Note: B.J. Bill is a fictional gay character with a dirty mind. Disclaimer enough.
by B.J. Bill

Boy do I get off on guys' balls, totally and compulsively. I even love to feel them through the pesky cloth that's always initially in the way. But soon I want to reach inside and scratch, knead, and pinch the flesh of the scrotum; to weigh and feel the balls themselves in my fingers; to push my nose into the soft secret pouch and sniff about; to rub my chin and cheeks and mustache into them; and of course I love to slobber all over down there -- to kiss, lick, suck and tongue-tickle the individual balls in their sac, to pull them singly and then together into my mouth and roll them over and under my tongue, and eventually to run my tongue up behind them along the sensitive channel that leads you know where.

Any balls will do, you know, if you have a mania like mine: balls that are brown or black or tan or purplish-pink; balls that are tight and compact at the base of a dick or ones that are loose and pendulous with a mind and motion of their own; balls that are covered in shiny hairless skin, or with a light coating of fuzz, or shaved smooth and fresh, or growing back after a shave to a velvety stubble, or with a few wiry hairs to tickle me back, or so wooly that I have to work hard to find the skin beneath and trace the network of tiny purple veins. I love BALLS, one and all.

What's more, I don't really give a damn what those beautiful balls are connected with. Dicks are admirable in their way, I suppose; but the big ones most gay guys adore are really just a distraction for me. Obviously, if I am going to get my fill of balls, I have to give good head and that means doing justice to the dick at hand. Guys won't let me just play around down there without putting out. So I have gotten very, very good at giving blow jobs, but a big dick is just plain in the way. It takes up space I'd rather fill with balls. And it makes it hard to take that last and best strategic lunge when, with my mouth full of both dick and adorable balls, I push the point of my tongue almost into a guy's asshole.

The other end of the ball-sac is irrelevant too. Old and young, fat and skinny, hard or soft bodies are pretty much all the same to me as long as the guy in question spreads his legs and lets me explore. When I was a kid I mostly wanted other young guys, but even then older guys had a certain fascination too. Now I'm past age 40 and counting gladly, and any man with a pair of balls will do. And I do mean any man; they're all fantasy fodder for me. In my concrete experience, which is considerable, the so-called "hot guys" are so full of themselves that they don't even enjoy what they could. They are pondering their own pecs and abs and rocks and not enjoying the other guy's. Talk about dickheads!

Mostly I go looking for balls to nuzzle in the obvious places. Gay bars and bookstores and video arcades are the safe and easy bet. In my town everyone in those places already knows me and the neophytes soon find me out. The gays in those joints are such flapjaws, but that makes it easier for me, right? They call me Blow-Job Billy or B-J Bill or even Reverend Billy Blow (must be my overall conservative look or the grave expression with which I contemplate my erotic task), and there are always candidates for my ministrations. They practically line up. Restaurants are good places too. The tonier spots all have gay waiters, and ethnic places have a ready supply of exotic balls too; the bus boys are so willing I sometimes wonder if the tips they get from randy customers are not figured into their pay scale.

But I have a problem, namely that I want most the balls of the guys least likely to let them hang out, the guys it would be diciest to approach. I do the gay boys and the easy ones just to keep from starving. The balls I ache for belong to the straightest of the straight guys -- you know, the white-collar nerds who hardly know how they appear to the rest of the world, the cute daddies with little kids in tow, the weathered workmen at the Parks Department or at Streets and Sanitation, the fat cops in the coffee shops, the Republican bankers and Democratic "civil servants" (read "hacks") who run this town, the supers and security guards in my office building, the dignified, church-going elders of the black Baptist congregation down the street from my barber's shop -- hell, my grizzled Italian-American barber too, and both of his hairy, several-times-over married barber sons!

