A work of fiction by Pagganos Homophilator. Pagganos may be reached at: paggan at aol dot com.

The Argument of the Green Pants

No one would have ever called Katie a fag-hag: she hated the term, and in any case, technically she didn't qualify. But it was certainly true that all or most of her male friends and acquaintances while she was at college were as queer as three dollar bills. Years later, she would say: "I had pretty good gaydar for a straight girl, and it was on all the time!", but back when we were all in school together she just thought of herself as preferring nice boys.

We were all vaguely flower children back then, late-seventies sub-hippies. Katie's female friends wore long skirts and long hair and were unremarkably heterosexual enough. The men they consorted with were Katie's main contact with the straight male world. For the most part, she made fun of these ultra-straight frat boys, earnest jocks and clever but clueless accounting majors with her gay friends, behind her girlfriends' backs. Her girlfriends would go on to marry those or similar boys and to be working women with careers who kept gardens, who would go barefoot and make jelly in the summertime. The few who didn't work became home-schoolers with no time to make jelly.

Eventually, however, there was Max. Katie met him sophomore year and fell hard - he was her only boyfriend in college and her eventual husband, and he was harder to place than anyone else in that crowd. He was to all appearances as straight as an arrow, and he loved to make love to Katie, as her own testimony confirmed and as child after child would later demonstrate. He was smart and affable, the most even tempered boy I've ever known, tall and spare, with wide shoulders and narrow hips and long legs. His rosy cheeked face, with its sparkling brown eyes, tousled chestnut hair and ready smile full of large, fine white teeth, was made to charm anyone, woman and man alike.

Max was a sensitive musician, an avid tennis player, an excellent student, who preferred Katie's company to all others. He escorted her to places where straight couples went, and warded off the derided straight college boys, but just as often hung out quite willingly with her gay boyfriends. Unlike most straight men, he had no close male friend, went with no species of manly crowd, and seemed happy enough to find himself in the midst of Katie's twittering crew of women and fags. He was impervious to all of our flirting, although he took it well enough, and his good humour and evident love for Katie soon endeared him to all of us.

There was another side to Max though, a more ambiguous side. Ray Gallucci told a story of driving around to the Fine Arts building late one night, in order to tend to an art project of some kind. He swore that as his head-lights raked the loading dock in its narrow courtyard, they revealed Max and Bill Bonham with their arms around each other and their tongues "as far down each other's throats as they could get!"

This was sore news to me, who had been fantasizing about making it with the gorgeous blond Billy ever since he had lived down the hall from me freshmen year. There was no particular reason for Ray to lie about the incident or to make it up, and of course none of us ever told Katie. It remained suspended in air, a quasi-dream, creating the possibility of idle fantasies about Max - not to mention Billy - but without enough real substance to actually lead anywhere.

And in any case, Max wouldn't cooperate with such illusions. There were many boys in that pink cloud around Katie who would have readily given him anything his heart or his cock might have asked for, but he never asked. However tolerant he might be of our attentions, he never flirted back at any of us (except maybe Billy, who neither discussed nor confirmed the incident), never made a pass at any of us or even dropped a hint in jest. The collective sexual antennae of at least a dozen horny young queers were trained close upon him, but not even a twitch of a response ever rewarded their quest, and nothing more ever came of it.

At least, not for many years. Katie and Max got married and moved back to his hometown after law school. They did well, created a large family, bought a large house, planted a large garden. I didn't see them as often after their third kid. We all had careers and lived scattered over the country and they went into that special kind of social segregation typical of young families. Max still played tennis and his cello, Katie still seemed to find gay friends wherever she went and whatever she did, and doubtless some or all of them continued to lust after Max. And doubtless Max remained charming and affable and unknowable.

The years passed, the kids abruptly grew up, and we suddenly started seeing more of each other again, in one of those shifts of dynamic that all long term friendships have. Their house, once full of toys and school books, then of rock posters and strangely decorated teenagers, was emptying out. Now it was more sparingly occupied with paintings and fine carpets, and Max could safely leave his cello in the living room again. Then, early one summer, he broke his ankle.

"He wasn't even on the court, it was just a stupid pothole in the side walk!" wailed Katie over the phone. "It's a bad break, he'll be hobbling around for two months at least. The whole summer is ruined." She wasn't happy.

My offer to come up later in the season to help out was eagerly accepted, and I found myself at their house for the 4th. Max was really pretty crippled. He wasn't supposed to spend any time on his feet, which would drive anyone as active as he crazy, and when he was on his feet he was pretty unsteady. He wasn't even back at work yet.

