I wanted to work my dick while Billy did me but couldn’t manage anything more than holding on because he had me in his thrall and I was loving it. His face registered every bit of his pleasure and I watched it go from wonder and passion to bearing down and biting his lip at one point, then that tongue getting loose, caught between lips locked into a grimace I knew all too well. Grunting then, going at it full out, bed screeching under the onslaught, then sudden silence from him, eyes closing as he let go his load, pumping it into me for what seemed forever. I pictured not the spurts of most men but great gushes and a condom stretched beyond capacity.
When he’d emptied and stopped, he didn’t have the look of a man who’s finished but of a man just getting started. He grinned as he pulled out, stripped the rubber and held it up like some prize. The thing was heavy with spunk. “Be right back,” he said as he stood up and tossed the thing. “Gotta wash.” And he was gone naked down the hall while I still lay with legs up, happily and thoroughly fucked.
When he came back minutes later his big dick was at rest, hanging heavily over a pair of fat balls. I noted, as he entered the room and closed the door, a change of demeanor, the ass-eating, butt-fucking bear now hesitant, almost shy, looking at me, then away, blushing. I saw he wanted something else.
“What is it, Billy?” I asked as I sat up. My cock was hard from the fuck and I had a hand on it, hoping he’d suck me off again—but he avoided me now because I’d seen something in him, something he maybe thought wrong, so I pressed further. “That was some fuck,” I told him. “You’re really good, Billy. You can do whatever you want to me.”
He kept his head down, looking at me from under his brows, then worked himself up to spilling it. “I want you to do it to me,” he said, then looked away.
“What? Fuck you?”
He nodded. “From behind,” he said to the floor. “Like a bull does.”
Holy shit, I thought, squeezing my drooling dick. “You ever been fucked?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Just the rubber one but I like it up there.”
“Oh, Billy,” was all I could say.
He was so different then, getting me a condom and lube, making sure all was in order before he climbed onto the bed and stuck his butt up. He was furred back there and his crack, where I’d soon have my dick, was a riot of blond. I got in behind him, applied the rubber and lube, then hesitated with a finger full for him. Billy, surprisingly perceptive, reached back and pulled open his buttcheeks to such an extent that his hole quivered before me. “Give me some grease,” he said. “Lots.”
I ran several gobs up him, mindful I rarely topped anyone though far from adverse to it. Caught up in the thrill of being taken, I’d almost forgotten the rewards of reciprocity so I found myself in an oddly grateful state of mind. This big bear of a man was giving me his all.
When he was awash in lube I eased my dick into him, listening to his little moans that accompanied my progress. When I was all the way in he squeezed me and held fast which impressed me but then he was muscular all over so why not there?
When I began to ride him he chuckled and when I had a good stroke going I slapped his ass, which got an “Oh yeah” out of him and I saw we were now cowboy and bronc, me in the saddle, him cutting loose below.
As I rode and slapped and held off yelling yee-hah, I tried to recall the last guy I’d done but found only an unsatisfying blur, which was to Billy’s credit, darling Billy who was likely in the process of erasing much of my sexual memory.
When my juice began to rise, I couldn’t help letting go verbally as well and I asked Billy if he liked taking dick up the ass, liked getting fucked, and he responded to each demand like some raging Baptist calling out amen to his pastor’s holy exhortations. “Praise the dick,” I said, in keeping with this thought and Billy responded, “Fuck me, lordy yes, fuck me,” and there I was unloading into this big furry ass, this big furry man, and I saw the world anew, healed, righted, brilliant before me, untroubled and oh god, how good it is when you’re coming.
I wore myself out on Billy, finally slumping onto him and sliding out, then collapsing as if about to expire. With what seemed my last breath I managed a raspy “Hallelujah” and Billy responded with another “Praise the dick.”
We lay side by side after, Billy with hands across his chest, eyes closed, breath steady, and I thought of all kinds of things to say but said none. Instead I went to sleep.
He awakened me at dawn, greased, sheathed, and ready. “Shush,” he said as his cock went in even though I’d made no sound. He lay on his side behind me, going at it, and as he fucked he reached over to get hold of me and started an equal motion so I was done front and back which caused me to dissolve into a sort of swoon, not sure I was even awake because isn’t this every man’s dream?
