Big Fat Hairy Living

Something has gone horribly wrong.

Jason Gamble Then:

Jason Gamble Now:

THIS IS UTTERLY DISGUSTING.

One of the fun things about dating someone who’s 20 years older than me is that he has 49 years’ worth of stories to tell instead of just 29 — and Mark having lived as exciting a life as he has, has plenty of fun stories to tell. I really do consider myself privileged to be dating someone cool enough to have gotten into a food fight with a drag queen at the Super Fresh Mart.

Mark likes hearing my stories too. This weekend I told him about some of my sexual escapades in high school. He was impressed by my sheer audacity.

I had crushes on quite a few rugby players, football players, and wrestlers. One of my favourites was Peter, a rugby player who was a few grades ahead of me. He had a goatee, which was impressive for being only 17, and even more impressively, had hair popping out of the top of his shirt.

One day I ran into him in the lobby of the apartment I lived in. He was there with a few friends of his, and from their conversation I could tell that they were going down to the basement to the underground pool. I knew this was a golden opportunity to see some rugby flesh, so I waited a few minutes in the lobby, then followed them down. I waited at the door to the change room and listened to them horsing around. (Thank god this was before security cameras!)

Once I’d heard the noise die down, I assumed that they’d left to go to the pool, so I went in. Nobody was in the change room, and I could hear splashing coming from the pool, so I went to the door that led out to the pool and peered through the keyhole for a few minutes. I watched as best as I could through the keyhole, but I could tell that Peter was as hairy as I’d imagined.

Having had enough, I went back to the change area where they’d left their clothes. There were no lockers, so everyone left their clothes on the benches in the change room, which suited me perfectly. I quickly and nervously rifled through Peter’s pants, laying the contents of his pockets down on the bench. I took out the belt, then quickly stuffed his pants, shirt, and underwear in my knapsack. My heart was beating a mile a minute. I ran for my life.

I got myself upstairs to my apartment as quickly as I could, and locked myself in my room. I jerked off sniffing his underwear and the armpits of his shirt. I ended up shooting a big load and wiping it on his underwear. I kept his clothes for a few days, hidden in my closet where my mother wouldn’t find them. After a few days, the fear of my mother finding the clothes and asking me what the hell I was doing with these clothes that weren’t mine overwhelmed me. I stuffed them into a plastic Food City bag, stuffed the bag in my knapsack, and threw them in the dumpster on the way to school.

I actually felt more turned on than guilty at the idea of him returning to the change room and seeing his clothes missing. I rationalized away what little guilt I had by telling myself that I hadn’t really stolen anything important like his wallet or his money. I imagined him getting pissed off, swearing, pounding the wall, and wondering who the fuck had stolen his clothes. He probably never guessed that it was a geeky little fat queer kid who was right at that moment busy upstairs sniffing his underwear and wanking.

I caved in and bought a four-slice Retro Toaster at the store formerly known as eatons today. I’ve wanted one for a long time.

Mark is busy napping and snoring in the next room. So cute.

My manager was understanding enough, so I don’t have to go to China, thankfully.

Fuck.

FUCK.

I probably have to fly to China on business in mid-February. I have to find a way of getting out of this. I can’t go.

At lunch there’s a group of three hot guys who always sit at the lunch table next to me. I always make sure to sit so that I have a good view of them, and I ogle them every chance I get. Since the first time I saw them, I’ve been trying to get a look at their security badges to see what their names are, but unfortunately, I’ve never been able to get a good enough look. Its only through straining to hear their conversations that I know that the hottest one is named Chris. Claude. (This Claude is no relation to the Claude we all know and love.)

Claude Chris is really cute. He’s around 6 feet tall and has medium brown hair cut into a short haircut that’s flipped up at the front. He’s got sideburns and a very bushy goatee, and he wears cute wire-rimmed glasses. He probably weighs around 190 pounds and has a little proto-belly. He definitely works out, and he has a nice thick chest and an incredible ass. He always wears short-sleeved shirts, even in the winter, all the better to show off his hairy forearms.

Today, I happened to be just behind this group of three guys as they were walking to the cafeteria for lunch. Claude Chris, my favourite, took a detour and walked into the washroom right next to the entrance of the cafeteria, so I followed him, betting that he’d be taking a piss. This washroom only has one stall and two urinals; the headed for one of the urinals, so I joined him. He was on the right and I was on the left, which was perfect, because he turned out to be right-handed.

He unzipped and pulled out his dick. It was a nice, fat, circumcised dick with a big purple head and a pinkish-brown shaft. He held his dick with his right hand just below the big, club-like head and pissed a thin stream. I couldn’t stop staring at his cock, and I almost got the impression that he knew I was looking, which wouldn’t be a surprise given that I ogle him while he’s eating.

When he had finished pissing, he let his left hand go and shook his big dick with the other hand. He stuffed it in his pants and went to the sink to wash his hands. For the rest of lunch, I couldn’t concentrate. After I had eaten, I excused myself and went to beat off in the washroom stall.

I feel like I’m reliving my washroom-cruising teenaged years again.

UPDATE: Through advanced stalking techniques, I’ve found out that his name is actually Chris, not Claude. I’d explain why I thought it was Claude, but that would make him identifiable and I don’t want to do that on this blog.

“We have to stick together. We’re trailblazers, just like Lois and Clark!”

John and his hubby Dave invited a bunch of us over for dinner. But it wasn’t any ordinary dinner. It was…

Dinner on Dolly Bird Lane!

Godwin’s Law is pretty brilliant, but it needs to be reformulated to apply to Livejournal. I propose the following:

As a Livejournal comment thread grows longer, the probability of someone accusing someone else of creating “drama” approaches 1. Once this occurs, that thread is over, and whoever mentioned “drama” has automatically lost whatever argument was in progress.