I tried to substitute for him as well as I could, and Katie, I could tell, was glad to have me around. It was a quiet week-end of a few other couples, good food and better wine. We drank a lot. For the most part we were able to keep Max still. He talked to us about his tennis game while we bustled around and he didn't seem too restless.

The work week started back up. Katie went back to her office, and Max and I found ourselves alone and at loose ends in the house. It was a brilliant, warm day, and I gladly let Max direct me in a number of pressing tasks outside in the yard and garden. He was frustrated and a little embarrassed at needing help with such boring and unpleasant chores, and it was all I could do to keep him seated and supervisory.

After lunch, despite the heat, I mowed the front lawn. Max insisted on hobbling around after the mower, carelessly bending and reaching to clear sticks and yard trash out of my way. Afterwards, sweaty and tired, I went upstairs and quickly showered, and coming out of my room I heard Max calling me from the master bedroom.

An interesting situation had arisen - Max needed help changing clothes. Somehow, while he could stoop to retrieve sticks and stones, he couldn't manage to get his feet out of or into his own pants. I knelt in front of him, holding his trouser waist open near the floor as he hobbled out of them, one hand on my shoulder. This brought his groin, of course, right to my face level.

I could smell the detergent on his boxers and then, as he leaned forward, I caught an unmistakable whiff of man musk. You can't fool an old cock hound like me - I knew just what it was. So I found myself kneeling in front of my old friend with a suddenly raging boner and my face practically in his crotch!

I think I may have blushed, I'm not sure, and then it was over and Max was pulling on his clean khaki shorts and we were scrabbling back off from this weird experience. Looking back up, I studied Max's face. He was grinning widely. We went back downstairs and I persuaded Max to relax and listen to music for awhile. I started dinner.

When Katie got home a few hours later she was full of ideas. "I hate to even ask, but could you take Max into town tomorrow? There's a big sale on at Kornmeyer's and Max needs all kinds of things." I agreed. Max made a face but acquiesced as well.

The next day, bright and early, we drove into town. After a cappuccino at the new coffee shop (which was nothing less than the old bank, its stout limestone columns festooned with gaudy banners), we made our way to Kornmeyer's. The uneven pavements and the jostling crowds made Max nervous, as unsteady as he was on his feet, and he more or less abandoned his crutch in favour of my shoulder. Having a big beautiful guy like Max literally hanging on you is mighty close to heaven, even if it is a lot of work!

At Kornmeyer's we soon found all kinds of things to look at. Max, clutching an armful of khakis and the last of the summer shorts, rather shamefacedly asked if I could help him in the changing room. I laughed and took the clothes from him.

In the fitting room I sat on the little shelf and we reenacted the scenario from the day before, only this time repeatedly. The clothes for the most part were loose summer things which readily accommodated his foot. Frequently enough, as Max leaned forward to pull up a new pair of trousers, his boxers would buckle open slightly and I would get glimpses of shadowy pubic hair, his still taut belly, or the swinging outline of something darker, heavy and sweet, just behind the thin cotton. I was starting to sweat.

Max examined every pair in the mirror with his usual calm, unmarked manner as we pulled them on and off, separating them into piles of keepers and rejects. He was a careful shopper, attentive not just to fit but to appearance, style, quality, a host of signals on which we mostly agreed.

"I really think you should try on the green pair again. Yea, the olive pair."

"Do you really think so? They're not so much olive, ya' know they're... they're bottle green!"

"No way! Those aren't that dark - they're olive and besides, what does it matter what colour green they are? You look great in them!"

Max was clearly unconvinced. He held the pants up for inspection, wobbling a little, and reaching out to grab my shoulder with his firm, gentle touch for the fortieth or fiftieth time that day. He looked down at me.

"Are you sure?"

"No, Max, actually I just want to help you in and out of them one more time."

His face threatened to fall; he flushed and I realized he must think I was getting bored with mothering him.

"You do realize how much I'm enjoying this, don't you?"

He looked a little puzzled, opened his mouth to speak and then didn't. Maybe he thought I was being snide, and didn't deserve an answer.

"Here I am getting into your pants over and over again, with my face practically buried in your boxers, and you think I might be tired of this?"

This time, he did blush, but he giggled as well, and a certain guilty look in the corner of his eyes suddenly revealed that he had not, in fact, been entirely innocent of such a realization even before I pointed it out to him.

"Pretty as you may be in those undies, you just hop back into these pants and give them a second look, buster!"

