The Sublime Cock
6/

Likely my decision to put on my jock made no real difference in the subsequent unfolding of events, but I like to think that putting on that jock strap as I went to grab my gym shorts was the decisive factor in the events that followed, events that allowed me to forget about texting and, consequently, fucking, Bambi - ever again, as it turned out. I am sure that not banging Bambi that night saved me weeks of delay in understanding and accepting that, at my core, I am meant to be a cocksucker. I would have gotten there eventually, of course, regardless of what I was wearing.  But if I had not been wearing that jock, it seems more likely to me that when I popped out of my room and literally bumped into John, who was also (oddly) wearing only a jock strap, I would have brushed right by him, collected my shorts, gone for a run & then texted Bambi an S.O.S. demanding an emergency application of her vaginal poultice…

Instead, my head-on jock-cock collision with John, and then both of us standing there looking at each other in only our jock straps, was just strange enough to cause both of us to start laughing our asses off. And that laughter helped immeasurably in breaking the ice and hitting the re-set button on our friendship. I had probably been less than an hour away from letting Bambi claw her way back into my life when I literally stumbled into the relationship that made me forget for a long, long time that vaginas even existed.

After our laughter subsided, John spoke first. “Look, man, I owe you a huge apology…I know you must think I’m batshit crazy and the way I spoke to you a few minutes ago, that was unforgivable.” “No, I —” I started, but John cut me off. “Let me just tell you that I’m not nuts, and now that I’m through with my psych project—”

"What fucking psych project?" I asked, suddenly feeling vey confused as I recalled his notebook. John launched into a long discourse including some bullshit about "the acclimitazation of urban dwellers to shocking or unexpected events," eventually explaining (I think) that his yawping and public displays of nudity had been part of his field work, collecting data on the reactions of the people he had accosted. I admit that while he was droning on about "statistical anomalies" and the like, I was checking - visually only - his package. "Would you believe that 93% of —"

"Why the fuck didn’t you just tell me what you were doing?" I interrupted. I didn’t give a rip about what 93%, or 99.9% thought. He & I were still standing in our jocks in the hall. "Oh, I couldn’t do that…it would have skewed your reactions…see, you were just as much a subject as the stranger on the street—" "Fuck Heisenberg," I said, showing off, "What do YOU think?"

Maybe I should have been mad at having been unwittingly made a psych study subject but, truthfully, all I felt was relief. My well-hung roommate wasn’t - probably wasn’t -  a sociopath after all. For a split second I considered that maybe with his pencil down John would show a little more interest in the idea of me disinterestedly jacking him off. 

“Why didn’t you just hit on me?” John asked suddenly. “What…why…I’m not…” I stammered. That had come out of left field, and I really wasn’t prepared to address questions about my own sexual ineptitude. “What are you talking about?” I finally asked. “Oh, man, ‘bros with benefits,’ are you fucking kidding me? I dunno, maybe that shit works for you [it had not, ever], but if you’re into me, why not just tell me that you’re into me—” 

“Into you?” I tried hard to sound incredulous. I felt like I was losing the high ground. “Joe,” he told me in a mock-solemn voice, “one of my scientific observations - and this one won’t be in my paper - is that when I disrobed you couldn’t take your eyes off my cock.” I was speechless, but that was for the best, because any denial from me would have been a flat-out lie, and one that he had already seen through.

"Next time, try something more like this," John said, as he gently pushed me up against the wall, my back toward him. I’m not quite sure how he spun me around like that, but I had the unambiguous feeling that I was being hit on - properly.  John put one arm loosely around my waist, his opposite hand on my ass, as he nuzzled my neck with his nose and lips. I think John’s right hand was rubbing my ass while his left hand was sliding down my belly…then I felt his fingers close around the bulging pouch of my jock. As he gave my package an intense squeeze, he whispered in my ear, "Joe, I am so into you…"

John’s hand slipped inside my jock and closed around my very aroused cock. There I was, hard as I could be, with my roommate’s hand on my cock, which was (almost) all I had ever wanted, intermittently thinking ‘why the fuck didn’t I do this two months ago?’and ‘God, don’t let him stop…’

“What about fucking?” John purred, “do the benefits include fucking?” I didn’t miss a beat. “Hell no, that’d be queer,” I said, as I turned and pressed my half-opened mouth against his and found his cock with my hand.

6/

Likely my decision to put on my jock made no real difference in the subsequent unfolding of events, but I like to think that putting on that jock strap as I went to grab my gym shorts was the decisive factor in the events that followed, events that allowed me to forget about texting and, consequently, fucking, Bambi - ever again, as it turned out. I am sure that not banging Bambi that night saved me weeks of delay in understanding and accepting that, at my core, I am meant to be a cocksucker. I would have gotten there eventually, of course, regardless of what I was wearing. But if I had not been wearing that jock, it seems more likely to me that when I popped out of my room and literally bumped into John, who was also (oddly) wearing only a jock strap, I would have brushed right by him, collected my shorts, gone for a run & then texted Bambi an S.O.S. demanding an emergency application of her vaginal poultice…

Instead, my head-on jock-cock collision with John, and then both of us standing there looking at each other in only our jock straps, was just strange enough to cause both of us to start laughing our asses off. And that laughter helped immeasurably in breaking the ice and hitting the re-set button on our friendship. I had probably been less than an hour away from letting Bambi claw her way back into my life when I literally stumbled into the relationship that made me forget for a long, long time that vaginas even existed.

