My Mate Marco
I learned long ago that all men are, pretty much, bisexual, especially the younger generations who haven’t been so fucked up with religion, or outdated social norms. I know those with god are always trying to reduce Kinsey’s percentage down from 10% to, something like, 1%, but, actually, in reality I thing that the percentage would head the other way substantially, if the truth was known.
I’ve always found straight boys very accommodating, especially when drunk. Alcohol seems to be the bisexuality key for strapping males.
That old saying is not far from the truth. What is the difference between a straight boy and a gay boy? 6 beers.
I think the old farts who wrote the bible probably knew men were no different to animals when it came to sex, they evolved that way, they were made that way for the survival of the species, and the inclusion of such non-male fucking clauses were political, more so than spiritual. Remember, when the bible was written there were no antibiotics, penicillin, crab cream.
And I’d bet it was never true anyway, other than for a handful of puritans. Do you think clergy sex is a modern phenomena? I don’t think so.
And you know, the base truth is that men just don’t care what they stick their cocks in, as long as it feels good, they’ll be in it. And as much as the woman folk try to neuter them, tame them, civilise them, boys will always be boys, they are supposed to be.
I’d like all men who have had sex with other adult men to one day put their hands up and be counted, I think the gen pop would be surprised.
Let’s take my straight buddy Marco, as an example. We were best friends through school. We still are best friends still. He was always a handsome boy, of Turkish decent – dark hair, good skin, strong jaw, great stubble, sexy mouth. He always had a habit of falling out of his clothes - track pants, shorts, jocks, he always managed to loose them some how, even momentarily. Hands down his track pants until his jocks and pubes were showing, and he never notice.
He was probably the first guy I was attracted to, you know, seriously lusted after. It kind of sneaked up on me, took me by surprise. I tried to deny it, put it out of my mind, but it always came back. Sometimes it caught me off guard, you know, he’d say something to me and smile his gorgeous smile and I’d just be completely distracted.
Shake my head. “What did you say?”
He'd smile. He knew. Sometimes I wondered if he did it on purpose.
I used to perve on him in the change rooms at school. He had great thick, hairy thighs and his jocks always hung low at the front, like it was a struggle for them to keep him all contained. He was the first boy of my age, certainly at school, whose hairy chest I noticed.
We used to wrestle, we were very physical with each other, which I, kinda, liked, you know. My mum used to say that we were like one big ball of energy, the two of us. I used to like rubbing my package against his, you know, pin him down.
I realised, after we left school, and were at uni together and I was getting used to the boy attracted to boy thing, that Marco and I had always flirted. We’d touch, hug, sleep in each other’s arms. Hell, at one party, drunk as skunks, playing Gay Chicken, the girls encouraged us to pash and Marco was right there. Performing for the girls, true, but I still got to pash him. Truthfully, I tugged about it for months.
When I told him that I thought I was gay, he said, “But, I thought you only ever had eyes for me, Josho?”
He was kidding. I started to cry, I tried really hard not to, but I did. I can still remember the way he hugged me in his arms. I can still feel his hand gently rubbing the back of my hair. I can still remember his breath on the side of my face and his words, as he spoke, “Don’t cry. It’s okay, Josh. I’ll always love you, buddy.”
I got an erection and I tried to pull away, but he held tight, repeating it would be okay. He must have felt it, but he didn’t flinch.
I’m not sure if I was ashamed of myself, or desperately turned on. It didn’t, really, matter which, as I just wanted to be held.
Anyway, first year uni. We’d been out and were ripped, pills, booze, smoke. Marco’s girlfriend, at the time, got the shits with Marco for ogling some chick with a low cut top with melons for breasts, as Marco had said breathlessly, and had gone home. We went back to my place in Station Street. We’d both had showers and I had lent Marco a pair of tracky dacks to wear.
It was Sunday morning, the sun was just coming up, so it was 5am, 6am. We were fucked, smoking cones on the couch.
Marco said he was fucking horny.
I told him I’d suck it for him.
He told me to fuck off.
But, then he lay his head back on the couch and closed his eyes.
The morning light was hazy, my eyesight was fucked. But, my stoned brain was painting scenarios and urging me on. Marco looked hot in my tracky pants - thick thighs, nice arse. I lay my head back and gazed at him. His T-shirt had ridden up a bit and his fury abdomen was visible. The material of the tracksuit pants kind of creased and bulged up over his cock. I could see the hair on his stomach disappear under the elastic of his jocks and I could imagine it gathering at the base of his shaft.
He started to snore a bit, kind of, mid sentence, so I stopped talking and just gazed at him for the longest, silky, hazy fucked up moments of the morning.
I got the shakes, because I knew I could slide my hand down his pants any minute and he'd never know. I wanted to, you know. What a turn on it would have been to slide me hand under the elastic, as my fingertips slipped through his pubes. I'd slide my palm over his soft todger.
I laughed to myself and though the only thing I should do is stop taking drugs. I wondered how many laws it would have broken. Silly that it would break any laws, so innocent, so intimate.
He snored a bit. He didn't move. I just gazed at him, he was beautiful.
