It's been a while, hasn't it. If you're curious, this is why: https://medium.com/@alexp336/what-i-didnt-realize-until-i-was-a-published-erotica-author-929a36080af1
Anyway, there's more of this story to come. If you're like me, and lacking in patience, I have a couple of ebooks for sale - "Jock Auction" and "The Hitchhiker" which you can find on Amazon, the Loose Id site, and various other places to download. Links available at www.alexpendragon.com
Be warned, they're dirty. But then again so is this.
Feedback? Comments? I'm at alexp336@gmail.com, or at http://dirtyanon.tumblr.com/
Play safe, and remember - fictional boys don't get STIs but that doesn't mean you shouldn't use a condom. Oh, and donate to Nifty, okay?
-Alex
Hayden - Part 1
"So show me."
He rolled his eyes, gave me a mock-glare. "No way."
I shrugged my indifference, even though the pit of my stomach was roiling. "You brought it up, you must've wanted me to be curious."
He shook his head. "I brought it up because I know you're obsessed, you weirdo."
Unprompted, a grin flickered across my face before I clamped down on my automatic reaction. Hayden was right, but there was no way I was going to let him know that - not so easily, anyway. I'd never hear the end of it.
"Sure," I parried, "you randomly tell me about your boxers, and I'm the obsessed one. That makes sense."
There was that glare again.
"You clearly don't remember our conversation when you're sober."
Hayden was wrong there. Even though I'd been completely, utterly wasted - struggle to walk, drag yourself up the stairs to bed by clinging to the banisters like some sort of feeble rock climber, can't see the room spinning because of the random colors showing up in your vision drunk - I remembered plenty of what we'd talked about. What I'd inadvertently told my friend.
"You're projecting," I told him. "It's a sign of a feeble mind."
It was Hayden's turn to shrug, now. He leaned in closer to me, expression knowing. "Oh, so nothing like "I just love knowing a guy's junk is all wrapped up in a tight pair of briefs," then, no?" He laughed, a low chuckle. "Someone else said "it gets me hard just seeing the waistband," right?"
I feigned a yawn, but the delicious and shameful twist in my guts told me I was impressed by just how closely he recalled what I'd slurred at him. Better, probably, than my own memories of the evening, though I certainly knew the gist of it.
Hayden - open-minded, old-friend-from-high-school Hayden, he of the dirty jokes and matching imagination - and I had got talking about what turned us on, and things had quickly escalated (or sunk into the relative depths) from there. My interest in guys was old news, as was his own attraction to girls, and that only left some of the more seedy, undiscussed peccadilloes from my own, personal wank-bank to reveal.
And reveal I had.
Of course, I hadn't gone into the origins of my distinct - some, clearly, might say obsessional - interest in guys' underwear. Not that I even had all that much of a solid idea myself, though I guessed a closeted childhood growing up with only mail-order clothing catalogs to stock my furtive imagination with illustrations of men in briefs, boxers, and boxer-briefs didn't exactly halt its development.
Such a basic, everyday thing (and, looking back with what I'd seen, what I'd internet shopped for, now, such basic and everyday underwear) but it was enough to give me an uncomfortable and potentially embarrassing distraction in the right department of a Macy's or Nordstroms.
Hayden remembered, naturally. He hadn't said anything when we were in public, when there were other friends around, but I knew the knowledge hadn't disappeared with his hangover the following day.
It didn't stop him bringing it up today, though. In my ridiculously small, ridiculously untidy apartment, with the congealing remnants of a pizza - not much more than crusts, frankly - sharing coffee table space with the bottle of cheap vodka he'd persuaded me was a more sensible buy than beer.
"I'm wearing new boxers," he'd said, casually, eyes fixed on the TV that was too big for the room but which I'd told my parents I'd grow into if they bought it for me for Christmas. We were in the midst of a dumb cartoon marathon, letting Netflix tick through episode to episode even though we'd seen them all before at least once. Sometimes enough times that we could quote the jokes along with the characters on-screen.
"Oh, really," I'd replied, trying not to make the fact that I was holding my breath so obvious. The silence spooled out: I didn't want to be the one to break it with questions, but Hayden showed no sign of going into any further detail.
Probably because he knew I wouldn't be able to resist.
"Which ones?" I could hear the strained attempt at disinterest clear in my tone, false and somehow brittle. Knew he'd hear it too, and understand.
Was that a small, sly smile that passed briefly across his face? I chose to ignore it.
"Just some Calvin Kleins," Hayden told me, dismissively. I screamed, inwardly. It was like picking at a scab but then leaving it, clinging to the fresh skin by the barest of corners.
