The Summer of 2004

It's summer of my 20th year, and I am experiencing a life-altering, sizzling, sexual awakening--and, so far, the best summer of my life. I just finished my junior year at California State Poly and came home a week ago.

I'm the second oldest of 4 athletic boys, and my parents are still together and happy, most of the time. I had been looking forward to spending some fun times with my old high school buddies, catching up on what girls they fucked in college, what classes they failed. We'd be sure to go out drinking at McBirdy's Tavern every night, raise some hell, laugh about old times, and the summer standard: lifeguarding while bikini watching at Pine Lake.

My first day home, after conning my folks into believing I got all A's, I called my old boss, but he informed me that he wouldn't be needing me this summer. "Budget cuts" were affecting even normally thriving summer businesses, he said.

"That blows," I told him. "I've been guarding here for 5 years."

"My hands are tied, Mike, I'm sorry." He almost sounded apologetic. I was so counting on this gig. My credit card debt was mounting, and I had already tapped out my parents for car insurance money.

I begrudgingly picked up a copy of the Star Ledger, a NJ daily, figuring I'd get a jump on any new classified jobs listed. I was actually hoping not to find anything in there; I wanted a fun summer, not one slaving for some asshole. I found one ad that immediately stirred me in the groin. "WANTED: Strong, Fit, College Man to Help U.S. Marine with Odd Jobs Around Yard."

"Now, that sounds like an awesome job," I mused. I had always fancied myself being a U.S. Marine, or at least being in the company of them. I used to get heartsick--and hard on--looking at this Marine who would visit our campus. I'd become paralyzed by the sight of his tight ass, unable to take my eyes off of the perfect backside as it filled out his crisp pants with military precision. After seeing him on campus, I'd rush to my dorm or a bathroom to assault my manhood and visualize being overpowered by this sexy soldier of stud. I wanted to be his soldier of cock.

I've always thought of myself as basically straight, but I knew that I'd do anything for the chance to just once push my face into another man's ass. When I would see that drill instructor's jaw-dropping, mouth-watering bum, I would imagine what the texture of his pants would feel like as I buried my face into the forbidden zone, kissing him and rotating my face.

I'd envision burrowing my face into this most personal pleasure zone and inhaling the taboo region as deeply as my homo-curious lungs would allow. I'd imagine my lips and nose right about where his asshole would be situated. I'd feel his balls on my chin. I'd feel his powerful thighs squeezing my head, holding my face captive, forcing me to breathe, exclusively, the intoxicating, dick-hardening maleness of his crotch.

I'd pucker my starved lips and push them into where no masculine straight man dare trod. I'd imagine him quietly groaning while saying, "Oh yeah, Mike, do it up. Do me good, tongue that hole, son." By the time I violently erupted, I'd try and forget about this "wrong" fantasy of "queers" and focus on finding a girl.

Girls were all over me, ever since the 8th grade, but I never could find one that I really wanted to be with. Being 20 now, it was time. I gotta settle for one, any one, I thought. I was afraid my buddies would be talking about me, questioning my life.

It was hard to motivate myself to pursue pussy. Each year, the thought of a man's ass and cock was becoming more and more overpowering. This Marine at college was making if very difficult to rationalize my homo feelings as just a phase. I had to seriously come to terms. Me, Mr. 6 ft., rock-hard-bodied, good-looking, clean-cut stud might be bisexual. I might be gay.

Because I had gotten to the paper early, I was the first one to call the guy. He seemed all business. "Get over here and meet with me, son. Can't hire ya over the fuckin' phone." He rattled off the address and hung up.

"Sounds like a macho asshole," I surmised. But, inasumuch as I was always a sucker for a military dude, out of curiosity I'd drive on over. And sometimes macho assholes are fucking hot.

I made my way to his street in anticipation, spinning through the narrow-winding, tree-lined roads of Kyle Lake, NJ in my 2000 Mazda. It was a 30 minute drive to 2 Pine Tree Lane, where I politely pulled into the sinuous, and descending, cobble-stoned driveway. At the end of the winding trail, I saw a secluded home.

"Sweet, and situated on a lake just like ours," I verbalized as I closed the car door and ambled up the granite, pine-needled front walk. If the car engine didn't announce my arrival, my feet crunching gravel and pinecones with each step certainly would. I heard dogs barking, breaking the overwhelming sense of gorgeous solitude.

