“That guy is HUGE.”

“Hung like a horse.”

“Ten inches if it’s a millimeter.”

“Down to his knees.”

“Biggest one I ever saw.”

We’ve all had these thoughts and said these words, in our minds if not out loud. The stereotype that gay men are hopelessly obsessed with the size of certain parts of the male anatomy has, shall we say, a large basis in reality. I like a big one as much as the next guy, at least to look at. I’m also happy that my own equipment is above average — at least, I’ve been with a lot of smaller guys, as well as some who were bigger. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that some of the best sex I’ve ever had has been with men who were not hung–in fact, who had downright small cocks. It didn’t stop them from providing me with some of my fondest and most cherished memories. So here’s to three studs in my life who were below average in length and thickness — but way above average in every other way.

*****

COREY…JACK…

Corey and I slept together only once, but we got to know each other well that night. I still think of him as a friend, and am sad that I’ll never see him again. Jack, on the other hand, is someone I know practically nothing about, not even his last name, despite having fooled around with him numerous times while I was attending graduate school. He wanted it that way, and I went along because he was so hot.

Most people probably wouldn’t have thought so. A couple of times, I saw Jack fully clothed in the parking lot of the University gymnasium and almost didn’t recognize him. He was in his forties, I think, balding, conservatively dressed, and unassuming in appearance. He might have been a businessman, University official, or other bureaucrat. One thing was certain–Jack was not interested in standing out, at least on the street.

At the pool, where I first noticed him, or in the steam room, was another matter. Jack worked out seriously with weights. For a man of his age, his musculature was remarkable, and in his quiet way, he liked to show it off. He wore Speedos for his swimming workouts that displayed his small, perfect ass. He spent most of his time breast-stroking, which was no doubt why he had such a great butt. Sometimes after I had finished my own, comparatively feeble laps, I would sit on a small observation deck above the lap pool and watch him as he knifed smoothly through the water, the muscles working in his broad shoulders, his long legs whipping together in perfect frog kicks.

There was a very cruisy men’s steam room in the university gym, on the floor above the pool. It was set up perfectly for this purpose. Off a long hallway, entered through double doors, one area contained both a steam room and sauna, with a tiled room equipped with cold water faucets in between. Both sauna and steam room had glass doors, so that anyone in one or the other, if they positioned themselves right, could see who entered the central “cooling off” area from the hall. Opposite the steam room/sauna complex was a men’s room and shower area.

Then, at the end of the long hallway, was a small locker room, entered through another set of doors with glass windows, which were usually propped open. It was a common sight to see men in this locker room strolling by the doors with pretended casualness, watching the traffic in and out of the steam room and shower area. With so many locations to shuttle between and nooks and crannies to hide away in, the cruising was heavy and continuous. Most of the men wore, or at least carried, towels, but some walked their beat more boldly.

Jack was one of the latter. He would come up from the pool, walking the halls in his Speedo. Once he got inside the first set of doors, he always peeled off his suit and goggles and put them in his bathing cap. He would then stroll the corridor naked, carrying this little bundle around, doing what most of the cruisers did: taking the sauna for a while, then the steam, rinsing himself off either at a faucet or in the showers, repeating the cycle over and over.

I was there, watching, of course. I was too shy, actually, to hook up with anyone, and anyway, there was less action in that place than most people thought, but Jack, whose name, of course, I didn’t know at the time, fascinated me, particularly one of his physical features. His cock, at least when soft, was the smallest I’d ever seen on a man, particularly someone so attractively masculine.

It was so short it didn’t hang downward as most men’s did, but simply stuck out horizontally from between his legs. It was cut, and the head was approximately two-thirds of its total length. As if to compensate, his pubic bush was striking–plentiful, thick, and bright reddish gold, really beautiful.

