Part 1

I live in an Air Force town. It has its benefits.

For starters, not a month goes by without a hot little airman moving into my townhouse complex. In fact, it’s usually two or three hot little airmen sharing a townhouse. The military gives each serviceman a housing allowance for living off base. For airmen that’s about $1,000 a month. If two or three share one place, they can split the rent and pocket the rest, which is why you see so many young airmen, fresh out of basic, driving Mustang GTs and American Eagle motorcycles. With $600 a month lying around they can afford such vehicles.

So it was with more than a little interest I noticed the new BMW coupe parked at the townhouse next door.

They moved in on a Saturday afternoon. They owned practically no possessions so there wasn’t much to move – basically a couch and TV, a couple of beds, and boxes of clothes. Later they retired to the upstairs patio where they talked late into the night. It was autumn so I had my windows and sliding glass doors open to air out the townhouse. Sitting in my upstairs office behind the computer, I could hear everything they said.

They talked about girls, mostly. As the night wore on their conversation became more ribald until they were describing individual sex acts, and the crazy things that happened during such encounters. Guys that age always seem to have stories about Mom or Dad walking in on their lovemaking, or a condom coming off inside a vagina, or hubby returning early from a business trip. Probably 90 percent of them were untrue, but that didn’t make them bad stories.

Over the next few days I kept on eye on them. Due to this clandestine observation I learned there were three of them, an Asian fellow who drove an SUV, a block-headed white guy and his motorcycle, and BMW boy.

BMW boy was about 5-7 or 5-8, 165 pounds, with short, curly hair. He looked like a slightly stockier version of the Facebook guy, Mark Zuckerberg. What I remember best about him was his meaty ass. It wasn’t necessarily a bubble butt. It was big, however. Big for his size. He wore those clingy basketball shorts which showed off that big ass without much left to the imagination. I could picture myself diving into that ass with my tongue, eating out his 22-year-old anus. What a story that would be!

Over the ensuing months I continued my sneaky observation of the Air Force household. The boys would leave for the base around 6:30 and come back by 4 or so. They drank a lot of beer in their off hours. Sometimes BMW boy went out on a date, but he never seemed to score, considering the hours he spent with his roommates out on the back porch, smoking and talking about how weird the girl was, and how her father came with them on their date. Very strange.

Nothing much happened until a week or so before Christmas. It seems BMW boy’s roommates returned to their respective homes for the holidays and he was left there alone. Since I live alone I didn’t see that as a problem; he was probably enjoying the privacy.

That day began innocently enough. I went out to the mailbox to get yesterday’s mail, which amounted to nothing but junk. I chucked it into a trash can on my way back to my unit. But as I passed BMW boy’s place my eye was immediately drawn to something.

A laundry basket.

He had left his laundry basket on the front porch, and it was filled with dirty clothes. And right there at the top of the heap was a rumpled pair of boxers.

God, talk about visions of sugarplums dancing in my head – except these weren’t plums but juicy military boy balls, and that fat cock that must go with them, and that meaty ass. I could see myself stuffing that wad of boxers under my nose and inhaling deeply, savoring the aroma of piss, sweat, cum, ass, and the earthy, manly, musky odor of sex.

I must have presented an odd sight, standing there on the sidewalk staring at a basket of laundry. Truth is I was working up the courage to dart up there, snatch them and hustle back to my unit for a morning of crotch sniffing and jerking off. But I was afraid. What if somebody saw me? What if he was peeking through the blinds right now, trying to figure out what I was up to. And cameras – there are freaking cameras everywhere these days. What if one of them was shooting video of me right now – and oh God, what if somebody loaded that video onto the internet? My life would end. Death by shaming.

Still, I wanted those damn boxers. I had to have them.

I tried to concoct an excuse for going up to his porch, but there was no newspaper to put on his doormat, no piece of dropped mail to leave at his door, nothing.

In the end, I walked up to the door as if I owned the place, reached down, started to pick up the boxers –

– and the damn door opened.

My heart stopped. My breathing stopped. Everything just stopped.

I looked up. He was standing there, his face registering surprise that slowly melted into anger when he saw what I had in my hand. He squinted at me.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

And I could think of nothing to tell him, no excuse, no reasonable-sounding lie, just nothing that would get me off the hook. I stammered idiotically for a moment, then fell silent. Finally, I decided to tell him the truth.

“Sorry, man, but I’ve seen you around and I think you’re hot, so I thought I would take something to remember you by.”

He opened the door and stood aside. “Get in here,” he commanded.