Part I - Jocks Can Be Frustrated Too

Part I - Jocks Can Be Frustrated Too

This story relates how I morphed from being straight as a ruler to being bisexual. These events happened in spring '03. While I obviously can't remember every detail, the basic story is true. I've added detail where it was needed.

I was a twenty-one year old junior in college, engineering major, finishing up the semester. I was on the university's wrestling squad, though I can't say I've ever been good enough to win any major titles. Nevertheless, the experience gave me a good scholarship, a finely tuned body, and a certain poise and confidence that have served me well.

I closed the front door behind me, hopped up the steps of the comfortable split-level house and ducked into my room. I dropped my backpack on the floor and pulled a couple books out. Calculus and Statics. I took a deep breath. Fuck it, I thought. I've got all weekend for homework. It'd been a rough week, and I wanted a breather.

I pulled some more comfortable clothes out of the drawer and tossed them on the bed. I stripped off my shirt, and as I turned the mirror caught my eye. I paused a moment, pleased with what I saw. I'd finally gotten rid of the lovehandles I'd picked up over Christmas. While the genetics weren't there for a flat stomach, my abs rippled with power as I twisted and contorted them, bulging leanly through the skin. My smooth pectorals bulged as I flexed them, the little tuft of hair located in the cleft between them beginning to grow back some stubble. I smiled in satisfaction at the fine, defined curves of my arms. I stripped my pants off and turned to the side, examining the defined lines and graceful curve of my legs and ass. Only the pasty white hue of my skin gave me pause, perhaps heightened by the contrast of my dark blue briefs. Too damn much time indoors in any case.

I noted my other features, fine Sicilian stock. Fine blond hair that flowed back from my face, an angular nose, a strong masculine chin. Though my skin wasn't perfect, it was smooth enough. My smile split wide to reveal a straight row of teeth, with one crooked renegade on the bottom that somehow only seemed to give a roguish flair. I moved towards the mirror for closer inspection. Damn blackheads. Do you ever completely grow out of acne? I crushed all three, and belatedly noticed the barely perceptible remnants of nose pad impressions on the bridge of my nose. Vision correction surgery was the best choice I'd ever made. I looked myself in the eyes. Electric blue. Though I'd perfected that penetrating look that seems to entrance girls, I practiced again. Damn you're vain, I laughed at myself as I broke off my self-worship.

I reflected on my romantic life as I resumed changing. Prevailing wisdom is that hot-looking jocks get a lot of action. Rampant bragging and rumors bolster the image. The world doesn't work that way, at least not in my experience. Maybe it's some unconquered holdover lack of confidence from my less secure high school days. Maybe it's just hard for everybody. Who knows? My girlfriend and I had broken up three weeks before. I can't say I was disappointed for long. Like most, she used sex as a weapon. Always inviting, rarely following through. I think I had three orgasms in her presence. During four months together.

School and sports kept me too busy to find any more action since then. It takes so damn much energy to get a good lay these days. At least if you wanted a self-respecting woman. Loose bitches never did really turn me on.

I walked back down the hall and down into the living room. I heard the door open as I flipped on the television. "Mitch?" I called.

"Yeah Trevor." Mitchell's my stepbrother, two months my senior. We are tight. Our parents had met and married when we were fourteen, and we were best friends almost overnight. My own father happened to be one of the few that were killed in Desert Storm, and Mitch's mom was a bitch that had deserted his dad and her two kids for some rich guy when he was ten. Joke's on her; Dad started a small business, and it had mushroomed in the five years since into four different locations and was still growing, providing us with a very comfortable life in a large home on a hill and a good education for us kids. Mitch's older sister had married a lawyer the previous year and was living quite happily in another state with his new infant niece.

Mitch popped into the living room and plopped onto the couch, his eyes attaching themselves to whatever was on the TV. "You look shot," I observed.

"Coach drilled us hard this morning. Meet on Wednesday." He was a swimmer, and a good one. He had propelled his team to victory on more than one occasion over the previous four years.