Though trim and in shape, I wasn’t a raving beauty, so I knew I would never get the hottest, best-hung guys who cruised the steam room. This guy was plenty hot enough for me, though, and I thought I had a chance with him. I began to try and be there at the same time he was. If I saw him at the pool, I would finish my workout and hit the sauna, waiting for him to arrive, which he usually did. When we were both there, I began to cruise him–at first discreetly, just casually following him about from place to place, then more boldly, catching his eye as we passed each other and smiling, then looking back over my shoulder at him, hoping he would turn.

He eventually responded, to my delight. One day, after eyeing each other in our usual fashion, I saw him head toward the back locker room, still carrying his swimming gear. It was a slow day at the gym, mid-afternoon, and we were entirely alone in the place. Excited and nervous, I followed him in, letting the swinging door shut behind me.

I found him in the back row of lockers, standing with one foot up on the narrow wooden bench, smiling slightly. His cock was larger than I had seen it–just a bit. I went up to him and nodded. He inclined his head slightly in response, but made no other move. Finally, I reached out and touched his broad, slightly hairy chest. When I tried fondling one of his nipples, he stiffened noticeably and drew in his breath sharply.

“Like that?” I asked.

He laughed softly, charmingly. “Oh, very much.”

That seemed to break the ice. We moved closer together and began to stroke and caress each other’s bodies. I grasped his cock, which just about filled my hand, and began to jack him off. He responded in kind. When I started to kneel to take him in my mouth, though, he drew back, shaking his head. I understood, though I was disappointed. Everyone was being very careful in those days.

Still, I thought refusing to get sucked was a bit of overkill. Nevertheless, I was very turned on at actually getting to touch this hot body that I had been pursuing for quite some time. I could feel his breath on my moist skin and the heat rising from him. The strong scent of chlorine from the pool surrounded us. Since I never saw Jack anywhere else, I came to associate it with our messing around. Even now, I get turned on by that smell.

After a few more moments of cautious play, he gently pushed me away. “Got to go,” he whispered. “See you again.”

“I hope so,” I said sincerely. I was determined that we would go further the next time. As he left, I sat down to wait until my erection shrank enough that I could be seen without being too obvious. It occurred to me that my companion didn’t have that problem.

We did go further on subsequent meetings, but not much. Jack, who finally revealed his name after a couple more encounters, turned out to be extremely cautious about everything. You might say he was close-mouthed in more ways than one. Looking back, I think perhaps he was a prominent man in the community, and probably married, though he wore no wedding ring.

He would never tell me his last name, and I’m not even sure Jack was his real first one. It’s difficult to explain exactly why I lusted after him so much. Somehow, his refusal to engage in most activity was a turn-on in itself, a kind of cock-teasing both delightful and frustrating. And he did have a great body. I also liked that he never seemed bothered in the least by his small cock. I got used to it myself and thought no more about it.

Neither of us had even come when we messed around until one day, when both of us were in our Speedos and I was carrying a towel, I led him up to a small men’s room on one of the upper floors. Though the door didn’t lock, there was usually no one around during the summer months, and little real danger of discovery. For added protection, we entered one of the chromium toilet stalls and shut the door.

We quickly peeled off our suits. I sat on the toilet and he sat on my lap facing me, and we did what we usually did–fondled, kissed (though not full on the mouth), and caressed each other’s bodies and cocks, getting more and more turned on. Gay heavy petting, you might have called it.

“You look damn terrific,” he said, glancing down at my chest. I was surprised and pleased — he never said much during our encounters and had never complimented my body. I decided to reward him with what I knew he liked best. Jack had finally consented some time before to let me tongue his nipples, and I found out why–this drove him quietly crazy. His eyes would close and he would moan softly–a cataclysmic response by his standards. Clearly, tit play was his favored form of safe sex, and I was quite willing to go along. “Some people don’t like this,” I observed once in the locker room as I manipulated the nubs of flesh tipping his pectorals.

“They don’t know what they’re missing,” he replied, which was about as much as he ever said. I bent and started licking one nipple now, and heard his quickened breathing in response. I kept my mouth where it was while I grasped his stiff, small cock in my hand and started to stroke it. He soon began to gasp, and my hand filled with his hot, sticky cum. I looked up at him.

