A Construction Worker

I saw him as I was parking my car. He was stumbling down the sidewalk, obviously drunk as a coot, but what caught my eye was his beautiful muscular back and shoulders, as he had his shirt off, a khaki-colored shirt slung over his right shoulder. He wore white jeans. A painter, perhaps, and his drunkenness certainly lent some credence to that theory. Painters have that reputation. But he looked more like a construction guy, with his muscular arms, trim waist, not an ounce of fat around his brown leather belt, and an ass that was nice and firm.

I guessed at his age: 32? No, maybe 35. I figured he had been drinking with his buddies after work and that he had simply drunk a little too much. Stumbling, weaving down the sidewalk, he was a sad and ridiculous figure. My heart went out to him. But I also couldn’t take my eyes off of him. I had caught a glimpse or two of his boyish face, and his hair was blonde and cut short. Cute. Cute as a button.

I kept hoping he would turn around. I had only seen his back. Did a hairy chest go with that cute face and tight body? I needed to know. I parked the car, and rather than cross the street immediately to the restaurant which was my dinner destination, I followed him a bit. I was about twenty feet behind him when he reached the corner and began crossing the street, oblivious to traffic. A car screeched to a halt, almost hitting him and he slammed his fist onto the hood and shouted at the driver, raising his right hand, third finger extended. I could just tell that the hair under his right armpit was thick, dark. And then, as if to mock the driver of the car, rather than move on across the street, he wheeled around drunkenly and turned toward the crowd sitting at outdoor tables at the restaurant across the street, raised his arms and took a bow in their direction, as if they were his audience.

I stopped in my tracks, and went weak in the knees. He had the thickest, most luscious hair on his chest and stomach that I had ever seen. It was curly in places, soft, very thick, a medium-brown veritable forest of hair running from his Adam’s apple to his crotch, extremely dense and inviting in the hairy center of his chest, spreading out across his pecs, thicker where it caressed them underneath, framing their musculature, blending into the long and thick and darker treasure trail running down and through the broader hairiness of his taut, muscular abs and groin. His jeans were slung low, and the dark hair of his crotch peeked above them to tantalize anyone who was looking. A few among his audience played along and broke into applause, causing him to smile . . . Oh what a great smile!. . . and to take another bow. Women stared adoringly, but so did a few of the men.

Meanwhile, I simply stood there and drooled as I felt my dick go hard. His arms were muscled, with the biceps and triceps that only hard work, and no gym, can so perfectly shape. His forearms were lightly, but darkly hairy, thick and curly at the wrists, and as a he held his arms up to take his theatric second bow, the thick, dense, curly and dark hair under his armpits made my tongue water. His skin was truly beautiful, just slightly tanned, more ruddy, pink, freckled and Irish-looking, his shoulders and arms just mildly sun-burned. He moved on, crossed the street, and the motorist honked his horn at him rudely. I heard a few boo’s from the crowd across the street, and the man, himself, flipped off the driver of the car one more time and shouted a very drunken-sounding “Fuck you!” in his direction as he drove off.. He almost fell down. But he managed to clear the high curb and stumble onto the next stretch of sidewalk. I was mesmerized and continued to follow him.

I could only wonder why such a beautiful man could be such a drunk. We all have problems. But, surely that body could get anything it wanted in life. And where the hell was he going? Surely he didn’t live nearby, downtown; too expensive. And I worried, too, that he might be trying to get to his car, parked somewhere further on. It would be a vast understatement to say that he was in no shape to get behind the wheel. We happened to be near the courthouse and just down the street from the city jail. I saw a policeman crossing the street, toward him. The drunken man turned toward him in an irritated voice and said, “Oh man, I’m alright. Leave me alone. I’m O.K.”

