The Otter and the Twink [MM]

Still living in my Texas college town two years after graduation, I became unwillingly (but fortunately!) single when my girlfriend left me for an addled small-time weed dealer. A few weeks later, a former dorm neighbor and friend tracked me down. Younger than me by 14 months, he too had stayed in town and had just re-entered singlehood, after a spectacular breakup with his boyfriend.

Several times during his freshman year, my friend had made crystal clear his simmering desire to share special naked time with me, a sophomore. Increasingly attuned to the notion of heteroflexibility, when he got back in touch, I thought, “Here’s my chance to explore.” So when he asked me to lunch, I went—though it turned out not to feel like a date, and the talk never veered toward the bedroom.

But less than a month later, he called one night. Early in the conversation, he enthused, “It was great seeing you again, and it is so good just hearing your voice.”

“I feel the same about you,” I replied.

More chat. Then he said, “I still think about you, and how…comfortable…we both seem to feel around each other.”

I went for the obvious signaling.

“I *have* been curious about experimenting with a guy. But I don’t know if it would be better to explore with a stranger, so I wouldn’t have to worry about hurting a friend’s feelings, or should I do it with someone I know who already knows about my inexperience?”

“I would be *very* happy to help you with that,” he said instantly. “You would still be my friend no matter what. Trust me, and trust yourself, and enjoy whatever happens. Also, you are so cute.”

“You have been thinking about this,” I teased.

“Oh, definitely,” he said. “You are *very* my type. And I don’t think you could hurt my feelings.”

“When should we get together?” I asked. Sunset had long since passed. “This weekend maybe?”

“Right now sounds perfect,” he offered.

I drove to his apartment and knocked.

He opened the door wearing tight jean shorts and a loose white T-shirt. I had on jean shorts—not as tight—and a fitted white T-shirt. “We match!” he said, “mostly. I’m so glad to see you. Were my directions confusing? I guess not; you’re here. Where did you park? Your car. Did you drive? I’m surprised that I’m nervous!”

He blushed, and I felt my own face redden in empathy. I spread my arms and stepped over the doorstill.

“Yes, a hug would be a good idea,” he said, grabbing me tight as I briefly rose on tiptoes to almost match his height. I stepped all the way inside, and he closed the door. I hugged him again, longer, and he kept a hand on my shoulder as we went into his living room.

“Let’s hydrate,” he said, “I mean talk,” and giggled, so we sat on the couch and took turns sipping from a bottle of sparkling water from his refrigerator and talked. After a while, he decreed, “Why don’t we take a shower.”

As we walked down the hall, he used one hand to pull his T-shirt over his head and discard it on the carpet. Then he unzipped his jean shorts and, once we entered his small bathroom, lowered them onto the floor before leaning over the tub to turn on the water. The flexing of his back muscles, side-lit into blessed bas-relief by the row of bulbs above the sink, drew my eyes—and the glimpse from behind of the plentiful dark blond hair under his well-toned arms unexpectedly captivated me. He straightened and pivoted toward me and started to remove his charcoal-gray boxer briefs.

“Wait,” I murmured, “wait.” I stopped his fingers from sliding farther under his waistband. “I’ll take those off. After you undress *me*.”

Gazing up into his green eyes, I could feel his body heat radiating as he drew closer. He slid both hands under the front of my T-shirt and up my chest, flipping the shirt off over my head and by now upraised arms and letting it fall on the floor behind me. I draped my arms over his shoulders as he undid, one by one by one, the buttons in the fly of my jean shorts. He knelt to pull them off, and I ran my hands across his shoulders and down his biceps as I stepped out of them.

He stood straight and looked me in the eyes. “You are sure about this?”

“Yes.” I opened my arms wide. “Make me naked.”

He reached and held me for a moment with a firm grip under my armpits, and as I brought my hands back to his biceps, he leaned in and stroked the very warm tip of his nose across my left shoulder and up the side of my neck and into my outer ear, probing in a gentle circle that made most of my whole skin tingle. Acutely conscious of his palms against my sparser and lighter-blond underarm hair, I surged with lust.

He glided his hands to my lower back, paused, then slipped them under the waistband of my chili-pepper-print boxers (“I should’ve guessed a quiet guy like you would wear something like those”), caressing down and up and slowly down my ass. Cupping a hand under each glute, he pulled us together, abs to abs and pecs to pecs, and the considerable hair on his chest and stomach and forearms brushed exquisitely against my mostly hairless self.

He knelt again while pulling my boxers down in a way that made my cock the last thing revealed. He kissed my navel and kissed down into my pubic hair and nuzzled across to one of my hips, then stood as I swept my boxers aside with a flick of my foot.

I pulled off his boxer briefs from the front, freeing his cock before his ass and deeply inhaling the different scents of his chest and abs and groin as I leaned down. He stepped out of his crumpled underwear, I rose, and we got in the shower.

We let the steaming water drench us both. Then he put his hands on my shoulders and held me at a comfortable distance. He looked straight into my eyes again. “Are you okay with kissing?” he said. “We don’t have to if that would be too much.”

“I would feel weird if we didn’t,” I answered, and hooked a hand behind his neck, pulled his face down toward mine, and kissed his lips. After a few seconds, he gently turned it into a long French kiss. My ex-girlfriend and I had entwined our tongues every time we kissed, which I loved—and now, the new taste of my friend’s mouth as he probed mine, and the unfamiliar prickle of stubble against my lips and chin, triggered a craving as potent as what I felt the first time I kissed her.

We both became aware that my cock, nestled down against his thigh, had fully hardened. With his hands on my narrow waist, he eased our bodies apart, giving my cock room to swing upward between us. (It stayed hard for most of the next three hours.)

“You get just as excited as you want to,” he advised. “Don’t hold back or be shy at all.” He wrapped a hand around my cock, his grip firm and his long and strong pianist’s fingers mesmerizingly soft. We kissed and kissed and kissed, and he simply held my erection without moving his hand other than an occasional side-to-side stroke of his thumb.

Then he let go and, with one palm flattened against my lower back and the other hand curled around my nape, pulled us tightly together—and thus with my cock I touched his for the first time.

*[Should I keep writing this memory?]*

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/outbe1/the_otter_and_the_twink_mm