Jack smiled and said, “Phew. Nice.” He then returned the favor by jacking me off. I had been turned on enough by finally getting an orgasm out of him that it took me only a few seconds. We carefully wiped up the mess we had made with toilet paper, flushed it, pulled on our damp trunks, and rode the elevator back down to the locker room.

I’ve lost count of the number of times we met this way, sometimes cumming, sometimes not. Jack would never prearrange an encounter nor say exactly when he would be at the gym. I think he was as puzzled as I was sometimes about the chemistry between us. There would even be occasions when we were both at the pool or steam room that he would ignore me, or refuse to pick up on my signals.

I was hurt when that happened, but I tried to understand the situation. As time went on and we learned about the kinds of activities that were safe and which ones weren’t, Jack relaxed a little. He even took my cock in his mouth once or twice, just for a moment. I got him to admit that he had been fucked in the past and had liked it. I resolved then and there to get him to let me do it to him, since his ass was one of his best features. It never happened, worse luck.

What I think of as our climactic encounter took place one afternoon up in that fifth-floor men’s room. As he stood naked and erect by one of the urinals, worked up with our tit play, I knelt on the floor and engulfed him before he could protest, burying my nose in that wonderful, irresistible red bush. Almost before I could get any sort of rhythm going, my mouth was filled with his warm seed.

Jack never made any sound when he came, but his breathing was so loud and rapid this time that I thought he was going to hyperventilate. I was still too nervous myself at that point to swallow his load–I wish I had. Instead, I spit it out into the urinal and looked up at him. Jack was still panting, his chest heaving, but he smiled at me.

“Zowie,” he said. As I said, he was a man of few words. He rinsed himself off carefully at the sink that day before we left.

All in all, Jack made graduate school a great deal more entertaining. Our relationship, if you could call it that, ended when I graduated and moved out of state. I never got to say goodbye to him, or to tell him I was leaving, and I still regret that. I fantasize that I might go back someday, get an alumni pass, and revisit the gym where I whiled away so many horny hours.

Perhaps he’s there, a bit grayer, a bit balder, but still in good shape, cruising the steam room holding his balled-up Speedos. I’d take a rubber with me and get him in a quiet corner of a deserted locker room. There, I’d find a way to get my cock at long last into the hole between his compact, white butt cheeks, and fuck him long and slow while keeping a tight grip on that small, stiff meat.

*****

GRAYSON…

I met Grayson in a men’s restroom on yet another university campus, in the city where I moved after graduating from grad school. If all this sounds like I had a wild and crazy sex life in my young adulthood, well, I did, for a while. I’m pretty much settled down now, and sometimes when I look back, I wonder how I survived without catching a deadly disease or being arrested for public indecency. There but for fortune…

Grayson and Jack had a few things in common, beyond the obvious one that makes them both part of this tale. They were quiet, masculine men, respectable in appearance. Both were decent-looking without being extraordinary beauties–neither of them would turn many heads on the street when they were fully clothed. Both were extremely serious about keeping their bodies in shape.

Grayson was of average height and slender in build, but had muscles so beautifully defined from years of workouts that he could have posed for an anatomy class. For a thirty-six-year-old man, he looked unbelievably good, and the first time I saw him naked (somewhere off the beaten track, as will be seen), he took my breath away.

Grayson was also as cagey as Jack about revealing personal details, at least at first. It was a while before he would tell me where he worked or that he had been in a relationship with a male partner for almost ten years, though I eventually found out these things. Also, like Jack, for a guy who made a hobby of messing around with strangers, his concern for safety bordered on the obsessive.

In other ways, Grayson was quite different from Jack. My friend from the steam room, despite setting firm limits, had always seemed to enjoy our sexual games. Grayson, on the other hand, was all business when we were together. Sexually, he kept me at a sinewy arm’s length–he made it clear that ours was no romance. I don’t recall him ever kissing me, or letting me kiss him, or any real foreplay between us. Part of this was his concern for safety, and part was fear of doing something that would give himself away to his partner, who I guessed was a jealous type. And part of it was letting me know that, to him, I was just an object, an aid to get him off.

