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Always Strapped

Jockstrap Fan
It was a hot, humid Sunday afternoon in 1979 during the summer session of the Texas university where I went to graduate school. I was in my second-floor dorm room, which I had all to myself (one of the privileges of being a graduate student there is that we didn't have to share our dorm rooms), lying on top of my bed reading one of the countless books that I had to absorb to earn my advanced degree. Because of the heat (our dorm wasn't air-conditioned) all I had on was a pair of gym shorts and a jockstrap underneath. I had a fan going, and my window and door were open in order to take advantage of any possible breeze – although it was a very still, stifling afternoon.

My reading was interrupted by a knock on the side of my door. My next-door neighbor Stan poked his head in. “You busy?” he asked.

“Just reading,” I said, but I set my book aside. “C'mon in – I could use a break.”

Stan sauntered into my room. Like me, he was 23 years old. And also like me, he was shirtless and in gym shorts. Now, I found Stan extremely attractive. He was a short, hairy, blond guy (I've got a thing for hairy blonds) with piercing blue eyes and a nice, solid build – not “gym-toned” or anything like that, but just naturally in good shape, kind of halfway between “average” and stocky, but solid. He was a grad student like me, but in a different field. He was just my type, when you get right down to it, but I knew he was straight. Nearly every Friday and Saturday night he was out with his girlfriend Suzanne. And Stan knew I was gay but was cool with it. He'd put two and two together after noticing other guys spending the night in my dorm room, and we'd had a nice talk about it earlier in the year.

Anyway, Stan came in – I noticed that he closed the door behind him -- and sat down next to my bare legs at the foot of my bed. “How's it goin'?”

“Doin' OK,” I replied. “Can't complain. And you?”

“Bored out of my mind.”

“Oh, really?” I said incredulously. “Must be nice. I've got plenty to keep me busy.”

“Well, yeah,” Stan agreed, “no shortage of schoolwork. But I'm tired of it. I need a distraction.”

“A distraction?” I wondered aloud. “You mean like goin' out and doin' something?”

“Maybe,” he said in response, “but it's too hot to go out and do much of anything.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “When the weather's like this, the less I have to wear, the better.” I found myself examining Stan's furry chest and belly. I think I surprised myself when I suddenly blurted out, “You look like you've put on a few pounds.”

Stan looked down at himself and then back at me in apparent dismay. “What? I'm not getting' fat.”

“I didn't really mean that—”

But Stan quickly interrupted me and exclaimed with a grin, “I could whip your ass!”

I chuckled and shook my head. “I don't think so—”

“The hell I couldn't.”

“I'm at least six inches taller than you,” I countered, “and I weigh a lot more—”

“Yet you've got the nerve to call me fat!”

“I didn't call you fat,” I said in good-humored defense. “I just said you look like you've put on a few pounds.”

“C'mon,” Stan said, standing up from the foot of my bed. “Let's see who's the better man!”

“The better man?”

“I said I could whip your ass! Let's wrestle!”

“It's kinda hot for that, don't you think?” I said as I got up from the bed.

“You chicken? Afraid to work up a sweat?”

“No,” I asserted. “Besides, I'm already sweating. Let's go for it!”

Stan walked back to the door and made sure it was locked. Then, much to my surprise, Stan slipped off his gym shorts, leaving him in just his plain white Bike jock, just like the one I had on beneath my shorts. (We were of the generation of American men who almost always wore jockstraps under gym shorts.) And as soon as he revealed his strap, my dick rapidly began to harden involuntarily within my jock pouch. That made me extremely hesitant to follow his lead and remove my own shorts. I started advancing on him when Stan suddenly pointed at me. “Lose the shorts!”

I couldn't believe my ears. It was almost too good to be true. “You wanna wrestle in just our jocks?”

“Why not?”

I paused and thought hard about what I should say next. I figured honesty was the best policy. “You know damn well that I'm gay, Stan. So I hope you'll understand that I'm starting to get a hardon.”

“So am I.”

“I thought you were straight.”

“I am, but I'm so fuckin' horny right now I could pop. Suzanne's out of town visiting her folks, and this hot weather has got me all horned up. I wouldn't mind jerkin' it with a buddy.”

“So you'd rather jerk off than wrestle.”

“Either one's fine with me.”

I knew what I wanted. “Then let's just jerk off.”

With that, Stan started to slip off his jock, but I stopped him. “No, leave your jock on. I like it.”

