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By *laidd OP Man
2 days ago
London |
For a man my age, I don’t think I’m too shabby. Go to the gym, used to play rugby til my mid thirties, many a tale there, love a hike as long as there is a pub at the end of it and will give most activities a go just cos I like to feel connected.
Connection however is a problem.
Like most men my age, I’ve had friends, acquaintances, work buddies but over the years, those friendships have drifted. They’ve got married, had kids, moved on, moved away etc … and to them, being a single bloke in a city seems like a dream - freedom, excitement, sex on tap.
Now I can’t deny the sex and freedom bit, cos thanks to the apps and readily available clubs/bars, rarely do I have to take matters into my own hands so to speak, and now that I am in my daddy era, there’s plenty of younger men willing to play out their daddy fantasy. But although that can be fun (bit of living, breathing porn rather than the screen version), I know I want more - need more.
Sitting on the 88, work done, scrolling through my phone, ensuring everything is in it’s place so I can park my brain, 15 mins or so, I’ll be off in Vauxhall, gym, perv at the fitties in their vests and 3” shorts, pint, cheeky treat Nandos, home, wank, sleep.
Him.
Familiar ding of the bell, looked up to check where we were stopping and there he was. Stereotypical looking London bloke. Mid 30’s, mop of ginger hair styled to look ruffled and unkempt but probably took a bit of time to look that effortless, matching unkempt but obviously cared for beard, slightly darker in hue than his hair, Tom Ford glasses, wearing a knitted polo top that looked like it had been made just for him. His ruck sack straps framing his well formed chest and shoulders… I was clearly staring and felt myself getting embarrassed that I was dissecting him like pray. Those shoulders would be so good to hold on to as I rode him or him me, that back, strong, powerful and begging to be explored, that beard looking like it would tickle in all the right places … Fuck. Our eyes met. I felt my face flush hard and tried to look away quickly - down to my phone then the window.
What the fuck? I never feel embarrassed for checking a bloke out, but my stomach was flipping, my brain reeling. What the fuck? He wouldn’t be thinking you were checking him out and so what if he does … he’s a bus wanker like you … won’t see him again. Hadn’t seen him before … bus stops, movement, bustle, people shouting ‘thanks driver’.
I slowly turn my head - must be safe to look forwards again. Compose yourself you stupid fuck.
No.There he was.
Bus emptier than it had been and he had decided not to move. Head down looking at the floor. His ruck sack now resting against the window, shoulders back, his nipples clearly visible through the material of his knitted polo, arms … fuck - obviously a gym bloke, worked but not overly - looked natural and at ease, his polo and trousers meeting with a slight kink in the front, a hint of something substantial beneath- the curve from his spine to his ass was a continuous line - beautiful, scooping over and under, trouser gathered slightly under his ass cheek then thighs … I couldn’t see any further down due to a multi coloured mop of hair, headphones, bag, but my mind was filling in the blanks, his toned calf - trousers clinging to them. I could not draw my eyes away from watching his muscles move as the bus meandered, bumped along - stopping every minute or so. His arm closest to me - gripped the pole to the side and I watched his thumb, strong and firm, push the button. Jolted back to reality - I look up - meet his gaze and cannot move my eyes away. As quick as it happened, his eyes moved, and it felt like he was staring right through me - beyond me. I saw the sign - my stop. He was getting off at my stop?
I gathered myself and moved towards the door - he stood by the door, my exit blocked by the mop of multicoloured hair. Doors. I step off and do the obligatory body pat to check I have everything and turn - he’s gone. Gone. I try to look as if I am waiting to find my bearings in case I can spot him - but no. Gone.
Hands in pockets I go to the gym.
Sweat, expensive cologne mixed with whey protein, noise of metal being dropped by the wankers trying to lift heavier than they can hold flood my senses. I take in the view of the gym tribes - those who do nothing but lift, those who wear gear to be seen and those who seem to sit on machines with their phones hoping to lift via osmosis - and begin to focus on the job in hand. Him - moving to the back of my mind. He’s no different to other blokes you’ve seen, fucked, been fucked by.
Pint done, Nando’s bought and home. Quick check of the apps on my phone - no one of note on the main ones so mindlessly, opened my laptop, loaded up this site whilst wondering if I should just call it a day, cue up the porn and crack one out. Tapping ‘See Who’s Near’ brought up the mix of men I had seen on line before - the odd newbie, the odd bloke in the hotels nearby and Him. Well, I wasn’t sure, but there was a pic of a chest, coated in ginger fur, about the right age. Without thought, I click on the profile. No other pics so couldn’t work out properly, but his bio read well. Thoughtfully written, hint of self deprecation, hint of something more than just a dick attached to body.