Max laughed and complied.

"See, what do you think? They look great on you!"

I ran a hand lightly down the side of his thigh, smoothing out an offending wrinkle. I looked up and met Max's eyes in the mirror and we both giggled again.

"Everything looks great on you, I know. Christ, I'd kill for your waist. Are you sure it's just tennis?"

Max shrugged and bent forward to lean on me again as he stepped out of the green pants. I doubled over to pull them out from around his feet as he hopped his bad foot out of the way. Straightening back up, I unexpectedly felt the added weight of his other hand on my other shoulder. As I began to raise my head, wondering what he was up to, Max's hands suddenly pulled me towards him and buried my face in his groin.

I could feel his cock through the soft cotton of his boxers, and his heady crotch smell was now right in my nose. My heart was suddenly beating a mile a minute as Max pressed me harder against his groin and ground his hips into my face, his cock swelling slightly right against my cheek behind the thin shorts, his balls swinging gently against my chin. I took a deep, fragrant breath, then pushed back against his hands. Max took his hands off of my shoulders and let me lean back.

This was certainly a weird and unlikely 'accident', but what else but a shrug and a chuckle could it mean? Trying not to read into it what I wanted it to mean, I looked up at him, expecting giggles, embarrassment maybe, or a sheepish grin. Instead Max was pale and solemn, his face screwed up in a kind of pained watchfulness, his hands still held out towards me as if to fend me off or pull me back either one.

"Wow, boy - I guess you're reconsidering those pants?"

The strain broken, we both laughed again, nervously and too loudly this time. Now Max did look a little nonplused and began to mumble. "Look, I... I, uh..."

My glance strayed involuntarily from Max's face back down to his crotch. His boxers stirred, the crank inside twitching as soon as my eyes were on it, guaranteeing that my gaze would not leave. Neither of us spoke, neither of us moved as the infamous underwear abruptly tented fully out. Within seconds, the old one eyed monster within had found the fly and was poking his cyclops head out, visibly throbbing.

That was all it took. I only had to move an inch or two forward in order for my lips to touch the smooth, warm glans. A few more precious inches and I had completely engulfed his cock into my throat. Another brief movement, accompanied by a gasp from Max, and my nose was buried in those squeaky clean boxers and Max's cock was buried in my throat.

We were the only occupants of the men's fitting rooms. In fact, we and a rather flustered elderly clerk were the only male beings in the entire Men's Department of Kornmeyer's - which didn't mean that there weren't plenty of other shoppers to occupy the salesman. There was no one to worry about, no one to disturb, least of all Max, by all appearances. So I just went full court press and started firmly, eagerly, chowing down on that long desired meat. Max gasped again as my throat stroked his rod, pulling back and plunging forward in a warm, wet embrace which completely enveloped his defenseless cock.

The dick in question was all any of us could have dreamed of in those long ago days at school. Large, but not monstrous - it filled my throat with complete satisfaction. It was perfectly shaped, perfectly formed, perfectly sized. It smelled like heaven. I realized that I wanted more of it than this. I pulled back, and off of it completely.

Leaning back, I yanked the snowy white boxers over Max's hips and down his thighs, past his knees and onto the floor. His cock bounced around stiffly as the waistband slipped over it, presenting an absolutely enticing spectacle.

"I've been looking at those damn things for two days, and they're NOT what I've been wanting to see!" I looked up at Max.

"Oh, hell, go for it," he said quietly, his face breaking into a grin.

Max leaned back against the wall, carefully keeping the weight off of his bad foot. He unbuttoned his shirt, let it slip over his shoulders and tossed it to the floor, standing before me naked except for the puddle of boxers around his ankles.

He was exceptional still, just as he had been when I had striven for glimpses of his body in the locker room at college. His chest was still small and muscular, his nipples still small and dark. His belly was as firm and as flat as ever, his legs as long and shapely. And his cock, now engorged and standing right out in front of him as I had certainly never seen it before, was magnificently beautiful.

I leaned forward again and immersed my face in the dark pool of his pubic hair, hefting and squeezing his soft, cool balls with one hand, gently pumping his rod with the other, absorbing the sweet funky odors which dwelt in that precious part of him. He placed a hand on the back of my head and pulled my face once more into his crotch, with no intervening fabric this time, and once more ground his hips against my head, pushing his crank across my face and leaving a trail of warm slime across my cheek. I extended my tongue and ate out the slit in his throbbing cock head as it slipped past, causing it to throb even harder.

