Ted Vanhagen was naked and sporting a full erection the first time I saw him. He was holding a complicated-looking tripod in one hand, as he strutted around the furnitureless room set ablaze by a network of long-legged lights strategically arranged around him.
He was leanly muscular and a head taller than me. He had a broad back, pale ass and hairy chest and abdomen. His brown hair was cut almost as short as his well-groomed beard. He wore wireless glasses. His brown triangle of pubic hair looked luxuriant and untrimmed, his pale scrotum nearly lost in the thicket. His cock was straight and longer than mine. It waved tight circles in front of his pale hips, as he paced the room.
I was rock hard by the time I slipped out of bed. I always sleep naked, so there we were: two naked, horny men separated by two windows and a narrow alley of overgrown weeds.
He put the tripod on the floor, kicked wide its legs and raised its neck a few feet so it was even with his chest.
He looked around him some more, then dragged the tripod this way and that until he liked where it stood.
I walked up to my window, my fist firing up and down my throbbing cock, and was still a bit stunned a handsome man was naked and aroused in a room that had until now been vacant the ten or so years I’d rented my studio off Valencia Street.
I’d expected some hipster younger than me to eventually buy the neighboring Victorian.
This man was probably twenty years older and hotter than hell. He pinched one of his nipples and used his other hand to pull on his scrotum, as he stepped around the tripod and stood sideways to me.
My heart was pounding wildly in my chest. My load was rising fast.
When he released his nipple and took hold of his rigid cock, I let out a loud moan.
I knew what I had to do.
“Oh, my god!” I moaned, furiously jerking off, as I whirled away from the window, nearly trampled a floor lamp, switched it on, and jumped back to the window.
He was frozen, one hand still cupping his balls while the other gripped his member.
He slowly turned to face me.
I pressed my forehead to the window.
“Oh! Oh!” I cried at him, my stomach muscles contracting hard, as I shot my load all over the glass.
It was an amazing orgasm.
At first, I didn’t realize he’d dropped his hands to his sides.
He still had a full erection, but something had changed in his face.
He was a statue until I’d fully unloaded. Then, he walked out of the room.
His lights went out a second later.
I was more than surprised: I was offended. How dare he not think our encounter was as hot as I did!
“Wait. I just came in front of a straight dude,” I said aloud, still holding my softening dick, and looked at my semen oozing down the window.
I felt weird.
I turned off the lamp and got in bed.
The studio was always freezing in December.
The bed was still warm. I lay back and pulled the covers up to my chin. I pulled on my member to get out all my sperm.
“Huh,” I said to myself, massaging the cum like lotion over my belly. “That was weird. And hot.”
If I’d known how much hotter it got after that, I probably wouldn’t have fallen asleep so fast.
This is the first 500 or so words of my short story, “Anything But Everything,” which appears in my collection of six gay erotic stories available here on Amazon. It's free with Kindle Unlimited.
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