M's Story

The problem with M, he eventually told me - M being my first "love" - was that although he enjoyed the fireworks that occurred as a result of our exploration of each other's bodies in late adolescence, and although he appreciated the deep intimacy that emerged from a friendship formed before we even knew what it meant to be sexual beings, there was always, in the back of his mind, a knowledge of and a longing for something more. And, rightly or wrongly, that longing was shaped by the hazing that went on with his experience very early on as a hockey player.

He wasn't entirely sure why it went on, this particular form of hazing, but speculated that it had something to do with the surging testosterone of the group of over eighteen but under twenty year old males in a combative sport. Spend a couple hours with male team mates chasing a puck up and down the ice, sweating, smashing into your competitors, elbowing, yelling, then enjoying a mutual surge of adrenaline when a goal was scored, and the bond that the team formed, the rush of hormones from the flight or fight response, easily translated into more than a slap on the back and a "Good going, guys" finale when all was said and done.

"Let's face it," he explained to me, "you take this locker room full of fit guys who have just been pulling together to beat a common enemy, strip them down, throw them in a steamy hot communal shower and you are likely to get a group of guys who "pull together" in another way, if you know what I mean." I think, knowing M as I do, he would have chuckled at his own pun, but the pained, confused expression on his face told me that even now he hadn't quite reconciled the lack of control he had over what had happened, with who he had become.

There wasn't, M went on to explain, really anywhere to hide, if that had been an acceptable thing to do, in the post game locker room.

"We sweat, we stank," he elaborated, "so we stripped, and we stood in that communal shower cheek to cheek, as it were, steam billowing up in clouds, still on the high from a win or celebrating at least the bond of being teammates who had fought a good fight if we lost and doesn't surprise me at all that sometimes 'swords' crossed. " He looked pensive, of course, caught up in memories of those days and in trying to understand his own proclivities.

"But it wasn't so much the 'sword' play, because sometimes that happened in that communal shower, a guy would grab playfully at another's dick, or someone would open their legs a bit to soap up in behind their balls and another would grab at them, or, of course, there was butt slapping with a hand that sometimes lingered a little too long, or nipple twisting, that, even in its agonizing pinch somehow shot an electric current right to the dick . . ." his thoughts trailed off, the he glanced up and looked me in the eye, "it was the deliberate, calculated hazing that, I think, got me going, in more ways than one." And then he glanced away from me again, and out the window without really seeing anything, lost, as he was in deep memory.

"It was the end of the practices, the real season was about to start, and guys had been cut, sent home to their little mini arenas, and we were 'it',"M reiterated, "but, as things were about to get real, and even within a team there are hierarchies, levels of dominance, guys you had to look up to, or, at least, thought you had to look up to them, it was important, in some sort of sociological way, I guess, to ritualize that 'pecking order." M did like his puns and a slight grin crossed his face.

"I had the misfortune, I think, to be a pretty boy." And he was right, even as an adult, M was pretty. His dirty blonde hair was slightly wavy, and he could pull off the tousled, uncombed look with style. His jawline was chiseled and the symmetry of his cheekbones, combined with, yes, you've got it, blue eyes revealed the roots of this Canadian boy's Scandinavian heritage. Add in a daily workout body and just shy of 6 feet in height and I know he caused many hearts to flutter, both male and female.

"I knew hazings happened," M went on, "and still do despite the tamping down leagues have attempted, I just didn't know they were so . . ." he hesitated, "so . . . sexual." M's long fingers, inadvertently perhaps, stroked the stem of his wine glass. We were at my place when all this came tumbling out. Tumbling out as a response to us finally talking about our early sexual encounters with each other and why, although we had remained very good friends, we gradually drifted away from each other bodily.

"The team captain, of course, set it up, arranged for the benches to be stacked just so, arranged for the props to be present, and arranged for his 'henchmen' to grab me, once the team members were mostly all - including me - stripped and in the shower, and before I knew it, I was strapped down face up on top of a stack of benches, at about waist level, cock level, to the guys who were standing around me, all naked, and all smiling, rather lasciviously, if I recall."

"All right, O," the captain always called us by our last names, on and off the ice, "let's see if you are man enough to play with the big boys, eh!"

"There was nothing I could say, really," M recalled, "here I was, lying buck naked, dripping wet, having been hauled from the showers, on a set of hard benches in the locker room with a bunch of bare ass guys who were all workout muscular and all standing around me, looking at me with smiles on their faces."

"We're going to shave your balls, O," one of the assistants slapped me on the bare shoulder while another got the equipment out from his duffel bag. "And how you handle this will determine whether you really are good enough to play with us . . . " the group around me guffawed, "or whether you're one of them. You know, what I mean. . . " again there were chuckles and snorts from the other teammates who were emerging from the showers to watch, toweling off their faces, or their legs, arms. "Guys who . . . who like us to play with them." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and a roar of laughter emerged from my teammates, M recalled.

