Narcissus dreams of fucking himself

Hairy men look like real men who have more important things to think about than waxing their ball-bags. That’s pretty much Amine’s philosophy. OK, he’s a muscular 28-year old Algerian guy with a V-shape torso that displays a thick black rug. Amine goes to the gym, pumping iron five times a week and triggering compliments on his firm biceps et sculpted six-pack. 

No one knows that Amine is gay for the simple reason that homosexuality is prohibited by law in Algeria, and that the prevailing social attitude towards gays is openly negative, even violent. He has had sex with a few women, but never found the experience to be entirely fulfilling, pun intended.

Amine dreams of kissing a man with a beard, of sucking a dick as thick as his own weapon. In fact, his fantasy consists of having sex with a lookalike, not to say with himself. He is the incarnation of Narcissus. Like the Greek hunter from Thespiae in Boeotia, Amine has a fixation on his own striking beauty, on his physical appearance, especially on his great ASSets.

One day, he meets Omar, a 25-year old trainer in the gym. Same height (6’1 or 2”), roughly the same weight (195-6 lbs). They work out together and Amine can almost smell the furry pecs of the trainer on the bench-press. He believes that hairiness helps to increase the sexy scent of a man. When they take a shower at the same time, each at opposite ends of the tiled floor, Amine admires Omar’s firm butt. To some degree, the young trainer looks like Joe Manganiello… without a beard.

- Do you want me to rub your back with soap? asks Amine.
- That what be great, put a bit of pressure, like in a massage.
- OK, you can reciprocate after, my friend.

The touching is firm but not erotic… yet. Both feel that the massage is done with a certain restraint. The two gym buddies however have a chance to glance at each other’s crotch. A real mirror image: circumcised cock, 9,5 cm at rest, tight dumbbells, short dark pubic hair.

In the locker room, Amine offers to dry Omar’s back and nonchalantly slides his hands on the trainer’s furry pecs

- You sure are a Mister Muscle, a real virile man. That’s what I want to become.
- I think you are already there, Amine, and you love what’s in front of you. Am I right, Narcissus?
- What do you mean? I don’t understand the word narcis…
- Narcissus, a hunter in a Greek legend. You are hunting for a lookalike man.
- Too bad you don’t have a beard, Omar.
- In three weeks, I will be your reflection in the pool, not a mere white flower!

Omar and Amine meet regularly for gym practice, always getting closer but never to grab each other firmly, barely to engage in a discreet frottage. Hints while dressing or undressing in the locker room has finished by paying off. Both now wear a sleeveless yellow t-shirt, a white jockstrap, black speedo shorts, red Nike running shoes… and a short black beard. Narcisse near the pool.

They both wait until every one has left the locker room before heading for the showers, their manhood deliciously blooming to almost 17 cm. If you had been there, dear reader, you would have imagined a solo choreography in front of a mirror. The result? Two identical twins kissing tenderly, squeezing each other’s butt, caressing a black velvet torso, pressing a blood pudding... until D-Day.

The battle ground is the clean wet tile floor acting as the legendary Narcissus pool. Amine can finally suck a dick as long and thick as his own joystick. He can bite an incarnation of his round butt. He can rim a perfect image of his rose bud. He can give a golden shower to a look alike face. He can fuck himself forever and ever!

Omar is now a shadow of Narcissus, strung up from head to toe, a puppet, his puppet, dancing to the tune of his vanity and to the beat of his narcissism, always and constantly hypnotized. It reminds me that the Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote that a man can be encircled by a pair of arms like a clam shell “while forever he endures the outrage of his too pure image…”