Occasionally, just occasionally, I score one of these guys, like last month on the bus going home. The bus is my fantasy playground, always full of guys not paying attention to the people around them so it is possible to stare and daydream without getting punched. There are some regulars on my 4:45 run out of downtown whom I have never spoken to but have come to think of as intimates. One skinny black guy with short-cropped white hair to contrast with his intensely dark skin always wears grey coveralls with the name of a popular Northside restaurant on the pocket, so he must be a kitchen worker heading home. His one elegance is a pencil thin mustache, as white as his hair, so I imagine his black balls are just as elegant somehow and wreathed in white. There is a thick-waisted Hispanic cop with a great bulge below the wide belt on his uniform pants; and there are other fascinating commuters too. When we pass the Federal office building there is always a guy waiting at the kerb I look for, a straw-blonde paraplegic. He has massive shoulders and twisted legs settled awkwardly into his wheelchair. I just look straight into his mysterious crotch as the bus rumbles past.

So this particular late-summer rush hour there was a stunning muscular guy sitting across the aisle from me wearing nothing but a buzz cut, a tight t-shirt that read "Norway," rumpled khaki's, and hiking boots. I checked him out, of course, especially noting his obvious lack of underwear; but I soon focussed on the guy standing right in front of him, hanging slackly from the overhead bar with his nose pushed into a paperback. This was the kind of homely dork I really fantasize about: thirty-something but already balding, wrinkled pink and white striped shirt, open collar with the unfashionable red tie loosened, shapeless dark grey suit that revealed nothing but pudgy buns and, in my imagination at least, the kind of basket that contains a pair of hugely pendulous balls.

I was just beginning to consider the important fantasy questions of whether these were hairy or smooth, sweaty or dry, when a soft voice to my right said huskily, "Hot guy, hey?" I jumped a millimeter and turned to look at yet another dork, though younger than the one I had just considered. A student maybe, but maybe a few years too old for that, this guy had a wide face and long jaw with a pronounced five-o'clock shaddow, tiny, colorless eyes behind thick glasses, curly black hair rather unkempt, and a truly unpleasant pug nose. Totally unlikely for a tryst of any sort. So of course I got interested and, looking around briefly, said, "Which one?" At my reaction he reddened, showing off his one attractive facial trait, fair smooth skin with a girlish blush. And as I surveyed him further he got more interesting still. He was easily twenty-thirty pounds overweight and dressed in worn jeans and a work shirt, but a tear at the knee of the jeans and the "V" of his open collar displayed very promising tufts of long curly black hair. I started to taste the musk of his super-hairy balls at the back of my mouth.

"Oh," he said in a near-whisper, "I thought you were looking at the Norway guy."

"Actually not."

"Uh, sorry."

"Don't be. He's pretty hot, just not my type. Probably more than I could handle, you know."

"Yeah sure, I guess. Uh, can I ask what is your type?"

I grinned at this and said with mock sternness that he quickly caught, "Are you cruising me, young man?"

Still, though he smiled at the joke, he also looked a little alarmed and said, "Oh no! I mean, no, not at all. I'm straight, you know, just curious. I mean, curious about what gay people like, what they think."

At this I really did turn serious, though not, I hoped, menacingly so. "Well, finding out is probably a good idea. If you are truly curious and have a free half-hour, this is my stop coming up. I'll buy you a drink and we can talk." This reply alarmed him though, and he hurriedly said, "No, uh, I can't. I, uh, live all the way to the end of the line."

Which was my cue to cut out. Stupid little bastard. I quickly turned for a last look at the standing-up dork, who had shifted a little away so I could no longer see his basket. But in changing hands on the rail, he had also pulled out the long tail of his silly pink and white dress shirt, and it now hung out beneath his jacket hem. I registered mentally exactly where in relation to his now-legendary, smooth, tight and shaved balls it might have been, then stood to get off the bus. Passing behind him, I brushed the sweaty shirttail imperceptibly with the back of my hand and then hopped down the three steps to the pavement.

Much to my surprise, the student type was right behind me and said over my shoulder vaguely in my direction, "Um, can I still have that drink?" I turned and noted that he was short, only about 5'2" and so definitely closer to thirty pounds over the chart-weight for his height. That and his utterly dorky nose made me smile in a friendly way and I said, "Sure. There's a bar right here on the next corner."

"Er, um, is it a gay bar?" he asked a little suspiciously.

