Courtesy of www.99Gay-Men.US

I Thought We Came For The Fishing
by Greg Scott


All the usual stuff about you must be old enough in your jurisdiction, etc.  In other words, if you are underage, don't read this unless you have a really cool teacher who assigned it.  Otherwise, come back in a few years, when nobody will yell at you.


"Hey, man.  I'm sorry," I said, struggling to read the illuminated clock with my eyes blurred by my interrupted sleep.  "I don't fool around with married men."

"You did with Harrington," Tom countered.

"Go back to your own room," I ordered Tom without any effect.

Tom was right.  When Tom and I were college sophomores, shortly after we had met but before we had even hinted to each other about becoming intimate, I had a short thing with my history professor.  Only during the third tryst with my elder did I learn that Harrington was married.

We had gone to his house.  It was the first time we had done anything outside of the professor's office.  Just as things were becoming especially interesting, as I felt my teacher's ample cock begin to throb in the entry to my throat; I heard a female voice call out to him from downstairs.

"I'm tutoring a student, dear," Harrington replied without losing a stroke.  "We'll be down shortly."

I might have asked the identity of the unseen voice, but I was stuffed with a huge cylinder that was at that moment pushing out rather tasty male nectar.  At that moment, I didn't really care who she was.  After all, I was still in a glow after plowing my teacher's talented ass and filling my condom almost to the breaking point in the process.

During our post-coital, awkward (but only awkward for me, it seemed) conversation over cups of tea that Mrs. Harrington had waiting for the three of us when her husband and I came downstairs, I committed to be certain of a man's marital status before I ever let my libido do my thinking for me in the future.  Despite her charm, I couldn't look my lover's wife in the eyes.

Following three more times with Professor Harrington, I stuck to my promise, passing on several very tempting married guys in the interim, most of whom were in town on "business."  I also deflected the flirtations of more than a few married men who wouldn't have stood a chance with me even if they weren't married.

Later that school year, Tom and I consummated our friendship.  As we were falling "in like" with each other, I recounted the entire Harrington story including my resolve to be chaste when it came to married men.

In our junior year, Tom and I felt and began to tentatively express growing feeling for each other.  Tom began to show signs of jealousy over my dalliance with my former teacher, despite the reality that it had all happened when Tom and I were hardly more than acquaintances.

I began to come out not long after Harrington and I had ended, but Tom remained bolt-locked in the closet.  Even to me, he claimed to be straight, insisting that what we shared was a masculine love that did not define his sexuality.  He spoke of how he would marry at some point, raise a traditional family and never have these feelings again.  Despite his insistence, despite the fact that every female on campus found him as appealing as I did, Tom never dated throughout the rest of our college careers.  Neither of us seemed to have any sexual or romantic needs beyond what the other provided.  

Our first jobs after graduation took us to different cities--me to D.C.; Tom to Manhattan.  We promised to get together at least twice a month, since the Eastern Corridor train system is so much better than what we were used to in our native Midwest.  As such things tend to go, by the end of the first year we were seeing each other every four or five weeks.  

On the phone and we were together, we spoke of our love for each other, but we also spoke of our new lives that were developing more than 200 miles apart.  We talked about our careers and social lives, sprinkling our conversations with names of new friends.  I know that we both left out some key elements of those more recent friendships, less because we wanted to hide the truth from each other than due to a genuine concern of making the other person uncomfortable.  I assumed that he had a sex life just as I did, usually with the seemingly endless supply of other young gay congressional aides and lobbyist staffers who frequented the DuPont Circle clubs.  When we were together, we didn't integrate the other into our own normal lives, so we didn't meet the other's friends whose names we spoke and heard.  Instead, we spent the occasional short weekends together at our respective apartments eating delivered food, watching movies on cable and renewing our sexual passion.

Our r
endezvous schedule changed gradually over the next couple years, moving to once every couple of months, then once every three months and finally settling into a pattern of twice a year.  We would take a mini-getaway over the holidays when we both returned to Wisconsin primarily to visit our families who now lived on opposite sides of the same city.  Weather permitting, that would be an event supposedly centered on skiing, although we typically would make only a couple runs down the slopes, spending the rest of the time sipping coffee doused with Irish Cream in front of the fireplace in our room at the lodge.

The other annual event was a summer fishing trip on a lake near Curtis in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.  That particular tradition began the summer following our sophomore year.  It was there that our college romance truly began.  We caught relatively few fish that first year and even fewer each successive year.  Eventually, I don't think we would have gone onto the lake at all except for Tom's paranoid insistence that we go out at least a few times to persuade the owners of the little resort that we were simply typical (straight) fishermen.

We missed the fishing trip only one year--last year--because Tom had recently changed jobs and needed to save all his vacation time for his upcoming honeymoon.  He had told me of his engagement during a phone conversation in which he asked me to serve as best man.  I wasn't surprised.  He had been speaking of Heather with increasing frequency, and I realized that these mentions were carefully planned to prepare me for his readiness to move onto that traditional life that he had always promised himself.

Still, I was very disappointed by the cancellation of our summer vacation.  I had viewed it as a final fling with my college sweetheart.  Tom promised me that we would resume our fishing trip vacation tradition the next year.  I reminded him of my rule about not having sex with a married man.  He indicated that all of his same-sex interests had completely disappeared now that he had found Heather.

Such was the background that led to the current circumstance, which I honestly found surprising.  For some reason I had believed with great relief his proclamation of being only interested in his wife.  But that didn't explain why I found my twenty-nine year old former lover in my room in our rustic cottage,
naked climbing into my bed.

"We can't do this, Tom," I said as he rubbed my chest with his familiar circular movements.

"I just want to cuddle with my best friend," he claimed.

"Are you sure that's all?"