On the phone, the guy had mentioned he was a veteran of the Gulf War. He had hurt his back and was temporarily unable to do any lifting or heavy exerting. My job would be landscaping and sundry chores. The property was impressive, had to be several acres easily, and the centerpiece being a modest-sized, yet attractive, cherry-wood log cabin. I hoped the man would not be some bitter old bastard, because this place seemed like one fucking perfect place to spend a summer. I wanted this gig bad!

When the inside door opened, I was met at the screen door by two friendly but imposing German Shepard dogs and one very rugged-looking man. A lot younger, maybe 35, and in better shape than I imagined, I thought. As he opened the screen door and invited me in, I could size him up better. He wasn't just rugged, he was undeniably handsome too.

He was outfitted in Desert Storm, khaki fatigue pants with a healthy bulge in the zipper and a tight gray t-shirt with fading dark blue letters spelling U.S. Marine Corps across his solid pecs. His face was handsome in a hockey player type way. His hair was thick, apparently allowed to grow out while being on leave. He had masculine looking, squared and neat, half-inch sideburns, that made him look even manlier when he smiled. I saw bright, piano key teeth, surprising for someone so rugged.

With the nice tan and lean muscular arms he was sporting, I thought he looked like a Marine poster boy. As he walked, his ass was even better looking than the drill instructor's at college. I thought, "If this was going to be my job, working with this stud in this gorgeous place, man oh man, I was going to be one happy recruit!"

"Hi, I'm Mike," I offered as he told the dogs, "Go on, get outta here, boys." The dogs ran outside, and he grasped my hand vice-grip tightly and nodded, appearing to size me up in a once-over glance, and then silently motioned me with a nod of his head to follow him.

He led me through the masculine, sparsely furnished interior which was adorned with Gulf War Hero photos of him and his buddies. My sex-starved eyes gravitated mostly to his photos, particularly the crotches in them: as he was climbing a rope, carrying an assault rifle, driving a tank, broadly smiling with 3 buddies and a beer, and showing off his medals. This dude was male as male ever was, and that fucking bulge was even better looking in person.

As I stepped through the stud's spread, I noticed the upper loft of the cabin and wondered if it led to his bedroom, what it must look like. I wondered if there'd be dry, cum-stained tissues under his bed and who he thought about when he yanked. Did he ever have a gay fantasy?

"Come on. I'll show ya around the joint," he offered as he directed me through the sliding glass doors of the living room onto the outdoor deck, which he made a point of bragging that he built himself. The deck overlooked the spacious, crystal-clear lake and was surrounded by pine and oak trees bordering a thousand acres of mountainous, protected state land.

This all gave off more than a secluded feeling; I felt as if we were in the isolated Rockies. Who'd have thought this could be northern Jersey, just a half hour's drive from my home? And this stud might be my boss? Life is sweet!

He had noticed my admiration of the wall photos moments earlier and noted in his very rugged, almost raspy voice, "Yeah, those are shots of me back there." By the way, I'm Robert, Lieutenant Colonel Robert Andrews, U.S. Marine Corps." I gulped, and my heart seriously malfunctioned as I made eye contact.

"Mike, Mike Johnson, Cal. State." He didn't laugh at my feeble attempt at humor. He got right to business. "Look, boot, I hurt my back last month while off, fucked it up as I was building the deck. Wish I could say I had some war injury. Fact is, I just fell on my ass. Got a nice looking physical therapist chick, though, who's working with me. But I need help around here, till I heal."

"Did he just call me 'boot'? This guy is a fucking man all the way." He elaborated that he inherited the home and its five acres from his parents, who no longer could endure northeast winters.

"They retired to Boca, that's in Florida, where everybody over 65 hops on a fuckin' golf cart these days, I guess."

"Yeah, my parents will be heading there soon, too." I had no idea if they were; I just wanted to get some footing with this guy. I wanted to show I had a sense of humor as well. I immediately liked him, his maleness, his sexy body, his hair. I wanted him to like me. What better way than to agree with him.

I thought I'd open up the conversation with sports. I had been a star pitcher for 3 of my 4 years of high school. It seemed everyone in the area was a New York Yankees fan, so I figured that was safe. "You a Yankee fan?" I asked.

"Fuck no. Mets all the way, scrub!"

"Yeah, me too," I retorted with lightning speed.

He scoffed. "What the fuck is that? You ask me if I'm a Yankee fan and then when I say I like the Mets, you say 'Me too'? You gotta dick son? You're just being agreeable cause you want the job, right?"

