MyJockStrap
05-27-2005, 03:58 AM
Tracing Trace
Opening his eyes, Trace found himself staring at the ceiling. A ceiling fan forced cool air over his naked sheet covered body and created a transparent shadowy circle that hovered just under the popcorn ceiling as its blades rotated. Trace followed the diameter of the circling blades to the fan’s hub and listened for the motor’s hum. At first, he could not hear it, but eventually, beneath the swoosh of the swirling blades, he could hear its hum, the same hum that lulled him to sleep. He closed his eyes and thought of sleeping more, but he was no longer tired. Shifting his attention to the rest of the house, he listened for the sounds of activity, but heard nothing besides the droning fan.
The lack of activity meant there was no weekend company upstairs, and at this late Sunday hour, no one would be stopping by now. Trace sighed, simultaneously happy he would not have to put on a happy face for family and discontented the evening would be a solitary one. He thought of dressing and going upstairs to talk with his parents, but he saw them this morning, last evening, and every morning and evening before that for twenty-six years, so the prospect of spending the evening with them failed to excited him.
Pulling the sheet from his body, Trace ran his hands along his stomach and over his chest. Grazing each nipple with his fingertips, he sighed and wondered what he should do. He ran his fingers behind his ears and over his scalp. As he raised his arms, a smell flowed out from his armpits. Scrunching his nose at the existential smell, he gleefully jumped from the bed, enthused by the idea of having something to do.
Trace made his way across the narrow hallway into the laundry room and slipped into the bathroom. Stepping into the bathroom, he wondered what it would be like to have a larger bathroom. This one barely left room between the toilet, sink, and stall shower to undress in without having to be careful of falling into the toilet. Releasing a stream of piss into the toilet, Trace pushed out the walls in his mind and wondered what the room would feel like if it had just six more inches of square footage in each direction.
The room was uncomfortably small, but its immaculate condition pleased Trace as he regulated the shower water temperature. He turned each temperamental knob until a comfortable temperature was achieved and stepped into the shower and waited for the water to drench his hair with its light spray. Realizing he had turned the knobs to their usual half open position, he opened each one as far as it would go. The spray of water increased, and it poured over his face and neck, along his chest and stomach, and over the length of his cock, which thickened as it was licked by the warm flow of water.
He turned a bar of soap between his hands and spread the lather over his body. Dragging his fingernails under his armpits, he felt his cock stiffen to a full erection. Lowering his hands, he pulled his balls with one hand and grabbed his shaft with the other. As his soapy fist slid up and down his cock, he wanted to cum and made a concerted effort to do so by rubbing his soap slicked palm over his head. He thrust his hips forward and tensed under the itch developing in his head, but he knew it would not be enough. He only comes flat on his back. Shifting his attention to his other head, he gave up and shampooed his hair as his erection sliced through the spray of water.
Toweled off, Trace wrapped the towel around his waist and returned to his bedroom. Its blue walls and walnut trimming greeted him warmly, and he could feel the dampness of the concrete floor seeping through the carpet beneath his bare feet. The damp carpet simultaneously signaled something familiar and something repellent to him. He closed the bedroom door and positioned himself in front of the full-length mirror that hung over its backside and pulled the towel from his waist.
The reflection of his naked form filled the mirror, and he looked himself over with an evaluative gaze, starting with his feet. He appreciated their Romanesque largeness and thought they looked manly but would have preferred if they weren’t topped with a small line of hair. He considered himself fortunate the hair was not as dense here as it was on his legs, which were also solid and shapely, but he thought the moderately dense black hair that covered them blurred their shapeliness, and he pondered whether or not he should start trimming. Eyeing his cock, which was now shriveled to a quarter of its erect length, he wondered if such an extreme variance between one’s erect and flaccid self was normal, but he did know that beyond his feet and legs, he had reached the last part of his body that pleased him. He raised his eyes to his torso and thought what he saw was an odd mixture of unattractive features. His slim waist belied the stomach bulge, which could be seen in profile, and this bulge oddly contrasted his small, yet defined, pecs, which framed the flat hairy ridge of bone between them. Contrasting the shapeliness of his pecs with his stomach, he realized he could improve his torso fairly easily if he stuck to the exercise plan he avoided more than participated in. Looking up quickly from his chest to his head, he caught a momentary unconscious glimpse of himself, and he thought what he saw must be what he looked like to other people. He remembered the first compliments he had ever received were about his eyes. A secretary at his father’s office had raved about the length and curl of his eyelashes, and a co-worker once leaned across his desk and told him there was no need for furs with sable eyes like his. His face was made handsome face because of his eyes, and their attractiveness rested largely in their ability to reflect his slightest emotion and inevitably produced an empathic response in others. The response he was capable of eliciting in others was something he was only just beginning to understand, and he was made more attractive by the fact, once learned, he would never exploit this ability. Running his fingers through his wet hair, he examined the first physical feature he noticed age-related changes in, and since the age of twenty-three, his hair had been thinning. It still maintained its dark brown color, but its dark shimmering brownness was beginning to fade, and its thickness, although the same on the back and sides of his head, was not what it once was in the front. Gone were the hair hey days of the eighties when Trace could compete with the East Haven girls for height in hair. A sudden lassitude overwhelmed Trace, and he turned from the mirror.
