GBL 1/GBL 1.iso/gay_text/marty.txt

Text File | 1992-10-15 | 16.0 KB | 279 lines

MARTY'S UNDERWEAR by Zipper Bird

"Come here a minute you," he said, motioning frantically for me
to come to him. I remember the look of excitement in Marty's eyes
as he called me over, grinning, as if he'd discovered something
spectacular, like a giant golden nugget shining at the bottom of
a stream. I was fourteen, a high school freshman, and in Marty's
gym class. He was my gym teacher, fresh out of college, and there
was something about him that made me want to make him like me
from the first day of class. I didn't know what it was at first.
I just liked everything about him, from his handsome face to his
rich masculine voice. He moved with the grace of a cat and just
watching him walk across the gym stirred me with an inchoate
longing. After a month of basketball in gym class -- where I was
invariably one of the last picked when teams were chosen, and
spent the class on the sidelines talking about things like the H-
bomb with the brighter and less coordinated kids in the class --
it was my chance to get Marty's attention.

I stood in front of him, in my basketball sneakers and regulation
gym clothes, panting and sweating, my slender body bent over
gasping for air from having just run four times around the track,
a mile in all, in four minutes, thirty-eight seconds. Marty stood
staring at his stop watch and then held it to his ear, clicking
the start/stop button several times to make sure it was working.
Most of the class was well over a lap behind me, including a few
basketball jocks who had jeered me the week before for not having
come near the ball when I finally did make it on the court to
play.

"What's your name?" Marty asked me, as if it were of vital
importance. "Larry, but my friends call me Lightning -- Light for
short" I said, just beginning to catch my breath. "Light, as in
faster-than-the-speed-of," he said, confirming the nickname I got
in the neighborhood for being able to outrun everybody, and the
fact that I ran everywhere, even to the store. "Come here Light"
Marty said, as he stepped up to me and hugged my body to his, the
side of my face crushing against the metal whistle that hung on a
silver chain around his strong neck. He rubbed my hair
vigorously, like I was a fox terrier. I hated when my relatives
did that but it was different when Marty did it. I smelled his
body, as my nose brushed against the black hair on his chest
which ran high up and shown at the open neck of his shirt. "I'm
going to make a star out of you," he said.

In Junior High, my parents didn't let me join the track team
because they said my metabolism was too high and that I wasn't
eating enough to compensate for it. If I burned off any more
calories by running track, they said, I'd weigh a hundred pounds
when I graduated from high school. But, they let me join the
cross-country team in high school after I pleaded, and Marty
talked to my father on the phone. On the four days of the week I
trained, I did a lot less running around the neighborhood and I
began to put on some weight during an adolescent growth spurt
that added several inches and pounds to my then 5'4" ninety-five
pound frame.

There were only five guys on the high school cross-country team.
In after-school practice, Marty ran along with us -- he'd been a
miler in college but told us he wasn't built for it, and had
never been very good. His legs were too muscular, he said. I
thought his legs and his whole muscular body were beautiful.
Maybe he didn't have an ideal "runner's body" but to me, it was
an ideal body for a man. He showered with us after work-outs and
seemed self-conscious, but a little proud too, of being so hairy.
Even before I saw him in the shower for the first time, I
remember finding his crotch alluring, the way it strained at the
fabric of his shorts. It was an area of drama and mystery at the
top of two strong, hairy legs. In the shower, I noticed that it
was his balls that were unusually large, which accounted for its
bulky appearance in his shorts. His dick was of moderate
proportion. What I liked most was the thick bush of public hair
that ran right up his chest. My own hair was just starting to
come in, and I prayed that I'd grow a quarter of what Marty had.
I had daydreams about Marty in his gym shorts, walking up to me,
letting me feel his legs and bury my face in his crotch.

There was a marked contrast in his personality during cross-
country practice compared with the way he acted in gym class. He
was much quieter on our runs, preferring to enjoy the scenery, as
he ran along with us, or give a few individually tailored
pointers on running style, and sometimes he talked about running
in a philosophical sense -- how it related to life. Gym class
required that he maintain discipline by adopting a military
demeanor, but you could tell he wasn't the kind of rigid person
that gets off on giving orders, and was doing it because the
other teachers probably told him it was the only way a teacher in
his first year could act, unless he wanted to be cannibalized by
the students. After a few months I got to know him well enough to
tease him a little about his drill sergeant act in gym class, not
in front of other students of course. He took my jibes well.
Sometimes it was only a fleeting exchange of glances between us,
an understanding that people who are close to each other develop
after a while, but I could tell he liked me and understood me,
even if I didn't understand myself at the time.

