TITLE    : Boy Joy
STORYID  : boy-joy
SUMMARY  : The pleasure that derives from man-to-man intimacy.
AUTHOR   : Cal Y. Pygia@lit
DATE     : 2007-04-29
CATEGORY : gay-sex-stories
FLAGS    : h
TAGS     : |homosexual|anal|ass|rectum|anus|butt|semen|


I'm not a stalker. I'm just shy, especially around good-looking guys, and Mark was the handsomest man I'd ever seen. Adjectives fail to describe him, but what else have we to use? He's twenty-something, tall, tan, and blonde; he has blue eyes, broad shoulders, washboard abs, and an all-over muscular look, with sinewy arms and legs, and a tight, compact ass. Although I haven't seen his genitals--yet--I'd bet they're just as handsome--beautiful, even--as the rest of his gorgeous body.



He works at the local branch of the county library system. I know, I know--it's hard to believe that a librarian could be all that sexy. A carpenter, sure. A cop, definitely. A cowboy, absolutely. But a librarian? All I can say is you haven't seen Mark, because, if you had, you'd agree: he's sexier than any gay stereotype. Besides, he's not really a librarian. He's a librarian's assistant. Basically, that means he re-shelves returned books. It's a way to earn money, he says, while he's going to college, where he's studying to be a doctor. Of course, I didn't know that when I first met--or, rather, laid eyes on--him, and that's what I'm writing about, at the moment, at least, so I assumed he was a librarian. After all, he worked in a library.



I'm an English major at the same school Mark attends. Mrs. Matthews, my English Comp 2 teacher, had just assigned us a 15-page research paper--15 pages! Can you believe it?--so I'd come to the library in search of materials with which to support and develop my thesis that a special kind of joy, which I've dubbed "Boy Joy," derives from man-to-man intimacy. I decided on this topic for two reasons. First, I believe it. Second, it earned Mrs. Matthews' silent, but unmistakable, disapproval--not from an academic, but from a personal, point of view. She allowed me to "explore" my ideas, as she put it, but her face and demeanor informed me that, personally, she did not approve of such a topic. Perhaps she thinks man-to-man sex is immoral instead of just deliciously decadent.



In any event, instead of watching a video at home, I'd driven to the nearest branch of the county library system, which is about 10 minutes from my apartment, and it was here that I first laid my astonished eyes on The World's Handsomest Man, as I nicknamed Mark Lane.



Too shy to approach this fabulous hunk directly, I found a table that offered me a good view of him, but also allowed me to hide behind a conveniently placed column. I could see him, but he couldn't see me (or so I thought) unless I moved out from behind the pilaster. I had brought quite a stack of books to the table with me, to peruse. Their titles suggested my research topic: The Superiority of Male Love, Same-Sex Bliss, and The Joy of Gay Sex. As I took notes, wrote summaries, copied direct quotations, and paraphrased key passages that I thought would lend credibility and authority to my thesis, I sneaked a peek across the room at Mark, who was working behind the circulation desk, gathering book returns and placing them on a wheeled cart comprised of several shelves. What I was learning was interesting, but I couldn't keep my eyes off Mark. Stealing glimpses of him as I worked, I was having trouble focusing on my research. I watched his muscles ripple and flex under his shirt, and I imagined myself kneeling before him, my forehead resting against the firmness of his belly, his cock in my mouth. He'd look my way, though, and these images would flee my thoughts as quickly as they'd come, as I'd return my attention quickly to the book open on my table. Although I didn't believe that he could see me, the pillar between us, as it was, cutting off his view, I wasn't 100 percent positive. After all, I could see him well enough, if I just peered around the side of the column. Maybe he could see me, watching him. When he gazed in my direction, it seemed to me that he saw me; indeed, it seemed that his eyes were on mine, although this perception could have been caused by nothing more than my anxiety at the chance that he might spy me spying on him.



For the next fifteen minutes, I managed to resist the numerous temptations to cast another look Mark's way. As a result, I made some progress in my research, learning about Zeus' love for a young boy, Ganymede, whose name means "rejoicing in virility," whom he carried off to Mt. Olympus to serve as the gods' cupbearer and, according to most authorities on the incident, Zeus' lover. Although, according to one source, this myth was sometimes understood as an allegory of the soul's ascent to paradise, it is more commonly regarded as a justification for pederasty, or the homosexual love of an older suitor for a younger lover, which also flourishes as a theme in the art of Michelangelo, Correggio, Parmigianino, and Guilio Romano. Despite the disapproval of the medieval Catholic Church of nudity in art, the Ganymede theme continued to be represented, occasionally, in such works as Annibale Carracci's Rape of Ganymede, Pietro de Cortona's Planetary Rooms, and Inigo Jones' Coelum Brittanicum, and other artists also created works of the same title as Carraaci, including Rembrandt and Peter-Paul Rubens. "Zeus' abduction of the Greek youth got a lot of press, so to speak," I scribbled in my notes.



