THE CLUB

THE CLUB By Colin Crown (Honcho.Sept.1981) Last summer I took a job as a pool cleaner and attendant at the swimming pool of our university's faculty club. I go to school there and live within walking distance of the club, in a small campus community. I took the job to make some money, have something to do and to be able to swim in the pool and occasionally use the handball court. I admit I was also attracted by the fact that several of the more handsome and fit members of the faculty, including profs from my own English department, went there regularly, swimming manful laps, lying in the sun like untouchable gods — and besides that, they changed, stripped and showered in the men's dressing room. There were also the better heeled students who belonged to the club, and the faculty families, which included a fair number of teenaged and college-aged sons. I was looking for-ward to a hot summer of voyeurism, which would multiply my store of sexual fantasies and memories. I also intended to try and get some action, preferably not at the cost of my job. Although I didn't have to, I made a habit of hanging around the dressing room, which was also the locker room and shower room. Of course, because I'm a pretty good looking guy — if I do say so myself — I got some come-ons from female members, but fortunately, the guys also liked my outgoing personality. There was this one gorgeous ‘muscle beach’ type of guy who came to swim and sun every morning, at exactly ten a.m. He swam 15 laps each time, then lay in the sun half an hour, and I gazed at the perfect proportions, and the tubular growth in his brief swimsuit. I was hosing down the concrete area and got real close to him. "Sunny day," I said. "Yes, rather," he grinned, looking at me a long while. "I like it hot. Some others do, too." I'd never heard him talk — he was British. "You got a nice tan," I remarked. I mean, a lot of guys were just plain friendly. He perked up, then looked around. "That reminds me. I need some oil on the old carcass." He produced a plastic bottle. "Would you mind?" I still hadn't gotten over the incon-gruity of the combination of his Rex Harrison accent and his almost Schwarzenegger-ish bod. He wanted me to rub it in. "Where do you like it?" "The back — all the way down." I applied it, starting at the shoulders, which were like steel. Muscles rippled down the bronzed body, already as tanned as one could want. I did a bit of massage, too, and thought I heard him sigh with pleasure. But I didn't dare go too far; I was also aware that a newcomer might see us and get the right impression. "By the way," he inter-rupted, "the name's Keith. Now, do they allow semi-nude bathing — sun bathing I mean — over here?" Unfortunately, they didn't. Why, I asked. "I thought perhaps I could peel off the bikini and sun my bottom — that is, if you yourself wouldn't mind . . ." He turned to catch my reaction, which was surprised and very pleased. "Would you want me to rub some oil into your, um, bottom?" He got up with a toothy grin — gorgeous! — and headed for the locker room. Empty. He stood by a shower nozzle and off came the pants. His pecker was half-hard, the hair was pale, flaxen and almost as blonde as his haircut. I reached for it, but he shook his head; his eyes pierced me. "Do the bum, mate." What? "You're an ass man, aren't you?" He wanted me to fuck him, but I didn't, well — anyone could just walk in. I could see getting fired on my third day. "I'll lock the door, though I'm not supposed to." I came back to him; he was bending forward, and I let loose of my hard on and used some of the baby shampoo I kept on the side for lubricant. He advised me to do it "good 'n hard." With one hand, I pushed his hard-as-iron stomach towards me, with my right hand, I guided in my quivering cock. It slipped in. He had no trouble with it, despite the generous length and thickness. Then I held on to his torso and marvelled at all the muscles, never far from the surface, rippling, protruding, popping up rhythmically. He was a big man — picture screwing a bodybuilder, the Incredible Hulk, but better looking, and tanned, not green. It was a bit weird, but the fucking sensation overtook me. "God, you English are good!" I couldn't help muttering, half in ecstasy. He retorted, also breathing hard, "That's Welsh, mate." Just as he said Welsh, I started coming, and thrust forward hard, banging against a wall of muscles and soft but formidably fit flesh; as I slammed into it, it actually hurt a bit, but was more than offset by the ecstasy and wonder of coming deep inside a once unattainable fantasy man. Keith was just for starters, and I'm not making it up, but I never saw him again. But the following day, I saw two 30ish men who had wives and kids out on the sundeck; they were in the locker room, walking along the wooden slats, very close side by side, totally naked. Like twins or lovers, and even their cocks looked alike: uncircumcised and pointy at the head, with almost hairless balls. I was replacing the toilet paper in the one john, staring at them. One caught my eye, and he smiled