I lay down with my head on his thigh. He moved his hand to my chest and rubbed it gently, then his hand was still. I stared at the ceiling. I must have drifted off to sleep quickly too.
Funny the things you remember.
I’ve always found straight boys very accommodating, especially when drunk. Alcohol seems to be the bisexuality key for strapping males.
That old saying is not far from the truth. What is the difference between a straight boy and a gay boy? 6 beers.
I think the old farts who wrote the bible probably knew men were no different to animals when it came to sex, they evolved that way, they were made that way for the survival of the species, and the inclusion of such non-male fucking clauses were political, more so than spiritual. Remember, when the bible was written there were no antibiotics, penicillin, crab cream.
And I’d bet it was never true anyway, other than for a handful of puritans. Do you think clergy sex is a modern phenomena? I don’t think so.
And you know, the base truth is that men just don’t care what they stick their cocks in, as long as it feels good, they’ll be in it. And as much as the woman folk try to neuter them, tame them, civilise them, boys will always be boys, they are supposed to be.
I’d like all men who have had sex with other adult men to one day put their hands up and be counted, I think the gen pop would be surprised.
Let’s take my straight buddy Marco, as an example. We were best friends through school. We still are best friends still. He was always a handsome boy, of Turkish decent – dark hair, good skin, strong jaw, great stubble, sexy mouth. He always had a habit of falling out of his clothes - track pants, shorts, jocks, he always managed to loose them some how, even momentarily. Hands down his track pants until his jocks and pubes were showing, and he never notice.
He was probably the first guy I was attracted to, you know, seriously lusted after. It kind of sneaked up on me, took me by surprise. I tried to deny it, put it out of my mind, but it always came back. Sometimes it caught me off guard, you know, he’d say something to me and smile his gorgeous smile and I’d just be completely distracted.
Shake my head. “What did you say?”
He'd smile. He knew. Sometimes I wondered if he did it on purpose.
I used to perve on him in the change rooms at school. He had great thick, hairy thighs and his jocks always hung low at the front, like it was a struggle for them to keep him all contained. He was the first boy of my age, certainly at school, whose hairy chest I noticed.
We used to wrestle, we were very physical with each other, which I, kinda, liked, you know. My mum used to say that we were like one big ball of energy, the two of us. I used to like rubbing my package against his, you know, pin him down.
I realised, after we left school, and were at uni together and I was getting used to the boy attracted to boy thing, that Marco and I had always flirted. We’d touch, hug, sleep in each other’s arms. Hell, at one party, drunk as skunks, playing Gay Chicken, the girls encouraged us to pash and Marco was right there. Performing for the girls, true, but I still got to pash him. Truthfully, I tugged about it for months.
When I told him that I thought I was gay, he said, “But, I thought you only ever had eyes for me, Josho?”
He was kidding. I started to cry, I tried really hard not to, but I did. I can still remember the way he hugged me in his arms. I can still feel his hand gently rubbing the back of my hair. I can still remember his breath on the side of my face and his words, as he spoke, “Don’t cry. It’s okay, Josh. I’ll always love you, buddy.”
I got an erection and I tried to pull away, but he held tight, repeating it would be okay. He must have felt it, but he didn’t flinch.
I’m not sure if I was ashamed of myself, or desperately turned on. It didn’t, really, matter which, as I just wanted to be held.
Anyway, first year uni. We’d been out and were ripped, pills, booze, smoke. Marco’s girlfriend, at the time, got the shits with Marco for ogling some chick with a low cut top with melons for breasts, as Marco had said breathlessly, and had gone home. We went back to my place in Station Street. We’d both had showers and I had lent Marco a pair of tracky dacks to wear.
It was Sunday morning, the sun was just coming up, so it was 5am, 6am. We were fucked, smoking cones on the couch.
Marco said he was fucking horny.
I told him I’d suck it for him.
He told me to fuck off.
But, then he lay his head back on the couch and closed his eyes.
The morning light was hazy, my eyesight was fucked. But, my stoned brain was painting scenarios and urging me on. Marco looked hot in my tracky pants - thick thighs, nice arse. I lay my head back and gazed at him. His T-shirt had ridden up a bit and his fury abdomen was visible. The material of the tracksuit pants kind of creased and bulged up over his cock. I could see the hair on his stomach disappear under the elastic of his jocks and I could imagine it gathering at the base of his shaft.
He started to snore a bit, kind of, mid sentence, so I stopped talking and just gazed at him for the longest, silky, hazy fucked up moments of the morning.
I got the shakes, because I knew I could slide my hand down his pants any minute and he'd never know. I wanted to, you know. What a turn on it would have been to slide me hand under the elastic, as my fingertips slipped through his pubes. I'd slide my palm over his soft todger.
I laughed to myself and though the only thing I should do is stop taking drugs. I wondered how many laws it would have broken. Silly that it would break any laws, so innocent, so intimate.
He snored a bit. He didn't move. I just gazed at him, he was beautiful.
I lay down with my head on his thigh. He moved his hand to my chest and rubbed it gently, then his hand was still. I stared at the ceiling. I must have drifted off to sleep quickly too.
Funny the things you remember.
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