The Smell of a Man

I recall as if it was yesterday the moment when I realised that a man’s smell could be as overwhelmingly erotic as his look or touch. It was my first trip overseas and I had just turned twenty. Given that I am now in my late sixties and the memory has remained so vivid throughout the intervening years, you will understand how powerful the effect was on an inexperienced and somewhat naive young man.

I wasn’t exactly a virgin when I first left home to live for a year in England, but it was a close run thing. A rushed and thoroughly unsatisfying jerk-off with a stranger in my bedroom (my entire family elsewhere in the house, if I recall correctly), had resulted in an orgasm that came way too fast along with a sense of disappointment that the thing had been done so hastily, and with such a sense of guilt. I knew that I was gay, but I wanted the reality to be a whole lot better than that.

I had therefore determined that this formative year away from Australia would bring with it not only new sights and sounds and fresh perspectives, but a substantial development of my sexual life. I had not imagined, however, that this would begin less than halfway to London, during an unscheduled stopover in Asia, and involve a young man who had no idea of the effect he would have on me then, and all these years later.

Our plane had been forced to land in Kuala Lumpur and we had all been offloaded and transported to various hotels around that teeming, sweltering city, unsure of precisely when we would proceed with our scheduled flight. 

I was totally unprepared for the heat, or the crushing humidity, and judging by the complaints of the other passengers I was not alone in my discomfort. But I was young, and everything seemed new and fascinating, and I was able to approach this unexpected stopover with wide-eyed wonder. And my eyes got even wider when I met the man with whom I was to share my room! 

We’d been put up in one those vast, tourist hotels, and very happy to finally be out of that tropical furnace. My room was on something like the 25th floor, and looking out of the window the tall buildings of the city seemed to emerge from a vast, green jungle, quite magical.

I can’t now remember the name of my room-mate, and I may not even have heard it, so smitten was I on our first meeting. He was older than me, probably in his late-20s/early-30s, and one of those natural, good-looking  guys who carry their charms weightlessly. Already shy, I suspect I came across as idiotic, silenced as I was by my attraction to him.

Truth to tell, once we had sorted out the sleeping arrangements (he was bigger than me so I happily ceded the double bed), we had relatively little to do with each other during the day, and the nights were full of my fevered imaginings and his gentle breathing as he slept nearby. And yet he left me with an erotic gift that has never left me, and for which I will always be grateful. His smell.

He was delightfully unselfconscious physically (in a way I could only dream of), and would happily come out of the bathroom with only a towel draped loosely around his waist, threatening to fall at any moment. His body was well defined but not in that generic, gym-toned manner we seem inundated with today, and pleasantly hairy with smooth dark fur which I would gladly have played in for hours.

I was at pains to appear disinterested as he casually dressed himself, usually with his back to me, enabling me to revel in his beautiful, slightly hairy buttocks. I like to think that I once glimpsed his meaty cut cock, but this may only be a later embellished memory. Once dressed, he would disappear out the door, filling his days with who knows what adventures, and I would be left, a dribbling wreck.

It was the third and final day of our sojourn when he casually announced that he was going to spend the morning beside the pool, it being way too hot to even think about sightseeing. He’d gone into the bathroom to get ready, dressed only in the loose singlet and pair of red jocks he’d worn to bed, the same pair he’d been wearing during the day. When he reappeared he threw his dirty singlet and undies onto the top of his case before donning a pair of speedos and a clean singlet and heading out the door with his towel over his shoulder. The young Aussie Adonis.

Which left me alone with those redolent garments. Immediately I knew what I was going to do, a sort of primal urge took hold, and I had no intention of resisting. I waited a few minutes, even checking the corridor to ensure that he had indeed gone, before locking the door and picking up his singlet and jocks, still slightly moist from his warm, night body. 

I held the singlet up to my face and inhaled, tentatively at first, but then sucking in the musky male fragrance I had become so enamoured of over the last few days. My penis had become rock hard in my boxers, almost painful in its tautness, and it only required a slight adjustment to set it free. 

I positioned myself in front of the full length wall mirror and watched as the stranger I had become stroked his cock, pulling his foreskin back and forth over his engorged purple knob, his face masked by the sweat soaked singlet, the sound of his breathing heavy and intoxicated. 

As if in a panic I tore off my tee-shirt and pulled off my shorts, desperate to be naked with these loaded and erotic items. My senses were tingling, electric, as I slipped his singlet on, our bodies as close now as they would ever get, his smell covering my slender frame as if in an embrace. I looked down at the stained, red jocks I was still clenching, almost too scared to lift them to my face in case I should be overwhelmed.

Which I was, as soon as I pressed them to my nose and breathed in his cacophony of smells; piss, sweat, heat, and something deeper, richer. I almost staggered back as I was overtaken by the solidity of it, as if I was consuming him, or him me. 

The orgasm which exploded from my straining cock took me unawares, as if all of the pent up desire and frustration and longing of the past few days could no longer be contained. I don’t know how long I stood there, pumping the jizz from my cock, breathing scents I had never known before and yet seemed to have known forever, waiting for the waves of exquisite pleasure to subside.

As I finally let his jocks fall from my face I was exhausted and bewildered, the young man in the mirror gulping in air, his spent cock slowly softening, thick strands of cum swinging heavily from the loose foreskin that half covered his purple knob, an image of utter release.

All I really wanted to do at that moment was fall onto the bed and sleep the sleep of the satiated, but my cum was absolutely everywhere, the mirror, the carpet, even a small coffee table, the room seemed awash with my semen. And he could return at any moment.

I hurriedly, guiltily took off his singlet and replaced it with his jocks on top of his case, approximating as closely as I could the casual way he had tossed them there. Next came reams of toilet paper, practically half a roll, to mop up every bit of cum I could find; the mirror was the hardest, as it smeared rather than cleaned. 

Finally I staggered into the bathroom and washed myself clean, wondering who I would see when I next looked in the mirror. When I came out he was back in the room, searching for the book he’d been reading, keen to get back to the pool, unaware of the commotion he’d caused, the change he’d wrought.

That night we were herded back to the airport to resume our interrupted flight. We said hasty farewells and I didn’t see him again, not that we had anything to say to each other. But he is with me still, whenever the scent of a man fills my nostrils and causes my cock to twitch.