back. Then they walked out down the stairs. About an hour later, after I had a break, I returned to the locker room, and there, in the shower, his back to me — showing off two magnificent buns — was the one who'd caught my eye. We were alone. "Hi," he said. His manner was inviting, and I peeled down to my trunks and stood under the adjoining shower, to prepare to get in the pool. He sidled up to me. "Soap sure makes good lather." Sounded like a commercial, but he happened to be soaping his crotch at the time, and his cock was growing by the second. "You work here?" He started asking innocuous questions before asking, "What do you do for fun?" I showed him by grabbing his just rinsed phallus, which was poking straight out. I dunno why, but he suddenly said, "Hey, I'm straight, though," and I nearly dropped his prick, but it was too late. I introduced it into my mouth, slowly, cautiously, to see his reaction and be sure no one was entering. Assured, I greedily gobbled it up, swallowing the length of the natural cock, man handling his generous balls, while he squirmed and sighed and used his hips to push himself farther into my throat. In almost no time, he came, pressing my head to him, but with a little tenderness, stroking my hair after he'd spent himself and kissing me on the cheek before going to towel off. Now, I'm not making this up either — and it was bound to happen — but his friend walked in, with his hawk-eye stare, at the end of the kiss, and he was sharp enough to guess what was going on. He just sort of marked time as his friend dressed up; there was a complicity between them. The first departed, and the second, already in the shower, called me. "What did you two fellows do when I was outside?" Nothing, I said; this one had a mean look and tone. "Why don't you do it for me?" We waited. "I'd like you to go down on me, too." But first, I had to ask, "Are you two lovers . . . or what?" "We ain't lovers, but we like cock sucking." He meant getting sucked. I obliged him, very nearly duplicating the performance I'd given his neighbor, almost wishing I could go home with the pair and share a bed and all kinds of fantasies with them. Then there was the time I saw, by common consent, the handsomest prof on campus. He was in History, had silver streaked hair, though he was only about 35, had beautiful features on a very masculine face. The hair was wavy, gleaming, the body sensational under just-tight-enough pants, the smirk in his rare smile a treasure indeed. He came in one afternoon while I was doing some work in the shower area. I didn't care if he caught me staring, it was worth looking. He kicked off his shoes — had on the skimpy black socks I find sexy, then unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a slightly furred, perfect chest, even better than Keith's, though much less muscular. Off came the pants, revealing boxer shorts — can't win 'em all — but then those went down, revealing the best view of all. He had gloriously white cheeks, sculpted as well as any marble god's. His cheeks parted slowly as Dr. O. bent forward to remove his shorts, then to put on a jockstrap as he was headed for the courts. Right below the crevice of his ass, so that unfortunately, I couldn't see that cherished, no doubt virginal asshole, dangled two surprisingly hairy balls, and the meaty tip of his manhood was visible for a few seconds. I ached to rush over and apply my heart and tongue to this backstage delight. For him, I'd do anything. Sit on my face, baby — anything. Once he was snugly in his jockstrap, he paraded over to the sink and washed his hands and combed his hair. Did he do it for my benefit? He must have been aware I was staring at him, as I had countless times in the halls and elsewhere on the campus grounds. He must have noticed me before, staring. He was my ultimate fantasy, the grand prize; could I help it if he wasn't gay? Back to the locker, where he put on a T-shirt and shorts, socks and tennis shoes. On his way out he turned and said, "How ya doing, Colin." It was a statement, not a question, and somehow, it was enormously flattering. He even knew my name, and I'd never had him — not even as a professor. Another time, a bunch of kids came in, all boys, all semi-hoodlums, none of them cute or anything. Except the leader, who was a freshman in the English class. He was a redhead, and surprisingly gentle and quiet for a leader of such a rowdy bunch. They all invaded the pool for a noisy hour, then dressed up to leave. That leader, named Mitch, left a little later, because he took longer to dress. I caught him tugging at his long dong, before tucking it into his jeans. He was barefoot, had no shoes, and his red hair hung over his forehead, almost obscuring the freckles. "Everything here to your satisfaction," I asked facetiously. I just wanted to hear his response. "You having trouble?" His zipper seemed to be stuck. Boldly, I stepped forward. "I'm good at this." Without catching it in his carrot colored pubic hair, I yanked hard and quick, and zipped him up. "Hey, thanks." He gave me a military salute. "Say, you