"Well, the '86 series WAS exciting. So was the '69 one."

"What does your pussy ass know about 69, son? Man, you'll agree with everything I say, prob'ly, right?"

I smiled in a self-deprecating, "Hey, you are the boss," way.

"Well, in that case, how 'bout sucking my eight-inch cock?" He looked serious for a tense moment, and he motioned to unzip. Then he burst out laughing and punched me in the arm. "You wanna beer, guy?"

"Uh, yeah," I answered as I thought, "Boy does this guy have a quirky sense of humor. But I like him, though, either in spite of his quirkiness or because of it. I really want this job. I want HIM."

He grabbed two bottles of Bud and we talked on his deck while the dogs were heard barking at a jetskier in the distance. He explained that he was leaving the Marines. "I been a Marine since right outta high school, 15 years." He seemed curious to hear about other avenues of youth: college, lifeguarding, summer jobs. I filled him in.

"Oh, I've been a lifeguard while I've been in college and high school. I'm studying to be an engineer. My dad wanted me to be a lawyer like him. I grew up over in West Milford. I love sports, um, I was in the papers a lot in high school for my pitching. I got 3 brothers...."

I could tell he was sizing me up as I spoke and he casually sipped his beer. This was in addition to the sizing up at the door. I guessed he was thinking, I don't know if you got the build for real work. But after I finished the beer he had kindly offered, he abruptly asked if I could start right away, tomorrow exactly. I enthusiastically agreed. I was to "report for AD at 0800 hours."

"That's military time, right? What is that, 8 o'clock?" I thought I'd ask that first and then ask what "AD" was.

"Gotta real fucking genius here, a rocket scientist, hear that boys!" he yelled to his dogs. The dogs, as if understanding, barked approval. I didn't know what planet I was on.

"This guy is a fucking nut," I thought. But I was so turned on by his take-charge manliness. We shook hands. I tried to contain my excitement and casually strolled to the car.

"And AD is Active Duty!" he shouted after me. He knew I must be clueless.

I needed to change my cum-stained shorts. Maybe he didn't notice--I hoped he didn't notice the wetness or its source, a raging 7-incher, desperate to be placed comfortably into another man's ass. I had gotten myself so worked up taking his vision in. He was a stud like none I had ever seen. A real outdoors character.

On the drive home, my cock was throbbing so hard that I honestly thought I'd better find my old lifeguard jock strap to contain it the following day. If I was going to work around this stud, I would need something to hold my enraged tool down. I couldn't have Robert knowing I've got it bad for him.

I could hardly sleep that night. I thought of what I had witnessed that day. This stud's wavy, thick hair with the slight recession at the temples was so tough. If his ass was intoxicating, the lump in the front of his pants was deadly. I'd give my summer's salary for the chance to kiss that lump, even right through the pants, just once. Shit, I'd give my right arm to swallow his load.

I beat and beat and beat my meat, maniacally, thinking of what I'd do with him. By the fourth time of jerking off, I was spent, not a drop left, but I was still horny. All my thoughts of the college drill instructor's ass had only been a rehearsal to what I was feeling and thinking now. I wanted Robert Andrews so bad.

The next day I showed up right on time--I was afraid, I think, to be even a minute late--and Robert had coffee and a bagel for me. "Pretty civil and decent from someone like him," I thought.

We drank and ate while he showed me his motorcycle, a sleek looking, 1997 black Harley-Davidson. My inner-most desires must have subconsciously forced this out of me: "The girls will go wet hungering for you on this bike."

"You think so?" he answered as he studied me, quizzically.

I wasn't sure if his studying me was a negative response to my remark. "Shit, yeah," I responded as macho as I could. I couldn't have him get suspicious. I tried to deftly back-pedal. "I mean these bikes just WREAK sex, sir." I wanted it to be clear that the bike was where my thoughts were--not on the delicious lump in his pants, or that ass that begs my tongue inside it, or those bulging legs, or those tight pecs, or those forearms with the sexy U.S.M.C. tattoo and bulging, green veins.

After a guided tour around the sprawling, idyllic property while sipping coffee and sneaking peeks of his body, I was given instructions about my assignment of the day. I'd be raking leaves and bringing them over to the incinerator barrell. Not a small task; the place was huge. But I only had to do the western side hill today, he reasoned.