Plato, I discovered, had an interesting theory as to the origin of homosexual love, too. In The Symposium, he contends, through Aristophanes, that, in creating the sexes, the gods first created three human beings. One was male, the second was female, and the third was an androgynous mixture of both. The gods then split these three humans into two halves. The resulting individuals, some of whom are male, others of whom are female, and still others of whom are androgynous, seek to find their missing halves, or soul mates. Some men hook up with women, some women with men, and some androgynous males with androgynous females. Of course, some men also find other men with whom to share their lives, some women find other women with whom to settle down, and some androgynous males live with other androgynous males while their female counterparts unite with other androgynous females. All that matters from Plato's point of view is that one finds his or her soul mate, the sex and gender of whom is irrelevant.



I also found, in one of my books, a reproduction of an Édouard-Henri Avril painting depicting anal intercourse between the Roman emperor Hadrian and his male lover, Antinous. They are in Egypt, as a view of the pyramids outside their window and the presence of a female servant, arrayed only on an Egyptian headdress, ornate collar, and armbands, indicate. She fans the two lovers, her features composed and serene, as if she has witnessed same-sex sex among men (and, perhaps, these two men in particular) many times. Antinous kneels on a divan, atop a tucked-in sheet, supporting himself on his right elbow. His left arm, bent at the elbow, is partially raised. Beside him, the emperor's cloak lies, where Hadrian has cast it after undressing. The emperor, kneeling behind his lover, rests his left hand upon Antinous' shoulder, his erection between the youth's buttocks. "A timeless moment," I observe in my notes. Maybe I would include a copy of the reproduction in an appendix to my paper, I thought. That would really meet with Mrs. Matthews' disapproval!



Finally, I could no longer suppress the desire to gaze upon The World's Handsomest Man, but, when I stole a glance in his direction, he wasn't behind the circulation desk anymore! My heart sank. Surely, he hadn't gone home? I consulted my watch. It was 6:30 PM. That would be an odd, but not impossible, time for one's shift to end, I thought. Remembering the cart upon which he'd been stacking books, I sighed, relieved by the thought that, most likely, he was simply returning books that the library's patrons had brought back to their places on the shelves. I returned to my studies, but I couldn't concentrate, even on the superb, full-color illustrations of various male-male sexual acts depicted in Charles Silverstein's and Felice Picano's encyclopedic tome, The Joy of Gay Sex. I tried Walt Whitman's poems about man-to-man love:



The Stranger



Passing stranger! You do not know how longingly I look upon you, 



You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream), 



I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you, 



All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured, 



You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me,



I ate with you, and slept with you&#x2014;your body has become not yours only, nor left my body mine only,



You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass&#x2014;you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return



I am not to speak to you&#x2014;I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone, 



I am to wait&#x2014;I do not doubt I am to meet you again, 



I am to see to it that I do not lose you.



Sighing, I closed my books. It was no use. I couldn't focus, couldn't read, couldn't think.



Standing, I stretched, using this ploy as an excuse to look to my left and to my right, to turn and look behind me. The World's Handsomest Man is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he's gone to the men's room, I thought.



If so, I'm not following him there, I told myself.



Of course, I did.



Unfortunately, he wasn't at one of the sinks or urinals, and the doors of both toilet stalls were open, indicating their occupant-free status.



I left the restroom and walked briskly to the elevator and punched the "Up" button. After a few moments' wait that seemed forever, the doors finally slid open, I stepped into the empty car, and pushed the button for the second floor.



Downstairs, on the library's main floor, were the circulation desk, where Mark had been working before his sudden disappearance--I knew I shouldn't have taken my eyes off him, I thought--the reference librarian's desk; the reference section, crammed with general and specialized encyclopedias, dictionaries, atlases, manuals, and other resources; offices for key personnel; restrooms; study carrels and tables; and periodicals, especially newspapers and popular magazines (except Playboy, Playgirl, or any gay magazine).



The second floor contained the collections of books concerning computer science, philosophy, psychology, religion, social sciences, language, science, technology, art and recreation, literature, and history and geography.



The third floor housed special collections, rare books, and more offices. Since it seemed that, since The World's Handsomest Man was setting books on a return cart, to return them to the shelves, he was most likely on this, rather than the third, floor. The problem was that the library was huge, running the distance of almost four blocks long by three blocks deep. Mark could be anywhere within this distance, among the stacks or elsewhere. It wasn't quite the same thing as trying to find a needle in a haystack, but it would be similar. Still, his surpassing good looks were inspirational, and I had no doubt but that I'd manage to find him.



