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Straight?

Posted by: SoloTouchArchive Author: admin Posted on: 07 Sep 1998 1 comments
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by Ritzit@aol.com Editor's Note: I struggled with whether to post this or not. It contains a lot of commentary and judgement, which I seriously OPPOSE. The purpose of this site is to provide a forum for men and women to share their love of masturbation WITHOUT judgment. So, if you have a comment for the author, then send it to him. But, in the future let's just stick to the hard, dripping facts and post the commentary on a newsgroup. Brian. Msturbation is one of nature's greatest gifts. The pleasure of self-stroking can't be compared to anything else. Even men and women who are married or in loving, monogamous relatiionships find that a long, slow session with a hand and sometimes an object is the most satisfying sex they have; it demands no performance skill and doesn't detract from the fulfillment of sex with a partner. Watching someone masturbate is also a pleasure. When a man reaches orgasm and loses track of reality for a brief time and shoots/oozes/gushes semen, the sight has no parellel. My favorite stories on this site, however, are those that contain the phrase, "I'm not gay, but...." Everyone masturbates from time to time and lots of ostensibly hetero men feel they must offer a disclaimer before they discuss their own enjoyment at self-stimulation, especially if it occurs in the presence of or with the help of another man. Heaven forfend that anyone think they're gay, right? The line we draw between gay and straight sometimes becomes blurry. The account I am about to lay on you is true in every detail. You be the judge as to the orientation of the other man involved. The author, gentle reader, is a shameless, practicing homo and got past the blurry line long ago. I anjoy anonymous sex with men. In enjoy that experience more when it is practically under the nose of as many unsuspecting folks as possible--preferably rednecks and religious types. Some years ago I had begun to frequent a local magazine shop, shamelessly cruising for the aforementioned encounters. Ordinarily that meant meeting in the shop and going elsewhere for the activity. Magazine shops here in Salt Lake City are general magazine shops with crowds of people looking for magazines that deal with any number of subjects; there is just one small enclosed section where the nudy mags can be found. One Sunday afternoon I was inside the enclosure, browsing through the newest selection of nekkid men, when I noticed a very good looking man on thte other side of the five foot high divider. He attracted my attention,f not only because he was beautiful, but because his locked on mine as soon as I looked at him. I didn't react right aw;ay because he was not inside the enclosure. He took a few steps toward the rear of the shop. I watched. He moved farther back again. I walked out of the enclosure. He deliberately but slowly began to walk to the rear of the shop, a distance ot at least 100 feet. I chose a different aisle among the displays of magazines and books, and followed. We made no further eye contact. He had followed a central aisle and I walked along a side aisle, looking at the displays along the wall. When I reached the end of the aisle I turned to fact his direction. He had circled past the display racks, creting a barrier between us, but looking down; his arm was moving slowly back and forth. I walked toward him and our eyes locked again. I began to look interest in magazines in the central display and me moved slowly around the end of the rack. He is disck was in his hand--beautiful, smooth, cut, fully errect, oozing a drop of precum. He was stroking with the light touch we all know so well, almost not touvhing the sensitive skin of his penis, just delivering a feathery caress to the bulb at the end. He looked hypnotized. I need to ttell you that the man was GQ gorgeous. Sand-colored hair. Electric blue eyes with arched brows. A model cheek bones. He was male handsome and female pretty. His features were fine and androgynous. The feature that kept him fully in the all-man camp was a; fine mutache and light shadow of weekend beard. My own cock was quivering and my heart was beating as it beat the day of my first trick. I stooped down, still feighniong interest in written material on the lower shelf of the rack, stuff I couldn't have read at the moment if my life had depended on it. He moved closer and rouched his cockhead to my lips. Remember that there were at least 30 other people wandering around the shop as this erotic dance was being kperformed. I licked his piece a couple of times and he pulled back. I reached out and wrapped myy hand aaround his rigid shaft and began stroking--harder than he had done; we couldn'tk take our time under the curcumstances. Someone came in our direction and moved on. My dance paratner moved away, ten bem back and started to masturbate himself a foot from my face, his hand a blur now. He had reached the ancient point of no return. I heard his breath catach in his throat. His eyes closed. I put my hand under his dickhole as it spilled out copious amount of semen. He opened his eyes and squeezed out the remainder of his jizz load into palm of my hand. Slowly, without a glance or a word, he closed his zipper, turned and walked away, still looking at magazines. Meanwhile I was still stooping on the floor with a handful of cum and a hardon. I stood up, glanced at my own fly and decided that my dick wasn't that noticeable and was softening with each stilling beat of my heart. I dropped my sticky, oozing hand into my pcket, hoping I had brought a handkerchief/cumrag with me. I hadn't. The pocket was empty. I could have wiped the splendid slime on the inside of the pobut I was enjoying the moment. I had just had a masturbatory interlude with an unbelievably beautiful man in the presence of a shop full of strangers. My eye moved to the blank end of the magazine racks where I had been squatting and I saw several cum stains, dry streks from previous ejaculation. I realized I had been deprived of one of Salt Lake's finest jockoff venues. My partner had come (cum?) here often before. What a rush! I continued to the front of the shop, wantaing to proceed further into the forbidden. The semen was beginning to liuefy and oozek from my fist. I had to move fast. I squatted down and picked up a tattered shelf copy of a gay sexmag, the find that never sells but is looked at by dozens of guys every day. I turned away from full view and carefull drew my hand from pocket, opening the magazine as I did. I placed my sticky hand agains one of the pages of magazine and wiped it clean. I replaced the magazine on the bottow of the display and left the shop. I wanted to say and see if anyone found the magazine. Too risky. That scene play itself out three Sundays in a row at the same hour; it almost became routine. Then one evening some frinds invited me to Greenstreet, a local trendy baar, not a gay bar. Just inside the front door; there is a big U-shapedbar where the buys who like football gather to hoot and holler and toss down their favorite libations and cheer on their favorite hulking team. Wednesday night football featured an imporant event that evening and the bar was crowded when we arrived at 8:30. I turned a corner, following my fiends and came face to face with my masturbation partner watching football with his buds. I think he had to go to the men's roomafter that to clean up the doodoo he dropped in his shorts when our eyes locked once again. I smiled and kept moving. The best part, however, came a couple of weeks later. Sunday againk, but about 9:00 A. M. I went to the supermarker as I nearly always did. I went to the produce section and began to select fresh stuff. Seconds after I arrived, my j.o. "straight" also entered that section, accompanied by his wife and their small daughter was riding in their grocery cart. He saw me. More doodoo pants, I'm sure. We made no real eye contacta--unusual for us--but gorgeous was visibly uncomortable. He couldn't regitimately suggest leaving without an explanation. I continued to shop for oranges. His wife moved in my direction until she was standing next to me, looking at the same fruit. She began to talk to me!! Nothing unusual, friendly banter: the quality of the fruit, the prices, the display. I was having FUN! We talked that was for a couple of minutes as we chosen different items. Anyone looking at us would have thought were neighbors. I glanced at hubby from time to time. He was pacing back and forth, pretending to look at produce the way he pretended to look at magazines, pushing his cart and sweating buckets. Finally, she smiled, nodded and went her way. I watched as they left. Mr. j. o. didn't say a word. Completely straight? Right!!! Where is that fuzzy line now...?