Can’t Get No

Tyler was achingly beautiful, his facial features blond and ruggedly handsome, his muscles with the perfect definition that only long hours in the gym brought, curly down on his chest descending to trimmed and shaped pubes and a nicely plump cock and balls. Scott was lucky to have him. Tyler was probably the most popular guy at the small “jock’s” prep school they attended, using their first two years of college to improve their grades enough to enter a university with academic qualifications to meet their athletic prowess. Scott was a swimmer. Tyler was tops at any sport he wanted to be. He was working lacrosse and tennis now. He said, only half jokingly, that he didn’t want to mess up his face with sports not protecting it better lest his commercial worth was diminished when he went pro.

Any other guy saying something like that would draw a derisive laugh, but when Tyler said it, everyone took him seriously. All of the guys who wanted guys wanted Tyler.

But Scott had him.

Sort of.

Scott lay there, awake, most of the night, fretting and frustrated. They’d been together for a year, a year tomorrow—or today, he thought, as he turned and looked at the luminous dial of his nightstand clock.

As the fingers of light stole through the broken slats of the blinds on the bedroom window, Scott turned toward Tyler again. The young blond god’s privates were captured in a shaft of light, and Scott couldn’t resist sitting up and leaning over and sinking his lips over the shaft. He allowed his hands to wander, one to Tyler’s day-old whiskered chin, down along his pecs and belly, and the other between Tyler’s legs, cupping his balls and fondling them.