The library was as dimly lit as it was warm. According to the county supervisors, the county was experiencing yet another "budgetary crisis." To keep costs down, every other fluorescent light bulb had been removed from the building's hundreds of fixtures, new library acquisitions had been suspended indefinitely, and the air conditioner had been set to maintain a toasty temperature of 70 degrees throughout the summer, no matter how hot the days became. As cost-cutting measures, these actions seemed dubious, but, according to the local newspaper's editorials, they weren't really designed to curtail expenses. They were meant to pressure taxpayers into agreeing to a new tax or a higher tax to finance services that, in the past. had been provided for decades without revenue increases but were suddenly somehow unaffordable. So far, the public had resisted these attempts to coerce more money from its billfolds and purses; hence, the library's dim warmth.



Shadows filled the warehouse-size room. The stacks were high and long, with only about four feet between each collection of book-lined shelves. In addition, along the walls, there were many nooks and crannies, some occupied with locked glass showcases in which ancient and more recent displays kept out from underfoot, attracting little attention, or with doors to offices or restrooms. About half way down the west wall, the stairs leading to the first and third floors opened. All in all, the place was, because of its size, its clutter, the dim light, its almost total silence, its shifting shadows, and its apparent isolation, a little unsettling, even a bit eerie. Among books by such masters as Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edgar Allan Poe, H. P. Lovecraft, and Stephen King, it wouldn't be hard to let one's imagination run away with him.



I jumped as I heard what sounded like a gunshot. I thought about running, but, by the time I reached either the elevator or the stairs, the gunman could easily shoot me. Besides, if The Handsomest Man in the World was up here, as I suspected, he might need my help. I couldn't just turn tail and leave him to a crazy killer's mercy. Instead, I should creep forward, slowly and silently, moving forward, in the direction of the gunshot, and pausing periodically to peer through spaces between books to see what I could see. I shivered at the thought that I might thus come face to face and eye to eye with the gunman.



A more horrible idea occurred to me. What if The Handsomest Man in the World had been shot? He might be wounded, bleeding to death, as I creep forward at a snail's pace. Pausing to select the largest book both in area and in thickness, that I could readily locate, thinking it might be useful as a club, if not a shield, I hastened forward, darting glances down each successive aisle as I hurried past the seemingly endless stacks of books.



You can imagine my relief--and my chagrin--at discovering that the "gunshot" was actually nothing more than a book, as large as the one I carried, which a heavyset young woman with red hair and enormous tits had dropped. The sound of it's landing flat on its back upon the tiled floor of the aisle in which she stood, about to pick up the heavy tome, had been the "gunshot" I'd heard--or thought I'd heard. She was facing in my direction, and she looked mortified. "I'm sorry," she muttered, recovering the book and clutching it to her bosom in one quick motion. She quickly turned the cover toward her chest, but not before I'd read its title and discovered the source of her embarrassment. She was not mortified by having dropped the book, as I'd supposed, but by the chance that I might have seen her choice for reading. The title of her book was Lesbian Love: A Passionate Primer. She waddled past me, striding as quickly as she could on her stout legs. You go, girl! I thought, pleased to have found a female counterpart to my own interest in same-sex lovers.



I relaxed, not realizing how tense I'd been just moments ago, when I'd thought there might be a gunman in the library, ready to kill me as, perhaps, he'd already killed the youth of whom I thought as The Handsomest Man in the World, but whose actual name, I would learn, was Mark.



I continued my search, peering down each aisle I passed. Suddenly, as I neared an alcove along the west wall, I saw a figure dash from one of the stacks, fleeing for the stairs directly ahead of him, a wild look--an expression of fear and horror--on his handsome face, and, with a shock, I realized that it was the young man I was seeking, the librarian (as I thought of him then, although, as I have indicated, he was really but a librarian's assistant). In seeing me, it looked as if he'd seen a ghost--or a monster.



But why?



I'm not the world's handsomest man (that's Mark!), but I'm not hideously unattractive, either. If I had to assign a letter grade to my looks, I'd give myself a solid "B." (Mark, on the other hand, is definitely a "A" plus.) The mere sight of me has never made another guy run for his life or look at me as if he'd seen a demon out of hell.



Then, I realized he'd been frightened of me for the same reason I'd been afraid of the fat redheaded lesbian. The book she'd dropped had sounded like a gunshot. I'd discovered the true cause of the sound, but Mark hadn't. As far as he could know, I could have been the gunman he no doubt had imagined, just as I had.



Laughing at the thought that he had mistaken me for a non-existent gunman, I clambered down the stairs, back to the library's first floor.



On the way downstairs, however, I realized that the misunderstanding might not be as amusing as I'd initially thought. There was no reason that he shouldn't continue to suppose that I was a gunman. He'd fled so quickly that he might not have noticed that I wasn't packing heat. He might think I'm still armed and that, for some reason, I want him dead.



He wasn't at the circulation desk. He wasn't in the stacks or one of the offices. He wasn't in the men's room. He was, I found, nowhere to be seen.



