Slurping cum, chowing down on a stiff cock, getting fucked up the ass while burying my face into another dude's pubes, these were all images in my head by the time I was an eighteen year old senior in high school. That was the year I had to totally admit to myself that, once and for all, I was into men, into tight pectoral muscles, lean, defined arms with extruding, green veins, tight, manly hands with very short fingernails, into cock, into balls, into tight military type haircuts, into flat, tight guts, into the smell of a man's balls, into muscular shoulders, into cops and their uniforms, into sweatpants, jockstraps, athletic shorts, into men's hard asses and moist mancunt.
I had some intense crushes throughout high-school on some of my favorite sports stars, particularly the studs of the 1978 NY Yankees, the World Series winners, like Ron Guidry and Bucky Dent. I was a senior, 18, on the verge of full manhood, and I'd go to sleep each night fantasizing about these pro ball studs coming to my house and having their way with me. I loved Guidry's bulge on the mound and Dent's tight bubble ass. I would fantasize that Dent would be fucking me in the ass while Guidry was holding my head down on his cock. I shot many a load into a cum rag that I kept under my bed.
My dad, brother and Uncle's friends were mostly cops who'd pile into our home on Friday nights for pizza and beer, shooting the shit. Every Superbowl Sunday or World Series, my house would be wall to wall cop. And I had some crushes on a few of these supermen of the NYPD. One dude would always wear a white t-shirt with his uniform slacks and suspenders. He'd wear a fisherman's goofy hat and smoke a big cigar. His name was "Kooky" and he told off-color jokes and I loved taking everything in about him, his chest, his ass, his one crooked incisor to an otherwise bright smile, his short built legs, his firm ass, his blue eyes. I crushed on him big time my senior year. He was very hot but so were a lot of the cops that would come over.
These dudes would call me "little man," because at 18, I was the youngest in their testosterone laden, macho cop world. They would arm wrestle me, tassle my hair, break my balls in a good-natured way. Sometimes their rough-housing—especially "Kooky's"—got me instantly hard. I would excuse myself to the bathroom and seriously beat my growing meat with intense, pubescent rage. After I would shoot, I'd go back downstairs and rejoin the guys for some pizza and an occasional beer if my dad was in a good mood.
I was always drawn to the pants on our guests, and how awesome they looked, whether it was the patrolmen in their crisp uniforms or the off duty Sergeants and Lieutenants in their corduroys, or the detectives in their Chinos or jeans with requisite bulges aside their shiny badges. I loved how their butts looked, how their belt buckles stood sentry over their meat and teased my own cock. I was growing into my sexuality at a slow pace. Then one day I had an experience in the boiler room of a nearby apartment building that excited me greatly and helped me forward into my emerging manhood.
It was a Saturday, spring afternoon and me and my favorite buddy, my handsome and athletic high school sports buddy and boon companion, Michael, were playing handball. Our perfect locale for it: against the backyard, brick façade of a garden apartment complex on a street in our neighborhood near the 106th precinct in Queens, New York. One of us would slam the old Spalding ball into the brick wall and the other would have to catch it. We drew lines on the driveway pavement and made up rules (i.e., the runner singles if the ball bounced over this line, doubles for that line, etc.) And of course, if you caught the ball at any time, it was an out.
Michael was almost exactly my age, 18. Our birthdays were two weeks a part in January and our mothers over the years would throw us one big party. He looked particularly sexy that day, decked out in the cool clothes of the era: Fry boots, jeans, dark-blue hooded sweatshirt and then a faded jean jacket over that. I wanted to lay my face in his lap, bury it in the creases of his pants, feel the life behind the blue corduroy. I wanted to press my face into his ass, too, the ass I got such a good look at each time he slammed the ball against the wall.
I loved that his prominent pole was always to the right of his fly and when he sat with his legs spread I enjoyed the lump at dead center. I'd mentally follow the path of that lump from the top right down to his backdoor. I can't possibly count the number of times I looked at that bulge. I doubt he ever caught me though. I liked when I would sit behind him in homeroom and catch a glimpse of his underwear tag and the slight hair on his lower back, leading down to that delicious looking ass. I felt so good around him. I wanted to taste his semen, to lick his ass, to fuck him, have him fuck me.
So on this one really aggressive, competitive inning, Michael, with his toned, muscular arms slammed the ball so hard while I was taking in his ass, that even my six foot, hard-bodied frame jumping like a Harlem Globetrotter couldn't reach it. It was a home run, over the fence into the adjacent yard and right through the basement window of another apartment building. The basement window had been ajar. If he had tried a million times to do it on purpose, that ball would never have gone through the way it did. So in retrospect, maybe it was fate, maybe it was the gay gods calling me.
I was thinking of his ass as I climbed the seven foot fence atop the two foot retaining wall to get to the other side. Would he be checking out my ass as I climbed? After climbing down a few feet I jumped the rest. I think I did it to impress Michael, to look cool.
"Hey, dick," I called over to him, "I'll be back in a minute." At that, I walked to the other side of the apartment building where the crumbling concrete old steps lead to the basement storage and boiler rooms to this 1920s, five flight walk-up apartment building.
I entered the storage room, about the size of two living rooms and full of little cages numbered according to the apartments in the building. Each cage was full of lamps, TV boxes and whatever couldn't fit in the tenants' apartment closets. The lighting was off except for what sunlight streamed in through the small transom like windows on the west side of the building. I walked over to where the open window had sucked in our ball. I couldn't find the ball, but I figured it couldn't have bounced too far off.