Pulling on a tee shirt and shorts, he slid a cigarette from the pack on his nightstand and made his way to the kitchen. He considered smoking at the table, but remembering his vow to give up smoking inside, he looked out the kitchen door, which opened out at ground level into the backyard. Through the window, he could see the grass was taking on a dark green hue as the gloaming shades illuminated it more dimly as the sun faded and fell in the distance. The desire for sunsets and twilight overcame Trace, and he stepped out the door.
He walked to the back of his family’s farmer’s acre and lit his cigarette as he took in the view of the sunset hovering over the distant Sleeping Giant Mountain. His view was framed by a new housing development that skirted the horizon. The house used to face a fallow field that offered an unobstructed view of the horizon. The field used to glow at night with the light of fireflies, and sitting on the front porch, one could not discern land from sky as the light of the fireflies melded into the star bespangled sky.
Trace fondly recalled uneventful evenings spent on the front porch with his mother as he looked toward his house and wondered what his parents were doing. His apartment occupied the in-law apartment on the first floor of the raised ranch, and his parents occupied the second floor. They were not on the porch, their usual haunt at night, and he figured they were contentedly tucked away—Mom reading in her bedroom and Dad watching television in the living room. He dragged on his cigarette and looked toward the sunset in time to catch the last lick of flame dropping behind the mountain. The expanse of darkened sky hovered to his back, as the western horizon was bunted in the purples and oranges of the velvet sunset. He felt a coolness emanating from the woods as the last vestige of daylight fell from his face. Nothing moved, and except for the chorus of crickets and the whir of tires from a lone car making its way along Route 22 in the distance, there was no sound as this bedroom community fell easily and early into twilight.
He listened to the burning cigarette as he took the last drag off it and thought about the upcoming workweek. He felt he should be happy, or at least contented, with the prospect of the workweek: wasn’t the potential of working as a social worker instead of a waiter the reason he had forsaken everything and everyone to obtain his bachelor’s degree and why, before that, he worked two jobs and attended night school for a year and a half to reverse his dropout status by obtaining his high school diploma? A discontentedness filled him as he realized the answer to this question failed to alter his feelings about work the next day.
Trace pulled his cock out from the bottom of his shorts and began to fist himself. It quickly thickened in his grasp, and as it thickened, he fisted himself harder. The increasing friction created a chill that permeated his cock until he laced the grass before him with cum, and as it soaked into the New England soil, Trace whispered: I want a boyfriend.
Opening his eyes, Trace found himself staring at the ceiling. A ceiling fan forced cool air over his naked sheet covered body and created a transparent shadowy circle that hovered just under the popcorn ceiling as its blades rotated. Trace followed the diameter of the circling blades to the fan’s hub and listened for the motor’s hum. At first, he could not hear it, but eventually, beneath the swoosh of the swirling blades, he could hear its hum, the same hum that lulled him to sleep. He closed his eyes and thought of sleeping more, but he was no longer tired. Shifting his attention to the rest of the house, he listened for the sounds of activity, but heard nothing besides the droning fan.
The lack of activity meant there was no weekend company upstairs, and at this late Sunday hour, no one would be stopping by now. Trace sighed, simultaneously happy he would not have to put on a happy face for family and discontented the evening would be a solitary one. He thought of dressing and going upstairs to talk with his parents, but he saw them this morning, last evening, and every morning and evening before that for twenty-six years, so the prospect of spending the evening with them failed to excited him.
Pulling the sheet from his body, Trace ran his hands along his stomach and over his chest. Grazing each nipple with his fingertips, he sighed and wondered what he should do. He ran his fingers behind his ears and over his scalp. As he raised his arms, a smell flowed out from his armpits. Scrunching his nose at the existential smell, he gleefully jumped from the bed, enthused by the idea of having something to do.
Trace made his way across the narrow hallway into the laundry room and slipped into the bathroom. Stepping into the bathroom, he wondered what it would be like to have a larger bathroom. This one barely left room between the toilet, sink, and stall shower to undress in without having to be careful of falling into the toilet. Releasing a stream of piss into the toilet, Trace pushed out the walls in his mind and wondered what the room would feel like if it had just six more inches of square footage in each direction.
The room was uncomfortably small, but its immaculate condition pleased Trace as he regulated the shower water temperature. He turned each temperamental knob until a comfortable temperature was achieved and stepped into the shower and waited for the water to drench his hair with its light spray. Realizing he had turned the knobs to their usual half open position, he opened each one as far as it would go. The spray of water increased, and it poured over his face and neck, along his chest and stomach, and over the length of his cock, which thickened as it was licked by the warm flow of water.
He turned a bar of soap between his hands and spread the lather over his body. Dragging his fingernails under his armpits, he felt his cock stiffen to a full erection. Lowering his hands, he pulled his balls with one hand and grabbed his shaft with the other. As his soapy fist slid up and down his cock, he wanted to cum and made a concerted effort to do so by rubbing his soap slicked palm over his head. He thrust his hips forward and tensed under the itch developing in his head, but he knew it would not be enough. He only comes flat on his back. Shifting his attention to his other head, he gave up and shampooed his hair as his erection sliced through the spray of water.