Although, normally, I am hesitant to approach others, I had to know what had become of The handsomest Man in the World. Had he, terrified, simply fled the library, leaving his job behind? If so, he'd probably be fired. Had I scared him to that extent? If so, he might go to the police and, although, ultimately, I would be cleared (I hoped!), meanwhile I'd have to answer some mighty embarrassing questions. Why had I been staring at the young man? Why had I followed him upstairs? What had made the loud noise that had sounded like the report of a gun? The police might even get a court order to view the records of my library checkouts. If they saw such volumes as The Superiority of Male Love, Same-Sex Bliss, and The Joy of Gay Sex among the book titles I'd checked out, they might think I'd been stalking the youth who'd run in terror from me just minutes ago. I had to know what had become of the librarian's assistant and under what pretext, if any, he'd left work.



Gathering my nerve, I approached the librarian stationed behind the circulation desk. In doing so, I imagined her, on the witness stand at my trial, telling the prosecutor, as she pointed me out in the courtroom as the defendant, "That's the young man who approached me, asking about Mark's whereabouts." I almost decided not to go through with it, but I had to ask; I had to know.



At the desk, I cleared my throat.



The librarian, a middle-age woman, slightly overweight, in a simple dress that was uglier than it was non-descript, looked up at me, staring over her granny glasses. "Yes?" she said curtly.



"The young man who works here, the librarian--" I began.



She frowned. "Who?"



Maybe a description would help. "The Handsomest man in the World," I almost said. Instead, I described him as "tall, with dark eyes and hair, wearing a blue sports shirt and black slacks." He also has broad shoulders, perfect abs, a muscular build, a tight, compact ass, and, I'd bet, a gorgeous cock and balls, I added to myself.



"Oh, you mean Mark Lane," she said, a slight smile cracking her granite countenance. "He's a librarian's assistant."



Apparently, The handsomest Man in the World was liked and admired even by a Gorgon like her. So that was his name, I thought. Mark. Mark Lane.



Then, Madam Medusa looked suspicious. "Why are you asking about Mark?"



"He's a friend," I lied. "He asked me to meet him here; we were going to have dinner together."



Her eyes narrowed still more as she regarded me as if I were a cockroach. "He went home early," she said.



"Oh."



"He said he wasn't feeling well."



"Thanks," I said, relieved that he'd at least made an excuse for his abrupt departure. That meant that, probably, he'd be back. He hadn't quit or put himself in danger of being fired. He'd be back to work. Most likely, he wasn't going to go to the police about me, either. I breathed a sigh of relief.

<hr pg="2" />I went back to the table where I'd left my books. There, between the pages of Same-Sex Bliss was a hastily-scrawled note: "Leave me alone, please!"



The note meant that he'd seen me watching him, after all. After seeing the books I'd checked out, he must have believed I'm gay, which, of course, I am, and he must have felt I was stalking him. "Leave me alone, please!" he'd begged.



"Okay, Mark," I assured him. "I'll leave you alone."



Of course, I wouldn't.



I couldn't.







The employees, full-time, part-time, permanent, and temporary, parked in an area of the library's parking lot that was reserved for them. Were the library a private, rather than a public, enterprise, these parking spaces would have been the most distant from the building. However, government bureaucrats make life as easy as possible for themselves. Consequently, the spaces for the library's employees were the closest ones to the building. Once I'd located them, I staked out the vast parking lot, arriving early to select a spot close to the employees' spaces. I wasn't even sure whether Mark worked this evening. He was only a part-time employee, and, as such, his schedule was subject indefinite and changeable. He might not work at all for several days and then be scheduled for three days in a row. However, I assumed that he might be working today, as it was Saturday, one of the library's busier days, and a day that extra help could be useful to regular, full-time workers.



Sometimes, logic is a beautiful thing. Just as I'd anticipated, through the exercise of reason, Mark showed up at 8:00 PM. I didn't know what kind of vehicle he drove, but, of course, I knew very well what The Handsomest Man in the World looked like. When I saw him, my heart leaped with joy--or with that particular variety of extreme pleasure that I call "boy joy" and define as being the delight that derives from man-to-man intimacy, despite the fact that, to date, nothing intimate had happened between Mark and me and, after the way I'd scared him half to death, nothing intimate might ever happen between us. Still, I had to try.



Some people, straights mostly, doubt the reality of the existence of gaydar. A combination of the words "gay" and "radar," gaydar refers to a gay guy's ability to recognize a fellow homosexual through observation or intuition. As a gay man, let me assure any straights who may be reading my story that gaydar definitely exists. In fact, according to The Superiority of Male Love, one of the books I just checked out from the library, Monell Chemical Senses Center in Philadelphia (The City of Brotherly Love) determined that "gay me were found to be particularly good at detecting the scent of other gay men." Likewise, a Harvard graduate student confirmed that, shown silent videos of the faces of various men, gay men are much more adept at identifying sexual orientation than their straight counterparts, the same conclusion that Dr. Nalini Ambady, conducting the same experiment, had reached before him. Likewise, Rudolph Gaudio showed that some gay men's sexual orientation can be identified by their characteristic gay lisp. Well, Mark doesn't have a lisp, as far as I know, but he's gay, all right. My gaydar's never been wrong before, and, according to it, The Handsomest man in the World is also gay. No question about it.