"In this neighborhood? Look around, kid. This is old-time working class, unredeemed. This bar was my father's neighborhood watering hole, and I think they still have the same paint on the walls that he slapped on to pay off his tab in 1958. My name is Bill, by the way, Bill Coale, and I live right around the corner in my dad's old two-flat, which I inherited and where I was fuckin' born. The very first thing you need to learn about gays is that they aren't all powdered and primped and conveniently gathered in gay bars where you can observe them like monkeys in the zoo."

"Yessir, thanks. I mean, I already knew that, but you're right to be impatient. I'm just dumb, and shy. My name's Jeff ..."

"Let me guess," I interupted, genial again, "Jeff McGuire or O'Hara, O'Something. You're as obvious a black Irishman as I have ever seen."

He laughed. "Jeff Condon. So you're not far off. My dad's a fireman and they call him Blackie Condon. How's that for a cliche?"

We stepped into the dim old tavern and took one of the dark booths on the far wall, away from the bar itself, which was noisy and crowded with the usual neighborhood characters, some of whom greeted me as "Old Bill" and some as "Young Billy." Generational thing. Needless to say this is not one of the bars where I go cruising for balls to caress, and my new friend Jeff seemed at ease right away.

It was dark enough in the dear old bar that I could slip my right foot out of my loafer and unobtrusively stretch it across under the table to rest in the spot between Jeff's spread legs. Jeff glanced down and blushed prettily again, but did not move away or object. Instead he playfully scissored his legs togehter and trapped my stockinged foot right in his crotch. I started to imagine electric shocks on my sole, emanating from two black, incredibly hairy balls. Old Mikey Zadic came bustling up in his apron. Mikey was my dad's best friend back in the Depression, and he ran the bar until he retired and turned it over to his sons fifteen years back. The sons went to school with me, ages ago, and Mikey still came into the tavern every evening.

"What'll it be, Billy?"

"Just a beer for me, Mikey. How about you, Jeff?"

"Um, scotch and water. You got J&B?"

"Sure I got J&B. You fellas running a tab?"

"I think not, Mikey, we'll just have a quick drink and run."

To my surprise Jeff jumped in at this point with, "Yeah, just a quick one. My girlfriend'll kill me if I'm too late."

Mikey moved off, and to my quizzical look Jeff said, "Sorry. I made that up, just so the barkeep won't think I'm, like, staying with you. I don't have a girlfriend who would care, or anyway not one who would worry if I was late getting home."

"Well, Jeff, you may have just confirmed him in the opposite opinion. See, Mikey and his wife don't get along, and when he gets horny and she won't put out, he comes by my place for a blow job. Really pounds me too, though he never actually drops his pants, just pulls out his balls and dick and shoves hard and fast. He probably thinks I have lots of friends like him, though I really don't." This was pure fantasy, of course, a vision I'd been nursing for twenty five years or more, but fantasy. Jeff got wide eyed, reddened yet again, and then got earnest and inquisitive, so I entertained him with a few more colorful half-lies. Best of all, when Mikey came back with our drinks he played right into my tall tales. He chucked me affectionately under the chin and said, "On the house. We don't see enough of you around here anymore, Little Billy. It's getting to where if I want to see you I gotta come looking back round the block." This gesture was made purely out of genuine old-fashioned affection for my long-dead dad, but Jeff of course didn't know that. He pulled hard on his scotch and fell silent.

We finished our drinks pretty quickly. I made the only attempts at conversation and discovered Jeff was 26, a grad student in chemistry, hard working and not social. He sat there answering my questions briefly but did not ask any more of his own. But he kept firmly hugging my foot in his crotch until my glass was empty and then said, "I think I need another drink, or three. Can we get a bottle somewhere and maybe go to your house?"

"No need to shop, kid. I have a brand new bottle of J&B at home and it's all yours. But are you sure you want to go there? We could hang here for a while yet."

Jeff took a deep breath and replied, "No, let's go to your place, Bill. I really like you and want you to tell me some more things. I mean show me some things, I mean sexual things."