The policeman, tall, large, with powerful hairy arms and huge biceps stretching the fabric of his short-sleeved uniform, replied curtly, “The hell you are.” He grabbed the man by the arm and led him over to the wall of a building and stood him up against it to talk to him. . .and, I surmised, partly to keep him from falling down. As his left arm held the man’s shoulder, his right hand pressed flat against the center of the man’s hairy chest as he held him up. He kept it there as he talked to him. It looked to me like he was copping a feel (no pun intended). The man would not tell the officer where he was going. I suppose he didn’t want to tell him he was going to his car. And I heard the officer say to him, “You can’t stumble around town like this. I’m going to have to run you in.”

I had stopped at a distance, but on hearing those words, something in me forced me to approach them. I was dressed in a suit, coming from work, a distinguished-looking 44-year old banker, who must have looked like a solid citizen to the cop. He looked at me as I approached . . . twice . . . the second glance revealing a brief moment of that “come hither” look of sexual attraction that I know all too well. The cop had to be gay. And I am not bad to look at, frankly; a rugged, handsome face, brownish blonde hair, no gray yet. My moderately hairy chest and arms weren’t visible under my tan suit, but my heavy five o’clock shadow and hairy wrists and backs of my hands do give me away. And, of course, the bulge underneath my trousers was still there. As I came closer, I couldn’t believe just how utterly and breathtakingly beautiful the drunken man was. His chest hair was luscious, profusely thick. The cop’s fingers were lost in it. And he was unshaven, scruffy, his face rendering him a slightly aging beach boy ready for the cover of any surfer magazine.

“Look, officer. I know this man.” I lied. “He’s working on the construction site my bank is financing right down the street. He comes into the bank with his paycheck every Friday; looks like he spent it on a few too many beers this time.”

The officer mumbled something under his breath and the gorgeous, hairy drunken man just stared at me, having enough of his wits about him to keep his mouth shut. “What’s your name, again, buddy?” I acted as if I had spoken with him before. “Scott,” he replied. “That’s right, ‘Scott,’ I remember now.” My lies tumbled out of my mouth, one after another. “I’ll get this poor soul home, officer. My car is right here.” I gestured in its direction.

The policeman kept his hand on the man’s chest. I could see his fingers caressing his chest hair, but he was looking at me. I looked, pleadingly, right back at him. “He’s got enough problems, don’t you think, officer. Why add legal bills, fines, jail costs? Just let me get him home.” Maybe it was my appeal. Or maybe it was the sexual power of the moment. But the officer let him go. “Alright, he said. But you walk back and get your car, drive it up here.” I did. And when I pulled up to the curb, the officer still had the man up against the wall, his hand still on the man’s hairy chest.

I got out, opened the door on the passenger side of my new Volvo, and we both helped Scott to the car. “Thank you, officer,” I said. And I hopped in the car and drove off. Oh my God! What had I just done? I heard a slurred, drunken “Thanks man,” from Scott, who immediately slumped over onto my shoulder and seemed to pass out. With my left hand on the wheel, I put my right arm around him to hold him in place, and tossed his shirt in the back with my suit jacket, which I had slipped off. His shoulder was broad, muscular, warm from the sun, and I lovingly placed my hand on his head and pulled it to my shoulder. I kept my hand there, and ever so delicately ran the backs of my fingers against the scruffy unshaven stubble of his face. He was out. Not a sound. I ran my hand down over his shoulder and down onto the right-hand side of his hairy chest. Oh! So soft! Thick! Billowing out from his beautiful skin! I couldn’t wait to get him home!

Wait! What the hell was I doing? Home!? To do what? The guy is passed out. I’m not going to take advantage of a drunk. And, anyway, he’s probably straight as an arrow. But, I didn’t know what else to do. I took him home. It wasn’t far. After pulling into the garage, I woke him up and walked around to his side of the car and helped him out, and into the house. My left arm was around his waist, my right hand steadying him as we climbed the few steps from the garage to the kitchen, feeling his hairy chest and abs as much as I dared. He was awake, after all, if barely able to hold his head up. I took one look at the sofa in the living room and thought, no, give him a bed to sleep it off. The guest room was upstairs, so I just walked him into my own bedroom and put him to bed.