After our laughter subsided, John spoke first. “Look, man, I owe you a huge apology…I know you must think I’m batshit crazy and the way I spoke to you a few minutes ago, that was unforgivable.” “No, I —” I started, but John cut me off. “Let me just tell you that I’m not nuts, and now that I’m through with my psych project—”

"What fucking psych project?" I asked, suddenly feeling vey confused as I recalled his notebook. John launched into a long discourse including some bullshit about "the acclimitazation of urban dwellers to shocking or unexpected events," eventually explaining (I think) that his yawping and public displays of nudity had been part of his field work, collecting data on the reactions of the people he had accosted. I admit that while he was droning on about "statistical anomalies" and the like, I was checking - visually only - his package. "Would you believe that 93% of —"

"Why the fuck didn’t you just tell me what you were doing?" I interrupted. I didn’t give a rip about what 93%, or 99.9% thought. He & I were still standing in our jocks in the hall. "Oh, I couldn’t do that…it would have skewed your reactions…see, you were just as much a subject as the stranger on the street—" "Fuck Heisenberg," I said, showing off, "What do YOU think?"

Maybe I should have been mad at having been unwittingly made a psych study subject but, truthfully, all I felt was relief. My well-hung roommate wasn’t - probably wasn’t - a sociopath after all. For a split second I considered that maybe with his pencil down John would show a little more interest in the idea of me disinterestedly jacking him off.

“Why didn’t you just hit on me?” John asked suddenly. “What…why…I’m not…” I stammered. That had come out of left field, and I really wasn’t prepared to address questions about my own sexual ineptitude. “What are you talking about?” I finally asked. “Oh, man, ‘bros with benefits,’ are you fucking kidding me? I dunno, maybe that shit works for you [it had not, ever], but if you’re into me, why not just tell me that you’re into me—” “Into you?” I tried hard to sound incredulous. I felt like I was losing the high ground. “Joe,” he told me in a mock-solemn voice, “one of my scientific observations - and this one won’t be in my paper - is that when I disrobed you couldn’t take your eyes off my cock.” I was speechless, but that was for the best, because any denial from me would have been a flat-out lie, and one that he had already seen through.

"Next time, try something more like this," John said, as he gently pushed me up against the wall, my back toward him. I’m not quite sure how he spun me around like that, but I had the unambiguous feeling that I was being hit on - properly. John put one arm loosely around my waist, his opposite hand on my ass, as he nuzzled my neck with his nose and lips. I think John’s right hand was rubbing my ass while his left hand was sliding down my belly…then I felt his fingers close around the bulging pouch of my jock. As he gave my package an intense squeeze, he whispered in my ear, "Joe, I am so into you…"

John’s hand slipped inside my jock and closed around my very aroused cock. There I was, hard as I could be, with my roommate’s hand on my cock, which was (almost) all I had ever wanted, intermittently thinking ‘why the fuck didn’t I do this two months ago?’and ‘God, don’t let him stop…’

“What about fucking?” John purred, “do the benefits include fucking?” I didn’t miss a beat. “Hell no, that’d be queer,” I said, as I turned and pressed my half-opened mouth against his and found his cock with my hand.

5/

As it turned out, it wasn’t that difficult to turn down my roommate’s invitation to blow him  in front of a bunch of strangers gathered on the street outside our picture window. That was a no-brainer. “No thanks, man,” I said. Just as I turned to walk down the hall to my room, I saw John pick up a pencil and jot something down in a notebook I hadn’t noticed before. His fully engorged cock was beginning to subside. He looked at his watch - the only thing he was wearing - then stood up and stretched. “Show’s over,” he said to nobody, leaning over and pulling the drapes on the big picture window in which he had been sitting naked and taunting passing pedestrians for the better part of the past six weeks. “Look, man, I need to expl—” I heard him start to say as I left the room.

I admit that I was a bit curious - closing the drapes was new, and him explaining anything was foreign - but I wasn’t going to let John think I gave a shit about his total weirdness. I continued down the hall to my room, and flopped down on my bed. I was angry, frustrated and - mostly -embarrassed. I wanted a reason to get out of our apartment - immediately - but I couldn’t think of where to go. I toyed with the idea but wasn’t quite ready to use my lifeline to Bambi. On the plus side of that ledger, I would have a place to go, away from John,  my probably insane naked roommate-in-the-window; I would certainly get laid; I could even stay over at Bambi’s until the next day if I wasn’t ready to return home that night. On the negative side, I would have to fuck Bambi, at least twice, and probably multiple times if I slept over; and, I would have to start all over in disentangling myself from Bambi after having successfully avoided her for two weeks; and,  no matter when I went home, my crazy roommate would likely be sitting naked in our window again, randomly accosting any person on the street unfortunate enough to look up into our window and find John and his big fat cock glaring back. I groaned at the thought of that big beautiful cock going utterly to waste, but my stupid plan for getting hold of it while still posing as a straight female-fucker had failed dismally. I should have just hit on the dude the day we first moved in together - just finish putting away the kitchen utensils and then nonchalantly grab his crotch (way back when John still wore clothes in our apartment). 