"Boxers, then?" I ventured, trying again to sound blasé. His glance across, smile clear this time, told me I wasn't fooling anyone.
"You really can't bear not knowing all the details, can you?" he observed. "It's driving you crazy, the possibilities."
Yes. Yes, it was. But out loud, I told him "nah, just making conversation."
A raised eyebrow, a slight nod. Hayden looked back at the TV. "Oh, just conversation. We're having a conversation. This," he glanced back, holding eye-contact for a moment, "is a conversation."
"Fuck off," I told him, exasperated.
We sat in silence for a while, then. Quietly watching the show and its stupid jokes - two levels, usually, one for the kid audience and another for the grown-ups who might be watching along with them.
"They're blue, and they're boxer-briefs," Hayden said, suddenly. "They have, like, a silver waistband."
I nodded slowly, but my imagination was racing. I knew exactly which style he was talking about - had gone virtual window shopping for them online myself, in fact - and could already picture them in my mind's eye.
"Oh," I said, after a moment,"they sound nice." Trying to keep it casual, maybe even regain some high-ground in the conversation. My brain, though, couldn't quite bring itself to stop there. "Hipsters, right?"
My friend smirked, wickedly. Dammit, I was back on the hook again.
"i thought'd you'd know the ones. Yeah, just down to the top of my thighs."
He ran his fingertip carelessly in a line across his leg, starting at his upper thigh, before the swell of the muscle there as it filled his skinny jeans, a horizontal run until it ended in the cleft of his groin. Oh yeah, I knew the ones.
I licked my lips. "Nice," I echoed.
"Always said blue was my color, right?" he continued. I shrugged, noncommittal. I refused to make it to easy for him. And yet...
"So show me."
Fuck.
I guess I should say that I don't really have sordid, unnatural feelings toward my friend Hayden. Well, not especially, anyway. I'm not arguing with the fact that he's a good looking guy - he doesn't lack for attention, that's for sure - but it's not like I'm pining away over him in some sad, creepy way.
All the same... he's hot, and I guess the neurons that fire in my head when I think of hot guys stripped down to their underwear are able to see past Hayden-as-friend and just focus on Hayden-in-his-CKs. Am I proud of that fact? No. Does him talking about blue hipsters with a silver waistband give me the beginnings of an erection? Yes.
Oh god, I really am a weirdo, aren't I.
It says a lot about my friends that Hayden doesn't freak out or anything. I guess we just have a relationship, as a group, where teasing each other and mock-flirting and all that isn't seen as a big deal. Not even when I told them I actually liked dudes instead of girls. So it's not an entire surprise when he raises his hips off the couch, jams a thumb awkwardly into the tight waist of his clinging black jeans, and tugs them down just enough that I can see the silver and a sliver of blue.
Yup, just what I was imagining.
"So do I meet with your approval?" Hayden asks, voice so heavy with sarcasm I'm half-surprised his eyes don't roll all the way out of his face.
"I guess," I reply, "kinda hard to tell, to be honest."
He shakes his head, slowly, knowingly, and I shrug with as much nonchalance as I can muster.
"You're sick, y'know?"
My turn to smirk. "Yeah, I know." Hayden stares at my face for a beat or two longer than is comfortable, enough for the fake smile to feel foreign, like some sort of rictus.
He's looking at the cartoon when he asks his next question. "Why do I get the feeling you really want me to show you?"
How do you respond to that? What can I say? I mean, I should probably tell him "nah, it's just a joke," or "don't be so damn arrogant, dude," or any number of other comments that would diffuse the situation. My grown-up, adult brain is still running through the possibilities when my lizard brain pipes up.
"Please."
My voice is low, quiet. There's more in there, in the layers somehow present in a single syllable, than I'm happy unpacking.
Hayden looks at me. At the TV, then back again. Expression unreadable. And then he stands up.
"You're one sick puppy, you know that?"
Making the old pun, my mother's pet name for me as a child, Paul becoming "Paulie" that became "Puppy". Not something I've heard for a while, to be honest.
But I'm too busy watching - lungs stopped in my chest - as Hayden reaches under his t-shirt to nudge the snap of his jeans open. Zip purring its acquiescence. And then he's tugging them down, tight material fighting until they're bunched around his mid-thighs, and he's lifting his shirt up, a palm sandwiching cotton against the smooth contours of his stomach, and it's all in front of me and I have permission, the full go-ahead, to look.
So I look.
Like I said, this is a work-in-progress but there's already more written. Thank you to those who've emailed or messaged, wondering where I disappeared to. You're a swell bunch of perverts and I wouldn't change you for the world.
-A