the way out. If I'm quick about it I can make it out before he sees me crawling through the boards. Almost there, back into daylight, and ...
The sound of clothes being ripped off is always exhilarating when you hear it in movies. It means that passion has overtaken the lovers on the screen, and they cannot get to flesh-on-flesh quickly enough. However, the sound of a shirt ripping because it has caught on a rough board as one makes one's way out from a trash-filled bleacher cave where one has been discovered lusting after a clueless athlete is far less erotic. It's actually kind of a blow. Fuck. The collar of my shirt is now in two pieces, and the split runs all the way down to the middle of my back, maybe further--can't really tell. There goes $36 at Hollister--and my dignity.
But I make it out from under the bleachers before he comes around the side, and so it isn't as bad as all that. Except that he notices the shirt, which is now hanging off one shoulder in shreds. I try to put it back, but it's no use. I look like an idiot. Like an idiot's idiot brother. Why can the ground never swallow you up when you need it to?
"Dude, what happened to your shirt?" he asks, though it seems to me pretty clear what happened. I ripped it.
"I ripped it. Coming out from under the bleachers. Sucks, huh? Oh well, never really liked this one anyway." Which of course was a lie, since I had bought it last month just so that I could wear it on Friday mornings under the bleachers. I figured if I never wore it anywhere else it would be harder to identify me if there was ever a complaint about a peeping tom under the bleachers. Brilliant criminal mind.
"I've got one you can use. It might be a bit big on you, but..." Was there no end to this guy's goodness?
"Oh, no worries. I'll just head back to my room and pick up another shirt."
"Dude, you look ridiculous with that. Come on, the shirt's in my locker. I keep an extra just in case. Mom always said it would come in handy." He turns toward the locker room, then stops, and turns back.