Since there were only five guys on the cross-country team, Marty
drove us to out-of-town meets in his own car, an old '63 Pontiac
GTO. I always sat in front next to Marty, on the hump, because I
was the smallest, but I really liked sitting there just to be
next to him. The sight of his hairy muscular arms on the steering
wheel gave me a sense of security. When we went around curves,
our sides and legs would often touch. This physical contact,
which he probably didn't even notice, was kindling the fires of a
passion like I've never known since. By my sophomore, I started
jerking off regularly and the only person I could think of was
Marty. He was driving me insane and if I hadn't had running to
keep my emotions leveled out, I probably would have killed myself
or gone mad.

Marty was married. His wife came to some of the local meets,
always carrying a book with her to read. She wore thick glasses
and looked intellectual. She was an odd wife for a gym teacher,
but Marty wasn't your average gym teacher. He probably picked her
because she had brains.

In my junior year, the State finals were held in Fredonia, a
small town to the south of Buffalo. I was the only guy from
Vestal to qualify and Marty called my parents about driving me to
Fredonia, and spending a night over in a hotel since the 5 hour
drive back to Vestal would be too much to repeat in one day. My
father liked Marty a lot, and thought he was a good influence on
me. He used to say, "Marty is a real man's man."

I didn't fulfill the early promise I showed of becoming a star
marathoner. For one thing, I didn't have the drive to push myself
to extremes in training. Marty could see this. I enjoyed running
and Marty was instrumental in teaching me the ethic of running
for fitness, both mental and physical, not just to win. When I
crossed the course finish line in 6th place at the State finals
in Fredonia, Marty put his arm around my shoulder and said
"Light, you did just fine, now lets go eat." I wonder if he knew
then, that his wisdom about not pushing me too early would one
day pay off. Three years later, I had another 6th place finish,
in the Boston Marathon.

After taking a shower at the hosting high school, Marty drove us
to a diner. "You'll never guess what I majored in, at first, in
college," he said as he raised a fork full of salad to his open
mouth, showing his white, straight teeth. I assumed that he'd
gone to college majoring in phys ed and I couldn't even guess at
anything else. "Philosophy!" he said, laughing, "but then I
switched to phys ed." He related the personal story of his
transmogrification from budding philosopher to jock, and then
sighed, and stared into space as he said something about having
become a philosophical athlete anyway, and that he was glad he
spent his first two years of college at Brockport outside the
phys ed department. His talk about college years received my rapt
attention and he talked about other personal things too, just as
he would to a friend. It was the first time I was with him
completely alone, without other runners, and he seemed to like
being with me as much as I did him.

Twilight approached as we arrived back at the motel, The
Bluebird, it was called. The small room, which rented for $12 a
night, featured a black tiled bathroom and a B&W television with
only one rabbit ear. However, it was clean and to be with Marty
alone anywhere, even in the city dump, would be better than a
suite at the Plaza with my family, as far as I was concerned. As
soon as we got back to the room, Marty put on his sweat pants and
headed out for a quick run and I turned on the TV to distract
myself, while awaiting his return. I couldn't very well go along
with him since I'd just finished a ten mile race. "Gilligan's
Island" wasn't coming in very well on the TV, with one of the
rabbit ears missing, so after a few minutes I turned it off and
started pacing around the room. Marty's gym bag sat on a chair
near one of the beds, and on the back of the chair were his
clothes that he'd removed a few minutes before, before going out
on his run. I touched his red sport shirt, feeling under the arms
which were slightly moist, and then put my fingers to my nostrils
to breathe in the aromatic smell that was Marty. I picked up his
brown leather belt, running my fingers over its gold belt buckle,
and then trying it on for size, pretending it was Marty wrapped
around me. On the floor, just hidden by the bedspread, he'd
tossed his dirty underwear when he changed into his jock strap.
There they were, white Fruit of the Looms, blue stripe on the
waist band. I picked them up like I was handling a sacred object.
A few of Marty's pubic hairs clung to the cotton inner pouch and
I brought his underwear to my face and breathed in deeply, trying
to imagine his big balls and warm genitals and that mass of thick
dark hair caressing my face. I wanted to jerk off right then with
his underwear on my face, and I felt that if I had a hundred
dollars, and they were up for auction, I'd gladly have paid that
much for them. Since he said he was coming back in a few minutes,
I resisted the impulse to jerk off, but thought I had to keep
them as a souvenir, thinking Marty probably wouldn't even miss
them, reasoning that he was careless enough to toss them under
his bed in the first place. At the same time, I was feeling
perverted for stealing his underwear, but I took the chance. I
put them in my gym bag, wrapping them inside one of the extra T-
shirts my mother packed.