Just like on the bus, I stared and examined the one image I had. The way his neck line moved into his toned shoulders, the almost throwaway curve of his pec, his nipple cuddled in his golden auburn fur, a hint of hair from his arm pit … damn I was hard. That driven recognition of how my cock was responding, I lowered the front of my shorts, pulling the pouch of my jock to the side, moving my left hand to my balls whilst my right began the well worn routine of smearing my precum - which flowed down my heated shaft, lubing it with both my slickness and scent as I let my imagination build. Kissing his neck, inhaling his scent, tasting him, feeling his warmth, the urgency as we held onto one another as we both wanked our wet cocks together, coating each others pubes, shafts, tummies with our precum. Hands exploring, pressing, tugging, dragging. The scent of our musky bodies, sex and remnants of our morning showers, before groaning into each others mouths as we let our spunk fly - not caring where it went, but knowing it was marking each other as a sign of our lust.
I looked down, my hand still moving of its own accord, milking the last trickles of my load onto itself as I saw the trail of glistening lust coating and seeping into my furry stomach. My breathing, still slightly ragged, helping make my cum create a path through my fur before running away with itself down my side and onto the chair. As I sat myself up, licking my fingers clean whilst absentmindedly wiping up some of my load from my stomach, I glanced down at my phone to see an email in my sex gmail account. Even though I’m single, I have an account just for logging into the apps, websites etc so I don’t have to deal with the spam that usually throws up. I like to keep things in their box. I opened it and there it was. An alert. A wink. From the account I had just wanked over.
Still coming down from shooting my load, I looked over to the laptop and navigated back to the Home Screen. There it was. A wink. From Him. Well not Him, but him who’d helped me over the finishing line. I opened his profile again. Even in my post cum state I was fascinated by him. Yes, his chest was stunning, his writing measured and to the point. I checked the distance - and yes he was close by. I moved my cursor to the wink at the top of the screen and clicked. Done. Nothing will come of it. He’s not Him I’m certain and like countless blokes before, I’ve sent and received winks with little or no interaction. Logged out.
Bed. Tightness of my load against my skin as I moved myself under the sheet and drifted off - balls emptied, brain parked.
Friday. Usually a WFH (Wank From Home) day, so the routine of getting up usual time, cutting short lunch etc means I can clock off by 1pm and have a chance of a gym session without the crowds and an opportunity to make plans for either staying in town or going for an adventure.
Empty dishwasher, put on coffee, scratch balls, sniff fingers, check emails and any notifications before a shower is even considered. Radio on, coffee in one hand and phone in the other, sitting on the sofa checking on the work nonsense that had shat itself in my inbox … but there was a notification in my gmail account. My sex account. ‘It will probably be something useless, spam’, I said to myself as I opened the app as a distraction from dealing with another round robin email of why we should be using a particular font or line spacing in our forward facing comms or why it is important to be mindful of other peoples sensibilities when putting meat based lunches in the fridge. An alert. A message. From this site. From Him - again him.
I tapped it to see the content of the message without logging into the site, expecting it to be the usual ‘hi’, ‘how’s you’, ‘nice pics’ - the usual non committal opening lines. This wasn’t that. It was a fully formed, two paragraph piece - sentences, punctuation - the lot.
After a quick slurp of hot coffee, burning the roof of my mouth in the process which caused me to say ‘for fuck sake’ under my breath (not sure why when I was the only one in the room), I read it in full.
The two paragraphs were as measured as the writing on the profile. The first thanked me for returning the wink, the quality of the writing on my own profile and how he appreciated the time I had taken to paint a picture of who I am and what I am about.
The second outlined a little more about himself, more than on his profile - but guarded - nothing that could pin it directly to him, but something about the assured vulnerability of his writing, made me smile and absentmindedly wrap my free arm across my chest to grip my opposite shoulder … as if giving myself a hug from him.
I noted he wasn’t on line. Good. Gives me time to respond with a similar standard of message … something was making me feel like I had to show my best side. It felt weird but I wanted to impress this headless, sculpted auburn furred man and I felt I owed him an equal standard in return - after all he had helped me cum last night without knowing it.
I felt nervous as I began to type - not wanting to come across as an arsehole, giving him enough to continue to engage without giving him the whole show … do I send a pic? If so what? My face? Too soon. My cock? Seemed a bit odd. My chest was on my profile so couldn’t send that. How do I weave in I think his chest looks fit without looking like I’m desperate to just cum over it? I type. I edit. I mull. I click send. What the fuck is up with me?
Shower, work done and 1pm arrives fairly uneventfully . The odd glance at my phone and screen to see if anything comes, to see if he’s read it - nothing. Might as well carry on the same Friday routine, so grab my kit and go to the gym.
Usual crowd on a Friday - mainly committed gym goers, the odd twunk taking thirst traps in the mirror so I get on with my routine until it’s done. Sauna and steam and I can legit get a beer or three on the way home to help plan the days ahead.
Locker room is fairly quiet as I pull off my sweat coated kit - my vest sticking to my torso, my shorts giving the appearance I’ve pissed myself. I peel off my jock and stand - enjoying the coolness against my wet skin whilst I rummage in my bag for my trunks. My dick, resting on top of my balls, foreskin slightly pulled back revealing a mixture of sweat and pre - enjoying the air. Pushing my bag and gear back into the locker - locking it - I turn to make my way to the sauna / steam.
The heat, both dry and wet do their work and I let my mind wander to Him well him. |