“You mean you've got a thing for jockstraps?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Stan grinned wickedly. “You're a kinky bastard, aren't you?”

“Maybe so,” I replied, tugging down my gym shorts, stepping out of them, and tossing them on the bed. “I just want us both to leave our jocks on as we jerk off. We can pull our dicks out the side of the pouch.”

Stan looked down at the plain tile floor. “You wanna put a towel down or something?”

“Or I could just clean it up afterward. That's the nice thing about tile – it makes cleanup easier.”

“Got any Vaseline or anything like that?”

“How about mineral oil?”

“I've never used that before.”

“First time for everything,” I said as I reached into the drawer in the bed stand and pulled out a bottle.

“Keep it handy, don't you?”

“So to speak,” I chuckled, setting the bottle down.

“I've never seen another guy jerk off before.”

“Well, I can't say the same. I've seen plenty of guys work their dicks.”

“You got a towel or something to put on the floor?”

“Nah,” I said, “it's just tile – it'll be easy to clean up.”

So, as we stood there facing each other, standing about five or six feet away from each other, I pulled my already very hard dick out from the side of my pouch and gripped it tightly. Stan followed suit. With my left hand I reached up to begin working my nipples.

“What're you doing?”

“My nipples are very erogenous.”

“Like a woman's?”

“No, asshole,” I shot back with a grin. “A lot of men have very sensitive nipples, too. You ever try it?”

“No,” he said, “I never thought to.”

“Try it.”

With some apparent hesitation, he reached up with his right hand (he was left-handed, so that was the one gripping his dick) and pinched one of his nipples. He grimaced a bit. “Doesn't do anything for me.”

“Sometimes it takes practice, but suit yourself,” I shrugged. “It's not for everybody.” With that, I continued to work my dick with one hand and moved from one nipple to the other with my left. Every now and then I'd fondle my balls, too, which Stan did as well.

“Toss me that bottle of oil, will ya?”

Rather than toss it, I stepped over and handed it to him, then conscientiously stepped back to my fairly distant spot – but not quite as distant as before. Now we were only about four feet apart.

We watched each other intently, silently, for several minutes as we worked ourselves toward orgasm. Obviously, watching another man masturbate was a huge sexual turn on for me, but for a straight guy Stan seemed to be really getting into it, too. As if he were reading my thoughts, he suddenly blurted out, “It's hot watching a buddy get his rocks off, too.”

Hearing him say that was the last straw. I cried out, “Oh, fuck! -- I'm gonna shoot!” And with that I let go an intense stream of cum, shooting about as hard as I ever had in my life. In fact, despite our distance of about four feet, the first jet of my semen hit Stan's hairy chest.

And that's what it took to push him over the edge, too. He groaned, “Fuck!” and shot off in my direction. Sure enough, his first blast of cum hit my chest hair as well. Most of the rest of our jizz mixed together on the black tile floor between us, although some got on our hands and, sure enough, on our jocks.

After we each calmed down a little from our orgasms, I laughed a little. “I guess I should've got out that towel after all – not only to clean up the mess on the floor but to clean up the mess on ourselves!”

Stan laughed, too. “Yeah, that was great!”

I walked over to the dresser and pulled out a towel. I wiped off the cum from my hands, chest, and groin area, and then tossed it to Stan.

“Fuck!” he said. “We smell like semen!”

“You figure?” I said teasingly.

“We oughta take showers.” He looked back toward the door and then said, a little sheepishly. “I should look out to make sure none of the other guys sees me leaving your room like this.”

“You mean smells you.”

Stan chuckled. “That too. I guess we should go out for our showers at different times.”

“Sure,” I said, understanding. “You go on. I'll take mine later.”

All this time, our softening cocks were still dangling outside of our jock pouches. Stan tucked his dick back in, grabbed his gym shorts, and headed for the door. He turned back to say, “Thanks, Tom. That was fun!”

“Thank you,” I replied, emphasizing the pronoun. “Anytime!”

Despite that implicit invitation, we never jerked off together again, or did anything else sexual like that. But we remained friends for the remainder of our time together in grad school, though we never again spoke of that afternoon. Within a couple of years we both got our advanced degrees and went our separate ways. He got engaged to Suzanne toward the end of our time in grad school, and they got married shortly afterward. I haven't seen or been in touch with Stan now in more than 40 years. But I often find myself reminiscing – and reliving while jerking off – the one time I ever masturbated with a straight guy.

P.S. - The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.
 
