Written by nicensteady

Gay
28 Jun 2009


Having had about 30 years experience of man on man action I have hundreds of stories to tell of my adventures. I have wrote some of them down in the past but never really taken the time to write how it all began. This will be an epic task and will offer many, many stories over the coming months some of which you will enjoy and some of which you may not. Some will be erotic and some will just explain one of the many steps that have got me to where I am now. In any case I hope that you enjoy them, pass comment and continue to follow them. I hope that some of the stories will help people to come to terms with their own sexuality and answer some of the questions that I had as a youngster growing up without any one to advise and no positive role models to base myself on.

I suppose the very first time I showed any interest in the same sex was when my mum borrowed a mail order catalogue from a friend of hers. Mum had gone to work and it was the six week holidays. Being poorer than my mates most of them were on holiday and I was left at home bored. Thumbing through the catalogue I came to the men’s under wear section and that was the first time I had any interest in the contents of the catalogue, I had even thumbed through the ladies section without even registering what was on the pages. The men’s section was a different story however. I can’t say that I got hard, I don’t remember. But I do remember being suddenly very interested in most of the following pages. Even the pyjamas section had a fascination for me.

Continuing to examine the book I eventually stumbled upon the fitness and exercise section. Seeing all those perfectly formed men semi naked had a huge fascination for me. I remember looking at their packets, more out of curiosity than sexual excitement. I don’t think I ever imagined myself having sex with them I just wanted to look at them, over and over again! I would eventually work my way backwards to the pyjama section and imagine myself snuggled up in bed with one of the models in the paisley pyjamas cuddling me from behind. One of the models in particular was resting his forearm on his leg which exposed part of his wrist which I remember clearly was lean, tanned, hairy and had huge veins. I was fascinated by that arm and when laid in bed each night would imagine it wrapped around me as I slowly fell asleep each night. My preference for hairy men probably stems from that early time and I am still a sucker for hairy arms and stubbly chins.

My mum was rather posh and a bit old fashioned, having me later in life meant that my brothers had grown up and left home before I hit puberty and my dad left home when I was three. It is for this reason that I had no male influence in my early life, maybe it explains some of the cravings that I had for masculine company.

When I entered secondary school I remember dreading my first day, having heard all the stories about getting your head flushed down the bogs, getting beaten up every day etc, etc. To my amazement my first day was fine. I buddied up with a lad called Steve. He was far more street wise than me and very attractive, not in a conventional way there was just something very hot about him. He knew dozens of dirty jokes and he smoked like a mill chimney. I guess he was a bloke in a lad’s body and that was the attraction I suppose. I learnt as much as I could from him and used my talent for comedy to keep him close by my side, partly because he was tough and would stop anyone from flushing my head down the bog and partly because he was like a drug to me. I couldn’t get enough of his company and I hung on his every word and watched his every movement wide eyed.

He had an older brother who was part of a large gang. Every Friday night they would have parties at his house while his parents were out. I remember witnessing one of the parties one night and being shocked at how wild they were. Steve had another mate who went to a different school to us Richard and Steve had been mates for years and lived in a tiny village at the top of the hill from my own home. I remember sitting on the wall outside Steve’s house one Friday night in the middle of summer at about half nine. Steve’s brother’s mates had been in the park for a few hours drinking large bottles of Newcastle Brown or “Newcy Brawn” as they called it. Eventually Steve’s mum and dad went out and the party began.


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