All right.  This is my first attempt at an "erotic" story.  I'm not sure its even erotic.  But I used to write all the time when I was a kid and I really enjoyed it.  But, unfortunately my stories sucked and I never finished them.  This is the first time I've tried to write something as an adult and I hope you enjoy it.  If you do please email me at and I will try to post another chapter next week.  So sit, back, enjoy and as an assignment, please write a 100 page essay, typed, double-spaced on the significance of golf in our culture and the effect it has in shaping the "under-twenty" generation.

WARNING:  The following is an erotic story involving men (all of legal age) and sex.  If you do not like this sort of stuff or are forbidden to read it in your jurisdiction, please do not read on.  Wait, change that.  Please, DO read on.  Go ahead, you'll like it, I promise.  Just read on and enjoy the following story.  I DARE YOU!  Because if you find this stuff objectionable to begin with, what the heck are you doing here in the first place?  What, did you surf on in here by mistake?  Chah!  As if!  I think not.  OK, but seriously, don't blame me if you get offended.  You've been warned, spanky.

Working at the Club

Chapter 1

What is it about summer?  I personally like snow and ice better.  In the winter you can go skiing and ice skate and play hockey.  But summer has a quality all its own.  It's freedom from school.  It's lazy days.  It's fleeting two month (day, hour) romances.  It's that achy feeling you get in your stomach when you think back on your youth and the days of summer.  I think back 3 summers ago to when I was 19.  I was home from college working at a country club in Danbury, Connecticut.

So many kids hated their summer jobs.  I guess I hated mine at times, but that goes to show you how foolish I am.  Let me give you the details of my "job".  I drove around the club's golf course on a golf cart and sold chips, pretzels, cigars, booze, soda, juice, gatorade... you name it.  I never came home with less than $50 in cash from tips.  Plus I got $6 an hour and 15% commission of whatever I sold.  And when the club charged you $4.50 for a mixed drink, that commission came to almost as much as my hourly wage.  And if I was having a bad day, I'd sneak off to the 14th hole for a couple of cocktails "on the house."

Yes life was good, the summer was hot, my farmer's tan was raging, and my job was cake.  The one bad thing about my job was that I worked six days a week and sometimes twelve hour days (and my one day off I spent at the club golfing, not that I'm really into the game, but I was trying it out and seeing why people wasted beautiful Sat. afternoons swearing at a little white ball and breaking clubs over their knees).  I think the most I ever clocked  one week was 96 hours (god bless that time and a half overtime!).  So I didn't see my friends as much as I'd like.  They're a great bunch of guys and girls.

It never phased them when they found out I was gay.  They liked me for whoever and whatever I was.  I'm still just as good friends with them today as I was before they knew, probably even better.  So pretty much my world consisted of fellow employees and asshole, rich members.  OK, some of them were cool, especially the ones that would slip you a twenty every time you saw them.  But for the most part they were rich, conservative "old money" misers.  Umm, was it my fault if a loogie somehow ended up in their drink? (j/k, I never, ever did that, honestly)

OK, ok, I hear you, get to the sex.  Well hold on, zip up the fly, let me the set the mood first.  This story isn't just about sex.  In fact, if you're looking for a quickie to jack off to, don't pick this one.  There will be sex, and some nice details, but this is more than just a wanker tale.  First a little about me.  I'm 5'6" and I weigh about 140.  I'm not a bulging, muscular guy, but kind of toned.  I have short, dark, brown hair and weird blue eyes.  Sometimes they're really cool and blue looking and sometimes they're really dark, almost black.  It depends on my mood, and the lighting.  People ask me if I wear contacts sometimes, and I do.  Except they're not tinted, my eyes are their natural color.