Last edited:

Redsucked02

More in my albums!
It was a hot, humid Sunday afternoon in 1979 during the summer session of the Texas university where I went to graduate school. I was in my second-floor dorm room, which I had all to myself (one of the privileges of being a graduate student there is that we didn't have to share our dorm rooms), lying on top of my bed reading one of the countless books that I had to absorb to earn my advanced degree. Because of the heat (our dorm wasn't air-conditioned) all I had on was a pair of gym shorts and a jockstrap underneath. I had a fan going, and my window and door were open in order to take advantage of any possible breeze – although it was a very still, stifling afternoon.

My reading was interrupted by a knock on the side of my door. My next-door neighbor Stan poked his head in. “You busy?” he asked.

“Just reading,” I said, but I set my book aside. “C'mon in – I could use a break.”

Stan sauntered into my room. Like me, he was 23 years old. And also like me, he was shirtless and in gym shorts. Now, I found Stan extremely attractive. He was a short, hairy, blond guy (I've got a thing for hairy blonds) with piercing blue eyes and a nice, solid build – not “gym-toned” or anything like that, but just naturally in good shape, kind of halfway between “average” and stocky, but solid. He was a grad student like me, but in a different field. He was just my type, when you get right down to it, but I knew he was straight. Nearly every Friday and Saturday night he was out with his girlfriend Suzanne. And Stan knew I was gay but was cool with it. He'd put two and two together after noticing other guys spending the night in my dorm room, and we'd had a nice talk about it earlier in the year.

Anyway, Stan came in – I noticed that he closed the door behind him -- and sat down next to my bare legs at the foot of my bed. “How's it goin'?”

“Doin' OK,” I replied. “Can't complain. And you?”

“Bored out of my mind.”

“Oh, really?” I said incredulously. “Must be nice. I've got plenty to keep me busy.”

“Well, yeah,” Stan agreed, “no shortage of schoolwork. But I'm tired of it. I need a distraction.”

“A distraction?” I wondered aloud. “You mean like goin' out and doin' something?”

“Maybe,” he said in response, “but it's too hot to go out and do much of anything.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “When the weather's like this, the less I have to wear, the better.” I found myself examining Stan's furry chest and belly. I think I surprised myself when I suddenly blurted out, “You look like you've put on a few pounds.”

Stan looked down at himself and then back at me in apparent dismay. “What? I'm not getting' fat.”

“I didn't really mean that—”

But Stan quickly interrupted me and exclaimed with a grin, “I could whip your ass!”

I chuckled and shook my head. “I don't think so—”

“The hell I couldn't.”

“I'm at least six inches taller than you,” I countered, “and I weigh a lot more—”

“Yet you've got the nerve to call me fat!”

“I didn't call you fat,” I said in good-humored defense. “I just said you look like you've put on a few pounds.”

“C'mon,” Stan said, standing up from the foot of my bed. “Let's see who's the better man!”

“The better man?”

“I said I could whip your ass! Let's wrestle!”

“It's kinda hot for that, don't you think?” I said as I got up from the bed.

“You chicken? Afraid to work up a sweat?”

“No,” I asserted. “Besides, I'm already sweating. Let's go for it!”

Stan walked back to the door and closed it. Then, much to my surprise, he slipped off his gym shorts, leaving him in just his plain white Bike jock, just like the one I had on beneath my shorts. (We were of the generation of American men who almost always wore jockstraps under gym shorts.) And as soon as he revealed his strap, my dick rapidly began to harden involuntarily within my jock pouch. That made me extremely hesitant to follow his lead and remove my own shorts. I started advancing on him when Stan suddenly pointed at me. “Lose the shorts!”

I couldn't believe my ears. It was almost too good to be true. “You wanna wrestle in just our jocks?”

“Why not?”

I paused and thought hard about what I should say next. I figured honesty was the best policy. “You know damn well that I'm gay, Stan. So I hope you'll understand that I'm starting to get a hardon.”

“So am I.”

“I thought you were straight.”

“I am, but I'm so fuckin' horny right now I could pop. Suzanne's out of town visiting her folks, and this hot weather has got me all horned up. I wouldn't mind jerkin' it with a buddy.”

“So you'd rather jerk off than wrestle.”

“Either one's fine with me.”

I knew what I wanted. “Then let's just jerk off.”

With that, Stan started to slip off his jock, but I stopped him. “No, leave your jock on. I like it.”