I turned the TV back on and pretended to be absorbed in
"Gilligan's Island" when he came back in the room and headed for
the bathroom to take a shower. The door to the bathroom opened
and the whole room filled with the warm steamy smell of Marty. He
emerged, a white towel wrapped around his waist, and stood at the
bathroom door with his hand on his hip, his eyebrows furrowed in
thought. First he moved toward the chair beside his bed then
looked around on the floor. He said "You know, that's funny, I
forgot to bring a clean pair of underwear, and I can't seem to
find the pair I took off before I went running." I tried to look
casual but I felt as though I were strapped in an electric chair
and the switch was about to be thrown. He got down on his hands
and knees and started looking under the bed. I grabbed my gym bag
and headed into the bathroom quickly, shutting the door behind
me. After flushing the toilet, having pretended I urinated, I
came out holding his underwear in my hand and tossed them to him,
trying to control my voice as I said "here they are, you must've
left them in the bathroom."

He smiled and put them on. I turned the TV to an even fuzzier
channel and noticed that Marty was not getting dressed further,
he just sat in his underwear as if in deep thought over
something. Finally he said "you took my underwear didn't you," in
a flat voice, and I looked at him in mock surprise, trying to act
as though the accusation was outrageous. I knew I couldn't lie.
He'd figured it out some how and there was no use lying. After a
pause I said "yes," as the skin on my face turned into a burning
blush. He could see that I was embarrassed and he didn't want to
prolong my agony. "Well, it's one mystery you won't see solved on
Perry Mason, The Case of the Missing Underwear," he said,
laughing lightly. I was slightly relieved to see he was reacting
well but still felt like the switch had been thrown on my
electric chair. He acted like he was almost pleased, but with ten
thousand volts of electricity coursing through my body, I was
hardly aware of his reaction.

Marty jumped up from his bed, turned off the TV, and stood facing
me wearing only his underwear. I couldn't look at his face. I
turned my head to the side and looked down at the bed. "Aw, come
on Light, it's no big thing" he said as I felt his big paw on my
shoulder. "If it matters to you, I feel the same way about you"
he said in a softer voice, in a manner that allowed me to look up
at him. I felt that I might be dead or dreaming, but the look in
his eyes told me he meant what he said and that he was really
there. Tears came pouring silently out of my eyes. "Aw, come on
Light, don't cry" he said softly, as he drew me into his arms and
put his face right up to mine, and licked at my tears with his
tongue, like a dog might. Dreamlike, I opened my mouth and kissed
him, sucking at his mouth like it was a nipple. I could feel his
hardon pressing on my leg as we lay back on the bed, and my own
cock sprang to attention with a consuming lust. He kissed and
licked me all over, as he undressed me and took off his
underwear. As he bent his knees, I put my face in his thick
public hair and breathed in, while feeling with my hands around
his chest and thighs. I let my lips touch his balls and then
tasted them, licking them slowly as I let my tongue glide up the
shaft of his hard dick. As I took his knob into my mouth he
moaned with pleasure and positioned me so we could both suck at
the same time. I came once, and during the next few hours, came
four more times, each time as intense as the previous one. Being
initiated into sex this way cast away all previous doubts I had
about my sexual orientation.

From the exhaustion of sex and running, we fell asleep in each
other's arms, and I woke up to see him propped on one elbow, his
face a few inches from my own. "Did I ever tell you, you are
beautiful" he said, as he touched my forehead and played with a
shock of hair that always managed to stand on end. His comment
about my beauty sounds cliche now, but even the most hackneyed
phrase can take on extraordinary dimensions when said with
sincerity. What I just wrote about hackneyed phrases taking on
extraordinary dimensions may sound cliche but what's new under
the sun when it comes to the nature of human experience anyway.

We made love again, and headed for breakfast. When we got back to
the room, we gathered our things together and I took a long look
at the bed where "it" happened, and shut the door. Sliding into
the front seat of his car, he handed me a small brown bag.
"Here's a present for you to remember our trip by." Inside were
his underwear, the one and only pair used to wipe his semen off
me the night before. "If it hadn't been for these, we might have
never found each other" he said, as he pulled the car out of the
motel lot.

THE END