Kris

Of course, his real name is really Chris.

Christopher H. Sonderburg Jr., if you want to know (and I’m sure all you guys will want to know as soon as you’ve seen his pictures).

But it’s typical of my best college buddy - and, from our time together in high school, my secret boyfriend and lover - Chris that he likes to spell his name “Kris”.

It’s not that he’s pretentious, but he just likes to do things that are out of the ordinary.

“Life’s short enough as it is, Frank”, he says, as though he’s pushing 90 rather than only 19.

“You gotta try it all. And try it while you’re still young.

“If you don’t do that, you’re gonna regret it later.”

And so it was that, while all our friends paid their way through college by washing dishes or waiting table at local restaurants, working in a local call centre at weekends or doing any one of dozens of normal jobs - or, as Chris described them, “humdrum jobs” - my friend was determined to be different.

If he needed to pay his way through college, then he was going to make sure that he was paid for something that he’d enjoy.

He thought about the problem until his money had almost run out and then came to tell me his idea.

“Frank”, he said, “I’ve decided. I’ve got a great plan. I’m going to be a stripper.”

Now I was so naïve, believe it or not, that at that point I didn’t actually know that there were such people as male strippers.

Or even that there’d be people who’d pay to watch guys taking off their clothes (though, of course, if I’d thought about it I’d have realised that I would have paid).

You gotta remember that Chris and I had grown up and gone to school in a really small town that wasn’t just in the middle of nowhere - it was actually many miles from the middle of nowhere.

But the idea of male strippers was so intriguing that it didn’t even occur to me to ask how Chris knew about them or about the places where they worked.

I volunteered to help Chris out at rehearsals, so the next weekend we climbed into his car and headed off to a remote part of the coast south of town.

That was already something of an adventure in itself. Short of cash, Chris had recently sold the car his dad had given him and bought an old grocery delivery truck that was on its last legs. We’d never used it for such a long journey before, but luckily - like me, though in a different sense of the expression! - it seemed to be rising to the occasion.

By the time we stopped alongside the sand dunes, we hadn’t seen another car or anyone else at all for more than 30 minutes. As a result I think we were pretty much alone out there - which was just as well as Chris shoved a tape I’d never heard before into the truck’s player and turned it up to maximum volume.

And then, without more ado, he stood up in the middle of the stretch of thin sand that ran along the water’s edge.

It was obvious at once that Chris had already been practising his stripper act on his own. The first thing he did was to grab his dick through his pants and stare me straight in the face without the least hint of embarrassment.

It was going to be a hot afternoon.

As the music pounded on, so did Chris.

The fingers of one hand played tantalisingly around the buckle of the belt on his pants. He used his other hand to lift up his shirt, exposing a nipple.

This was good, even for me who’d seen every inch of his body many times before.

Within minutes, as the music reached an appropriate climax, Chris had slipped his shirt elegantly over his head and tossed it aside in the sand.

He looked sexier than ever. I’d never enjoyed sex outdoors much before, but in the warm afternoon sun, here in the sand, Chris was really turning me on. If he went on taking off his clothes like this, I’d soon need to loosen my own pants.

As if to tantalise me even further, Chris stopped.

He wasn’t happy with the way it was going, he said, so he rewound the tape to the beginning and started his whole act again.

This time we got further, though when he eventually slid off his belt, unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down, I had to laugh.

He was wearing a pair of briefs that I’d told him to throw out months ago. His mom had bought them for him and you could tell. Calvins they were not.

But mom’s choice of underwear was undeniably sexy now, with the large white patch at the front drawing the eye 100% to what was concealed - not, I hoped, for much longer - underneath.

Like the professional stripper he intended to be, Chris strung out the tension. He wiggled his way through another 10 minutes or so, teasingly pushing his briefs down inch by inch, before he was completely naked. And, even then, for the first few minutes the audience - me - only got to see his butt, gorgeous though that was.

And then, once again, he stopped.

In fact it wasn’t just Chris who stopped. The music stopped too.

The truck had died.

Maybe the excitement of the past couple of hours - more than in the whole of its previous career delivering potatoes - had given it the auto equivalent of a coronary.

Or maybe, I suspected, Chris’s prolonged rehearsal had drained the last few reserves of life in its battery.