All this doesn’t make Grayson sound like someone you would want to encounter more than once. Nevertheless, like Jack, I saw him many times, at irregular intervals, in a relationship that spanned several years. I think what kept drawing me back was, first, his body. Despite it all, I was flattered that anyone who looked like him would take any interest in me. In addition, his personality was a strange mixture of inhibition and exhibition that I had never encountered before. Jack, despite the fact that we made it in what would be called public places, was extremely discreet.

He always made sure we were alone and safely hidden before he would consent to do anything. Grayson, on the other hand, liked taking chances. Some of the adventures I had with him were about the most bizarre I’ve ever let myself get involved in. In my more paranoid moments, I imagine they might still come back to haunt me…

I couldn’t have foreseen any of this from our first encounter, which was actually quite nondescript. Though I immediately liked Grayson’s body and the careful, neat way he dressed, I actually thought he was kind of a jerk, not particularly friendly, and certainly not willing to do anything interesting sexually. A quick mutual jackoff and it was over–I ended up finishing myself off since he lost interest in the scene after he had shot his load. I was also singularly unimpressed with the size of his cock–not as small as Jack’s, but certainly nothing to write home about. I thought as we parted that it had been a disappointing quickie, nothing more.

It was soon afterward that I found myself in one of the main office buildings on campus, and I happened to glance at the office directory posted behind glass at the main entrance. I caught sight of a name that made me read further: “Grayson Rowe. Assistant to the Vice President for Development.” He worked here and was also fairly high up in the administration. No wonder he seemed a little nervous as he cruised the campus tearooms. Mildly interested, I stored away the information for future reference.

I saw Grayson again several weeks later, in one of the usual gay men’s haunts at the U. As much as I found him visually appealing, the dullness of our first meeting made me hesitate to go with him again. Still, in the end, I responded to his overtures.

Though he was just as uptight sexually, he was a bit friendlier this time. He actually said when we were zipping up, “Sorry, I’m not much fun. I work around here and I’ve got to be careful.” I almost said that I knew that, but thought that might really throw him for a loop. So I said, “It’s okay. You’re a hot guy, Grayson.”

He looked at me and said, “You really think so?”

“Sure. You’ve got great muscles. You must really work out.”

All he said then was, “Thanks,” and left. So that was that, I thought. What I didn’t realize at the time was that Grayson had somehow made up his mind about me.

Coincidentally or not, I ran into him several more times in the following weeks as I spent my free hours on the University campus — I had only a part-time job then, so I had a lot of spare time. He never stopped to speak, but did acknowledge me with a brief “hello” when we saw each other. We’re making progress, I thought. Just how much progress we had made became clear about the third time we met this way. As usual, I nodded and smiled in the busy hallway of the administration building, not slackening my pace as he came toward me.

To my surprise, he stopped directly in front of me and extended his hand. I automatically grasped it. As we shook hands, I felt him slip a small object into my palm. “How are you?” Grayson said, smiling brightly, then added in a low whisper, “Read this when you’re alone.” Then, in his normal voice, he said, “Good to see you,” and quickly walked away.

I was so taken aback by this cloak-and-dagger action that I almost dropped what he had given me, but I managed to get it into my pants pocket. As soon as I could, I slipped into a men’s room stall, my home away from home in those days, sat on the toilet, and pulled the object out. It was a small square of paper, folded many times over. As I unfolded it, I saw that it was covered with small, neat handwriting.

I opened it and began to read. Grayson had written me a long note telling me all about himself, or at least a part of himself. I had thought from looking at him that here was a man obsessed with his body. In fact, Grayson was most obsessed about a certain part of his body–his penis, and specifically, its small size. Corey had been embarrassed by his diminutive equipment, but Jack had never let it get in the way. Grayson, on the other hand, positively reveled in what he saw as his inadequacy.

