Part I - Jocks Can Be Frustrated Too

I'd gotten better blowjobs; his inexperience was evident. But I didn't care. I needed this. As his head bobbed up and down, he started getting into it, really enjoying himself. My cock tingled with electricity as his tongue slathered my shaft and my head chafed against the back of his mouth.

Suddenly I wanted to know what it felt like. I wanted to have his dick in my mouth. "Sit up. I want to try." Reluctantly, he obeyed and sat back, the rim of his boyish mouth glistening with saliva. He grinned at me as I leaned over. I licked the side of his dick. Wow. Hot. It made me so fucking horny to have my mouth on another man's cock. My head went light again. I engulfed his head hungrily, I wanted to try it, a new experience, it was so good. Oh god, this is why he was enjoying it so much. His cock was hot in my mouth, a mild flavor oozing from the tip.

I sucked with relish, licking, worshipping. What a beautiful thing. Hard and long and soft and smooth and manly. I lost myself, wrapped up in the sensuality.

Mitchell interrupted me, breaking into my passion. "Lay on your back, Trevor. Let's suck each other." I obeyed, hanging my feet over the armrest. He positioned himself over me, and we worshipped each other. I reached my arms up and wrapped them around his waist, pulling him, guiding him as his pelvis motioned rhythmically, softly pushing his cock into my mouth, out and in. He engulfed my cock, and my body tensed as I felt his chin buried in my pubes, the hot air from his nose briefly flowing around my scrotum, his throat muscles working hard as he hungrily gagged on my head.

In retrospect, I was amazed at how fast it happened. Literally twenty seconds after we started 69ing, we were feeding the fires of orgasm within each other. I felt his cock begin to throb against my tongue as the muscles of his back tensed and flexed. I pulled my head back and wrapped my hand around his engorged cock, jacking. Just in time, as his first shot nicked my chin and blasted onto the fabric on my stomach. The second hosed onto my chest. As the third flowed out gently and landed just below my neck, I realized that my cock was still buried in Mitchell's throat. He had been holding his breath for thirty seconds while he came, his creamy spunk on my face and shirt, and god I tried to warn him, "Shit," was all I managed before I yelled as the intensity of my orgasm washed over me in waves. I felt my first spurt blast into his mouth as he struggled to yank his face off my cock and replace it with his hand. The second spurt flew up onto his chest and dripped off onto my stomach as he gasped to catch his breath.

As that fire subsided within us, we stared at the other's dicks, milking out the last of the white spunk. "Holy fuck," I breathed, and we disentangled ourselves, laying back, heaving, the forgotten porn movie flashing suddenly uninteresting images before us. "I can't believe we did that."

"God, wasn't it awesome though?" he breathed.

"How'd you hold your breath that long?" I looked over at him. His eyes were closed, his chest was heaving, the moist spot on his chest glinting dully.

"Swimmer, remember?" Oh yeah. I pulled my stained shirt up and wiped the semen from my chin and neck. Then it dawned on me.

"I blew in your mouth...." He looked at me, the beginnings of one of his boyish grins playing at the corner of his mouth. I gaped. "You swallowed that shit?"

His mouth split into a full-toothed smile. "Yeah."

"Fuck, what was that like?"

He licked his lips, smiling. "Not bad. Almost as good as mine." Shit. I'd thought about tasting my own cum, but I never worked up the courage.

A familiar sound froze us both in place. I looked at the clock. 9:45. Shit! The garage door was opening! The car was pulling into the driveway!

"Fuck!" cried Mitchell. "I'm a mess!" And he disappeared upstairs. I jumped up and ejected the porno, it seemed to take fucking forever to pop out, then stuffed it into its case and back into its hiding spot. The grinding of the garage door lowering back into place seemed to reverberate in my head. I grabbed the remote and flipped on the TV, determined to act like nothing had happened. Good. Survivor.

Shit, my shirt! It was a mess! I tore it up and over my head, and crammed it behind my back, just as mom and dad opened the door into the kitchen. "We're home!"

"In here," I called, trying to look natural. Fortunately my hard-on was gone, but my face and arms still glistened with sweat.

