When you live out in rural Alabama, going to a junior college (community college) and still living with your parents; there's not a lot of choices for social entertainment. School and church were the acceptable places to interact socially with other young adults. But being openly gay made those places problematic. I could travel forty-five miles to a gay bar, but really couldn't drink because I'd have to drive back home. I could've picked someone up, I reckon; but I was really shy and introverted the few times I went out. There was always the slow satellite internet to cruise. I mean, jerking off to online porn or in a cam chat is always entertaining, but it's not really very social. The closest thing to a gay social spot in my neck of the woods was the gloryhole in the college library men's restroom.
Many twenty-somethings would end up just hanging out with friends somewhere around town in parking lots or out in the woods on old logging roads...but generally never at home, because Southern Baptist evangelical parents don't tolerate much. You tended to make your own fun, whatever that was...
Dave was in my English Composition class. He was blond and taller than me. He had that leanness to his torso that farmboys had; muscles on his arms and legs were long and vascular. I figured he had a slightly hairy chest from the smattering of blond hair I could see from the neck of his lazily-buttoned shirt. Sometimes when his shirt rode up his long torso, as he took his jacket off before class, you could see the striations of his tight muscles on his taut belly and sides. I'd lust after the thin trail of golden-colored hair disappearing into his jeans. I don't think he had an ounce of fat on his trim athletic body.
We had met and bonded talking about sci-fi and music. Our parents had gone to trade school together, so we knew each other a bit; but had grown up in opposite ends of the county. We had first met up last year when we started at the local junior college, but this was our first class together. That first week on a Friday, he asked if I wanted to go ride around and hang out. I agreed to go with him, although I was never one to just cruise around and hang out. At least, I could look at his perfect body and secretly lust after it. He mentioned that his other friends were on some big hunting trip and that he would enjoy hanging out with me.
"I spend too much on my car to afford the gun, tree stands, and shit you need to hunt. Plus I don't have the patience to fish, much less hunt," he laughed. He pursed his lips and mimed turning a steering wheel while pretending to change gears while making a "vroom-vroom" sound. "Fuck I love my car!"
Dave drove a vintage Chevrolet Camaro with bucket seats. Everything in the interior of the car was black with bits of silver detail. The exterior was a shiny black like a dark mirror with silver trim. His dad owned a tiny dealership beside his insurance firm and had given the old car to him. Dave had rebuilt the whole thing by himself -- it had kept him entertained.
Anyway, Friday came and Dave whizzed into the drive-way to pick me up about 4:57, his car shining in the golden light before sunset. I climbed in and immediately felt swallowed up by the bucket seats. They weren't uncomfortable; they just fit your body and you felt as if you were leaning backward in a recliner chair. Dave sorta leaned to the side in his with his wrist resting on the black leather steering wheel.
"'Sup?" he asked as I buckled up.
"Just ready to get outta the freakin' house," I said with a bit of a nervous chuckle.
"Well let's get the fuck outta here then," he said, adjusting his sunglasses before backing out of the driveway.
Seconds later, we were zooming down the two-lane blacktop toward town. Dave had some old heavy-metal music blaring on the stereo system that he turned down once we got on the highway.
"You hungry?," he asked me, taking off his sunglasses and hanging them on his shirt.
"Not really," I replied, looking over at him. I'm for that, I thought to myself as I looked him over, noticing the bulge in his jeans. "But if you are, we can stop somewhere."
"Naw, I'm fine," Dave replied as he inadvertently adjusted his crotch.
We drove around for a bit, but the town seemed emptier than usual. Dave and I made small talk, chit-chatting about school and life in general. We both remembered that the First Baptist Church had some big event, something about evangelical missionary positions in Europe or some such. So as for finding some get-together or party, it seemed that the two of us were it. I wasn't upset about it.
Dave drove over to the little parking lot of his dad's businesses. There were big shrubs enclosing it so customers of the little dealership couldn't wander over and try to buy cars in the insurance brokers parking lot. He turned off the engine and we sat there in the dark for a minute, illuminated only by the dim yellow hue from the old sodium street lamp.
"Hey, I want to ask you something," Dave asked me, breaking the silence in the parked car. "It's kind of personal, and I feel like you might be the only guy I can ask. You're not a judgemental kinda guy, like some of these bastards around here. And you really know things."
"Yeah, man, sure," I told him. "What's up?"
"I need...," he paused. He didn't look at me and kept looking out the window. He took a deep breath. "I think I jack off too much," he said quickly, now looking directly at me.
"Uhm..." I started.
"I've been jerking my dick like three times a day," he said, quickly explaining his request. "I'm worried that I'm doing it too much...sometimes it almost hurts, but I've got to do it. I almost pass out when I cum dry. But I got to get off even if my nuts are dry."
"I don't think there's anything unhealthy or problematic with masturbating a whole lot. But if it becomes destructive to your life, then you might need to talk to a doctor. I mean, are you addicted to it and just can't stop?" I asked him.
"See there, I knew I should ask you. You even use the word 'masturbation' instead of 'jerking'," Dave responded with a little laugh. "But, no, I'm not addicted. I'm just not getting the pussy my big cock needs, ya know."
I gave a nervous little laugh. "Oh, okay then." I know I was probably blushing, because my cheeks went warm. Thankfully, Dave couldn't see it.
"I admit to jacking off in public bathrooms....in the stall, of course, because I get so horned up. I've even creamed a load into my jeans a couple times. Between classes, I head straight to the john to get some relief. I can't leave until I drop a load of come, ya know? Playing with my big cock and releasing a load, yeah," Dave added.
"Masturbating is a perfectly normal, healthy pastime. And so long as you enjoy it, there's no upper limit to the number of times you can do it. I mean, you might be sore, but there's no problem doing it several times a day," I explained.
"Well, don't you sound like a muthafuckin' doctor!" Dave grinned. "Okay, I feel so much better now." He gave his crotch a little tug. "Thanks."
"Glad I could help you out," I laughed.
"Uh-huh," Dave said, nodding his head. "You're always really helpful, dude."
Dave stared at me and I acted like a deer in the headlights. "No problem, Dave," I said with a weak smile.
"So, how many times do you jack off a day?" Dave asked nonchalantly. "How do you release the tension?"
"I don't do that," I lied.
"I don't believe that," Dave laughed, shaking his head. "Of course, you do."
"No," I double-downed on my lie. I looked out the side window. "I like the style of that porch on that building," I said, trying to change the subject. I was embarrassed because I was jerking off two or three times myself lately thinking about Dave...among other, uhm, things.
I saw Dave behind me in the reflection of the window. He had used the chance of me looking out the window to surreptitiously grope himself. The palm of his hand pressed into his jeans, his fingers rubbing at the visible length laying on his thigh.