He wrote that his favorite activity was to get fucked, and to get fucked by a man with a big cock who would actively humiliate him about his own lack of endowment. He wanted to know if I would be willing to participate in his scene. If so, this was how to contact him. I was fascinated by this, and to my surprise, I was very turned on.

Also, I was rather flattered that he thought my own equipment qualified me for this role. Heck, why not? Grayson appeared to be the kind of person who could be trusted to be discreet. I didn’t have any idea of how I was supposed to behave once we were in the middle of the scene, but I figured he would coach me through it.

I followed his instructions and wrote him a note addressed to the campus box number he had given me. In a few days, he responded, writing to my office mailbox in a heavily sealed envelope. Inside were instructions. I was to meet him on a specified day and time, in the lobby of the Union Auditorium, one of the older buildings on campus.

At the appointed hour, I waited. Just as I began to wonder whether he had stood me up, the door to the auditorium creaked open behind me. Grayson gestured for me to come inside and began walking rapidly down toward the front, where a proscenium stage was located. It was dark inside except for the weak light thrown by the emergency exit signs, and I had to watch my step.

Grayson climbed onto the stage, slipped behind the curtain, and went down some shadowy stairs. I wondered where on earth we were going. My question was soon answered when we got to the bottom. He opened a door, which probably should have been locked but somehow wasn’t, and we stepped into what turned out to be a dusty dressing room that had been unused for some time. A small amount of gray light filtered in from somewhere up above. There was no furniture except a couple of chairs, but a long counter for actors applying makeup stretched around the entire length of three walls, as did the mirror above it. We saw ourselves reflected across the room, pale and nervous-looking.

“I found this place poking around one day,” Grayson said. “It’s left over from when they used to put on plays here. There’s a bathroom on that side that still works,” pointing to a door near us and to our left. “No one’s here during the day. If we’re quiet, I think we’ll be safe here.”

He turned to me and began to grope my crotch. “I’m glad you came. I’m looking forward to this.” He loosened his tie and methodically proceeded to remove all his clothes until he stood naked before me. As I mentioned before, the first sight of his entire body was sheer beauty. I unfastened my pants and lowered them so that my cock sprang free, hard and aching, though, as isolated as this place seemed to be, I didn’t have the nerve to get totally naked.

Grayson picked up his clothes and laid them carefully on the counter, then fished something out of his pants pocket. “Put this on. We won’t need any lube. I got myself ready before I came here.” He bent so that his dimpled, muscular butt was facing me and placed his elbows on the counter. “You can fuck me now. Go slow.”

By now, I was really turned on, danger or no danger, and I got the condom on in record time. I got behind him and pushed my cock in, a little too fast, for he stiffened and gasped. “Just hang on a minute,” he said, and it seemed longer than that before he said, “Okay,” and I slid further into his warm, smooth, and very tight hole. I looked up and saw us, dimly reflected in the mirror, shadowy ghosts coupling in the darkness.

Grayson said nothing more, but closed his eyes. He seemed to be enjoying himself, and I gave him a few tentative thrusts with my hips. “That’s good,” he said. I remembered what he had said about being humiliated and wondered if I should mention it. My muse of dirty talk failed me, so I remained silent, holding his hips lightly, fucking him carefully as if he were made of glass. I had the silly fear that this was all a dream, having my dick up the ass of this man built like a Greek statue, and that he might vanish in a puff of smoke if I did anything too wild.

“I’ve got an idea,” Grayson said. He lifted himself off my dick and went over to the door where we had come in. He flipped a switch, and suddenly the room was filled with dazzling light from dozens of large, round, luminous makeup lamps set above all the mirrors. All of a sudden, we were no longer ghosts, but circus performers.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I asked nervously.

“No one can see,” he replied calmly. He walked back over by me, turned to one side, lifted his leg, and placed his foot up on the counter. His buttocks were spread wide apart in this position, and I could see his compact balls hanging between his legs, and his asshole behind them, shaved and greasy from the lube. “Fuck me again like this,” he said. “And look in the mirror, it’s a great view.”