They came down into the living room. "How'd your day go?" Dad asked me. He was a good man. Smart, hard-working. He took me in without question from the day he and mom were married, treated me as an equal with his own son, and won a great deal of loyalty for his effort. He looked very little like his son; apparently most of that had come from Mitch's mom. Dad was an average-looking, decent, middle-aged man, with a bit of a paunch. A little oblivious sometimes, though, thank God.

"Rough week," was my response. "Just unwinding tonight."

Mom appeared beside him. She was a handsome woman, hadn't let her body go, and was fair-minded. She worked hard to support us after my father died, and the grief had hardened her some. But she still demonstrated a huge heart, and would do anything for her boys, as she called the three of us. When she spoke, it was with a gentle accent; she was a naturalized citizen, as her parents had emigrated from Italy when she was a young teenager. She married a full-blooded Italian, and they had taught me the language as I grew up. We still used it often when alone, or when we wanted to keep a secret, or when speaking to one another in endearing terms.

But she was smart. Nothing escaped her notice, and her perceptive abilities could lay bare your soul. She breathed deep, and smiled at me strangely. Fuck, I thought, it's gotta smell damn pungent in here. She moved behind the couch and kissed me on the top of my head. "You know I don't like when you don't wear a shirt around the house, honey."

"Sorry," I mumbled.

She leaned down next to my ear and mumbled, "Se devi farti la sega, falla nella tua propria stanza por favor." I instantly turned bright red. My own mother had just politely asked her twenty-one year old son to jack off in his own room. Yet, despite my embarrassment, she didn't suspect what had really happened. I breathed an inward sigh of relief.

"Si, mama. Chiedo scusa," I mumbled contritely. She patted me on the shoulder and stood back up, sliding back over to her husband, arm around his waist.

"You remember that business trip your dad's making tomorrow?" she asked me, back to business, the offenses forgotten.

"Yeah?"

"We decided I'm going with him. We're leaving early in the morning. We're going to extend it by a day and spend some time together in Miami. We'll be gone until Tuesday."

"All right." Such an occurrence was common around our house, now that there weren't any children.

Dad leaned over and gave his wife a peck on the cheek. "We're going to bed, son. Good night."

"Night," I responded. Suddenly, I realized that Mitch had been having sex with Maggie on that bed. I grinned in spite of myself as I hoped he'd fixed it all back up. I turned down the volume on the TV as they made their way up the stairs together.

I was exhausted, but satisfied. I felt released and strangely numbed. The show finished up. A person I hadn't expected got voted off, as usual. I flipped off the TV and visited the downstairs bathroom. I made my way up to my own room, absently grabbing my shirt on my way. I heard the water running in the bathroom as I passed it. Fuck the shower. I'm too tired.

As I tossed the shirt into the hamper, my finger brushed a spot of cool fluid. I paused as the enormity of what had happened half an hour ago struck me full force. My brow lowered as my mind struggled to wrap itself around it. What did it mean? I had just lost myself in carnal abandonment to my stepbrother, my closest friend and confidant. Maybe if we'd just jacked each other off, it wouldn't be such a big deal. But we had reveled in it. It was the hardest orgasm I'd had in recent memory. And I had to admit to myself, I liked the feel of his body, the sensations of his cock in my mouth, the taste of his precum, the smell of him. What the fuck did that mean?

I turned off the light and lay back on the covers, my bare chest rising and falling gently in the tranquil moonlight flooding in through the window, belying the turmoil in my mind.

The questions ricocheted through my head, bouncing off one another, filtering through the puzzlement and confusion. I loved girls. I loved eating them out. I loved fucking them. I loved how breasts felt on my hands and my chest and my tongue. I loved the way I felt around them.

Finally, the question, looming and intractable, materialized in the viewspace of my mind: Am I gay?

I'd asked myself this question before, every so often; who doesn't? But the reality of the experience of a few minutes ago blasted apart the past surreptitious glances and wistful admiration of the endowments of other guys, muscular or otherwise. I had just had sex with another man. Yes, it was born of desperation. Yes, it was two incredibly horny guys just seeking a release. But I had wanted it as soon as the thought crossed my mind... And I didn't just do it. I had loved it.