Robert's physical therapist would be over shortly, so he went inside to leave me to work. As he walked away, I stood transfixed by his muscular ass, tight and slightly bubbled. I reveled in every detail of it. He was wearing dark blue cargo pants today, with the back pocket tops slightly curled up, revealing the velcro strip which normally holds them closed. I noticed the wallet bulge in the left back one. I wanted to be that wallet. I felt compelled to inspect as much of his ass as I could take in. I was inhaling the picture, memorizing it for my nightly beat off sessions. I was hypnotized. I wanted my face between those pockets.

I stood there in a fugue state, both hands together around the top of the rake with my chin resting on them, head wistfully tilted, as I watched that astonishing manly ass strut up the shaded hill. I had a dark, perverse desire: I wanted to SMELL that ass. I stood there blue-balled, my mouth salivating, my heart racing. Then, to my abject horror, Robert took a quick about-face to say something but stopped when he saw me. He looked taken aback, a bit stunned. His expression changed from pleasant to disgust. My adam's apple went into a spasm as I gulped. I imagined he was done with me at that point.

I felt mortified, and started feverishly raking the leaves, in some misguided hope of forgetting about getting busted. "Maybe he thought I was watching the beautiful property? Could it be, even if he knew I was watching him, he didn't know I was specifically watching his ass? Yeah, right. Face it, I'm just a faggot who just got nailed big time! I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't ask me back after today."

"What an asshole I am," I said out loud. I didn't care if the lake air carried it to Robert's ears. I felt like such an idiot.

After several hours of raking, I heard the therapist saying good-bye and congratulations followed by her car door slamming and her rusted 1994 Chevy Cavalier exiting the driveway. Apparently, she was done for the day and I was about finished with the day's raking. I hoped he would want me back. I felt terror about seeing him face to face. I grabbed the last bag of leaves and brought them over to the mulch barrell, which Robert would be igniting this evening.

I loved the smell of burning leaves. I fantasized about being invited here at night, hanging outside with him, burning the leaves, toasting marshmellows, smelling the outdoor scene before taking his cock and balls, with their own delerium-inducing scent, into my mouth, my ass, my face.

As I dumped the last of the day's leaves into the burned, orange, rust-covered barrell, a hand suddenly touched my shoulder. I was so startled that I almost shit my shorts. "Oh shit!" I exclaimed. "Don't do that to me, Robert." I loved saying his first name. With a bit of an ingratiating, overly-masculine, please-forget-I-was-looking-at-you-before smile, I continued, "You scared the shit out of me, bro." I was trying so hard to make myself as masculine as possible.

He patted me hard on the shoulder. "Sorry boot, I just wanted to share some good news." With that, he reached down and grabbed his toes. Coming back up with a cocky smile, he added, "What do ya think, son? No more sick call for me. The PT hooked me up!" He let out a "YEEEhaw," which echoed across the lake.

I lightly patted him on the shoulder with "That is so fucking awesome, man. Congratulations!" I was genuinely happy for him. I liked the guy, but I was feeling a bit sad, too: "Will my services no longer be needed? My cock and heart were getting fixated on this guy. I admired him. I liked him. I just wanted to hang with him, get to know him. He seemed to receive me well just now, and genuinely wished to share his good fortune with me. I felt good about that, anyway."

If he had approached me with a stern expression, I would have been afraid that he was disapproving of what he had earlier caught me doing. Now that he was smiling about his recovery, I thought "Perhaps he's forgotten all about my roaming eyes? Maybe he wasn't at all suspicious about my sexuality or my hunger for his manhood. Maybe he's not mad at all with me. He probably didn't even notice what I was looking at, and I probably misinterpreted his behavior. I'm just a paranoia case, I guess. All is cool."

About his recovery, he had a swaggering, cocky demeanor: "Yeah, I knew it wouldn't be long. I'm in good shape. I might be a few years older than you, knob, but I can kick your ass!" He playfully punched my arm and wrestled me down. We rolled over twice and he had me pinned.

I had pine needles all over my back and hair. But all I was nervous about was if he felt my hard-on when he roughed me up. I don't think he'd imagine my cock was that big or that hard, normally. "It's hopeless," I thought. Now he knows for sure. But then he flexed his right arm. "Is that an arm, huh, scrub?" He seemed so proud of his brute strength, being able to bring down a 20 year old athlete, and his physical stature. I was thrilled that this was what was on his mind and not the fact that I'm a faggot who's hot for him.