I got into position behind him and slid in, easily this time. He was right, I could see my condom-sheathed cock sliding in and out of his hole, and it was a hot sight. I stole a glance at Grayson–he was pulling on his own cock and looking intently at the mirror, watching himself get fucked too. So far, our sex had been a purely mechanical exercise, but I felt myself getting close to cumming.

“Don’t cum inside me,” he said at that very moment.

“Why not?” I asked, surprised and deflated.

“It’s not safe.”

“Even with a rubber on?” I said skeptically.

“I don’t want to take any chances.” Before I could argue further, he slipped himself off of me again and got on all fours down on the floor. “Let’s finish like this.”

I wanted to ask what exactly we were supposed to finish since I couldn’t cum inside of him, but instead I obediently mounted him again. Grayson began to stroke himself vigorously. He said, “Your big dick feels good inside of me.” Then I felt the muscles in his ass throb and caught a glimpse of sperm shooting across the floor in small spatters.

Once he had cum, Grayson moved into action. He freed himself from me, got up, walked to where he had left his clothes, produced a handkerchief, and quickly cleaned up the cum and himself. He looked at me, still erect–I hadn’t cum. “Want to give me that rubber?” he asked, holding out the handkerchief. Conceding that I wasn’t going to get off, at least not right now, I pulled it off and gave it to him. He took it gingerly and wrapped it in the handkerchief. “I’ll get rid of this.” He picked up the rest of his clothes. “I’m going to get dressed and clean up a bit here. You can find your way out, right?”

“Sure,” I said, pulling up my pants and buckling my belt, a bit peevishly. I was dismissed.

So that was our first real sex together. It never got much better, or different, than that. Grayson liked his sex one way–as a bottom. The one time I tried to get him to fuck me was a total failure. He never showed much affection, and the act itself was always businesslike, almost clinical.

What kept me coming back for more with Grayson was something other than just sex. Like with Jack, I was fascinated by the difference between what you saw on the outside and what you got on the inside. Grayson, who looked so starchy and respectable striding around on the University campus, was a danger freak, with a taste for sexual adventure. He must have known the location of every out-of-the-way men’s room on campus, and we made it in most of them.

He took me to his office once on a Saturday morning, spread a towel on the floor in front of the mahogany desk of the Vice President for Development, then made me fuck him on the plush carpet. Fortunately, he had a key to the VP’s private office and had locked it from the inside. While we were going at it, we heard the outer door open, and a female voice called, “Anybody there?”

Grayson, kneeling doggie-style on the floor with my dick up his ass, answered, somehow managing to keep his voice normal, “I’m in here, Jean, just finishing up some stuff.”

He whispered to me, “It’s one of the secretaries. I hope to God she’s not going to type a whole report or something.” I was going crazy, not sure whether to have a heart attack from sheer terror or a hysterical giggling fit at the absurdity of it all.

Fortunately, the woman had just come to pick up something she’d forgotten the previous day and was gone in a few minutes, singing out, “Bye, Grayson,” as she closed the outer door again. I wondered if she thought it was peculiar that Grayson’s voice seemed to be coming from so close to the floor.

After we were sure she was gone, Grayson turned to me and said, “I didn’t want to scare you. Jean actually has a key to this office as well. If she had decided to come in here, we would have been fucked.”

“Thank you for not sharing that earlier.” I pulled out of him and said, “I think we’re through for today, don’t you?”

Grayson was justly proud of his body and enjoyed looking at himself. He also liked other people to look at him, and in particular, take his picture. So he pressed me into service, which led to more shenanigans. One warm, sunny day during the fall semester, when football season was in full swing, he asked me to meet him by the stadium. Practice was going on, and the stadium was closed to the public, but no surprise, Grayson knew a way into the stands. He was carrying the duffel bag in which he usually kept his gym clothes, as well as a small leather camera bag.

“What’s that for?” I asked, pointing to the bag.

I was soon to find out. After walking to one of the upper levels, we cautiously peered out from one of the entryways into the stands and over the football field, where practice was in full swing. Grayson proceeded, as I watched in disbelief, to peel down to a posing thong.