"We got any pep rallies tonight?" I asked. "Pep rally" was our code. We led a shadow life together that we did our damndest to keep from our parents. Dad gave us a generous allowance in return for good grades and full-time student status, but we had figured out a few months after entering college that a little stripping on the side made for a lucrative supplemental income. It had started by accident, really. Mitch had gotten a little tipsy at a party, and started stripping for a roomful of sorority girls. When he walked out that night with nothing on him but his shoes, boxers, and two hundred dollars, we realized we could get a good thing going.

And so it had started. A couple weekends a months, sometimes more, sometimes less, we were invited to some party full of chicks wanting a good time. We went for free. We stripped for money. The more we got paid, the more they saw. We cultivated a reputation, and our fame quickly spread through the sororities. Maybe that was why I had such a hard time finding a real girlfriend. We'd become masters at playing off each other to extract everything we could from our willing victims. It was a good diversion, and provided a nice chunk of extra spending money, but it also took a lot of energy, and I was in no mood to expend it.

"No, not tonight. I might have something for us tomorrow."

"Oh yeah? Where?"

"The rich bitches." Our moniker for a particular bunch of regulars that always provided a nice haul. "Maggie's coming over in a couple hours. Andrea left me a message that they'll be back about ten tonight." Andrea's my mom. I called his dad Dad, but he still had a mom, twat that she was, so he called my mom by name.

"Well, at least one of us is getting some action," I drawled. Maggie was Mitchell's girlfriend, and she took pretty good care of him. I liked her. She had a good personality, a good mind, and a good heart. good tits, too, but that was strictly Mitch's domain, much to my chagrin.

"Yeah, well, I'd help you there if I could," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "You making anything to eat?"

"I thought I'd toss in a couple of burgers."

"Mind throwing a couple in for me? I'm gonna take a shower."

"Cool." I stood up and went to the kitchen, keeping my ear on the news on TV. Another damn report on Laci Peterson. Sad story, but when the hell was it going to end? I pulled some burgers out of the freezer and threw them into the griller. I watched the headlines about the Iraqi Freedom aftermath for a couple of minutes while the meat started sizzling behind me. I squinted as the waning sun began reflecting off the swimming pool in the backyard into my face.

I headed upstairs toward the bathroom. Knowing the door wouldn't be locked, I opened it, poking my head in. "What do you want on your burgers?" As I spoke I caught the sight through the steam and fogged shower glass of Mitch vigorously masturbating. As soon as he heard me, he reflexively turned his back toward me. I grinned. I knew what he was doing. The poor bastard was a premature ejaculator. If he jacked off a couple hours before sex, he lasted a lot longer.

"Just the usual, thanks." He didn't sound terribly concerned with the idea that he'd been caught. God knows we were pretty damned familiar with each other by now.

I closed the door loosely and started back down the hallway. Suddenly I stopped and grinned, a wicked idea popping into my mind. Don't ask me why. I'd seen Mitch jack off before, but not when he didn't know I was watching. I spontaneously turned and crept back to the bathroom door, and slowly pulled it halfway open. Then I stood across the hallway, thinking the dim light would hide me.

As I watched him beat rhythmically through the mist, it wasn't a sexual thing. I wasn't even getting hard. It was more like the feeling you get when you're pulling a practical joke on somebody. Still, I noticed with awe the form of his body, my memory filling in the gaps left by the obscuring mist and glass.

Mitch didn't have the classical swimmer's body. He was four inches taller than me, standing at a lean 6'3". Dark German features marked his body. Dark straight brown hair, short enough to tuck under a swimmer's cap, that skin tone that always seems tanned. Fine chest hair, just enough to notice, cropped short for easy shaving for meets. Smooth, well-defined pecs and rippling washboard abs. His frame was thick, not lank and lithe like most swimmers, but he'd built up enough fine, corded muscle to simply power his way through the water. Powerful legs supported that body and completed the framing of well-kept pubic hair, a shapely ball sack, and a gently left-curved seven-inch erection. An inch longer than my own, I reflected, though mine's a bit thicker.

I watched his face as it contorted in orgasm, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Baby-faced was the term, surprisingly so for a man with such a well-developed body. He kept it clean-shaven to hide the fact that he had only sparse facial hair, and was one of those few lucky ones that had never really developed acne. Despite our actual birth dates, he looked to be two years younger than me.