As Mark parked his car, a Corvette, had I needed further confirmation of his sexual preference (which I hadn't), I saw that there was a sticker on his bumper that identified him as being of homosexual orientation. Similar to the American flag, but with the Greek letter lambda replacing the American flag's traditional stars and the rainbow striped substituting for its red and white stripes. It was a bright, even garish, eye-catching symbol, flamboyant enough to suggest that Mark was not only out about his being gay but also proud of his homosexuality. If I could just get him to get over his fear of me, there was hope that I might be able to win him over. There was a chance that, through one another, we could both experience boy joy.



A few minutes after Mark had entered the library, I exited my Ford Mustang, scurried across the parking lot, and followed him into the building, using the same door through which he had gained ingress.



He wasn't at the circulation desk.



I was about to take the stairs to the second floor, to see whether he was in the stacks--maybe he'd already taken a cart of books upstairs in the service elevator and was busily re-shelving them--when I glimpsed him coming out of the first-floor men's restroom. He saw me, a moment later, and his features registered the same look of fear mingled with horror. He was about to flee again, when I called out to him.



"Mark, please, don't run. I mean you no harm."



The corridor that led to the restrooms was out of the way, and, at the moment, except for Mark and me, deserted. Nevertheless, it afforded him a large degree of protection, as it was a public space, not far from help if he needed it, which he wouldn't--at least, not against me--and from witnesses if I started anything, which I wouldn't do. It was a perfect place to talk, if he would talk to me, that is.



He paused, but the tense posture he maintained told me that he was on the verge of taking flight and that he would, without further hesitation, if he didn't like what I said next. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Why are you harassing me?"



"I'm Scott Roberts," I told him. "I'm not harassing you." The fact that I'd mentioned my name earned me a small degree of his trust, although he must know that anyone could make up a name, calling himself whatever he pleased.



"I saw you looking at me," he charged. "You followed me upstairs. You're here again, today. Why are you stalking me? What do you want from me? Wasn't what you did to my car enough?"



"I didn't do anything to your car," I protested. "I didn't even know what kind of car you drive until this morning."



"You're telling me you didn't take all the valve stems out of my tires last week, leaving me with four flat tires and no way to inflate them? You didn't write 'Die, Faggot!' on my windshield?"



I frowned. "Why would I do that?"



"Because," he said, a look of contempt on his handsome face, "you're a homophobic latent homosexual?" he asked, sarcasm all but dripping from his words.



I laughed.



He narrowed his eyes. "What's so funny?" he demanded.



"I'm not out of the closet, exactly, but my homosexuality's far from latent."



He looked shocked. "You?" he said, his tone incredulous. "You're gay?"



I nodded, smiling. "And so are you, if my gaydar's working."



He relaxed. He even smiled. His face, handsome even when he frowned with anger was frightened, looked absolutely gorgeous, in a 100 percent manly way, when he smiled at deep dimples appeared in his cheeks. "It's working, all right," he admitted, "but, apparently, mine's on the out of service. I thought you were the queer-bashing homophobe who vandalized my Corvette last weekend. I thought you might want to vandalize me this time."



"That might be fun," I teased, "but not in the way you mean."



I told him about my research paper and about my belief in boy joy, the peculiar, intense passion that derives from man-to-man intimacy.



"I think you're on to something," he said. He gave me a slow, measured look as his eyes traveled up and down my body. His smile became a grin as he added, "You look as though you could be a source of boy joy yourself."



"You read my mind," I replied. "I've been thinking the same thing about you since I first laid eyes on you."



Mark was no longer terrified of me. His flirtatious attitude and teasing manner made it clear that he was attracted to me, as I was to him.



"Maybe, after I get off work, we could research your thesis together."



"That would be fantastic."



"I get off at 10:00," he told me. "Where can I meet you?"



"How about my place?"



"That sounds perfect."



I gave him my address. "Sorry I scared you," I said.



"Sorry I thought you were some psychotic homophobe," he returned.



"I'm glad we got everything straightened out."



He gave me an arch look. "We'd better not have," he said. "I like being gay."



I smiled at him. "My place is about 10 minutes from here."



"See you at 10:10, then."



I had no idea whether he'd show up, and I half-expected that he wouldn't do so.







At 10:10, on the dot, my doorbell rang. I answered it, and, on my doorstep stood Mark Lane, The Handsomest Man in the World, grinning at me across the threshold.



"Come in," I invited him, returning his grin.



