I was raised in a small French-Canadian town. My mother ordered my clothes from the Eaton catalogue. The first time I jerked off, in the 1960s, I focused on the pic of a guy in white underwear, as illustrated in the catalogue. The front pic did not show the outline of his cock but the back pic highlighted a nice peachy ass. I imagined myself caressing, fun-spanking, kissing and even biting it. At the time, I had no idea that you could stick your tongue in a man’s shit hole. I did not know that the verb to rim existed.
At 18, I discovered the jockstrap, a gear that we had to wear to hold a cup protecting our genitals from the puck fired by a hockey player or from the slam of a stick. In the locker room, after a quick shower, my friend Tony put on a different jockstrap, without a cup; it had a stretchy white pouch. He turned around to show me how this gear held his hairy balls and thick dick in a very arousing way. I wanted one. I dreamed of frotting with Tony, getting hard and jerking off with a guy. I’m sure he knew what was on my mind because he told me where to buy one.
Tony, as you have already guessed, was the first guy with whom I had a sexual contact. We both loved man-to-man contact. We both had never seen a naked woman, had no interest in dating a girl. We both enjoyed sniffing each other’s jockstrap pouch, biting the growing shaft to end up sucking in a 60 position. Tony introduced me to rimming, and we had the best time sitting on each other’s face, tongue-twisting our way into a clean tasty rosebud. He invited me to kiss him on the ass hole and on the lips, back & forth. Holy fuck! That was so fucking tasty! Every guy I met later on had to let me eat his ass.
Now in my 70s, I live in a seniors’ residence in downtown Toronto, just across the St. Lawrence Community & Recreation Centre. I do a 30-minute stationary bicycling session every morning. While peddling, I usually read a novel or a collection of short stories, underlining the sentences that strike me and that I will want to highlight in my book review for Toronto’s French-language weekly paper L’Express. The locker room has urinals, toilets, dryers for the hands and a shower area with four spray gears. One toilet is larger and equipped with bars for physically handicapped men. In the hallway leading to the shower and to the larger toilet stand, there is an air blower about 5 feet above the ground to dry your body.
Bicycling for 30 minutes usually makes me want to shit. I always use the larger toilet stand. Once, coming out of it, I noticed a heavy black guy drying himself under the air blower. His huge butt caught my attention and I couldn’t resist congratulating him on perfect chocolate cakes. I took a chance on caressing his butt. He smiled and whispered: “Would you like to taste them?” On that note, we headed for the larger toilet stand; I sat down and he positioned himself so that I could kiss, bite, lick and rim his mammoth offering. He moaned with pleasure. When I tried to kiss him, he said: “Sorry, I’m married and only kiss my wife.”
The community gym has its regular members, some into weight lifting at one end, others into treadmill or bicycling at the other end. Last week, a new member entered the gym; I couldn’t keep my eyes off him: 5’6” tall, roughly 130 lbs, around 18-20 years-old, slim, short auburn hair, greenish eyes, smooth clean face. After 10 minutes of warm-up on the treadmill, he sat at the leg-press machine for a five-minute period, and then took place on the stationary bike next to mine.
“Hi, my name is Pavle. I’m originally from Croatia. I recently moved to Canada and got a job at the Royal York Hotel. I just discovered this gym.”
“Welcome to the St. Lawrence Community & Recreation Centre. I hope I will see you often. My name is Paul-François. I come here every morning around 10:30.”
The next day, we both enter the Centre at the same time. While heading to the gym, Pavle mentions that he likes to exercise with older men like me, adding what I interpret as a sweet cruising smile. After his workout, Pavle goes to the locker room. I follow him 6-7 minutes later. He is drying himself under the air blower, and I can admire his toned almost hairless body. A cute light fury trace leads to his crotch and inside his ass crack. We are alone in the locker room and as soon as he sees me approaching him, he embraces and kisses me passionately. I drag him to the large toilet stand for privacy in case some guy arrives. I quickly lick his long veiny dick, then switch him around to eat his cute little ass. “I live two blocks from here and would love to explore your divine body”, I promptly say. “That would be great, he replies; I love sexual contacts and can be naughty at times.”
In my apartment on the top floor of the seniors’ residence, overlooking Lake Ontario, we cuddle on the sofa, caress and kiss. I can feel his hard bulge, his desire to get naked and have man-to-man pleasures. We head for the bedroom, and Pavle kneels down to slide his slender hard rod between my hairy pecs while I massage his firm peachy butt. When he is ready to explode, my new Croatian partner shoves his dick in my mouth, making me gag, soon dripping with milky jizz. He licks it and we French-kiss.
“You seem to enjoy what we are doing, but how come your cock doesn’t get hard?”, he asks. I would love to feel you inside me.”
“Because of diabetes for almost 40 years, I now have erectile problems. But I adore tongue-fucking you, and I can shove one or two fingers in your ass hole.”
“Please do. Next time, I will bring my mammoth dildo and wear a leather jockstrap.”
On that note, Pavle and I became steady gym and bed partners.
