The following story is essentially true. Enjoy.
***
I've always been a curious person, and have always been willing to satisfy my desires to learn or experience something new. Be it riding a motorcycle, rock climbing, sky diving, learning a new language . . . or getting up close and carnal with another man.
My curiosity in that last regard began shortly before my best friend Clint and I started masturbating together. We would lay down on the living room floor, our shorts or jeans pushed down, and watch porn or talk about girls while jerking off. I was always fascinated with how Clint used just his thumb and first two fingers to squeeze the head of his dick, jerking them up and down swiftly until he shot his cum all over his stomach. I went for the whole-hand approach, and pumped my dick along the full length. Once we were done, we'd wipe up with hand towels, fix our clothes, and play air hockey.
Not once did Clint and I ever touch each other. Although I wanted to. I was curious as to what another boy's cock would feel like in my hand. I wanted to feel the throbbing against my palm, the stiffness of the shaft, the slickness of the head as it seeped pre-cum. I wanted to know the thrill and satisfaction of making a dick other than mine ejaculate.
It was while I was in college that I got my first chance. And to this day, the circumstances around that first encounter still amaze me.
***
I was shopping for something – what it was, exactly, I can't recall – and had hit the nearest mall. It was a pretty lazy weekday, not too much traffic along the tiled walkways that glowed softly from the sun streaming down through the skylights above. I was still a kid in many respects, and looked and acted like it. I may have been old enough to vote, but even my best friends were constantly telling me to grow up.
Anyway, being the late eighties, I was wearing jeans and a rather snug-fitting shirt. I never thought too much about my wardrobe, just put on what I felt like wearing. I never considered the idea that my choice of wardrobe could actually give the (mistaken?) impression that I might be gay.
I finished some of my shopping and decided to get something to eat in the food court. I took a table off to the side. As I was munching on fries and reading an advertising pamphlet someone had left on the table, I started getting the feeling that I was being watched.
I glanced around, saw a man at another table, about thirty feet away. Maybe my mode of clothing was ambiguous, but his made it pretty clear that man beneath the light-colored cashmere sweater was gay. He was significantly older than me, maybe early or mid-thirties, and very slender, with short blonde hair and small eyes of blue or green. I had never really looked at other men with the idea of 'checking them out.' But suddenly, I was. And so was he. Seriously. He had a smug, confident look on his face that was, frankly, intimidating.
It embarrassed me. I felt uncomfortable. I felt hot. I felt . . . aroused.
I looked back down at the pamphlet before me, but I wasn't reading it. The damn piece of paper might just as well have been imprinted with Chinese ideographs rather than the letters of the English language. I simply stared at the page, confused by the reactions in my body and mind. My palms were sweaty, my throat felt dry, my heart was pounding, and my cock . . . was getting hard.
It felt like several minutes had passed, but it was probably only a handful of seconds before the chair across from mine was pulled out with a raking of worn-out plastic bumpers on the tile. I looked up, watching as the older man sat down, setting his half-finished basket of steak fingers in front of him. That cocky smile was omnipresent as he looked me over.
"You mind?" he asked, in a way that implied he really did not care what my answer might be.
I shrugged. "Sure," I said, trying to play it cool.
"I'm Tom," he said. He didn't offer his hand. His eyes wandered over me. "You're pretty hot."
I could feel the blush flooding my cheeks. I couldn't meet his gaze. Instead, I stared at the base of the V-neck collar of his sweater.
"You're shy," he said with a touch of mirth. "That's cool. I can handle that."
I took a breath. "Um, look," I said, and finally met his eyes. Aquamarine, I decided. "Maybe I gave you the wrong impression . . . ."
He smiled thinly. "I don't think so."
I laughed sharply. It was a purely nervous reaction. "I'm not gay."
Tom shrugged. "So you're bi," he said casually. "Nothing wrong with that." He leaned forward and gave me one of those smoldering, I'm-turned-on-and-I-want-you-to-know-that looks. "Me, I'm gay. Very gay. And I happen to think you're a sexy guy."
I swallowed nervously, while at the same time feeling my arousal spike. My cock was punching against my jeans, as if it was trying to get out. Part of my mind was screaming in my head, telling me I should be insulted. But that part was small, dominated by the feelings of sexual curiosity that now roared through my brain like an inferno.
"Hey, don't be embarrassed," Tom said, leaning even closer across the table.
I felt a spark of defensiveness. "I'm not."
He shrugged. "Of course not."
I frowned slightly. There was something about Tom that I didn't like, or maybe it was just that I didn't like the way he was turning me on.
