Naptime. The girls were asleep downstairs. Allen and I, in a lazy state from a lunch of chicken nuggets and french fries (the girls' choice), were sprawled out next to each other on the couch, yawning and gazing at the TV.
Just another rainy Sunday afternoon playdate. Allen and I had been doing this for the past two months, giving ourselves a chance at a moment of peace while the girls play with each other, on days when his wife and my girlfriend were scheduled to work.
We met through our women, in fact, though the two of us instantly hit it off. Allen, freshly thirty like me but looking as fine as I had in my early twenties, liked to work out together. Sometimes we all got together to drink and, like me, he was quite the partier. Lately, though, all these activities had taken a back seat to child rearing. Playdates were the only time we really got to hang out.
Allen, wearing nothing but a pair of nylon running shorts, his smooth and muscular body sinking back against the couch, flipped through the channels until he came to a documentary about the turn-of-the-21st-century rave scene in North America.
I'd been there, back when I was a senior in college, taking ecstasy and liquid acid and throwing myself into the sweaty throngs of young bodies dancing the night away without a care in the world. I missed those days, those wonder years of peace and prosperity. Mostly I missed the hot tattooed guy I'd made out when I was candyflipping one hallowed Halloween rave evening.
We'd carried on a pretty torrid and passionate affair, and I explored my burgeoning sexuality with him from top to bottom before I got scared about the whole thing and scurried into a relationship with a Social Sciences major from the local girls-only liberal arts college. One year later beget our bouncing baby girl, and my hunky tattooed trick (with the eight-inch dick - I know because we measured it once) fell into the deep, red, velvet-lined recesses of my memory. I still had some semblances of my youth - all of my hair and my macho, cut body - but I'd went from living on the edge to living in the suburbs of Chicago. It left something to be desired.
Allen adjusted his golden-haired legs, spreading his thighs until his knee rested against mine.
"I went to one of those once," he said.
"I went to a lot of those."
"Yeah? They were too expensive for my taste. I dug the scene though. Kinda freaky," he said, lowering his eyebrows and curling his soft pink lips into a scandalous smirk. It nearly gave me a hard-on, that look. In the lazy Sunday afternoon air, though, pretty much anything gave me a hard-on.
Just then, the documentary started talking about the mutability of sexual desire that was present in the rave scene. They could've been talking about my life. Interspersed with the commentary were a few shots of boys kissing other boys. I waited with baited breath to see how Allen reacted.
He let out a low whistle.
"See what I mean?" he said, nudging my thigh with his. "Freaky."
"So that's the kind of freaky you were talking about..." I was chiding him and testing him at the same time.
Allen shrugged.
"Never say never, man," he said. "I messed around with a guy once back in the day. Didn't scar me for life or anything. In fact it was pretty fun."
"Wow," was all I could say.
"What about you, you ever mess around with a guy?"
"Yeah, I have. Before I met Susan, I mean."
"You like it?" he said, sitting up next to me. The house was still as still could be.
"Yeah," I said, the word coming out raggedy on my breath.
"That's cool," Allen said, smiling. There was no doubt what was going on here. The trick was getting one of us to say something about it. We watched the TV, on which was a commercial for an antidepressant.
"Would it be weird to say that I'm kind of turned on right now?" Allen said.
"No," I said. Allen took my hand and put it on his thigh. My heart was beating out of my chest. I didn't move it away.
He reached for the bottom of my shirt and pulled it over my head. Like I said, I work out pretty regularly, and I've got a nice tight stomach and pecs that are smattered with dark hair, quite a contract to Allen's smooth and sexy body. He ran his hands down my chest and I did the same to him, finally resting my hand on the boner in his shorts.
Without a word, Allen stood up in front of me and slipped off his shorts. Of course I was immediately focused on his dick - rock-hard and beautiful, standing up from a healthy set of shaved balls and a trimmed patch of light-brown pubes - but what really got me was the tiny, dark-blue tattoo next to his cock. It was the head of Woody Woodpecker.
I touched his dick, stroking up and down its length. Allen buckled his knees, softly moaning as I stroked him off. I stood up then, my own piece bulging out the front of my basketball shorts, and Allen took the liberty of slipping them off of me.
I had my thong underwear on underneath. Allen looked up at me when he saw what they were, a smirk on his face. Freaky. He slipped that off too and watched my fat, uncut cock bounce up and fall back down. I've got a pretty thick piece and Allen seemed fascinated by it. He took it in his hand, working the foreskin back and forth as we stroked each other.
Allen reached for my meaty ass and pulled me toward him. Our chests pressed together, our cocks poking hotly into each other's stomachs. We looked at each other.
"This is crazy, man," Allen said.
"I know but it's so hot."
"You're so sexy."
"You too," I said. He brought his mouth to my ear.