I decided to go for a long run to clear my head before doing anything as rash as texting a “let’s fuck” to Bambi, reasoning that aliens might invade while I was out jogging, relieving me of the necessity of making a decision about whether to pork her or my fist. I didn’t know it at the time, of course, but I was at the very end (for several more  years anyway), of my fitful attempts at heterosexuality. I probably would have been tremendously relieved if I had had that knowledge at that moment, but it was the kind of thing one could only realize months later upon looking back and suddenly thinking, “Damn! I haven’t even thought about pussy in six months!”

So I quickly stripped and began to put on my my running gear. I picked up a jock strap off the floor and started rummaging around for some gym shorts, which were nowhere to be found. ‘Fuck,’ I said, remembering my pile of laundry in the front room. I wasn’t about to walk back into John’s presence naked to grab my shorts, knowing that he would think I had changed my mind about helping him entertain his audience. I slipped the jock strap on, tucking my cock away, figuring that slender piece of cloth would send a safer message than no cloth at all, and opened the door to my room.

5/

As it turned out, it wasn’t that difficult to turn down my roommate’s invitation to blow him in front of a bunch of strangers gathered on the street outside our picture window. That was a no-brainer. “No thanks, man,” I said. Just as I turned to walk down the hall to my room, I saw John pick up a pencil and jot something down in a notebook I hadn’t noticed before. His fully engorged cock was beginning to subside. He looked at his watch - the only thing he was wearing - then stood up and stretched. “Show’s over,” he said to nobody, leaning over and pulling the drapes on the big picture window in which he had been sitting naked and taunting passing pedestrians for the better part of the past six weeks. “Look, man, I need to expl—” I heard him start to say as I left the room.

I admit that I was a bit curious - closing the drapes was new, and him explaining anything was foreign - but I wasn’t going to let John think I gave a shit about his total weirdness. I continued down the hall to my room, and flopped down on my bed. I was angry, frustrated and - mostly -embarrassed. I wanted a reason to get out of our apartment - immediately - but I couldn’t think of where to go. I toyed with the idea but wasn’t quite ready to use my lifeline to Bambi. On the plus side of that ledger, I would have a place to go, away from John, my probably insane naked roommate-in-the-window; I would certainly get laid; I could even stay over at Bambi’s until the next day if I wasn’t ready to return home that night. On the negative side, I would have to fuck Bambi, at least twice, and probably multiple times if I slept over; and, I would have to start all over in disentangling myself from Bambi after having successfully avoided her for two weeks; and, no matter when I went home, my crazy roommate would likely be sitting naked in our window again, randomly accosting any person on the street unfortunate enough to look up into our window and find John and his big fat cock glaring back. I groaned at the thought of that big beautiful cock going utterly to waste, but my stupid plan for getting hold of it while still posing as a straight female-fucker had failed dismally. I should have just hit on the dude the day we first moved in together - just finish putting away the kitchen utensils and then nonchalantly grab his crotch (way back when John still wore clothes in our apartment).

I decided to go for a long run to clear my head before doing anything as rash as texting a “let’s fuck” to Bambi, reasoning that aliens might invade while I was out jogging, relieving me of the necessity of making a decision about whether to pork her or my fist. I didn’t know it at the time, of course, but I was at the very end (for several more years anyway), of my fitful attempts at heterosexuality. I probably would have been tremendously relieved if I had had that knowledge at that moment, but it was the kind of thing one could only realize months later upon looking back and suddenly thinking, “Damn! I haven’t even thought about pussy in six months!”

So I quickly stripped and began to put on my my running gear. I picked up a jock strap off the floor and started rummaging around for some gym shorts, which were nowhere to be found. ‘Fuck,’ I said, remembering my pile of laundry in the front room. I wasn’t about to walk back into John’s presence naked to grab my shorts, knowing that he would think I had changed my mind about helping him entertain his audience. I slipped the jock strap on, tucking my cock away, figuring that slender piece of cloth would send a safer message than no cloth at all, and opened the door to my room.

post/96032128308/3-so-have-you-thought-anymore-about-the-bros The famous traffic signal at Divisadero and Bush has never lost power.
Anonymous

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sublimecock2:

indianatractorboy:

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sublimecock2:

indianatractorboy:

Archive Indiana Tractor Boy 

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A Room with a View/2.

A Room with a View/2.

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user314314:

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