“Scott, here’s a place to sleep it off, buddy,” I said innocently as he sat on the edge of the bed. He moaned something incoherently and sat there as I knelt down and removed his shoes and socks. When I stood up, I found that he had unbuckled his belt, unsnapped the closure, and unzipped his fly as if to remove his jeans. I was not going to do that to him. But he was doing it. I helped him stand, and he slid his jeans down his legs. I helped him step out of them. And then the real shock. He slipped off his white boxers and then fell back onto the bed.

His flaccid dick was huge in its soft state, long, and engulfed in the thickest, most profuse and bushy crotch hair you can imagine. The sight of it, with the luscious treasure trail above it seeming to invite my tongue on a journey, almost destroyed my resolve, but I steeled myself and pulled the covers up over him. Besides, I needed a drink. I first walked into the walk-in closet and climbed out of my suit, stripped down to my underwear, a pair of light blue boxers, and walked quietly past Scott where he slept and into my bathroom. I checked out my own hairy body in the mirror and whipped out my hard prick and stroked it for awhile, thinking about the hairy man in my bed. Then, I stopped, and walked to the kitchen and made myself a stiff one; vodka tonic, tall glass. I heard a moan from the bedroom. I walked in, and Scott still lay there, passed out, but he had pushed off some of the covers, and lay bare down to the edge of his groin. I had turned off the light, but there was plenty of moonlight streaming in through the windows, and the soft glow from a lamp still burning in the hallway. And so, I sat down in a chair near the bed and gazed upon his hairy, muscular body as I sipped my drink. I even found myself slipping off my boxers, sitting there in the nude, and slowly stroking the hard 7 inch length of my cock as I gazed upon him.

His chest hair must have billowed out an inch or more from his skin, and I had never seen bushier and thicker hair under a man’s armpits in my life. His scruffy face was angelic, and I licked my lips, so badly wanting to kiss him. The hairiness of his vascular, construction-man forearms captivated me. I sipped on my vodka tonic repeatedly as I eyed them. But what really drew me like a magnet to him was his thick, hairy treasure trail. Oh, how I wanted my tongue to follow it, slowly, agonizingly, until it reached its goal. The thought of my lips actually wrapping themselves around his beautiful prick caused me to gulp down my drink and walk to the kitchen to fix another.

I returned. He had not moved. It was getting on toward 10:00 at night and I needed to put myself to bed upstairs in the guest room, but I just sat there, still in the buff, gently stroking my cock, enjoying the warmth and bodily relaxation of my vodka, and staring at the gorgeous hairiness of this one real hunk of a man who was in my bed. As my gaze ran up and down his sleeping body, I noticed that the top sheet, where it was pulled over his groin, seemed to be slightly tented. I chuckled. My drink must have been a strong one, as I couldn’t resist. I moved over to the bed, sat my hairy naked butt down on the edge of it, and carefully pulled back the covers. His prick had stiffened in his sleep. Huge! Long, some 9" I guessed, and not too thick. It was my idea of perfect. I didn’t even think. I just reacted. His cock was so beautiful! I bent down slowly and kissed the tip of it. Just kissed it, softly, as I continued to stroke my own cock. And then I sat up, pulling the covers back up where I had so exposed him, placing my hand on his stomach, fingering the soft, thick hair of his treasure trail for a moment, and then whispering to him, “Goodnight, Scott. I’ll see you in the morning.”

As I stood up and turned to leave, my hand lingered momentarily where it had been caressing him, and as I looked toward the door and began to move toward it, I suddenly found my arm caught in the grip of two very strong hands. I wheeled around. “Don’t go!” I heard him say. “Stay!”