But soon he grunted, rammed it home, then worked me enough to make me shoot, after which he declared it time to get up and fix the bike. I found this dose of reality unwelcome as I was ready to stay naked with him and fuck away the rest of my life but he was out of bed and into overalls—without underwear, just a T-shirt—and I saw the last of his great cock.
In the early morning chill Billy looked over the motorcycle, which we’d rolled over from the highway, while I stood watching. He did much of what I already had—to no avail—then stood pondering for a bit. Finally he smiled, unscrewed the gas cap, poked a finger around both the outside and inside, and took out a pocket knife—but before he went to work he showed me my problem. “Airhole’s plugged,” he said and I looked at the pinhole in the cap, probably the most unnoticed thing on a motorcycle.
“Something’s in there,” Billy went on. “Dirt. Bug, maybe. No air comin’ in, no gas goin’ out.” And he dug the point of his blade into it, extracted the ick, wiped it on his overalls, then put the cap back on. “Give her a try,” he said.
“It can’t be,” I replied, laughing. But it was. The bike sputtered then started and with a few twists of the throttle began a familiar purr.
“I never would have thought of that,” I said and Billy, standing with hands in his pockets, grinned and I thought how much I liked this man, how almost foreign he seemed compared to my usual partners and how refreshing this was. I also thought of that big dick, free inside those baggy overalls, and I wondered if other men had come to call or would in the future. But then I saw Bob Stremple on the porch and Billy turned back into the boy. “Got her running, Pa.”
Bob came down to us. “So I see. Breakfast is on.”
“You hungry?” Billy asked and I said no, I’d best get on my way because I knew if I went back inside I’d never want to leave. I shut off the bike, went to Bob and shook his hand. “Thanks for putting me up and the supper last night. You saved a weary traveler and it is much appreciated.”
He looked me over then and I wondered what he might have heard during the night and if he was leading up to calling me on it but he just let go of my hand and nodded. “You ever out this way again, you stop by.”
Billy laughed at this and Bob passed him a look that made the boy clamp his mouth shut but he still grinned from ear to ear.
“Bye, Billy,” I said as I got back on the bike. “Maybe I will ride up this way again.”
He looked at me in that singular way a man does when he’s had his dick up you and he nodded. When I started the engine he laughed and as I rode away I gave thanks to the bug or whatever it was that had crawled into that gas cap and given me the time of my life.
BIGCHEST: CONFESSIONS OF A TIT MAN
Larry Duplechan
I’m pretty sure it all started with Steve Reeves. For the benefit of people younger than myself (and lately, that seems to include just about everybody), Steve Reeves was sort of the Arnold Schwarzenegger of the 1950s and ’60s—only back in those days, success in professional bodybuilding could be parlayed into a career in action/adventure movies but not into the governorship of California. By 1950, Reeves had won all of the major bodybuilding contests then in existence (
well, both of them: it was Mr. America, Mr. Universe, and that was it). In the early’50s, he appeared as sort of beefcake window dressing in a couple of biggish Hollywood movies (I seem to recall seeing him lifting Jane Powell with one hand); and in 1958 he sojourned to Italy where he starred in the title role of Hercules. The sequel, Hercules Unchained, followed in 1959.
By the late 1960s, by which time I was a boy on the cusp of my teen years, both of Steve Reeves’s Hercules movies (in addition to his other post-Hercules flicks such as Romulus and Remus and The Last Days of Pompeii—all of them Italian-made sword-and-sandal epics so, well, Herculean, that I still think of them as “Hercules movies”) were staples of afternoon and late-night television, at least in the greater Los Angeles area. Back in the day, KCOP-Channel 9’s “Million Dollar Movie” showed the same movie every day at 4:00 P.M. for five consecutive days, Monday through Friday—which is why I can still recite The Pajama Game (Doris Day and John Raitt) nearly word-forword, song-for-song; and why Hercules starring Steve Reeves is etched upon my brain as indelibly as the Pledge of Allegiance.
