This is a work of fiction. All persons are intended to be age 18 and above.
I recently moved to a new neighborhood and if I’ve not said it before (which I have), let it be known I love being here.
This neighborhood is quiet. It’s peaceful. Everybody knows everybody else – well, obviously that’s not true. But more people know each other here than any other place I’ve lived.
But mostly I love it because it is blessed with an abundance of good-looking fellas, almost all of whom are members of the Air Force.
Because our neighborhood consists of mixed residences, with townhouses and stand-alone homes, we have a mixture of servicemen, everything from cute little freckle-faced airmen fresh out of basic and three to a townhouse, to young officers and their wives living in the houses. My next-door neighbor, for instance, fits the latter category. He and his girlfriend – and I know she’s a “girlfriend” and not a “wife” because she told me while I struggled to get her damn lawnmower started while he was deployed – are fairly nice though a little suspicious of an older guy like me living next door. “Older” is relative, as I’m in my late 30s opposed to their mid-20s. Still, I don’t think I’ll be invited to any of their late-night backyard bashes, the kind that result in multiple sleepovers into the next day because everybody was too drunk to drive home the night before.
The guy’s name is Kevin and he’s a big ol’ strapping Texas boy, with short blonde hair atop a surprisingly feminine face. His features are delicate, if that’s a way to describe a narrow nose and wide, thin lips. You can see his cheekbones nicely. The rest of his body is pure football player – solid muscle on a well-proportioned frame. I’d say he’s about 6-feet 1 and 180 pounds. In other words, he fills out a pair of Levis the way they were meant to be filled.
Kevin enjoys woodworking and the garage serves as his shop. Often, to escape the stifling heat, he’ll relocate to the driveway, which is where I see him. We usually wave and exchange hellos, and that’s the way it’s been these past few weeks. Until the other day...
I had just pulled into my driveway after a long, miserable day at work, when Kevin walked out of the garage and made eye contact with me. I got out of the car and his gaze never faltered; this would be more than a simple hello, I thought.
“Hey neighbor, sorry to bother you,” he began, “but I’m trying to replace a switch on our freezer and the lid won’t stay up. Could you hold it up for me while I get the damn thing replaced?”
Could I? Heck yeah I could. Anything to get closer to this dream of male flesh. We shook hands and I introduced myself. He told me his name and motioned for me to follow him into the garage, where the freezer was located. It was one of those chest-style appliances and sure enough, he had removed the arm that holds the lid upright when you open it, so he could get at the light switch. Nobody likes rummaging around in a freezer without a light.
As I held the lid up he got to work. Amid the occasional curse over a dropped wrench or screwdriver, he told me his story. He was 24 and newly promoted to first lieutenant in the Air Force, where he was an avionics engineer. “Not a technician,” he pointed out. “An engineer. Which will serve me well when I transition into the private sector.” He was from a little town outside of Abilene, Texas, and joined the military to escape that godforsaken cow town. So far he had been stationed at bases in California and Japan, then here. He met his girlfriend in California and after a year of TDY in Japan, he had returned to the States and she followed him here.
“But I don’t think we’re going to stay together,” he said, which caught me off guard. People typically don’t divulge that kind of information to somebody they just met. I was intrigued (for obvious reasons) and prompted him with a question: “Why not?” I tried to make it sound casual.
“Mmm. I hope you won’t think I’m some kind of freak when I say this,” he said, grunting as he yanked on the switch assembly. A stubborn bolt held it firmly in place. “But I just love sex. You know? Just plain ol’ sex. I don’t think a body can have too much sex in this life – hell, it’s one of the few things about being an independent adult that gives you pleasure, you know?” He got the assembly loose. “I mean, you work your ass off to earn a living and pay your bills, you keep your place up, you try to give back a little something to the community – I’m thinking of running for Town Council – and after sleep, work, and everything else, your day is almost totally consumed with keeping your head above water. But an hour’s worth of sex makes it all worthwhile.”
I chuckled. “You got no argument from me,” I said.
“Problem is, SHE doesn’t like sex,” he said, fishing the new switch assembly from a small cardboard box. “At least not as much as I do. And there’s a lot she won’t do.”
My interest level spiked. If nothing else, I might get to hear this gorgeous lug talk about some of the things he likes to do in the sack. I asked him what those things were, and as he described them, my imagination began to feed.
“For starters, she’ll only do it in a couple of positions, most often missionary,” he complained. “She won’t try anything new, and when I try to get her to try something new she starts complaining about the size of my dick. She says it makes her pussy feel like a warehouse.”
Oh. My. God. I nearly dropped the lid. I couldn’t see his crotch from this vantage point, and thus guesstimate the size of that “warehouse”-sized schlong, but I did sneak a peek at his ass. His shirt had ridden up above his jeans, exposing a swath of his back, just above those meaty glutes. The suggestive swirl of hair I saw there meant he had a hairy butt crack, just the way I like ‘em.
“She won’t let me fuck her between the boobs. She’s so afraid I’m going to sperm her face.”
I was simultaneously sympathetic and jealous – sympathetic on his behalf, and jealous of the girlfriend. I would kill to have him sperm MY face!
“She would never, not in a thousand years, lick my asshole.” He wrinkled his nose and in a fussy imitation of her minced, “Gross! It’s dirty.”
.... There is more of this story ...