Toweled off, Trace wrapped the towel around his waist and returned to his bedroom. Its blue walls and walnut trimming greeted him warmly, and he could feel the dampness of the concrete floor seeping through the carpet beneath his bare feet. The damp carpet simultaneously signaled something familiar and something repellent to him. He closed the bedroom door and positioned himself in front of the full-length mirror that hung over its backside and pulled the towel from his waist.
The reflection of his naked form filled the mirror, and he looked himself over with an evaluative gaze, starting with his feet. He appreciated their Romanesque largeness and thought they looked manly but would have preferred if they weren’t topped with a small line of hair. He considered himself fortunate the hair was not as dense here as it was on his legs, which were also solid and shapely, but he thought the moderately dense black hair that covered them blurred their shapeliness, and he pondered whether or not he should start trimming. Eyeing his cock, which was now shriveled to a quarter of its erect length, he wondered if such an extreme variance between one’s erect and flaccid self was normal, but he did know that beyond his feet and legs, he had reached the last part of his body that pleased him. He raised his eyes to his torso and thought what he saw was an odd mixture of unattractive features. His slim waist belied the stomach bulge, which could be seen in profile, and this bulge oddly contrasted his small, yet defined, pecs, which framed the flat hairy ridge of bone between them. Contrasting the shapeliness of his pecs with his stomach, he realized he could improve his torso fairly easily if he stuck to the exercise plan he avoided more than participated in. Looking up quickly from his chest to his head, he caught a momentary unconscious glimpse of himself, and he thought what he saw must be what he looked like to other people. He remembered the first compliments he had ever received were about his eyes. A secretary at his father’s office had raved about the length and curl of his eyelashes, and a co-worker once leaned across his desk and told him there was no need for furs with sable eyes like his. His face was made handsome face because of his eyes, and their attractiveness rested largely in their ability to reflect his slightest emotion and inevitably produced an empathic response in others. The response he was capable of eliciting in others was something he was only just beginning to understand, and he was made more attractive by the fact, once learned, he would never exploit this ability. Running his fingers through his wet hair, he examined the first physical feature he noticed age-related changes in, and since the age of twenty-three, his hair had been thinning. It still maintained its dark brown color, but its dark shimmering brownness was beginning to fade, and its thickness, although the same on the back and sides of his head, was not what it once was in the front. Gone were the hair hey days of the eighties when Trace could compete with the East Haven girls for height in hair. A sudden lassitude overwhelmed Trace, and he turned from the mirror.
Pulling on a tee shirt and shorts, he slid a cigarette from the pack on his nightstand and made his way to the kitchen. He considered smoking at the table, but remembering his vow to give up smoking inside, he looked out the kitchen door, which opened out at ground level into the backyard. Through the window, he could see the grass was taking on a dark green hue as the gloaming shades illuminated it more dimly as the sun faded and fell in the distance. The desire for sunsets and twilight overcame Trace, and he stepped out the door.
He walked to the back of his family’s farmer’s acre and lit his cigarette as he took in the view of the sunset hovering over the distant Sleeping Giant Mountain. His view was framed by a new housing development that skirted the horizon. The house used to face a fallow field that offered an unobstructed view of the horizon. The field used to glow at night with the light of fireflies, and sitting on the front porch, one could not discern land from sky as the light of the fireflies melded into the star bespangled sky.
Trace fondly recalled uneventful evenings spent on the front porch with his mother as he looked toward his house and wondered what his parents were doing. His apartment occupied the in-law apartment on the first floor of the raised ranch, and his parents occupied the second floor. They were not on the porch, their usual haunt at night, and he figured they were contentedly tucked away—Mom reading in her bedroom and Dad watching television in the living room. He dragged on his cigarette and looked toward the sunset in time to catch the last lick of flame dropping behind the mountain. The expanse of darkened sky hovered to his back, as the western horizon was bunted in the purples and oranges of the velvet sunset. He felt a coolness emanating from the woods as the last vestige of daylight fell from his face. Nothing moved, and except for the chorus of crickets and the whir of tires from a lone car making its way along Route 22 in the distance, there was no sound as this bedroom community fell easily and early into twilight.
He listened to the burning cigarette as he took the last drag off it and thought about the upcoming workweek. He felt he should be happy, or at least contented, with the prospect of the workweek: wasn’t the potential of working as a social worker instead of a waiter the reason he had forsaken everything and everyone to obtain his bachelor’s degree and why, before that, he worked two jobs and attended night school for a year and a half to reverse his dropout status by obtaining his high school diploma? A discontentedness filled him as he realized the answer to this question failed to alter his feelings about work the next day.
Trace pulled his cock out from the bottom of his shorts and began to fist himself. It quickly thickened in his grasp, and as it thickened, he fisted himself harder. The increasing friction created a chill that permeated his cock until he laced the grass before him with cum, and as it soaked into the New England soil, Trace whispered: I want a boyfriend.