I am sometimes clean shaven, and sometimes I sport a goatee, like I have while I'm writing this.  My best look is after two days of not shaving, when I have just enough stubble to be sexy, but not too much.  So I have an okay body, and some chest hair and a nice happy trail. Wow, I'm not too modest, eh?  Just kidding.  Read on.  My best quality is probably my persona.  I'm gay, but not flaming or effeminate.  Not that I have a problem with that.  I think some guys like that are really cute and fun to be around.  Except I could never date one for any length of time.  I'm kind of a jock, but not.  I don't read Sports Illustrated, or get all caught up in watching sports and tracking statistics.  But I like to play around with hockey, football, lacrosse, tennis, etc.  I have a really good sense of humor, probably better than what comes across in this story.  I have a huge heart, and if you love me with yours, you'll get a ton of loving yourself.

So, as I said earlier, my world consisted mostly of people that hung around the club.  Members, and employees.  Some of the employees weren't too bad, and then there were some I just couldn't stand.  There were several employees my age, and I definitely interacted with them the most.  My favorite part of the job was heading to the snack bar to re-ice my cart.  Every time I did a lap around the course, I'd come back to the clubhouse to drop my info off to the head bartender - what each member bought from me so he could charge their account.  Then I'd restock my cart with items I needed and hurry off to grab more sales (i.e.. commissions = moola!).  I had to stop at the snack shop by the pool before going out to re-ice my inventory.  That was nice because I could check out some of the guys by the pool (although hot ones were rare) but more importantly I could socialize a bit with the guys who worked the snack shed.  They were all in college like me or in high school.

Two guys really stand out.  Adam and Ryan.  Let's be alphabetical about this.

Adam was the younger looking of the two.  Both had just finished their senior year of high school.  Adam was tall and thin, just my type!  He had a smooth baby face with gorgeous green eyes.  His hair was sandy brown, and short, and he usually wore a hat.   He had a nice, tan complexion with a smidge of freckles around the bridge of his nose.  He was probably around 5'9".  He was kind of quiet and you had to make the effort to have any kind of conversation with him.  But he wasn't really shy.  After I had talked a little bit with him, and joked around, he was totally open.  He became quite friendly around me.  Adam was really cute.  He was in that category of young looking, shy guys.

Then there was Ryan.  Ryan was taller than Adam (probably around 5'11") and built a little better.  Hmm, okay, he was hot!  What a body, although I could only guess that because the standard issue work clothes (polo shirt and shorts) weren't too revealing.  But from what I could tell, he had a nice medium build, and was well defined.  He had this gorgeous face with soft brown eyes and light brown hair.  His face was chiseled and well proportioned, with a strong jaw that gave further evidence to suggest his body was quite firm!  He had a nice five o'clock shadow look when he let his facial hair grow out a couple of days.  He too, was nicely tanned, and walked around with a bit more confidence than Adam.  He was not shy at all, in fact he was very outgoing.  He was a really cool guy and was friendly to just about anyone.  He was in the category of hot, fun-going guys.  Yup you know them, the ones that are dangerous... and straight (usually?).

Of course there were two other guys (including the snack shed manager) and two girls that also worked, too.  But they weren't real important and I'll introduce them later if it seems important to the story.  I guess I "hit" on both Adam and Ryan.  Not hard, but I was more friendly to them than the other snack shed people.  I figured, if either one of them is gay, I'll increase my chances by hitting on them both.  They didn't always work the same shifts so it was easy to work them both separately.  Listen to me!  Am I a player or what?

I was not in the closet at the time, but I was not "out" at work.  Mainly because it never came up (unless one of the members hit on me, and that did happen sometimes) but also because I didn't want to lose tips just because some bastard member wasn't liberal.

It was several weeks into the season and the days were blazing hot.  My boys at the snack shed always offered to keep me watered but I always told them, why bother, I have a cart full of drinks.  If I was hungry they'd cook me up a burger or hot dog with curly fries.  Ahh, the joys of processed meat!  I had just stopped into the snack shed for the first time that day and was happy to see that Ryan was working this Thursday morning shift.  He was restocking some stuff - whoever else was working with him was probably up in the cage (stock room) getting some stuff.  I approached the door to the shed quietly and he didn't hear me or see me as he had his back to the door and was stocking the shelves.

I took my ice bucket and playfully smacked him on the butt with it.  He whipped around to face me.