know anyone who likes to get fucked?" He said it pretty loud. I glanced around. "You like to fuck, huh?" "Yeah, and, like, I'm really horny now." It showed in his eyes. I smiled. One of the noisy kids outside yelled for Mitch. He yelled back, "Go on without me. I'll come later." I led him through a back door of the faculty club building, up some stairs, to a side bathroom that I went for breaks in sometimes, to take a leak and read a magazine like Time or Newsweek. It was just a cubicle, but okay for our purpose. I pressed against the cold wall and spread my legs. Mitch saliva-ed up his thick, hard tool and pushed it in; I had to force him, with my arms, to slow down somewhat, but once he was all the way in, it was great. He put his arms around me in a bear hug and began pumping it into my asshole. We were in there, sweating like pigs, at it for almost 30 minutes. He washed up, using that awful powdered soap, and said, "You want me to suck you off?" I sure did, and he got down and gave me a hand-job. "It's sorta big for me," was his excuse. So I took over, as he stayed kneeling, and seconds before I was ready, I had him open his mouth and slipped it in, to explode in that warm, moist cavern. He didn't take it all the way down, but I wriggled it around and it still felt fantastic. I was withdrawing when a sudden pounding on the door made our hearts skip 30 beats. "Hey, you out soon?" A big fist kept pounding, some obnoxious dude. I don't know if he did it to be cute, but Mitch spat out the mouthful of come, all over the tile floor and my knees and shins. "Hey, what's going on!" demanded the voice. "Get lost!" I yelled, angry at the creep. I warned Mitch not to speak; two voices, and we were in hot water. "I'm takin' a crap. Keep your fucking shirt on." He grumbled and cursed before walking away. "I'll leave now," I told Mitch, "and you stay here a few minutes. Be careful." I saw Mitch a few more times, but he was always surrounded by his gang of teenyboppers; I often wondered why he hung around with kids, but didn't want to find out. I didn't always act accommodating, though, and regret to say that I once turned down a fully dressed (fortunately) man of about 70. He wanted us to suck each other off. I had bumped into him while I was gardening outside the club. He was a nice guy and still fair looking for his age, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I only regretted it 'cause I was afraid of hurting his feelings; everyone gets to be 70 someday. I saw a lot of flesh and some incredible things. One of my English profs, for instance, a handsome but dull fellow who it turned out had a very weird cock. The head of it curved way inwards, like the nose of that Gonzo character on the Muppet show. You had to see it to believe it. I wondered how it was for him, sexually. Worst of all, though I didn't mean to stare and didn't much want to talk to the guy, who always made me nervous, he told me about it. "It was always like this, but it's no problem." He even pointed at it. I tried to smile, and said "oh." One day I saw a newcomer, a handsome, tall Mexican-American in an almost non-existent bikini. He corrected my mistaken impression; told me he was Brazilian, named Paulo. He also told me straight off that he was gay and asked if there was a place we could go. It was a Sunday morning, and the facilities didn't open for an hour. "I climbed over the wall," Paulo had explained. We went to the handball court, stooping down to enter the three feet high door, which I locked from inside. There was no ceiling on this one court, and the night before it had rained and some vandals had dumped mud into the court, resulting in muddy puddles. The court wouldn't be available for handball that day, but for us, it was just as well. We stripped naked and admired each other's bods, embracing and pressing our stiff organs against each other's belly. Our tongues met and embraced, too, penetrating each other's mouths. He began to go down on me, but this time I wanted something more mutual, not so one-sided — that was my sole complaint about most of my experiences that summer. So we sixty-nined, in the middle of a mud puddle, keeping our heads above the dirt, sucking hard and working happily at coming simultaneously. After a few near misses, we made it, shoving our cocks way down deep, writhing in spasms of beautiful agony. I felt real close to Paulo, knowing I'd found someone special. Then we were free to wallow in the mud, and luckily, I once read an article about mud being a safe lubricant — so long as you shower thoroughly afterward. This time I did the fucking, though I had to promise Paulo he could reciprocate, at some later date. Summer was ending, and I was tired of one-ways and dead ends. This was my first really intimate screw, with Paulo on his back, his muddy legs over my muddy shoulders, and my muddy cock in his pristine, freshly showered ass. I held out forever, and the whole thing took under our allotted hour, with time to spare to get to know each other verbally and go shower off the mud and start a beautiful, sexy friendship.