I couldn’t believe this was happening, but then, the whole evening had been a little unreal. I said, awkwardly, “You mean, you want me to . . . .” That was all I could get out before he said “Yes, stay! Here, with me. Stay with me.” He took my hand in his and brought it to his face and kissed it. I instinctively caressed his stubbled cheek and he took my hand in his again and placed it on his hairy chest. I kept it there, running my fingers through his gloriously thick and soft chest hair, and climbed into bed and lay next to him. He took my hand in his again and guided it gently under the covers and placed it on his stiff cock. I moaned, and caressed his cock like it was the most precious thing in the world, and he whispered in my ear, “Kiss me.” And so, I kissed him, persistently for half an hour it seems, and then licked my way down across his chest to that glorious treasure trail I had so admired. Licking every last hair of it and working my way down, ever so slowly but deliberately, to the beautiful base of his manhood at the other end. I must have sucked his cock for a long, long time, licking, sucking, a time or two brushing the slick, wet tip of it ever-so-gently against the stubble on my own unshaven face. He moaned, and jolted when I inserted a well-lubed finger into his ass as I sucked him, but he wasn’t just passive. He seemed to get over his “drunk” with each passing minute as he became more and more active and playful.

“What’s your name?” he asked me. “Nick,” I whispered into his ear, just before I licked my tongue across his coarse, wide and utterly sexy sideburn that he had so carefully groomed in the heavy stubble on that side of his face. I licked his scruffy face all over and found myself devouring his hairy body all over with my lips. “I’ve never slept with a man, before, Nick.” He said it softly. “But I guess I have always wanted to. I am glad it was you.”

I paused at that adorable comment, kissed him again, and said, “Roll over and get on top of me.” Scott complied, and guessed at what I wanted. He did push-ups over me and brushed his thick soft chest hair repeatedly against my face as I caressed his taught, muscled and hairy arms. Occasionally he collapsed his hairy body onto mine and we rubbed our hairy chests against one another as he took one hand and rubbed our cocks together. I reached into a drawer and squirted some lube into his hand. Then I wrapped my legs around him as he playfully poked his stiff prick at my asshole, teasing it. That drove me mad and I told him to turn around.

“What do you mean?” he asked, innocently. I said, “Just stay on top of me but turn around.” He did. And he seemed to think what I wanted was his mouth on my cock. I did. But, I wanted something else far more. His profusely hairy ass crack was now hovering over my face, and I guided it down to my lips, and to my tongue. With one well-lubed hand stroking his huge cock, my tongue licked up and down the full length of his hairy crack, darting each time into Scott’s quivering asshole, over and over and over again as I feasted on his hairy ass for half an hour or more.

“OOOOhhhhhhhhhh!!!” he moaned. “I have never felt anything so wonderful in my life!” And, as if to repay me, his strong muscular and agile body soon flipped me over and had our positions reversed, except that I was face down on the bed, with him licking my ass from behind. He licked my ass all over, the hairy backs of my legs, and darted now and then into my waiting hole with his tongue. Then, without any instruction from me, this novice to the joys of man-to-man sex surprised me by suddenly spreading my legs a bit more, slathering my hairy ass crack with lube, and playfully running his 9" pole up and down the length of it, teasing it, pressing the tip of his prick against my asshole with a little push each time. He was strong, and could keep it up forever, and he did. It went on and on. It was ecstasy. Tears welled up in my eyes. Finally, I looked over my shoulder and up at him, and I said, “Scott, fuck me! Fuck me now!”

“Like this?” he said? “No, I said.” And I rolled over onto my back, and reached up and caressed his scruffy face. I want to look at you. And I ran my fingers through his chest hair as he climbed into position over me. “Now fuck me, I said.” And I helped him out by lifting my legs over his shoulders. He applied some lube to his engorged, throbbing cock, and instinctively grabbed my ankles, held them in the air, pushed them back and lowered himself over me as much as he could, enough for me to play with his chest hair, tug on it a little. I said, “Go ahead, Scott. It’s okay; I want you. I want you more than I have ever wanted anyone.”