"Shit, dude, you scared the hell out of me!"

"Keeping you on your toes," I replied opening the ice bin and starting to fill my bucket.  "What hours are you working today?", I asked.

"All day till close," he sighed.

"Yes, you have such a tough life, sitting on your ass and flipping hamburgers all day." I quipped.

"Oh, and you should talk with your job!", he remarked quickly.  Zing!  I chuckled and knew he was right.  I grabbed my bucket and quickly headed towards the cart.  I was sort of in a hurry.  Mr. Peterson should have been rounding nine by now and probably was looking for some gatorade.  I walked quickly towards the cart to grab one more pail of ice.  As I entered the shack I paused.  It was a really hot June morning.  The sweat was already pouring off of me.  Ryan, sweaty as well, was wiping his forehead with his shirt exposing his stomach.  I gazed achingly at that flat, toned and tan stomach.  A nice little happy trail ran down from his belly button and disappeared into his shorts (unfortunately).  I must have stared longer than I should have because he noticed me looking as he tucked his shirt back in.

"Hot as balls," he said.  I agreed and told him I needed to hurry out to satisfy my customers.  I grabbed another bucket of ice and headed back to the cart.  "Steve," he called out, "you want a burger around 1pm ready for you?"

"No thanks," I replied over my shoulder.  "I think I'll order from the clubhouse today.  I've got a hankering for a grilled chicken sandwich.  I'll see you before then, though."  As I got on my cart and started to move out, he came out from the shed and yelled.

"Don't work too hard."

"Don't worry, you know me!" I laughed as I headed towards the tenth.

Mr. Peterson did indeed want a gatorade and he slipped me a five as he said, "Just on time, Steve."

"I've got a sixth sense about this sort or thing, Mr. Peterson," I said.  I quickly wrote down his number and marked "1 gatorade" next to it.  Got to make sure each member gets charged and pays his fair share (sound of a cash register going ca-ching!, image of my commission column filling up)  Replacing my pad and pen I turned around and headed across the parking lot to the ninth.  My mind was still enjoying that shot of Ryan's stomach.  As I thought about what lay at the end of that happy trail my grin grew and the bulge in my pants got a little bit bigger.

I stopped just off the 9th fairway.  Before going up the hill to get the tee you had to wait and make sure no one was teeing off or you stood a good chance of getting nailed with a ball.  I saw a foursome just about to hit the tee so I backed up and pulled under some trees for shade.  My mind drifted back to that encounter in the shed and started to replay the event, adding a couple more interesting scenes however.

Instead of smacking his ass with the bucket I grabbed it with my hand saying, "Move your fat ass so I can get to the ice."

"Who are you calling fat, man?"

I smiled at him, a little sheepishly and went to work.  As I came back to the shed for my second bucket of ice he had has shirt off and was throwing it in the freezer.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked.

"This feels hella good if I leave it in there for a couple of minutes.  Are you uncomfortable with the male body?" he asked.

My face turned red and I kind of fumbled.  "No, not yours... well, I mean, it's just that I thought you sort of had a nice body but I guess that ain't true."  It was a taunt and a flat out lie.  If I could describe to you in detail this boy's body!  Pecs, six pack, and a smidge of chest hair right in the middle.  Oh, it was wonderful!  He definitely took offense.  He grabbed me and threw me in a headlock shoving my head right into his hairy and hot and sweaty and wonderful armpit.

"Fuck you little man, get a whiff of this!"  He was trying to punish me but I was in pure heaven.  Oh, and did I mention how hot he was!  I was putting up a vain struggle just so he wouldn't get suspicious but his armpits really did stink so I tried to make my out of his move.  My hands tried to grab up at his neck and my right arm fumbled and brushed up against his crotch.  It was probably not a complete accident but I definitely didn't mean to do it.  I could tell he had a semi.  Quickly, I pondered what to make of this situation.  Gay or straight, or somewhere in between?  This boy had his shirt off and had me in a headlock and was struggling with me.  I had just brushed his cock and knew that apparently he was enjoying this.  As I got out of his grip I decided to go for it but play it a little bit conservative.

