Frank and I have been friends since the 6th grade. We're 28 years old now. He's as cool as they come, little stud with jet-black, wavy, dark hair, about 5ft 11 inches, in shape, not too bulky. He's solidly built but not in any exaggerated way. The ladies always thought of him as "cute" or "adorable." In high school our class voted him "class cutie."
I always envied Frank. He started his own floor tile company right out of college and was making decent money. He didn't have the social pressures I had: I'm a masculine, good-looking dude who secretly wasn't into the pussy always thrust upon, and expected of, me--I loved cock. Frank didn't have those pressures. He was relaxed, somebody every guy wanted to hang around and talk sports and chicks with, and every girl wanted to make him hers. He just was a cool guy to call your friend, and if you were in a bind, he'd do anything for you.
Frank had been seeing a nice-looking girl named Tara, with blonde hair and the type of figure that elicits cat calls and a "nice ass" from any straight guy's drooling mouth. They met when our fraternity sponsored a formal with her sorority on campus. I was always secretly jealous of that girl. "Tara the bitch," I thought I'd love to say to her one day. Why was she a bitch? Well, ever since pre-cum first oozed from my tingling dick in the 6th grade, the day our teacher introduced a new student to us named Frank, I've wanted him. I just couldn't share him.
I wanted him when I watched him in junior high changing into gym clothes, that bulge in his tightie whities viscerally destroying me and causing me to need him to reveal more than his well sculpted legs. I yearned for him at the senior prom when I surreptitiously kept looking over my date's shoulder on the dance floor to inhale the image I saw of his firm, bubble ass extruding in tuxedo pants, which on the opposite side showed another extrusion that just about killed me. I was so wishing it was me who'd be exploring the pleasures and scent below his belt at the close of the evening.
I wanted him at the town pool where we were both lifeguards during college, summer breaks, where I'd check out--safe from detection, behind opaque sunglasses--the nice, hot, little trail of hair traversing south along his tight torso, leading to that healthy, mouth-watering, and impressive mound in his Red Cross shorts. I've always wondered what the end of that trail would look like. Hey, I admit it--I didn't want to share Frank with anyone.
He and his girl were always looking to hook me up with friends of hers. I guess they couldn't understand why I had no girlfriend. Here I was, 6 ft. 2 in., halfway decent body, nice smile, not too shabby face. I know a lot of girls have hit on me in the past, but I was always secretly into cock. I've always thrown myself into work, so as to have kind of an excuse for not dating like Frank always had.
How could I explain to Frank that I wasn't at all interested in girls? I didn't just want Frank's cum down my throat, his cock up my ass, or his ass in my face; I wanted to remain good friends with him. I was always crazy about him. I didn't want to jeapordize that friendship. I couldn't take the risk of confessing to him. How does one man say to another that, for at least 4,000 nights, he's violently assaulted his meat, squeezed it dry of all goo, while thinking of tasting the other's asshole and semen?
But I did always fantasize about telling him one day that I wanted him. I've always been a pig at heart when it came to Frank. Whereas another gay guy might be thinking about "making love" to Frank, I'd be daydreaming about his asshole, what it would taste like if I slurped on it. I've always wanted him sitting on my face while I pushed my tongue up inside him. I used to have one sick fantasy that I could shrink to a centimeter tall and just live on his balls, or in the slit of his dick, or in his ass for awhile. LOL, I know, it's twisted, but Frank is so freaking hot, he does that shit to me.
But after over 10 years of being buddies with him and secretly wanting him, I'd grown pretty accustomed to suppressing my raging hard-on for him. I learned to wear baggy jeans, not so much for the style but moreso to hide my starving and furious 7 incher. I guess I kind of gave up long ago of my fantasy of really having him one day. Beating off and fantasizing about choking on his cum or being impaled by his manhood were all I could hope for. He was too straight anyways. Better for me to just go looking for some gay guy who was similar to him.
Don't think I haven't tried. I've had a lot of one night stands where I'd dump down a guy's throat, pound his ass, or give head to some married jock who commanded a little extra-marital attention to his manhood. But none of these guys, not even the local professional baseball player whom I met through an internet ad, and proceeded to tie up and plow without lube because he "needed it that way," could get me as intoxicated as I got when I thought of what lay between Frank's legs, between those beautiful ass cheeks.
So one day last week, Frank gives me a call, asks if I could help him paint his apartment. You know I'd never say no to being together with Frank, so I canceled a meeting I had with some hot, little, Rican stud who's ass could almost make me forget Frank's for a night.
I showed up with a pizza and some beers and Frank and I scarfed most of it down before starting to work. He looked so fucking hot in his dark, navy-blue, work pants, the kind a cop would wear. I just wanted to bury my face in the cotton fibers, in the crotch and ass, and inhale deeply, taking his manly scent into my veins, while feeling the epicenter of his manhood pressed against my face.
His t-shirt was a little ripped and sexy looking. I thought Johnny Depp and Brad Pitt are nothing compared to Frank. I could see the slight, dark hair he had on his chest. And there, of course, was that famous, beckoning bulge below his belt.
I could always count on a hefty bulge to the right of Frank's fly, whenever he wore corduroys or jeans or work pants. Come to think of it, no type of pants could conceal the apparent beast behind his fly. I just knew he was packing, wasn't exactly sure if the monster bulge was from thickness or length, but I just knew it was pretty damn exciting to think about taking it in my mouth and ass.
I knew that whatever lay behind the Levi's, denim curtain was making my mouth water, making my cock outraged, with a maniacal, almost ferocious need to be released from its own tethered solitude. But I was an expert on not letting him catch me hungering for his manhood or his cute ass. I couldn't let him see my hard-on. Sometimes, though, I'd get a little scared that my excitement would be detected if he should accidentally look down, even if I were wearing baggie jeans. One time when Frank wore a new pair of jeans, I literally creamed in my pants. Luckily the jeans I had on were dark, so Frank couldn't see the incriminating stain.
After toiling with edging and mixing and rolling paint for about 3 hours, and talking about chicks, baseball, and cars, Frank suggested we take a little break, finish what was left of the pizza and beer. We reclaimed our "kitchen table," 16 tiles of the floor that we and the food sat on. The actual table was covered with plastic, and I joked about the accommodations, but Frank wasn't laughing. I knew he had something weighing heavily on his mind.
After so many years of hanging together, I knew when Frank was bothered by something. I asked him what was up. He just stared at me, looking kind of grave.
"Dude, it's alright, it's me, Bobby, here. It can't be that bad. Talk to me," I pleaded.
He studied me and then answered with deep worry: "I'm kind of worried that in all the years we've known each other, I've never seen any of your girls."
SHIT, I thought. "Tara Bitch" must have talked to him. That CUNT! I had gone out on one date with one of her friends, one girl she fixed me up with. The girl was all over me the first (and last) date. I didn't want any part of that. She must have told Tara, and then Tara must have told Frank that I wasn't into her advances! Who would be? The slut cunt!
"Well, Frank, you know how it is," I tried to casually worm out of it. "I like to see what's out there, ya know." I took a big gulp of my beer, tried to look as rugged as I could as my throat was getting really dry and my heart was racing. Was Frank going to abandon me, ridicule me and end our friendship?
