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.
I ventured into the room farther back, the boiler room, thinking that the ball may have bounced and rolled back there. The sound of the boiler or hot water heater was a formidable rumble that grew as I approached. There was a door before me but it was slightly open. No way could the ball have gone through the crevice of the barely open door, but curiosity sent me in.
As I entered, I saw a metal flat desk, which probably was Freddy's, the superintendent's. It had an empty Dunkin Donut's Coffee cup on it, which looked new, and a ring of keys. I wondered if I would be in trouble if I got caught in here. There also were two lockers similar to high school lockers but they were transparent, with fishwire metal, allowing me to see the contents, Freddy's worker uniform shirts and pants hanging neatly.
I peered around the floor some more and saw scattered clothes. I didn't know what to make of it. There was a pair of workboots with white socks on them next to a pair of jeans sloppily thrown on the floor. Atop the pants were worn boxer shorts and a superintendent uniform shirt. Maybe Freddy changed from his uniform into his regular clothes, I thought. But why would he be so neat with his clothes so neatly hung in the lockers yet scatter other clothes here?
I saw on the back of a folding chair a pair of dark-blue dress slacks neatly draped over the back of the chair with a folded light blue shirt over them. At the same time I noticed the familiar insignia on that shirt, I saw on the floor next to it dark shiny black shoes with socks tucked neatly in them. This was a cop's uniform! A pair of tightey whitey underwear lay atop the uniform. A radio and club stood together behind the chair. About a foot from the radio there was a shelf with paint thinner and solvents and old rags. Tucked in the middle shelf I saw a holster with the cop's gun in it. I started to tremble with fear. I probably know this cop, I thought, but I was too scared to read the badge affixed to his shirt.
Why were there clothes all over this floor? Why was a cop's stuff here? I was terrified but I became a little excited too, surrounded by this manhood, this underwear, these macho work clothes. I stared at the masculine details of the clothes and realized that was where the overpowering scent of manhood was originating. That specific smell on your fingers after you've played with your balls, rubbed your hard cock, played with your ass and erupted lava. That scent was permeating the air. I continued looking for the ball but on a subconscious level I must have known the ball couldn't possibly be in this room. On a subconscious level I was searching for something else.
As the roaring boiler kept its rhythm, I grew hard, very, very hard of the overwhelming smell of testes. My eyes kept going to the clothes. I seemed much more interested in the manly clothes than anything. I walked right up to them and reached down to touch the cop's uniform pants. I know it sounds strange, but I just wanted to feel this manhood. Just to touch it. I rubbed one of the legs and then reached up and grabbed the crotch and felt a rush.
