Brett
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Brett
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Pictures: 86 | Added: 11-06-2000
I won’t hide the fact.
I love smooth teens and twinks - just like most of you guys, I guess.
But I’ve also got an eye for slightly older boys - up to their mid twenties, say, with a bit of hard muscle attached.
I suppose it’s my muscle worshipping side that partly explains why I went to the Gay Olympics a few years ago - that and the fact that, in one other rather special way, they beat the “real” Olympics hands down. After all, unlike the gay version, in the real thing your chances of a hot encounter with an athlete after hours is about as great as the Mongolian team’s in the sailing events.
But quite apart from the obvious opportunities it offers to undertake close-up examinations of stunning male bodies at their physical peak - opportunities enhanced even further in recent years by the widespread adoption of figure-hugging lycra outfits - I simply enjoy watching sport.
While most of my gay friends spend their time at the opera, watching the latest digitalised reissue of The Wizard of Oz or queuing for Madonna concert tickets, I’m more likely to be found among the spectators at a top sporting event.
My favourite is tennis. OK, the men are sometimes more slightly built than the women players - but there’s something very sexy, I find, about the tight, all-white outfits. And when my all-time number one Pete Sampras is on court, I’m in heaven.
Wow, I may like smooth twinks too, but what wouldn’t I do to the gorgeous Pete’s hairy legs!
It was at the French Open last year that I met Brett.
He and I were the only guys sitting among the lesbian tennis crowd and, at the first chance I had, I moved into the seat next to him. Safety in numbers - even if it’s just two!
Brett turned out to be, of all things, a native New Yorker just like me. He was living in Paris for a year, brushing up his French language, before going to college. That enabled him to translate some of the ladies’ fruitier comments for me whenever a particularly attractive girl player came into view.
By the end of the day’s play, not only were Brett and I firm friends but, in the unspoken language of such matters, we’d worked out that we had rather more in common than just a shared love of tennis.
After I’d taken my new friend to a far more expensive dinner than I guessed a student budget would normally allow, we went back for a nightcap to my hotel in the Marais. I guess that the fact that my hotel was situated slap bang in the middle of Paris’s gayest quarter wasn’t lost on Brett, along with the fact that the clientele in its bar was exclusively made up of hot and evidently horny young men.
The already-broken ice was finally and completely shattered as Brett and I subsequently relaxed in my room. As he carefully and deliberately readjusted the contents of his pants, my young guest confessed that he’d often visited the bar before. We’d had such a good time all day and it was now so late at night that it seemed completely natural for us to move to the bed As Brett lay back among the pillows, I was overcome with desire. He wasn’t the best looking boy in the world - but he was utterly sweet and seemed to be genuinely fond of me. And when you get to my age - 40 - and have had the number of ultimately sterile one-night stands as I have, that counts for a great deal. As we continued a conversation which ranged everywhere from the strengths of Andre Agassi’s forehand to the limitations of Brooke Shields’ acting, Brett gradually - and as if it were the most natural thing in the world - first loosened and then took off his clothes. Ultimately all he wore was a pair of black undershorts and the way he manoeuvred his legs on the bed meant that he almost might as well not have bothered to leave even those on. Completely naked after just a few minutes more, Brett was clearly making the running and attempting to seduce me. Normally, and particularly after a few beers, that wouldn't have been too difficult a task. But on this occasion something was holding me back. The trouble was that I had decided that I really liked this kid. If this was going to be just a one-night stand, after which neither of us would want to see the other again, then I didn’t think that I really wanted to go through with it. I wanted Brett as a friend at least - and then maybe more might come later. He hadn’t yet, though, got the message. He pulled his legs up into the air to reveal a sweet, completely hairless ass to which he clearly wanted attention paid without delay. Even when that failed to get a response from me - well, an outward one at any rate: inside I was responding 200% - Brett didn’t sulk or turn queeny. Instead he decided to show me what else he could offer, in the way of his big, juicy dick. When even that failed to work he looked across at me and with, for the first time, a disappointed expression asked: “Don’t you want to take me tonight?” “More than you realise”, I replied quietly. “But I don’t want to spoil our day together. You don’t have to do this, you know. I’ll give you the fare home and we can still be friends.” He flashed me a glance which was a mixture of cheekiness and compassion. “I wouldn’t have stayed at all if I really didn’t want to”, he said. “I think I could become very fond of you.” I pointed out that he’d be better off with the guys his own age - or just a bit older - downstairs in the bar. I was simply too old to have a real relationship with him. There was more than twenty years between us. “I’m 40 for goodness sake”, I said. “What can you possibly feel for me?” “Forty? Love.”
And, as we’d spent the day watching tennis, maybe it was only appropriately that his simple reply was:
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