His well-lubed cock slid into my ass with ease--all 9 inches. As I said, it was perfect. Long, but not too thick. He pumped me with it slowly, lovingly, agonizingly, wonderfully. I moaned, writhed on the bed, looked lovingly into his eyes, caressed his hairy chest and arms, lovingly caressed his face while he fucked me, and lay there in an ecstasy I had never known. “Oh fuck me Scott!!! Harder!!! Fuck me good, man!!!” He picked up the pace, and shoved harder, drove his cock deeper. His stiff, swollen prick plunged repeatedly into my asshole like a fucking steam-driven piston. On and on and on and on and on! He was so strong! I didn’t want it to stop. “Fuck me, Scott! Fuck me harder!” And finally, about to pass out, I ran my hand across his hairy chest one last time, pinched one of his nipples really hard, tugged gently on his chest hair, and then reached up and caressed his face one last time.

His body stiffened and lurched, powerfully, almost lifting me off the bed with the ramrod of a 9" lever he had shoved up my ass, and let loose a bucket load of hot cum up into my hairy ass. He just kept cumming and cumming, stream after stream. I think I did pass out momentarily, but in that moment, my cock, which I had been stroking furiously with one hand, shot its wad all over my hairy lover’s chest.

He collapsed on top of me, his cock still inside me, where he kept it for a long time. He reached down to my cock, took a glob of my cum in his fingers, and brought it to his lips. Then he leaned down, and he kissed me. I tasted the sweetness of my own cum on his lips. His cock only half flaccid, he continued to pump me gently, slowly, as we talked.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” I replied.

“For saving my ass from the fucking cops, today, of course.”

I smiled, and said, “Well, I didn’t know this would happen.” He pulled slowly, wonderfully, out of my ass and briefly lifted my legs, pushed them back real hard and lowered his face to my ass crack, slurping up a mouthful of his own cum as it dribbled out of my hairy asshole. Then, he kissed me again; a sloppy, warm, cum-filled kiss. You’d think he was an expert at this. I said, “Why were you so drunk, anyway? You always get that plastered?”

He blushed and said, “No, I was depressed.”

I pulled him down next to me, lay there caressing his hairy body, taking my hand and gently caressing the cock which had just fucked me so lovingly, and I said, “Why were you depressed?”

Tears came to his eyes. “I have fucked some women,” he said, “but I never got married you know. And I have never been with a man. And today . . .” he hesitated, almost cried, “today I saw this really, really good-lookin’ man on the street, and I followed him, wanted to strike up a conversation with him, meet him, have a beer with him maybe, and he turned down an alley and went into a gay bar.”

I looked up at him lovingly and said, “So what?” He looked down at me through his tears and said, “Don’t you understand? I couldn’t! I couldn’t make myself go into a place like that! I was scared! I couldn’t do it! I have been so fuckin’ confused and alone, but I couldn’t do it! I just couldn’t do it! So I just went off and got drunk, really drunk.”

I chuckled and said, “You sure did. But, everything’s okay now, Scott. SSssshhhhh!!” He was sobbing as he collapsed into my arms, and I held him tight, safe, and brushed my fingers lovingly though the blonde hair on his head, and rocked him in my arms like a baby. I thought back to the coming out traumas of my own life, and to those of so many gay men, and then looked at him and brushed the tears from his eyes. I kissed him.

He looked up at me and said, “My life is such a mess. I don’t like my job much. The guys I work with . . . they don’t understand. They could never understand. And it don’t pay enough anyway. And I gotta find me a new place to live when my rent is up, soon.”

I just gave him another “SSssshhhhhh!!!” and rocked my strong hairy man in my arms, and said, “Well, how convenient. It just so happens, I need a roommate. Stay here with me, Scott. Stay here.” I pulled the covers up over us, nestled my face into the hairy center of Scott’s chest, and we fell asleep, safe in each other’s arms.