"You stink!"  I emphasized the last word.  "But I'm hot as hell so I'm going to try your little trick.  I pulled my shirt off and stuck it in the freezer trying to observe what he did.  He didn't check me out at all and kind of just stood there grinning.  "Shit," I thought.  But maybe he was just being careful.  I did know after all that he was hard.  Maybe he didn't think I was gay?

"Where's the other guys," I asked him.

"Up at the cage getting some stuff.  Why?"

"Well, they might look at this as a little weird with two guys with their shirts off hanging out in the snack shed.  He kind of chuckled and put his head down.

"No, they'll be gone for a little bit.  And everyone sticks their shirts in the freezer anyway, it wouldn't look weird."  He paused then added, "At least everyone but Hillary," he finished, laughing.

I gagged at the thought of that, a three hundred pound whale with her shirt off and and bosom overflowing from her stuffed bra!  Ughh.  There was sort of an awkward pause.  "I was just kidding though," I said.  "You have a nice body."  He turned red and turned back to his work.

"Shut up dude," he said in sort of a standoffish manner.  But he wasn't fooling me.  I saw that glimmer in his eyes.  His embarrassed look.  He was uncomfortable, but not because he was straight, though.  At least I was pretty sure.  I thought "fuck it" and I went for it.  I moved up to his back running my hand across his back and a couple of scratches.

"What's this from?"  I asked running my hand lightly across his lower back.

"I got scratched up playing a little backyard football," he said.  He stopped what he was doing and just stood there, his back towards me.  I ran my hand lightly across the scratches and moved up towards his toned shoulder blades.  This boy was an instrument of youth.  His 18 years on earth had not started to take their effects of time and worn him down with love handles or wrinkles.  This boy was smooth, youthful, and beautiful.  A work of art.  My hard on was raging.  I moved my hands up on his shoulders and started massaging him.  He let out a sigh of content.  I moved closer placing my excited member against his thigh.

"Ryan," I asked, "would you look down on me if I told you you were really, really cute?"

"No," he sort of mumbled.  I moved my hands down his chest and ran them across his firm nipples. Teasing them a bit.  Then I slid them around his waist, then abs, placing them just inside the top of his shorts.

"Cause you are," I said.  I pushed my hard crotch more firmly against his body.

He paused a minute, enjoying the feel of my hard prick on his body.  He turned around pulling me towards him and placing his arms on my neck.  Then he closed his eyes and slowly moved his lips down towards my quivering mouth.  His mouth moved towards mine slowly, for what seemed like an eternity and I closed my eyes in anticipation of his warm, soft lips.  Then, "SMACK", he pummeled me in the forehead with his palm.

I fell off my golf cart and woke up instantly from my lovely daydream.  The golf ball bounced back onto the fairway and rolled a couple of feet before stopping.  I sat up rubbing my forehead and the lump that was already starting to form there.  I wondered if the word "Titleist" was imprinted on my head.  "Fuck me," I mumbled.

I heard the sounds of approaching carts and some prick in ridiculous golf apparel came trotting over to me.

"Oh gees, are you ok?" he asked.  He bent over and inspected my forehead.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," I replied.  Rubbing my head and getting back on my feet.

"I'm so sorry," he continued.  I didn't recognize him so I assumed him to be the guest of a member or the Pro shop.  "That ball really hooked on me.  We didn't even know you were sitting down here so close or we would have yelled fore.

"What," I thought to myself, "You didn't see me sitting here 30 yards off the goddamned course?"  Sometimes I wondered why I didn't wait in the middle of the fairway.  Because if I sat there no one would have any chance of hitting me.

"I think I'll be all right," I said walking around my cart to the ice bin.  I placed some ice in a towel and gingerly applied it to my head.  "Do you guys need anything, because I think I'm going to go inside and get this looked at."  I spoke with a flat tone.  I was not happy, especially since my daydream was just beginning to get interesting before Mr. Tiger Woods here decided to let loose with the drive from hell.

