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MyJockStrap

Tonight, I want to be Gay

Walking down York Street on the way to 168, a young guy caught my eye. He walked slowly as if breaking in a new pair of shoes, and I figured this Yalie had recently been shopping at J. Press.

Descending the steps and watching the girl watch her boyfriend watching me from the window of the modish ethnic food restaurant next to the bar, I heard someone whisper: “Tonight, I want to be gay.”

Turning around, I thought, “Well, it’s the least I can do.”

Without making eye contact, the floppy haired Yalie spun around and walked directly in front of me and paused just long enough to whisper: “Tonight, I want to see what you gay guys do.”

“Then we should go drinking and dancing,” I replied as his beer breath wafted between us.

Without breaking his stride, he whispered: “Meet me at the corner of Park and Crown.”

A few minutes later, I pulled up to the corner. He ran up to my truck, jumped in, and said: “I don’t want to be seen with you—just drive away.”

Accelerating rapidly, the truck jerked forward as I replied, “I can do that.”

I pulled onto the highway as he placed his hand on my knee: “Tonight, I want to be gay—like you.”

Shifting into fifth, I said, “We’ll see what we can do.”

Sitting on my couch, he looked at me and said: “Show me what it’s like to be gay.”

I picked up his hand and placed it on my thickening cock: “This is what it feels like.”

Staring at his hand, he tugged at my zipper, pulled out my cock, and began stroking it. It grew increasingly firm in his hand, and as he lowered his head, he paused a moment before saying: “I’ll never talk about this; I want to be a senator someday.”

Watching his head buck up and down in my lap, I decided not to respond.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled his lips not his eyes from my cock and said: “Show me what it’s like to be gay.”

Taking him by the hand, I led him through the hallway: “Let’s take it to the bedroom.”

Tossing his plaid boxers to the floor, he fell on his back and raised his legs in the air: “I want to do it like you gay guys do.”

Lining my cock up with his pink puckered hole, I smiled and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Before my head touched his asshole, he pressed his flattened palm to my chest and looked me in the eye: “Don’t mention this to anyone; I might be president some day.”

Promptly plunging forward, I pushed my cock into him, and he yelped. Musing over his name, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his pale cold cheek.

He groaned softly, and eventually, his groaning grew to a guttural panting. He punctuated its cadence with the words: “Tonight—I—want—to—be—gay.”

I quickened my thrusts, causing my thighs to slap against his ass, and thought: You may feel a little queer, after you’ve had a beer, but you’ll never know what its like to blow just to know you’re alive. You’ll never know the tension that fills you until you forget the words for the prayer to keep it from killing you. You’ll pop Viagra just to fill her vagina, but every night, on your way home, when you drive past the rest area, you’ll stop—stop—stop and think about tr--tr--trading your finger ring for a cock ring, but by then, it’ll be too--too--too late. You’ll already be a dead President, for your virtue is virtual, and I am fuck—fuck—fucking—you up the ass . . .

Driving silently down Park Street, he pointed to the side of the road: “Here is fine.”

Throwing the door open, he turned to me before jumping out: “Nothing happened, and I do not know you!”

Without a word in response, I drove away as the door slammed and thought: But I know you.

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