Max moaned again and straightened up.

"Maybe we better get out of here. There's no telling what that old geezer thinks we're up to!"

"Oh, let his imagination run wild - I'm sure that's the only thing that keeps him going! We can finish up here in just a minute. Meanwhile, take another look at these!" So saying, I thrust the olive khakis back into his hands and my throat back over his hot juicy rod.

Max moaned as I swallowed him once more, clutching the pants against his chest and leaning back again against the fitting room wall. I started a slow, steady stroke which took his cock now all the way down, my nose buried in his warm belly, and then all the way up, just the sweet and salty knob of his luscious dick within my mouth to be caressed by tongue and lips. I ate out the wet, warm slit, then plunged his crank down half way to my stomach and squeezed and pulled on the entire length of his cock with my throat. Then I did it all over again, and again, and again.

Max responded with infinitely subtle hip work, feeding me his cock now slowly, now forcefully, now resting still as I pumped, now thrusting himself deep into my head. His fingers caressed my shoulders, my face, my hair, while my own hands were fondling his balls, squeezing the firm, cool cheeks of his hard little butt, tweaking his tiny nipples. We kept up a steady, slowly increasing rhythm, until finally Max began to grunt quietly. Tossing the green pants onto the shelf beside me, he put both hands on the back of my head and started to really fuck my face.

I gave him his head, so to speak, as I stopped moving and let Max take charge. And he took charge, holding me firmly as he pushed himself deep into me over and over again. Surrendering my throat to him, I grabbed his silky soft balls just to give me something to do, and gently pulling on those marvelous orbs, happily fingering that special spot right behind them, I was suddenly inspired.

Slipping just the first joint of my index finger right up into his butthole, I wiggled it gently. It was warm and soft in there, the most secret of all places on this previously unknowable body. I pushed another knuckle gently in and Max accepted me with no hesitation, spreading his legs slightly to accommodate my wrist. I kept slowly pushing until my whole finger was buried in Max's butt and his pumping hips were not just pushing his cock deeper and deeper down my throat but alternately impaling my delighted digit deeper and deeper up inside of him.

Max's asshole was silky smooth, velvety soft, warm and tight. It clung gently to my finger even as it yielded readily to it, and the sensation was so hot that my crank sprang into a raging hard-on out of pure envy of my finger. I squeezed the cock fucking my throat as tightly as I could and wiggled my finger lustily, and the pressure I brought to bear sent Max right over the edge.

With a stifled cry and a few last, urgent thrusts of his perfect hips, he plunged into me as deeply as possible. My nose was once more in its favourite hairy spot and my chin was up against those precious nuts, now pulled up tight and close against his body as they shot wad after wad after wad of hot sweet spunk straight down into me.

Max slowly stopped fucking, his hips moving through shorter and shorter arcs until, with his loudest gasp yet, he released my head and moved to gingerly withdraw himself from my throat. I had eased my finger out of his butthole but I had a good breath in me and I declined to give up that sweet, still throbbing cock just yet, and Max was too weak and unsteady on his feet to insist. Pushing forward, I kept his dick buried in my throat as it spasmed and slowly softened. Max sighed and relaxed, gently rubbing the back of my head as his dripping crank slowly leaked the last of his jizz onto my happy tongue.

Finally, Max's well-worked tool, softened and relaxed, slipped out of my mouth of its own accord, and I leaned back. I brought my still sweetly funky fuck finger up to my nose and inhaled deeply as my eyes met his.

Our glance was prolonged but silent. Was it arrogant imagination, or could I read him better now? Now that we had finally had each other, either his mask was down or I had found some more acute insight into his level gaze, for Max looked clearly and plainly happy, satisfied, a little embarrassed, a little nervous and yet his face had the same quiet, neutral look it had always had.

Sighing and grinning, I leaned forward to pull his boxers back up and then handed him his shirt before spreading out the olive pants for him to step into. He hesitated a minute, then reached his hands out to my shoulders and did so, his fingers caressing me firmly as he went through the motions required of him. He bent down to pull the pants up and kissed me on the cheek lightly but with no hesitation as he straightened back up.

"Turn around," I said. Again he did so, and I tore the price tag off of his butt, giving its bouncy firmness a good hard grope in the process. "Here."

He took the tags from me and we left the fitting room. The crowd had thinned out and we went right up to the counter. I handed the keepers pile to the aged sales clerk. He looked pointedly at the green pants on Max's tall, slim frame. Max grinned as he handed the man the tags and I said: "We'll take those too."