One teammate, he couldn't remember which, tied a string fairly tightly just under the head of his cock, using a pencil to lift it slightly in order to pass the string under. While 'sword' play in the shower was acceptable, you didn't really want to be seen manhandling a guy's dick on purpose, even if it was for the greater 'good' of team hazing.

"My dick was really small," M elaborated, and then to my quizzical expression - we both chuckled a little as he knew I knew his cock wasn't small at all, "I was scared! I really didn't know what was going to happen. Shave my balls? I mean, they did have a disposable razor but those things can cut, I've nicked myself with them hundreds of times," and I nodded, there were lots of times I had later looked down at my legs after shaving them to find a trickle of blood had drained from a small cut or slice.

"But, I mean, here I was with a string tied tightly around my cock and the guy who was holding the other end of the string must have thought my cock was a puppet or something because, I swear, he kept pulling at it so my cock was bobbing up and down and that tightness of the string and the movement of my cock and the guys' fingers on my balls as they lathered me up and then started shaving and, I mean, here I was lying down looking at them at the level of their cocks which, believe me, were in varying degrees of hardness, and . . . and I felt like a witch in a medieval trial pronounced 'of the devil' if she floated when tossed in a pond and was subsequently burned to death for her wickedness or pronounced innocent if she sank and consequently drowned. Under the circumstances, there wasn't much I could do to prevent my cock from swelling up, and it wasn't long before I had a pulsing 'fatty' as the guys called it, with the string, it felt, cutting into me, and balls that were aching having been stroked and massaged by the shaver and the razor that was shaving them."

It was a tribute not only to the level of friendship M and I shared, having known each other since we were babies, but the amount of self-reflection and acceptance M had come to over the years that allowed him to tell me this story at all. "But that wasn't really what did it, I think," M concluded and I looked at him with my eyebrows raised. We had been talking about why he enjoyed sex with both men and women, but preferred one gender for some sexual things, and the other, for, well, other sexual things. "No," it was what happened after that I think did it." I was quiet, he sipped some of his wine. There was a long pause, then he glanced up at me.

"P, one of the team members who was even smaller and prettier than I was, came over to the bench where I had been left lying, once the guys had finished their "dirty" work and come to their verdict about what 'team' I played for, most of the other guys had left the locker room or had moved further away, already in their street clothes, but I was too afraid to move off the table exposing myself to who knows what other 'pranks' the remaining senior members of the team had in mind, and, like I said, P came over to me.

He stood beside the bench and I remember he was still naked and holding onto his cock, palming it, and it was semi-erect. He looked at my string swollen cock and then quietly said, "Want me to suck it?"

"What?" M remembered gasping out a response, not sure he had heard right. "What?"

"Suck it, you know, blow you off," P said, the expression on his face was blank. "It'll make it feel better," he elaborated, "make you feel better."

"It's ok, by the way, to, you know . . . like it." P elaborated, "To like having another guy's hands on your cock. I do, I did, and the guys know it, believe me."

"My eyes flew up to meet P's" M told me, " and then I knew that, yes, I wanted to feel his lips on my cock, to feel his tongue, to feel the hot wet sucking of his mouth. To have him take my hard cock through to a cum. What that said about me, I didn't much care anymore, the verdict was in, after all, from the team 'experiment'. All I knew was I had been turned on, really turned on, by the hazing and whatever career I thought I might have in hockey - remember I was just eighteen when all this happened - would be forever tainted by the verdict. Like the medieval witch, I had proven my guilt and I might as well enjoy my wicked self before I was completely burned at the stake.

"So, I said, 'Yes'. I said 'Yes', blow me, take me in your mouth, let me shoot my hot load in your slutty mouth, you little fucker' and he did."

"MMM," I couldn't find the words to articulate my response to M's cathartic, I think, confessional.

"So, now you know," his expression was a mixture of relief and confidence. He was now an adult, as I was, and years of self-reflection had brought him to a place where he embraced who he was, not just accepted or tolerated it.

"Ya, I get it," I said, "and besides, I get turned on by the thought of you getting turned on by another guy."

"Really?" he mulled this over in his mind.

"Come on, M," I said, "we've been friends for eons, it seems, and we were lovers for a short while, and I care about you and you care about me and we are both bi, which you know as well as I do, and, so, how do you think I came to know I liked having sex with a woman? "

"But," he began to question, then stopped and I think his thoughts took a pivot, "Wait, you get turned on by the thought of me doing or being 'done' by another man?"

"Yup," I wasn't afraid to let M know. Our friendship was such we really could share everything together, why not, I was ready to suggest, sex with other people, but M got there before I even began to explain.

"Hey," his expression was enthusiastic, "I've got a hot new guy I met. Maybe he and I could. . ." M concluded.

"Maybe we could . . ." I said simultaneously.

And then we both laughed.