As with any beautiful thing, words cannot do justice to the beauty of Steve Reeves in his heyday. He was square-jawed and boyishly handsome (even with the close-cropped beard he wore in his Hercules movies), with a head of thick, wavy dark hair. At just over six feet tall and weighing 215 pounds, Reeves sported one version of the perfect physique: a twenty-nine-inch waist, manta-ray lats flaring up to impossibly wide shoulders, and a fifty-two-inch chest. That’s right—a fifty-two-inch chest. As a boy, I found that chest absolutely fascinating; not only the superhuman breadth and depth of Reeves’s rib cage, but especially the twin mounds of chest muscle for which I had, at that time, no proper name. They bulged when Steve crossed his massive arms and bounced heavily when he ran. I don’t know if I or my brother Lloyd (two and a half years younger than myself, and a Hercules fan himself—though not in quite the same way I was), first coined the term, but at some point we began referring to Steve Reeves’s impressive set of chest muscles as “bigchest” (one word, accent on the first syllable). As in, “Wow, did you see his bigchest move when he killed that hydra?”
By that point (the age of eleven or twelve), I knew, and on some level accepted the fact, that I liked to look at other boys and good-looking, athletic grown men. Hercules taught me that I really liked men with big muscles, and that I especially liked men with bigchest. But it was an episode of “Bewitched” that taught me the correct term for what I liked so much. All I remember of the scene itself was that there was a female client at the ad agency where Darrin Stevens worked and for some reason there was a line-up of competitive-size bodybuilders in posing trunks being presented to this client. My prepubescent crotch swelled to aching as the musclemen posed and flexed, until finally they all began making their chest muscles bounce up and down. The lady client asked, “How do they make those things pop like that?” Someone (maybe Darrin, maybe Larry Tate, maybe someone else), answered, “Those ‘things’ are called pecs.”
Pecs. I liked pecs. And I really liked seeing them bounce. On some variety show at about the same time, I remember seeing a bodybuilder make his pecs bounce rhythmically (right-left-right-left) while whistling “shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits,” which nearly shorted out my circuits, and left me with a fairly vibrating hard-on I had no idea what to do with (I wouldn’t discover masturbation for another couple of years).
Back in the day (and we’re talking the mid- to late 1960s here), television wasn’t the smorgasbord of shirtless hunks that it is nowadays (and I’m not even counting premium cable channels—on the CW, it’s a relative rarity to see a young man with his shirt on). It wasn’t that you never saw men with their shirts off—this was the era of the Beach Party movies—it’s just that most actors weren’t particularly buff in those days. Everybody seemed to know How to Stuff a Wild Bikini, but America wasn’t nearly so concerned with the proper stuffing of the wild tank top. Sightings of a really good set of pecs on the tube were few and far between when I was a chest-crazy kid, but I still remember some of them, fortysomething years later. Johnny Weissmuller’s pecs were overripe even in his first film appearances in the late 1930s, and over the twenty-odd years of his career as star of MGM’s series of Tarzan movies (Saturday afternoon movie staples), they grew increasingly pendulous. I minded not a whit. Gordon Scott was another massive-but-not-lean Tarzan, and something of a male Jane Russell, chestwise: a full-figured guy. Former footballer Mike Henry was the first truly ripped Tarzan, and his pecs seemed to have been chiseled from solid granite. Needless to say, if a Hercules movie wasn’t on tap, a Tarzan movie would do me just fine.
When Peter Lupus (pre–“Mission Impossible”) showed off his Mr. America physique to Annette Funicello in Muscle Beach Party—inviting her to “Look at that tricep. See how I can make it ripple?”—I was staring not at the rippling of Peter’s truly impressive upper arm, but at the way the pec nearest that arm bunched and bulged as he flexed. While he was no muscle god, Alejandro Rey (Carlos Ramirez in “The Flying Nun,” one of my favorite shows at the time—hey, I was just a kid) sported a set of lean, muscle-striated pecs in his all-too-infrequent shirtless shots. Even the relatively mature Eddie Albert appeared sans shirt at least once on “Green Acres” (wearing only pajama bottoms, if memory serves), showing a more-than-respectable set of pecs, especially for a man his age—though his chest was so hairy his pelt obscured his nipples completely. I vividly recall my kid brother commenting, “He has no dots!”
