Gay Erotic Stories

Yeah, I know what I do to faggot cock-suckers like you. I know how you react to the sight of my hairy muscular body and my rugged good looks. I know what happens when I look at you with my big green eyes and let you think I'm as attracted to you as you are to me. I started out with women. My first time was with this lady down the block who wanted me to do more than mow her lawn. I was not eighteen at the time. In high school I screwed every girl worth screwing (and even a few teachers). By college I found that I could pass a class just by letting a horny closet-gay professor suck my cock or maybe all I had to do was to pose for a few photographs for his "private collection". After I finally flunked out of school I decided to capitalize upon my assets. Men and women alike have begged to have my big cock pumped into them, but I found out a long time ago that men still hold the purse-strings in America. It's a lot easier for a man to hide money that he's giving to a guy like me for sexual services. Yeah, I know what I do for guys like you, but do you know what you do for me? You make it possible for me to have a nice apartment, a convertible and a motorcycle. You take me along on your "business trips" instead of your wife, telling her that she'd be bored stiff if you took her. With me you're concerned about the "stiff board", the one that measures almost a foot long and is as big around as the base of a pop bottle. Yeah, I know exactly what I do for you, and what you do for me. Maybe you recognize yourself as one of these guys. ADRIAN I sat in the park around lunch time, having removed my shirt and sat there in one of my favorite pair of cut-off blue-jeans. They're cut really short, and slit up the side to show plenty of beefy hair-coated thigh and even some of my luscious butt. I've got a great butt, especially if you dig very hairy asses. Anyhow this business man in a three-piece suit sees me from about 50 yards away and I pretend not to notice him checking me out. I stretch out a bit, an action which flexes my well-built chest and gives him a good look at my fully blanketed chest. My driver's license says I'm a blond, but I consider it more of a "dirty-blond" color, almost like brown flecked with bits of gold. Whatever the color, you can't argue the texture. My chest and belly, as well as arms and legs, are completely coated with thick brown/blond curls. Hell, there's even quite a bit on my shoulders and a bit spilling down onto my back, although I do occasionally shave that area. If you go for teddy bear types, then I'm the man for you! So this guy who I have pegged as an advertising executive or a banker circles the area where I'm soaking up the sun a couple of times, passing by the hot-dog vendor and eventually standing on the sidewalk close to me and pretending to look off in the distance. "Excuse me" he said, (and I hear his voice shake with the tell-tale nervousness that indicates he's hot for me) "but have you noticed a tall black man in a business suit standing around here. I was supposed to meet him here but got tied up at my own office. I'll bet he's been here and left. Probably madder than hell!" "Yeah, probably" I said, then added that I hadn't noticed anyone. "Damn!" the business man says then adds that he may as well have lunch while he's here. "You recommend this place?" he asked me, pointing to the hot-dog vendor's stand. "Don't know, I've never tried it" I said, trying to stay as aloof as possible. I could see that it was driving him crazy. He wanted to keep the conversation going and I was doing my best to pretend like I didn't give a shit. "Join me for lunch? My treat!" he said, and I told him sure, that I'd take one with the works. He trotted over to the hot-dog stand and returned a few moments later, handing me a hot-dog that was so loaded that I could hardly fit it in my mouth. In fact, some of the contents "accidentally" slid out the other end from my mouth, spilling mustard, ketchup and Mayo all over my hairy chest. "Jesus, look at this mess!" I said, smearing the mixture into the thick furriness that blankets my muscular upper body. He could hardly stop himself from leaping forward and licking the stuff out of my dense chest mat. I could see him damned near having a heart attack as he stared at me and, as if to change the subject he asked if I lived nearby. "Yeah, not far from here. It's a dump, but all I can afford!" I told him. "How about you?" He told me the name of the exclusive suburb where he lived and I challenged him. "Don't tell me. Big house, big mortgage, a wife and two kids and a country-club membership!" He laughed and asked how I could tell. "It's the clothes man" I said, suggested that he should get back to his office before the guy he was to meet called to reschedule and was really mad that he wasn't back yet. "You know, I think I'll take the rest of the day off! That son-of-a-bitch can get me tomorrow if he wants!" he said, and I thought to myself that there probably never was a business client to meet. Hell, this guy was just out cruising for a hot stud in the park. And he certainly found one in Riley Parks. "Wanna' go back to my place?" I asked him, and I thought he was gonna' spit up his hot-dog. "Yeah, that sounds great!" he finally said, and I grabbed my shirt (a sexy tank-top) and pulled it on over my head. No doubt he'd have preferred me to leave it off, but I figured maybe he'd like to take it off later. We walked the block or so from the park to my apartment, a third-floor walk-up. As I led him up the stairs I could almost feel his eyes burning through my shorts to get a good look at my beefy hairy ass. We were hardly inside the door before I felt his tongue inside my mouth, the taste of his hot-dog mingling with mine. Yeah, I was right. He tugged at the bottom of my tank-top and pulled it off me immediately, raking his hand through my rugged hairiness and telling me how turned on he was by it. Over the next few hours I pretended to let him think he was in control even though I knew exactly what I was doing and how to pace the afternoon. I fucked him damned near senseless and invited him to spend the night with me. "No I can't, my daughter's ballet recital is tonight and I can't miss it. When can I see you again?" he asked, and I told him I didn't know because I was about to be evicted from my apartment and had no idea where I was going to go. "I'll call you tomorrow" he said, asking for my phone number. By 8:30 the next morning Adrian called and told me he'd made arrangements for me to move to a larger place just around the corner from his office. "It'll make it easier for us to get together" he said, and I told him I couldn't possibly afford the place he'd found for me. I was hearing. Like I say, a guy's a shit-load more likely to shell out big bucks for a weekly romp in the sack than you would think. Adrian is only one of the many guys who have provided for me over the years. I guess I ought to feel little bit guilty about using him, but ...what the hell...he's using me too right? So, do I ever get tired of this life? Ever want to settle down and be "normal"? Do I worry about some crazy fucker blowing my brains out some night? Do I think about the day when I won't be attractive enough to snag rich guys to pay for my big muscles and my big cock? HELL NO! I don't. As far as I'm concerned I can keep doing this forever. At 27 I'm in better shape than I was at 21, I can keep going all day and all night if that's what I'm being paid to do. I spend enough time in the gym to make sure I'm not letting myself go, and every time I look at myself in the mirror I get turned on by the sight of my hunky, hairy body. I've thought about AIDS of course,.....who hasn't, but I refuse to put the constraints of "safe-sex" on my occupation. If it gets me then it'll get me. I'm very fatalistic about that. I get tested fairly regularly and so far everything's okay. I honestly don't know how some of these guys afford to keep a wife, an ex-wife or two and a paid male whore like me. Then again, I don't have to figure out how they afford it, do I?