I had known Dave Ryder all my life. We had lived in the same neighborhood, gone to the same schools, even attended the same church where his father was the pastor. He was two years my senior and I had always been somewhat in awe of him because he was one of the school jocks. He had always been a good-looking kid, and, as he grew to manhood, he became devastatingly handsome. I had indulged in a bit of hero worship during high school, but had only thought of him in a more-or-less vague way until he started seriously dating my sister. It was at that point that my incoherent adolescent sexual fantasies finally led me to the inescapable conclusion that I was gay.
Once I admitted that, I also had to admit that I had a serious crush on Dave Ryder. No, I take that back. It wasn't a crush--I was in love with him. Nothing else could explain the sensations that churned my gut every time I laid eyes on him. Nothing else could explain the raging hard-ons I experienced whenever he touched me, hard-ons that refused to subside until I had jacked off two or three times while thinking about him.
I stroked my dick, letting my fingers curl briefly around my balls. Dave had always been nice to me, and now that he was marrying my sister, he was more attentive to me than ever. He always came up to my room whenever he dropped over, usually with nothing more important on his mind than shooting the shit for a few minutes, man to man. Somehow we always seemed to get into these long, involved conversations that lasted until Karen came upstairs looking for him. A couple of times, I had actually noticed a pained furrow appear between Dave's eyebrows when he heard her voice, demanding that he follow her back downstairs. He would get up like the dutiful fiance and go with her, but he always made eye contact with me before he disappeared, flashing me a crooked grin that made me melt.
I stroked myself from crotch to neck, wishing that the hand exploring the sculpted contours of my torso belonged to Dave. As I played with myself, I thought back to an afternoon a few weeks earlier. It had started with a discussion about weight training, and, next thing I knew, we had stripped out of our shirts and were standing before the mirror in my bedroom, comparing physiques.
"Looking at you makes me feel fat," Dave had groused. He was built bigger than me, his biceps bulbous, his pecs thick and rounded whereas mine were flatter and more angular. He outweighed me by at least thirty pounds, every ounce of it solid muscle.
"I'm looking, but I'm not seeing any fat, Dave."
"I can't believe this gut of mine." He prodded his perfectly muscled belly with his forefinger.
"Neither can I," I muttered, my eyes flickering over his midsection.
"Check it out, Jeff." He grabbed me by the wrist and pressed my hand against his belly. The hairs that coated the hot, hard wall of muscle curled around my fingers and tickled my palm. I looked up, beyond his massive, hairy chest to his open, handsome face. I saw his Adam's-apple, the little cleft in his chin, the shadow of beard stubble on his cheeks, the single blond hair in his dark eyebrows. His dusky red lips were the same color as his nipples. I heard a thumping sound in my ears. It was the frantic pounding of my own heart.
He had smiled at me then, his hand still holding mine tight against his gut. He was just starting to say something when my bitch of a sister called up the stairs, her shrill voice demanding his immediate presence. He had shrugged, tousled my hair and departed, leaving me standing in my room, my palm pressed against my lips.