If I had to wait for the occasional glance at shirtless man-tits on TV, the good news was that growing up in Southern California afforded me a view of plenty of well-muscled shirtless boys and men, “live” and up close. As it happened, the onslaught of puberty (and the unrequited longings and inconvenient erections that went with it), coincided with a two-year stay in Sacramento, where we were the only black family in the neighborhood, and where the long, hot summers meant the neighborhood boys spent most of their non-school time with their shirts off. And much as I hated mandatory P.E. in school, it had the desirable side effect that even the least athletically inclined boys were usually in pretty good physical condition. And boys who played sports or lifted a dumbbell now and again were like walking porno. I remember with particular fondness the Meyers brothers from down the street: Greg, Andy and Jeff—handsome, tousle-haired, touch-football-on-the-front-lawn-playing boys with near-identical hairless, sculpted chests that I found mouthwatering, individually or as a trio. There was Roy Jarrett, who kept me hiding my boner behind my books my sophomore year in high school. Hazel-eyed with close-cropped, curly, honey-colored hair, Roy was so beautiful I made believe I was interested in becoming a Jehovah’s Witness just so I could watch his lips as he read aloud from his green-bound Bible. Seeing Roy’s perfect pecs in the boys’ locker room, fresh from the showers, droplets of water falling from his perky nipples, was a religious experience such as neither Roy’s Kingdom Hall nor my Baptist church could afford me.
Mr. Shell, our next-door neighbor (and the father of a couple of the kids I palled around with), was as unlikely as his sons to be seen after working hours wearing a shirt. Mr. Shell’s pecs were reminiscent of Johnny Weissmuller’s—just a shout away from man-boobs—and sat atop something of a beer belly. But as with the early Tarzan, I cared not a whit. I thrilled to the sight of those meaty pecs bouncing, quite independent of each other, as Mr. Shell ran toward me during one of the frequent games of kick-the-can he organized with the neighborhood kids. As with heterosexual tit-men and the female breast, I don’t really have a working concept of “too big” when it comes to the male chest. And besides, Mr. Shell was good looking, considerably more fun than my own father (no slouch in the pecs department himself, but he wouldn’t have been talked into playing in the street with a bunch of kids at the point of a gun), and in addition to his somewhat gone-to-seed bigchest, Mr. Shell also had beautiful feet (but that’s another fetish).
Then there was Dick Beeson, my P.E. teacher dur
ing junior year in high school. Coach Beeson was handsome enough and buff enough to have starred as either Hercules or Tarzan (he made TV-Tarzan Ron Ely look like a flagpole by comparison). Underneath his polo shirt, Coach Beeson’s pecs formed a high-set mantle of muscle you could have set football trophies on. The one time I saw him without that shirt (emerging from his office to quell some sort of locker-room shenanigans, wearing only his gym shorts, not only magnificently bare-chested but—bonus!—barefoot), I’m pretty sure I made a noise and my hands were just barely fast enough to cover my instantaneous erection with a towel. It was while replaying that scene in my testosterone-poisoned little teenaged brain, humping my sheets as quietly as I could so as not to awaken my brother in the twin bed across the room, that I had my first orgasm, hosing down at least half my mattress with what I remember as an inordinate volume of yeasty-smelling boy cum. Following a brief spasm of fear that I might have somehow shot blood and might die of my self-inflicted wound, I spent the next several years’ worth of spare moments doing little other than masturbating, often while thinking about Coach Beeson.
My desire for Coach Beeson (his feet and face, thighs and ass, biceps, triceps and especially pecs) was accompanied by the newfound desire to have pecs of my own. I started lifting weights, grunting out set after set of bench presses on the school’s Olympic weight machine like a boy possessed, my eyes quite literally on the prize: when I wasn’t actually staring at Coach Beeson’s awesome rack, I was visualizing it. And as very often happens when one is truly focused, I achieved my goal.
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