"Of course," he tried to reassure me.

I was about to tell him that I didn't believe him, when I felt his body contact mine from shoulders to feet.  I could feel the familiar outline of his cock pressed against the fabric of my briefs.  He wrapped his arm around my torso to pull me closer.  I didn't protest.  Certainly there was no harm in simply cuddling!

"This feels nice," he whispered.

I agreed, but I said nothing.  I noticed his familiar scent, unchanged since he was a college sophomore.  It seemed to envelop me as much as his arm did.

Over the years, I have been with quite a few men.  Each has his own, unique scent.  I am sure that you could send a hundred men to the showers with identical soap and within ten minutes of finishing their showers each would have reclaimed his own scent--at least enough that I could detect their differences, even blind-folded.  I love the scent of a man, almost any man, but Tom's aroma was at the top of my list.

I drifted toward sleep feeling protected by his presence.  Despite noticing a stiffening of my own cock, I slept.

Tom must have gone to sleep quickly as well, because I awoke at dawn to find both of us in the exact same positions.  I was surprised but genuinely pleased that he had kept his promise by not making a move to seduce me.  I returned to my slumber for what must have been a couple hours more.

I was next awakened in the middle of what must have been a very sexual dream.  I recalled only tiny snippets of the dream as I struggled to regain consciousness in the mid-morning light.  I had been surrounded by faceless men whose cocks I took into my mouth briefly in succession.  Some were large and some were quite small.  Some were cut, and others had visible foreskin despite their inflated conditons.   Then suddenly I had found myself lying on a bed and all the men were touching me in some way, each waiting his turn to stroke my cock and fondle my balls while they tenderly rubbed me wherever there was an available space.  I wanted to remember more details of the hot experience, but I failed.  I found myself wishing that I had stayed asleep a little longer.

Perhaps if I had not tried so hard to fill in the blanks of my sleeping fantasy, I might have connected more quickly with the reality of my waking world.  Only gradually did I notice that Tom had managed to pull my underwear down to near my knees--not in the dream but in this two-bedroom lakeside cottage that we shared.  He squeezed my balls gently, exactly as I prefer, in syncopation with his rhythmic strokes of my fully engorged dick, which leaked precum in unusual quantities.

"Tom," I began.

My voice startled him, but instead of saying anything, he simply moved his face into mine to begin a kiss, our first in two years.  I resisted, but I gave into his persistence after only a couple seconds at most as we began a tongue duel, where we both concentrated our mutual frustrations.  I knew that I was lost in his attention.

The kiss portrayed his lust.  It included my buried anger about his marriage.  Mostly it conveyed our continuing love.  Thus it was extremely passionate, although in very different ways simultaneously.

At last I pushed him away, gently, so as to convey a shift in positions rather than an abandonment of our now mutually expressed determination to do this thing, whatever it might turn out to be.  I rolled him so that his back was pointed toward the ceiling.  I pulled his hips upward to get him into position.  I plunged my face between his cheeks and forced my tongue as far as it could go into his hole.  His instinctive, physiological resistance soon gave way to moans of gratitude and evident pleasure.  In and out I pushed my tongue.

"Fuck me, now," he commanded.

"I didn't bring any condoms," I said.  "Did you?"

"No," he said sadly.  "I didn't plan to do this, but when I saw you I knew I had to be with you totally."

"We have other ways," I said as I rolled him onto his side facing me.

It required only minor adjustments to perfectly align ourselves for a classic sixty-nine.  He dove at my cock, demonstrating his clear hunger for it.  I made my move more slowly, teasing him with my tongue along his inner thighs, which made him squirm.  He pressed further upon my member until my head reached the entry to his throat.

He paused for a while, either remembering its familiarity or allowing himself to adjust to the intrusion.  I took the opportunity to lap at his nut sac.  Tom rewarded me with full body shivers and tightening his throat around that part of my cock.

By itself, that was enough to bring me close to climax, but when he started his inevitable up and down movements I realized that there was no point in me trying to prolong the obvious outcome of his expert familiarity with my triggers.

I wanted his cock in my mouth when it happened, so I abandoned his balls in favor of my real goal.  Just as I began to imitate his technique, I arrived at the point of no return.  I was vaguely aware of my juices working their way to their destination.

I saw spots, frequently described as stars, as my prolonged explosion began.  I wanted to scream in ecstasy, but more so I wanted to continue to work Tom's beautiful organ.

My orgasm must have triggered his.  After my second volley into his mouth and throat, I felt the vibrations of his moans as he locked down more tightly on my rod.  Soon after I tasted his sweetly bitter emissions begin to fill my mouth.

Once we had both finished we resumed our old custom of a final kiss in which we shared the flavors of our mixed cum, each of us finally swallowing the mixture from our united bodies.

As we dressed, Tom called out to me from his room, "Let's have breakfast in Newberry, then stop at the drugstore for some condoms."

Five days later we packed for our return trips.  I noticed Tom inspecting the trash cans in both bedrooms to pull out the used, overly full condoms and wrap them in a plastic bag.  He would later deposit that bag into a trash can at a rest area on the drive to the airport.  He still wanted to pretend to the resort owners that we were just ordinary fishermen, even though we hadn't bothered to get into a boat even once the whole time.

As we were returning our rental car at the small airport a couple hours away, I said, "I thought we came for the fishing."

"So did I," Tom replied.  "Next year, let's not kid ourselves and come better prepared."

"And let's actually go fishing at least once," I replied with a smile.

I felt guilty for violating my pledge about married men, but I knew that it was a guilt that I could eventually accept--or, at least, rationalize--at least as long as Tom was my only exception.  After all, he was mine before he had become Heather's man.  There is something special about a first love; certainly it must have some sort of continuning claim attached to it.    

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