Jeff & Mike


By Cleety

Jeez, where to start -- so fuckin' much to tell. Jeff says I have to write it all down. You probably want to know the whole freaky thing, huh? Well, I'm afraid I'm not much of a writer; I usually prefer to express myself visually, through my art…but I'll try. I guess I should start with how I met Jeff in the first place, huh?

Well, we met when we were in grad school down in Florida, my home state. I was doing my MFA in fine arts and he was in the molecular biology program. He answered an ad I put in the school paper. It said something like, "Artist's Model Wanted", and then some bullshit about needing to be a male, in your 20s, and way above-average in muscular development or some shit. See I was doing photo studies of male nudes, art photography stuff. You know, involving smooth bellies of tanned muscle - like, skin stretching over freaky peaked bis, for instance. Or, like, black-and-whites that play with the shadows and hair textures on the protruding bricks of a bodybuilder's 10-pack, light playing over the beads of perspiration on a pumped pec, yadda yadda. I had actually based my whole quickening career on pics exploring the theme of muscle and what it does for the human male - those who have it, and those who NEED it. Like me, for instance.

I know what you're saying - "If you're any good as a photographer, why fuckin' bother with getting an MFA in the first place? Why not just take pics and sell them to magazines and galleries?" The answer is that I liked being on a college campus, especially in Florida. Incredibly buff young jocks were all over the place and eager to model for me. A university in Florida is little more than a year-round orgy of muscle, and that's about the perfect milieu for me and for my work. I might have hung around the area for a few years shooting all the hot guys on campus even if I WEREN'T in school, so I figured, hell, get the damn piece of paper while you're at it.

Anyway, Jeff called me and said he thought I'd be just what he was looking for. So I said, sure, come by my studio, which was also my off-campus apartment. His voice was pretty sexy. Hearing him talk about his body on the phone made my cock start to get semi-erect - you know, like puffy…and it crawled down the left leg of my cargo shorts. Like, I asked him to describe himself, okay - and he says, 6'2, "over 200", blonde and tan, completely smooth, and built "like a fuckin' Greek statue". Before I'd even hung up, my dick was swollen up, starting to strain up against the heavy shorts, tenting them like they weighed nothing. I didn't whack off and blow a load like I wanted, instead I deliberately nursed my hard-on so it'd still be "responsive" when the self-proclaimed "Greek statue" got there.

I intended, if nothing else, to embarrass the shit out of this guy by sprouting wood the whole time I was nonchalantly talking to him, setting up shots, hooting rolls of film, whatever - Ha ha! Damn, I love doing that. Especially if the dude is straight….you know, like I don't even notice my fat boner snaking down my leg, the weeping head leaving stains on the thigh of my shorts while I shave his pecs non-chalantly, or while I'm oiling up his abs or some shit…and seeing if the poor guy says something about it! For instance, one time I was photographing this huge-ass black bodybuilder guy, who despite his enormous size, was really shy and reserved. And SOO fucking straight. You know the type: "I thank Jesus for giving me a freaked-up body so I could win the Mr. Universe"….the dude even wore a gold cross that dangled in the chasm of his pecs, and shit. I've never understood how anybody so devoted to muscle can be straight, but there ya go…Anyway, this guy was so packed with muscle, it was almost grotesque. You know how black guys get, the lucky fucks - 300 pounds, 3 percent body fat, tiny twenty-nine inch waist…and incredibly huge, thick pecs, arms, shoulders, thighs…

Anyway he's sitting on this prop cube thingy I have, squeezing his melon-pecs to blow the damn things out, and I go up to fix the lights, whistling like "it's cool", and meanwhile my cock is dangling down the leg of my shorts, and straining and twitching right under his pecs…I wasn't wearing underwear so every time I tensed my cock, it snapped up and hit the leg of my shorts with a soft "thwack", an inch from his face. After a few minutes he's all like, "Uhhhhh…"

"What, man?" I fiddled with the lights.

"Uhhhh…yo' cock, man." I glanced casually down.

"Huh? Oh, that. Massive muscle bones me big time, that's all."

He says something like, "Am I doing that?" and I'm all - "Yeah, I guess so, is it bothering you?" and he's all "Well --" and I sigh and say "Okay, whatever, I'll get rid of it." So I zip down my fly, whip out my meat, thick and heavy as a cucumber, and without any more ado, without even touching myself, I BLOW A HUGE MILKY LOAD right onto the guy's chest! HA! He was so fucking freaked out he couldn't even talk! And then me, without batting an eye, I grab my dripping, deflating cock in my fist and shove the fucker back into my shorts saying "It won't bother us again for a few minutes - now let's get this shot!" •

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