He stepped through the doorway and into my arms. We held one another, his arms around my waist, mine around his upper back, and kissed. The press of his lips against mine made my cock twitch and stir, and I hoped the feel of mine against his had had the same effect upon him. Our lips parted, and our tongues slipped inside each other's mouths, swirling about one another. His mouth was as warm and wet as a well-lubricated vagina, just as, I knew, mine was.



When we parted, I told him, "I wanted you from the moment I saw you."



He smiled, remembering the initial horror and fear he'd felt as he'd thought I was some sort of psychotic homophobe out to get him. "I wish I could say the same." I felt disappointed, and I guess the emotion must have shown on my face, because Mark added, "I sure feel the same way myself now, too, though."



"You want to watch a video?" I asked him. "I have all kinds, even straight."



"I want to watch you," he replied. "I want to see you squirm as I suck your cock. Then, I want you to fuck my ass."



I blinked. He certainly knew what he wanted. "That would be great."



Without any further preliminaries, we undressed, watching one another as we stripped of our shirts, slacks, sox, and underpants. I noticed that Mark wore black velvet thongs, inside the front of which was a burgeoning erection to match my own. As he removed each article of clothing, I watched what its removal revealed. Even beneath his clothes, it was obvious, now, as it had been when I'd first seen him in the library, that he was a hunk. Sometimes, however, the revelation of a man's physical charms is anticlimactic, occasionally even disappointing. Clothing, after all, can conceal as well as reveal, and guys who rivaled Adonis with their clothes on sometimes looked more like the famous 98-pound weakling in the ancient Charles Atlas ads or like John Goodman from the old Roseanne sitcom. Mark, however, did not disappoint. He was every bit--every inch, perhaps I should say--as handsome undressed as he had been dressed.



Mark had broad shoulders, a deep chest, washboard abs, a narrow waist, powerful thighs, calves that looked as if they'd been turned on a lathe, a strong back, and a pair of compact buttocks that looked as if they'd been designed for no other purpose than to be fucked hard and long. Just looking at his gorgeous, tanned body made my mushrooming cock swell and stiffen to its absolutely fullest dimensions. "You are The Handsomest man in the World," I told him.



He chuckled. "You're not so bad yourself."



I would have been content just to drink in his beauty, but Mark wanted to suck my cock; then, he'd made his desires clear, he wanted me to fuck him in the ass. Of course, I was more than willing. Any gay man would be honored to have such a stud suck his dick, just as he would feel privileged to fuck his butt. Hell, I thought, with a guy as fantastically good looking as Mark, even a straight guy might be tempted to cross the line, just this once.



"Do you want to go into the bedroom?" I asked.



"Maybe eventually," he said. He took my hand in his. His palm was warm, and his grip was firm. His touch sent an electric thrill along my nerves, and my balls seemed to leap inside my tightened scrotum. He led me to my couch, a large, white sectional. "Sit," he directed me, and I sat.



Mark knelt before me on the carpet.



I parted my thighs, wide.



Mark bent low at his waist, and I watched him as he licked and kissed the mushroom-head of my glans. Turning his head to the side, he opened his mouth, sliding his parted lips down the stiff-standing column of my swollen cock. When he reached my balls, he paused, licking the velvet-soft flesh of my scrotum before taking first one, and then the other, of my testicles into his mouth. I nearly came at the thought of the intimacy of this action and the total acceptance of me--or of my body--and of his willingness to surrender himself to me, sexually at least. Instead of climaxing, I moaned.



Mark trailed his tongue and open mouth back up my penis, to the tip. His open mouth plunged down the shaft of my cock, and I felt his soft, full lips, a warm, fleshly "O," slide down the sleek, rigid column of flesh. I moaned again; the sensations. Like the intimacy of the act, were wonderful.



I watched his head bob up and down, in a slow, steady rhythm, his rounded lips riding my prick. It was thrilling to see my manhood appear and disappear between his pumping lips. The interior of his mouth was warm, wet, and soft as any woman's cunt. When he looked up at me, with his sky-blue eyes, my cock in his mouth, I had to close my eyes: the sight of him this way would make me lose control, and it was too soon to climax, too early to cum.



I didn't keep them closed for long, though; it's too pleasant to watch a man, especially as handsome as Mark, with a cock-stuffed face sucking one's prick. Any man who's ever been sucked by another guy has watched him providing this exquisite service, believe me; I was no different.



He nodded, dipped, and bobbed, his head moving up and down, in the same maddeningly insistent, steady-as-she-goes way that was playing havoc with my sensibilities no less than with my nerves and muscles. Suck it! I wanted to say. Suck it! But, of course, there was no use in making such a comment, for he was already doing just this, and in a most satisfactory manner. Such a request, such a command, would have been only rhetorical, a way of expressing my pleasure, a word of encouragement and a plea that he continue. It was likely, I thought, that Mark, as a gay man himself, already fully understood that I was enjoying his attentions, that I was pleased by them, and that I most ardently wanted him to continue to provide them.