“I often come here to sunbathe when nobody’s around,” he explained. “I want you to take pictures of me.”

“Jesus, Grayson, there’s probably security guards patrolling,” I protested.

“No, there aren’t,” he insisted. “And you can’t be seen from the field if you’re standing here. Go on,” he said, handing me the camera.

So I snapped a roll of film (this was a while ago, when we still used film) of Grayson posing, nearly naked, in the stadium entryway. The sound of running feet, the shouts and grunts of the players, the shrill whistles and shouted instructions of the coaches wafted up from below. For the last few pictures, he removed the thong. By the time we were through, I was freaked out, even though I was fully clothed. Obviously, I wasn’t cut out to be an exhibitionist or to be one’s assistant.

He showed me the pictures at our next meeting, and I had to admit they were hot. So were some others I took of him in a locker room shower in the main gym another time. I was more relaxed then, thinking we were safer indoors, and after that photo shoot, I bent him over and fucked him, still wearing the jockstrap he had posed in.

As things turned out, that was one of our closest calls. The locker room had been recently repainted, and the identifying nameplate had been taken off the door. Grayson, making a rare error, hadn’t realized that it was being converted into a women’s locker room. Just as we were cleaning up, I was wearing my gym shorts and Grayson was in a pair of Calvin Kleins, when four or five female students walked in. Fortunately, when they saw us, they screamed in embarrassment, thinking they had made a mistake, and fled. We were able to escape, carrying our clothes and hastily pulling them on halfway down the fire stairs before making our getaway.

However, the highlight of our time together was when he asked me to meet him at a friend’s place. This friend turned out to be a would-be independent filmmaker, and the project that day was to make, you guessed it, a sex tape. Grayson wasn’t so much interested in the product as in the process — the idea of being watched in the act intrigued him. By then, nothing he thought of surprised me, and as incredible as it seems to me now, I was persuaded to take part without much difficulty.

So, both of us got naked, and for the next hour or so, we went at it in our usual fashion while the filmmaker, whose name I’ve forgotten, stood over, near, and next to us with his hand-held camcorder. Knowing that someone was watching me and that I was being recorded fucking this hunk was a tremendous turn-on. Grayson’s daredevil mentality had infected me.

About a week later, we watched the VHS tape (which seems so quaint now) together at my place. Needless to say, we ended up fucking again afterward.

If this were the movies or a novel, some terrible retribution would eventually have caught up with us–maybe being arrested, surprised in the act by Grayson’s jealous lover, or blackmailed by someone threatening to expose us. In real life, though, nothing like that happened, and there was no drama about our parting. After making the video, it seemed there was nothing we could do to top it, and our meetings became gradually less frequent. Eventually, Grayson quit working at the University.

Last I heard, he had gone into banking. I haven’t seen him in years and have no idea whether he’s still in town. I haven’t read any newspaper headlines about a former University administrator being arrested for indecent exposure or public lewdness, so maybe he’s calmed down a bit himself. He told me once, in a rare moment of self-revelation, that he knew he was stuck on himself, but that “he wasn’t going to look like this forever, you know.” I wonder how gracefully he’s aged, whether he’s the hottest-looking fifty-five-year-old at whatever gym he’s working out at now. Somehow, I wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case.

There is one thing that worries me, albeit slightly. Grayson promised me after we had watched our sex tape that he would erase it. I’ve never known for sure whether he actually did or not. I’m not worried that he’ll ever try and use it against me. Whatever his quirks, Grayson did genuinely like me, I think. Also, if anything, he was even more terrified of exposure than I was, despite the fact that he was the one initiating all those absurdly dangerous encounters. But things like that from your past have a way of surfacing when you least expect or want them. Good thing I’m not planning to run for political office.

 

The End.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I recently ran into an old friend from college who gave me the news that Corey, the subject of the first part, passed away a few years ago from AIDS. I’m re-posting this as a salute to his memory. Rest in peace, sweet man.