At this I wiggled my foot, wildly imagining what lay beyond the blue denim and realizing for the first time that I was going to get it. Almost breathless I said, "As soon as the circulation comes back to my toes, we can go." That was a joke of course, and we shot right out onto the street, around the corner, and down the half-block to the old homestead. I live on the top floor and rent the bottom; and we fairly ran up the stairs. Jeff is not in good shape and he was puffing and sweating hard, so I made him drink a glass of plain water before we did anything else. This made him break into a hard sweat, and when I turned on a fan and unbuttoned my shirt he followed suit, showing a glistening rug of black hair all the way to the waistband of his jeans. Then I broke open the good scotch and we each had a swig straight from the bottle.

"Jeff," I started hesitantly but gathered momentum as I warmed to my subject, namely him, "Back on the bus you asked me what my type was. Well, you're my type, that is, hairy black-Irish guys are my type, especially straight ones who want to play around a little and maybe get a first-rate blow job. I would gladly suck your dick and your balls over and over again. Over and over and over. You know, I can hardlly keep my hands off your hairy chest just standing here looking at you, but I don't want to go too fast. You have to tell me what you want, and when, and how fast, and how soon." By this time I was thninking too fast and talking too fast, so I stopped for breath.

Jeff seemed in charge now, or at least in control of himself, and he said quietly, "Bill, don't tell me any more, just show me some things, any things you want." He took my hand and waited. So I led him to the living room and we sat on the sofa and I pulled his shirt away from his still-sweating chest. Then I nuzzled the thick mat of salty hair back and forth, swirling it first his way and that with my tongue and gradually working out to the nearly buried nipples. Jeff breathed deeply and regularly under my snout, but he sat perfectly still, until tongue finally found the tip of his left nipple under all that wool. The nipple came alive and hardened. I moved on to the right one, grasping it between my fingers and sucking hard. My other hand moved to his basket and squeezed gently while I continued to lick at his nip and scratch it with the bristles of my mustache. Just as before, Jeff was perfectly still; but the involuntary flesh in both my hands stiffened. This was too much for me, so I gave up on going slow. I skipped his ample, furry midriff altogether and dived, drooling uncontrollably on the denim of his fly while fumbling with the zipper. In seconds his jeans were pulled away and his white jockeys too. I swerved around his stiffening dick, pausing only long enough to notice that it was pleasantly short and thick, and honed in on the balls I'd been panting for.

Jeff's jewels were more than I could appreciate all at once. The sac was long and pendulous and covered with thick pitch black hair which I swirled just as I had that on his chest with my tongue and nose and chin. On exploration, moreover, the balls themselves proved to be of unequal size, the right one like a good Jumbo Grade A egg while the left was much smaller and kept slipping away from my hungry lips into the depths of that huge wooly sac. After five minutes or so, my knawing and sucking loosened Jeff up, and he began to squirm and moan. This was my cue to back off a bit and take in the dick I had by-passed. It was fully erect now and I joyously discovred that there were no more than four inches of it, hardly a distraction at all. So I pulled it gently into my mouth, then stroked it up and down between my lips. Jeff was going to blow pretty soon, so I didn't feel the need to pause much on the shaft. Instead, I followed my own pleasure and stuffed the dick deep in my throat, then greedily added as much of the big, unruly ball sac as I could. I was still struggling with that elusive left nut when Jeff hollered something unintelligible and shot his wad in three nice squirts right down my throat. He didn't go limp, however, so I knew I had a second chance to stuff the whole process as I like to do. I backed off just far enough to get both balls firmly in my hand, then pushed down hard on his prick, then again and again until the whole hairy, sweaty mess was well inside my mouth. The lad whimpered happily and thrust upward with his hips, twice, three times, then four. This was my chance for the lunge, and my tongue strained out deep into the crack behind his ball-sac. This caress, lubricated by his own cum, took him by surprise I could tell, because he hollered again, thrust once more and squirted generously again. I backed off for good this time, but deliberately let the cum run out of my mouth to dribble in among the hair on his balls. He wasn't going anywhere anyway, but I urgently ordered him to sit still while I cleaned him up; and I proceeded to do so with my lips and tongue, slowly and carefully exploring every wrinkle, vein and bump on those balls, sucking the sweat and cum out of the clumps of hair, probing the soft spots and firm globes with my nose and tongue over and over. This process brought my own dick to a climax, and I creamed right in my pants without ever touching myself.

So you see, sometimes bus-ride fantasies do come true.