My hips rolled, slightly, involuntarily, and my cock twitched. These were the first in what was a well-known series of the telltale signs of imminent orgasm, I knew. Mark was binging me closer and closer to the climactic moment, when my building excitement would explode, ending in an eruption of semen and sperm. As if he were aware that I was almost there, Mark changed the tempo of his downward thrusts and upward glides. His open mouth, but closed lips, plunged down the length of my cock, to my balls, and jerked upward, sliding quickly back along the throbbing, erect shaft to plunge to its base again, repeating these motions with greater and greater rapidity, his saliva thick. His drool ran down the column of my cock, anointing my pubes and balls.



A shudder ran through my entire frame, and my asshole contracted violently, my thighs scissoring. My penis convulsed, and my testicles seemed ready to explode.



Abruptly, knowing he'd brought me to the very bring of ecstasy, Mark stopped, holding my captive penis hostage within the warm-wet-moisture of his mouth-cunt until the paroxysm that had seized and shaken me, cock and frame, subsided and my prick began to shrink and soften within his oral embrace.



I groaned. "My God," I rasped.



Mark looked up at me, from between my legs, still on his knees, with my dick between his lips. He smiled around my limp member. Then, withdrawing from the flaccid penis that had, only moments ago, threatened to spurt semen everywhere, he kissed my genitals, as tenderly and as gently as any woman ever kissed a man in this manner, and rose.



"My God," I repeated, smiling weakly.



He grinned at me as, taking my hand again in his, he helped me to my feet. "Now, the bedroom," he announced. "It's my turn."



There's a movement, of sorts, among some gay men to replace anal intercourse with frottage. Although the latter is extremely exciting, I doubt that it will ever replace butt fucking. Two cocks held together in the same man's hand, as he squeezes or masturbates both simultaneously is an incredibly erotic sight, and the sensations are wonderful as well--the feel of velvety skin, of swollen hardness, of sleek flesh next to one's own velvety, smooth cock is stimulating in the extreme, even before orgasm. Afterward, with one or both men's semen a lotion anointing one another's cocks, the sensations are all the more devastatingly passionate, intimate, and intense; these semen-wet pricks are also aesthetically pleasing to behold. On the purely practical side, the semen makes further cock play easier and even more fun, if slippery and messy. There's a lot to be said for dry-fucking another guy, too. Nevertheless, I maintain that frottage will never replace actual anal intercourse. There's nothing like it, not even fellatio, in my opinion, from an aesthetic, a psychological, a physical, a sexual, or any other perspective. It's way better than penile-vaginal sex, too, let me tell you--especially when the ass one is about to fuck is as splendid as Mark's butt.



There are many positions for anal intercourse, of course. My two personal favorites are the doggy style position and the missionary position. In the former, the fucker gets to see the fucked man's cock and balls, displayed against his pubes and belly, as he lunges against his impaled ass. Watching a man's erect penis and balls jiggle, sway, and bounce from the thrusts of one's cock up his ass is superbly erotic, as is the fact that his genitals, his manhood, is being ignored, neglected, disregarded, as if his cock and balls--the organs of generation, of reproduction, of fatherhood--are of no more account than mere ornaments; they beautify, but, beyond this purpose, serve no significant end. They are superfluous; therefore, they are exciting. Idle and unused, especially for the purpose for which they evolved or, if you prefer, were created (I've always been open-minded as to the existence of God), a man's cock and balls are testaments to the fact that he has allowed himself to be used as the living receptacle, or depository, of another man's cock, that he has, so to speak, unmanned himself by adopting a woman's role (to the extent that he can do such a thing), to the fact that he cares enough about his partner's needs and desires, to put aside his own masculinity, for the moment at least, and surrender his asshole and his bowels to another man's use. Of course, cramming and ramming one's thick, hard cock through another guy's tight anus and into his rectum is exciting as hell, too, and highly recommended.



The other position, known as "doggy style," is, for me, even more erotic. Therefore, I counted myself fortunate, indeed, when Mark positioned himself upon his elbows and knees, legs parted wide, his back arched, and his ass high in the air, signaling his desire to be taken from behind. His upper body twisted to bear most of its weight on his rolled right shoulder, he looked back, over the curve of his left hip, and smiled at me as I climbed into bed and assumed my position, kneeling behind him on the gently shifting mattress. "Don't be cruel," Mark said. "Fuck me."



"I plan to do just that," I reassured him with a smile and a slap to the right buttock as I "walked" forward another couple of feet on my knees.



Taking my long, jutting cock in my hand, I guided it between the satin-soft mounds of Mark's glorious backside. My cock met the stout resistance of his anal sphincter. Gripping my member more firmly, I pointed it directly into its target, the puckered asshole that seemed way too small to accommodate an organ as massive as mine. Driving my hips forward, in a slow, steady motion, and holding the tip of my prick firmly against Mark's anus, I fed inch after inch of my prick through his asshole until, at length, I had buried the full length of my cock inside his rectum, my groin pressing firmly against his flattened buttocks. I remained still, delighting in the feel of the firm ring of muscle that circled the base of my cock and the feel of my pubes mashing Mark's butt cheeks.