"Oh gosh, I feel so bad," he said fishing out his wallet.  Yup, that's right buddy, get out your money and all that troubles you will disappear.  Sometimes I wanted to take all my tip money and shove it down their damn throats and tell them go to hell.  But we all know money can be exchanged for goods and services and its much more valuable in my bank account anyway!

I forced a smile and said, "No, really I'll be fine.  I just want to go inside where its air conditioned and sit down for a bit."

He pulled out a crumpled one dollar bill and said, "No, really, I insist."  He pushed the dollar into my objecting hand.  "Oh wow, mister," I thought.  "I could almost buy a whole soda with this, you miserly prick."  He continued to apologize profusely and nothing bothers me more than when people apologize to me (I don't know why, it just does), so I got back onto my cart and drove back to the Clubhouse.  I parked by the loading dock and walked in through the back door of the kitchen.

"Hey amigo, what'd you do?" yelled one of the kitchen guys.  Now let me tell you about the kitchen guys!  I loved them.  We had Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, Ecuadorians, you name it!  They were so funny and so fun to be around.  A lot of racists will try and stereotype hispanics by saying they're all lazy and worthless.  Well these guys worked their asses off for shitty pay and they worked just about every day the club was open, like me.  And to work in a hot and steamy kitchen all summer long is not a pleasant thing!  I had more respect for these guys than I did for a lot of people.  I just wish I knew Spanish or Portuguese a little better.

"Some jackass decided to hit a golfball 30 yards off the fairway into my head!" I complained.

The kitchen guys erupted in laughter.  "Hey gringo," Miguel said to me.  "What'd we tell you about drinking on the cart?" Miguel quipped.  A devilish smile formed on his face.  Yes, many nights me and Miguel would gather on the loading dock for an after work cocktail complements of me.  Jose, who spoke not a word of English said something in Spanish and the guys started laughing all over again.  Jose was older than the rest of them and I think everyone looked up to him as a father figure.  It was funny.  Jose spoke no English, I spoke no Spanish but we got along just fine with simple words and gestures.  I really liked him because he was a genuine, hard working, and friendly guy.  People should realize that language barriers don't exist;  the only barriers that do exist is a fear of getting to know someone from another culture.

I went through the kitchen and headed towards the bar and my manager, George.  Now George, probably needs a whole chapter on just him.  He is a character.  I'll try to explain the enigma of George in as short amount of time as I can.  Let's see where to begin.  George was the always looking out for his bar staff in the best possible way.  He'd stand up to any manager or club member in defense of you.  If you were loyal to him, he'd stand by you like the most faithful servant.  But, he was a neurotic idiot.  He explained everything way too much.  He didn't trust anyone to do anything on their own so he was always looking over your shoulder.  He would get so frustrated when he was busy and something went wrong that we were all sure he would one day stick his head in the oven for good.  Ask anyone who worked at the club about George and this would be their response.  Whimsical smile and an off-color comment like, "Yeah, don't cross him" or "Hmm.  He's one in a million."  Truly, George was a puzzle, wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a riddle.  More on his neurotic acts to come later, but at the moment, I got a bump on my forehead the size of, well a golf ball.

"Stevie," George said in his "dopey, I'm in a decent mood in that I don't want to kill anyone yet" tone.  His expression changed as he saw the lump in my forehead.  He quickly ran out from the bar and moved over towards me.  "Oh shoot, are you ok?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

"Yeah, I got hit with a ball.  I just wanted to come in here and sit in the air-conditioning for a while."

He examined my head and said, "Shit, Stevie, why don't you go home?  I can call Tyler to come in and fill in for you the rest of the day.  You need to get this looked at."  That was George in a nutshell.  If he sent me home he'd be scrambling around trying to find somebody to cover for me.  He'd probably get all hyped up and cranky and it would make the day twice as hard for him.  But he didn't care, he'd put the welfare of his employees above anything else.

"No, George, I'll be all right.  It went through a couple of branches before it me so it wasn't going too fast."   I tried to reassure him knowing that he'd have a mess on his hands if I went home early.  For the members, not having a cart with cold drinks and booze around could spell disaster.  God forbid someone got hurt but if they couldn't play golf and get drunk, there would be hell to pay.

