Manly musk is a must

by Paul François

12 Feb 2024 1065 readers Score 9.0 (20 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt

My father had hairy arms, legs and chest. I never saw him naked, so I don’t know if he had a hairy ass. There was one time when he was taking a nap, wearing only his boxer shorts, that I saw his testicles, huge and very hairy. I liked it a lot and hoped that mine would grown like that. I was about ten years-old at the time. When I became a full-blown teenager, my balls were very hairy, but looked like nuts rather than lemons. My attraction to hairy guys probably started when I was a teenager.

They say that hairiness helps to increase the sexy scent of a man and the desire for him. The virile aroma that emanates from a guy seems higher if he is hairier. Some studies indicate that more that 40% of homosexuals sniff out a man’s body before deciding if he’s right for a crush, for intimacy or just for fucking. There is a theory (or maybe a rumor) that very hairy men make hot tops. I’m not a bottom in the sense that I like to take the lead when it comes to sexual fooling around.

The gay community is known for classifying men into categories such as jock or butch, queen or swishy, bear or otter. Bears are usually men that are 30 years-old and above with a broad, heavier build. They are often larger guys with a bit of extra weight. As the name may suggest, these men are typically very hairy and often have a beard. Otters are the same as bears but they tend to be younger and leaner.

For me, manly musk is a must. Testosterone produces an aromatic chemical that enables hair on the chest, the armpits, the genitalia, and the ass crack to trap the virile odors and even to strengthen them, which is basically a way of saying “I am a man”. I have never been attracted to guys who shave their body; they look too effeminate, and virility is what turns me on.

In 1967, Canada celebrated the 100th anniversary of Confederation (the union of provinces). I was in my third year at Ottawa University and, to mark this event, I decided the grow a mustache and a goatee. At the time, I was not openly gay because same sex activities were illegal in Canada until 1969. No gay bars or saunas, no Gay Village. This did not prevent men to cuddle, kiss, suck and fuck in private venues.

Ottawa being the capital of Canada, it’s not surprising that one of my first homosexual encounters occurred with a federal civil servant. Antoine was husky and hairy. As I mentioned before, manly musk is a must, and I was fuckin well served. Sniffing his armpits got me intoxicated. I obviously kissed Antoine, caressed his hairy chest, and sucked his nipples, but I mainly discovered how burying my nose in his armpits could get me harder than what I normally experienced by a solo masturbation session. So much that Antoine sucked my veiny rod with frenzy, begging me to shoot my creamy nectar down his throat.

To me, the male odor from armpits reflects strength. The turn-on is genuine and extremely powerful. I don’t want deodorant crap to get into my mouth; natural smell/licking is sexy as fuck. I don’t like shaven armpits; it makes a guy look like a prepubescent boy. Men are men, not little kids. And I adore men! It’s all is about intimacy, about being so close, right up into the personal space of a man. It’s important that I be allowed to get close, not being ashamed to smell his body. I gotta say it’s a paramount virile intimate act.

When the federal government legalized homosexuality, Prime Ministre Pierre Elliott Trudeau coined his famous quote: “There’s no place for the state in the bedroom of the nation”, adding that “what’s done in private between adults doesn’t concern the Criminal Code”. Soon after, Gays of Ottawa – Gais de l’Outaouais was created and held a Friday night drop-in, a social activity that helped me a lot in my coming out to family, friends and work colleagues. The drop-in center closed at 9 pm and I would often join others for a drink and the Lord Elgin Hotel, in the basement tavern. The management did not tolerate guys touching each other, but it was nonetheless a popular cruising venue.

That’s where I started playing footsie with Bruce, the cutest otter I have ever met. He was a gym instructor at the Y.M.C.A., and I became a member when he indicated that he could give me some pointers to develop my butt muscles. Having fixed a date and a time, we met in the locker room, and I watched with awe how he stuffed his low hanger balls in the pouch of his white Bike jockstrap. Long and slim, his curved cock pointed towards the elastic waist band.

A word on my jockstrap fetish. That gear channels a masculine vibe. I know that when I see a guy in one, my mind turns to muscle, hair, and odor. Jocks also help to make a fashion statement, regardless if the guy identifies as a top or a bottom. I have found that sniffing the cotton of a well-worn jockstrap can be an incredible turn-on. In fact, the mustier the jock, the greater the hard-on. I prefer raunchy jockstraps loaded with aromatic and savory male ingredients such as sweat, pee, lube, and sperm. Wearing a jock whish is still warm from a guy’s cock and balls gets me fuckin horny. Male aroma defines part of my sex-drive.

Back to Bruce. When he saw me pulling out a black jockstrap, he came over and said: “Let me help you with that. The straps around the legs are made to frame perfectly the ass. They can help lift your buttocks and show them off.” If that wasn’t enough to make me blush, he added: “I have sexy material to work with!” We exercised together Monday to Friday from 5 to 6 pm. On weekends and in the morning, Bruce had regular clients for a routine workout. In less than a month, we stared dating, going out for dinner once a week, and me sleeping over at his place on Saturdays.

My lover’s body was covered with short smooth light brown hair. If I closed my eyes while caressing him, I had the impression I was cuddling with a golden retriever puppy. I was pleased to se that he did not shave his balls. I adored it when he kneeled over my face, positioned himself so that I could lick his musky nuts, swallow one, then both, even chew them gently. Bruce did not moan very much, probably because he wanted to feel my mouth in another part of his anatomy.

He introduced me to rimming. My gym instructor became a sex coach with a precise detailed program. “Lick my cock from the mushroom to the base of the shaft. Then taste my testicles before moving on to reach my ass crack. Pause to bite the buttocks. Gradually insert your tongue up and down in my hairy crevice. Spit on my rosebud, and start tongue-twisting your way inside my divine hole. Manly musk guaranteed!”

I was so excited that I probably followed the instruction too rapidly the first time. As we reannexed this scenario, I noticed how Bruce went for whispering to murmuring, from whimpering to moaning, almost howling with pleasure. As for me, I had never been so aroused, never reached a state of pure lust. It triggered a hard-on worthy of a gay demon. I was under the impression that my dick had blown out of proportion, a foot-long (it was really six inches but felt twice that size).

By initiating me to rimming, Bruce taught me not to eat but to devour a man’s ass from end to end. I learned how I could control a guy’s soul by just making my lips and tongue plant hard sloppy kisses on a a peachy butt and on a tasty rosebud. As to why I adore rimming, you could ask the same about people who enjoy sucking cocks and nipples, fucking butts or fisting them for that matter. Apart from the taste bud sensation, the act of giving pleasure to another guy is extremely enjoyable.

Bruce and I were not much into fucking each other. Cuddling, kissing and sucking were usually on the menu of our sexual meals. Ass licking became a game changer. My lover now wanted me to fuck him, to fill his shit hole with my French-Canadian jizz. It took me a few times to give my pounding the right rhythm, and to blend both fucking and kissing. The nec plus ultra didn’t take long to happen: Bruce pushed back my load of cum and I ate directly from his rosebud. I learned the meaning of felching and never stopped practising it. But that’s another story.

by Paul François

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