“You mean you've got a thing for jockstraps?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Stan grinned wickedly. “You're a kinky bastard, aren't you?”

“Maybe so,” I replied, tugging down my gym shorts, stepping out of them, and tossing them on the bed. “I just want us both to leave our jocks on as we jerk off. We can pull our dicks out the side of the pouch.”

Stan looked down at the plain tile floor. “You wanna put a towel down or something?”

“Or I could just clean it up afterward. That's the nice thing about tile – it makes cleanup easier.”

“Got any Vaseline or anything like that?”

“How about mineral oil?”

“I've never used that before.”

“First time for everything,” I said as I reached into the drawer in the bed stand and pulled out a bottle.

“Keep it handy, don't you?”

“So to speak,” I chuckled, setting the bottle down.

“I've never seen another guy jerk off before.”

“Well, I can't say the same. I've seen plenty of guys work their dicks.”

“You got a towel or something to put on the floor?”

“Nah,” I said, “it's just tile – it'll be easy to clean up.”

So, as we stood there facing each other, standing about five or six feet away from each other, I pulled my already very hard dick out from the side of my pouch and gripped it tightly. Stan followed suit. With my left hand I reached up to begin working my nipples.

“What're you doing?”

“My nipples are very erogenous.”

“Like a woman's?”

“No, asshole,” I shot back with a grin. “A lot of men have very sensitive nipples, too. You ever try it?”

“No,” he said, “I never thought to.”

“Try it.”

With some apparent hesitation, he reached up with his right hand (he was left-handed, so that was the one gripping his dick) and pinched one of his nipples. He grimaced a bit. “Doesn't do anything for me.”

“Sometimes it takes practice, but suit yourself,” I shrugged. “It's not for everybody.” With that, I continued to work my dick with one hand and moved from one nipple to the other with my left. Every now and then I'd fondle my balls, too, which Stan did as well.

“Toss me that bottle of oil, will ya?”

Rather than toss it, I stepped over and handed it to him, then conscientiously stepped back to my fairly distant spot – but not quite as distant as before. Now we were only about four feet apart.

We watched each other intently, silently, for several minutes as we worked ourselves toward orgasm. Obviously, watching another man masturbate was a huge sexual turn on for me, but for a straight guy Stan seemed to be really getting into it, too. As if he were reading my thoughts, he suddenly blurted out, “It's hot watching a buddy get his rocks off, too.”

Hearing him say that was the last straw. I cried out, “Oh, fuck! -- I'm gonna shoot!” And with that I let go an intense stream of cum, shooting about has hard as I ever had in my life. In fact, despite our distance of about four feet, the first jet of my semen hit Stan's hairy chest.

And that's what it took to push him over the edge, too. He groaned, “Fuck!” and shot off in my direction. Sure enough, his first blast of cum hit my chest hair as well. Most of the rest of our jizz mixed together on the black tile floor between us, although some got on our hands and, sure enough, on our jocks.

After we each calmed down a little from our orgasms, I laughed a little. “I guess I should've got out that towel after all – not only to clean up the mess on the floor but to clean up the mess on ourselves!”

Stan laughed, too. “Yeah, that was great!”

I walked over to the dresser and pulled out a towel. I wiped off the cum from my hands, chest, and groin area, and then tossed it to Stan.

“Fuck!” he said. “We smell like semen!”

“You figure?” I said teasingly.

“We oughta take showers.” He looked back toward the door and then said, a little sheepishly. “I should look out to make sure none of the other guys sees me leaving your room like this.”

“You mean smells you.”

Stan chuckled. “That too.”

“I guess we should go out for our showers at different times.”

“Sure,” I said, understanding. “You go on. I'll take mine later.”

All this time, our softening cocks were still dangling outside of our jock pouches. Stan tucked his dick back in, grabbed his gym shorts, and headed for the door. He turned back to say, “Thanks, Tom. That was fun!”

“Thank you,” I replied, emphasizing the pronoun. “Anytime!”

Despite that implicit invitation, we never jerked off together again, or did anything else sexual like that. But we remained friends for the remainder of our time together in grad school, though we never again spoke of that afternoon. Within a couple of years we both got our advanced degrees and went our separate ways. He got engaged to Suzanne toward the end of our time in grad school, and they got married shortly afterward. I haven't seen or been in touch with Stan now in more than 40 years. But I often find myself reminiscing – and reliving while jerking off – the one time I ever masturbated with a straight guy.
Awesome experience!
 
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