He argued his case but I stood firm and he finally agreed to let me stay and go rest up for a half hour in the card room downstairs.  Being a Thursday morning, not too many members were around but there were a couple in the card room.  If I tried to sit down there they'd be asking me to run errands for them even if I was hurt so I moved to an old storage room..  The locker room is connected to the card room and this whole facility is for men only.  The card room stinks of cigars and the adjoining locker stinks of naked old men.  OK, so normally seeing guys get changed and shower would be a good thing but not when they're gray and older than WWI.  Ewww....  Well, I imagine they had their shining moments when they were younger.  After all, I'd look like that someday but hopefully I wouldn't wear such god awful clothes!

I went to the storage room and sat down and iced my aching forehead.  My thoughts once again drifted towards Ryan.  I was pretty sure he wasn't gay.  Based on Adam's opening up to me, he was probably the horse to bet on if I wanted some summer pootang.  But Ryan was so god awful cute!  You know that feeling you get when you see an incredibly good-looking guy and you're sure he's not gay but he's so cute that you'd hate to just see him slip through your fingers.  That was Ryan.  The mere immensity of his attractiveness almost forced me to try something.  The worst thing that could happen would be that he'd tell me firmly that he was straight.  I'm sure he wouldn't get all homophobic and try to hurt me.  He just wasn't that type of guy.

I sighed and stood up to head towards the bathroom to pee.  Despite my head I felt pretty good.  After all, seeing Ryan with his shirt lifted up gave me enough material to pleasure myself for the rest of the week.  Oh boy, and if only his stomach could do that, think what the rest of his body could do!

I walked up to a urinal unzipped and let loose a nice stream.  Ah, expelling all that morning's gatorade (yeah, it had been a little too early for a cocktail).  The door opened to the bathroom and I glanced up to see who was coming.  Yup, you know who walked in and stood right next to me at the next urinal!

"Hey, Steve,"  he said.  "Haven't seen your lazy ass around in a little while."

I smiled warmly and said "I'm taking a little break."  I leaned back a little from the urinal to see if he'd check me out or not.  Ryan just stared straight ahead and did his business.

I looked back down at my own business and commenced finishing up.  "Shit," I thought.  "Can't you just take a little peak?"  A smile cracked my lips at this personal joke.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Ryan glance down at my crotch.  Oh yes, this isn't happening I thought to myself.  He's checking me out, YES!!!

"Hey, I like your watch," he finally said.  What?  Is that all you were looking at?

"It's a Fossil," I said.  I glanced over at his wrist hoping to return the complement.

"I like your, umm, rubber band."

"Thanks," he said.  "It cost me a fortune," he laughed.  I laughed, too.  He then looked up at me and saw the welt on my forehead.  "Jesus," he said.  "What happened to you?" he asked.

"Do I need to explain," I replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Tell me what the guy looks like and I'll spit in his burger," he retorted.  We both laughed at that.

"Well," I started, "he was wearing ridiculous pants but that doesn't narrow it down at all does it?"  We both laughed again at this true fact.  He zipped up, and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Steve, sorry about the head.  Will I see you out there again today?"

I nodded.  He left his hand on my shoulder.  It was so warm and I could feel my back tingling with goose bumps.  It might have been just me, but he seemed to leave it resting on my shoulder for an unusually large amount of time.  He finally turned away and walked out the door returning to work.  "I'll see you later, Gorbachev!" he quipped as he walked out the door.  Yes, I imagine I did look a little like the last ever Soviet premier with a big red welt on my forehead.  I stood, there, holding my dick in my hands, pondering the situation.  He DID leave his hand on my shoulder a long time.  And he DID definitely look down at my crotch even if it was to look at my watch.  I stood there, holding myself, staring at the wall and thinking, and wondering...


Let me know if you liked this.  If enough guys want to hear more about Ryan AND Adam email me at and I will try and post a second chapter sometime next week.  Later!