I'm I wealthy man. I don't say that to put on airs, nor do I tke a great deal of pride in it. I was born wealthy, so if anything I'm lucky, and how much pride can you have in luck? It's also the case that -- unlike my father and grandfather before me -- I have no talent for making money. I do, on the other hand, have a basic frugality to my nature, one that has allowed me to keep and nurture what was handed down to me.

As you see, I'm also a handsome man. Again, mostly that is luck. The bone structure, the coloring, the masculine features, the thick hair. No doubt the looks were a factor in my forebears' success -- they were handsome men, too, and they married attractive women.

My body, on the oher hand, is my own accomplishment. Yes, the good genes helped -- the wide shoulders and narrow hips, the small joints and full muscle bellies. But I could have ignored or neglected all of that. Instead, thanks to decades of hard work and consistency of effort, I have as good a body -- muscular, powerful, yet gracefully athletic -- a middle aged man is ever likely to have (without significant chemical assistance, that is, and I've refrained from that.)

And, yes, as you might have guessed, I'm gay. I figured it out early on. My mother claims she knew from nearly the moment I was born. She told me many years later that her first thought was, "Well, we'll have something in common." Her next was: "And I'll never tell his father." My father wasn't a bad man, mind you, or even particularly homophobic, just hyper-competitive. He simply would not have known how to compete with a gay son. As it turned out, he never had to deal with it -- he died unexpectedly when I was 16, just as I was beginning to figure it out.

My teens and early 20's afforded plenty of opportunity for exploration, although for all the wealth and social position I inherited I was a bit of a nerd. I had plenty of offers of sex from girls and boys alike, and while I dabbled with both (well, a couple of girls, a couple dozen guys) I actually preferred school. Like my moher, I enjoyed history and art and ideas, I thrived in school and figured I would linger there as long as it held my interest. An academic career seemed a distinct possibility.

By the time I was 30 I had a Ph.D. in art history and no desire whatsoever to place myself on the academic treadmill. I could afford a life in academe, without question, but I valued my freedom and independence. I went home and established a foundation and cultural center and poured my efforts into nurturing both.

In my 30s I also looked for and worked on establishing a meaningful relationship with another man but nothing seemed to pan out. There were the users (I'm wealthy), the dullards (I'm smart), the lazy (I keep my own schedule but I'm hardly indolent), and the taken. At 40 I realized that -- for whatever reason -- it hadn't happened and wasn't likely to happen. And yet I longed for a level of human interaction that I wasn't findiing in my wor, in the easily available casual sex, even in those deep friendships I developed with a dozen or so attractive gay couples at home and across the globe.

And then I met Eddie.

Eddie's story (1.2)

I was 19 when I met Mr. Jones ("Jason," that is; I only started calling him by his first name about a year ago!) It was at the Downtown Y. I know you're thinking, "Ain't THAT a big surprise!" but really I wasn't looking, much less hooking. When I told my Aunt Jo that I was moving to the city, she told me, "Stay at the Y and I'll pay for it." She didn't want me on the streets, she said, or "depending on the kindness of strangers" (whatever that meant!)

It was cool to stay at the Y, especially since I got to use the pool and the weightroom and the showers and the sauna. Man, there were so many hot men there! More in that one gym that in the whole town back home. I had to wear extra tight shorts the whole time and keep myself covered up extra good, I was popping wood so often!

Looking back I can't believe what a skinny geek I was. At 6 ft tall I was all of 150 lbs. soaking wet. Not an ounce of fat on me and my waist was really small (just 27 inches) so it almost sorta kinda looked like I had shoulders. But just plain skinny, especially compared to all the monsters hanging out there.

I had a couple of things going for me that the other guys didn't. One was that I had "perfect skin," or so Mr. Jones -- uh, Jason, I mean -- told me later. A very light olive complexion that tanned perfectly and evenly in no time. And not a single blemish. Not a mole, not a freckle, anywhere on my body. Hell, I'd never even had a pimple.

And that was a little weird because I was also furry as fuck. Thick, swirling brown hair in all the right places -- chest, abs, arms and legs, even my ass. Everywhere except my back. Oh, yeah, and my beard was pretty advanced for someone only 19. It didn't matter how often I shaved (and I started at 14) I always had a 5 o'clock shadow.

And then there was my...

Well, no. I'll let Jason tell you about about. I think it's his favorite part of the story!

As for Jason, I'll never forget the first time I laid eyes on him. In the weightroom at the Y, benching God knows how much weight, his massive pecs expanding and contracting, squeezing out the maximum effort for each rep. Plus model handsome, moderately furry, a sexy goatee. I'd never seen that much muscle and that much raw masculinity in one person.

When he got up to go to the locker room, man, I just had to follow. And when I saw him there showering, lathering up that hot muscle bod, I just had to do the same. I shucked my clothes, dropped my towel, and -- for the first time ever -- strode in there with nothing on, and nothing to hide.

Jason's Story (1.3)

He thinks he saw me first but that's not actually the case. I spotted the skinny, oh so young, oh so handsome kid the minute he walked in the weightroom at the Y.

I say "skinny" and he was that but in the way that means "trim" or "athletic," not malnourished or ectomorphic. Slender shoulders, yes, but with that tiny wiast he had the beginnings of a nice V-taper. Flawless skin, gorgeous, thick, wavy hair, fur in all the right places, and...

OH MY GOD!

That was some basket!

I could tell he was into me and I gave him my patented, gently friendly smile. The "be a good boy and I might give you a treat but don't get all hyper on me, OK?" smile. It bounced right off of him, he was too keyed up to pay attention, too shy to make eye contact.

I finished my workout and hit the showers. Sure enough, I heard him come in just a minute behind me. I kept my back to him as he disrobed, found the faucet, turned on the tap. He was taking his time about it and, much to my surprise, I was getting a stiffy. "He's just a kid," I thought to myself. "What's the big deal?"

And then I turned to face him.

JESUS.

The kid had a fucking enormous cock!

"Dayum!" I blurted.

Far and away the biggest I'd ever seen, and I'd seen plenty of big ones in my day. Before i knew what was happening, I was standing next to him, looking down at it, my right hand cluthcing my own thick eight incher, itself rock hard.

"Jeez, kid, that's a monster!" I exclaimed. "Can I touch it?"

He sucked breath.

"Uh, uh, yessir, that'ud be swell, but, uh, could I touch your muscles first?"

I flashed him my best and brightest smile, the one that had been known to melt ice off the frosty hearts of ancient, perpetually disapproving trust fund aunties. I flexed my 20-inch bicep.

"Go ahead, boy, feel it all you like."

He was all over me in a flash.

"Greedy little musclepig, aren't you?"

He gurgled in reply and I pulled him up.

"My turn now."

Fuck, I couldn't get my hand -- and I don't have small hands -- all the way around the shaft, which was nearly as long as my forearm. I could feel the heat coming off of it before I got my hand within six inches of it.

"Christ, boy, that's some monster meat! Have you ever measured it?"

He giggled, a grown man's boyish giggle, not a girly giggle.

"Oh, yes sir! It's the biggest muscle I've got, so of course I've measured it!"

I laughed.

"It's an organ, not a muscle, or we'd all have one that big," I told him. "So how big is it?"

He cleared his throat.

"Sir, this tool is 13 1/2 inches long and 11 inches around at the thickest point, although you can see it's just about the same thickness from top to bottom."

And unlike some huge dicks, completely hard, completely straight, and jutting OUT instead of down.

"Kid," I said, "You got any dinner plans for this evening?"

He shook his head.

"You do now. We need to discuss your future." •