<hr pg="3" />Abruptly, as if it had just realized that it had been invaded, Mark's asshole began to flutter frantically, as if in a desperate, but vain, effort to dislodge my trespassing member. The quivering, trembling, flickering squeezing motions were heavenly. My own asshole began to quiver and spasm in rhythm with his, as if in sympathetic synchronization. The skin of my already-stiff cock tightened more as my organ swelled another few millimeters, more blood answering my groin's call, as it were, to arms. The invading member, it seemed, was marshalling its forces in preparation for the occupation which my cock had begun.



After a few moments, the protesting, outraged sphincter relaxed, admitting defeat, as it opened to admit me, and I withdrew the length of my rigid prick until only its purple glans remained within the portal to Mark's bowels, propping open his anus, and, after a moment's pause, I rammed my erection forward, through Mark's relaxed asshole, as far into his rectum as, with my cock, I could reach. Mark's butt cheeks flattened before my advance, jiggling cushions for my thrusting pubes. A moan escaped his lips.





My prick felt like a living spear, connected, as it were, only by accident to my groin. It was a thing unto itself, a weapon that must jab and stab, lunge and plunge, cram and jam. I was more than content to let it have its way with Mark.



I looked down, watching the action almost as if I were a third party rather than a participant, although it was impossible to ignore or deny the sensations in which my cock's fucking of Mark's ass resulted: the sliding of my smooth column of flesh past the sleek, inward-curving slopes of his butt cheeks; the smooth grip of his snug, round asshole sliding, as it seemed, the length of my plummeting cock; the meeting of my groin and the lower halves of his derriere; the squashing of his sleek, crushed buttocks before my thrusting groin; the flexing of muscles in belly, thighs, back, and ass as I rammed my dick home again and again, with ever greater force and fury; and the sound, like music, of his muted moans and groans. If only I could remain inside him forever, I mused, eternally on the edge of climax but never cumming. Now, that would be heaven on Earth!



My cock vanished between his buttocks as, again, it penetrated his rectum, entering his bowels. It was wonderfully exciting to watch my manhood skewer Mark. It was delightful to see my penis, thick and hard, part his buttocks repeatedly as it rammed and retreated to ram again, each stroke proclaiming its conquest of the territory it had invaded. It was exhilarating to watch my prick slide and glide through the snug circle of his impaled anus. It was marvelous each time my cock slid home, piercing and penetrating him anew. My hips bucked as I drove my dick harder and harder, faster and faster, with greater force and strength into Mark's bottom. Making his ass cheeks bounce and rebound with greater and greater speed and ever-increasing vigor until I was ravishing him.



"Uh!" Mark moaned. "UhUhUhUh!" as, mercilessly, I raped his ass. "Fuck me!"



I slammed into his ass a final time. Orgasm seized me, overwhelmed me, and I buried my cock completely inside Mark's ass. My thighs flexed, my ass cheeks contracted, my belly heaved, and my balls launched their store of semen through my cock, deep into my lover's innermost depths with the force and speed of a half dozen missiles rocketing their way to annihilation. I shuddered, gasped, and held onto Mark's hips for dear life, my clutching fingers making deep, white indentations in his golden flesh as jet after jet of my thick fecundating fluid spurted and gushed into the sterile depths of his rectum.



Finally, spent and exhausted, I pulled free, my wilting cock sending a last streamer of white semen across Mark's back and streaking the cleavage of his ass with the warm, sticky remnants of my molten seed. As my prick continued to shrivel and soften, I watched my cum slowly trickle down the deep, spread cleavage of Mark's ass. Some of the semen oozed and seeped from his wide, gaping asshole to dribble down his perineum and over the sac of his balls. It was a glorious sight that will remain with me forever, a testament of his sacrifice and surrender and of my conquest and dominance of him, sexually and personally. My white, hot cum was like a brand upon his ass, claiming him as my own, now and forevermore.



I'd left the books I'd checked out from the library in my car, but I remembered their titles well enough--The Superiority of Male Love, Same-Sex Bliss, and The Joy of Gay Sex--for they, like my ravishment of Mark, agreed with my own deepest conviction that man-to-man sex was the best kind of sex and that, between soul mates, like Mark and me, it could be a source not merely of dominance and submission, of give and take, of lust and love, but also, of the much deeper, eternally enduring boy joy that derives from man-to-man intimacy. As the poet Keats never said, but should have, A beautiful boy is a joy forever.



In Mark, I'd found my everlasting bliss. At last, in him, I'd found the lasting happiness of true Boy Joy.



My guess is that my research paper will earn an "A."

