Connor the Swimmer - Sex Stories

Connor the Swimmer

Chapter One - Life in the Pool (June 1989)

I always thought that swimming was the best sport. A lot of my friends played soccer, rugby league or AFL, but I was never that it into it. I mean, I played those sure, but I didn't find them all that exciting. The best part was probably the couple of years that I played AFL for the Gundagai Gorillas. And even then, it wasn't really the game. It was being thrown around by the guys on the field and pinned down in a tackle under their warm, sweaty bodies. It was also the showering afterwards, the toxic masculinity which led to a fair amount of drinking, streaking and, interestingly, some nights humping, wanking or sucking some of my teammates off. The perks of growing up gay in a country town, I guess. I got to service the virgin straight guys who were too scared of girls. Either that, or those that were too shit scared to admit the liked a guys mouth around their cock.

Not that I did any of this lightly of course. I had to be careful that my name didn't become mud in the town. I picked my opportunities carefully. For instance, Johnny Clark was drunk as a skunk after AFL one night and collapsed next to me in bed, moaning about missing the girlfriend he just broke up with and complaining about not getting head for ages. It took him just five minutes to blow in my mouth. That was longer than it took Steve Davis to hump my arse after training one night. Wrestling with him was a joke at first and brought a lot of laughter. Still, I ...

... guess that there's only so long that two eighteen-year-old guys can roll around shirtless in their footy shorts before one of them popped a boner. When I did, Steve laughed even more but then I felt his wood pressed against my butt. I slowly moved up and down, pressing into his hard cock until he smirked, rolled me onto my stomach, ripped my shorts off, and pounded against me so hard that his bed rattled. It only took him two minutes to finish.

As much as I would never forget those times playing team sports, where I truly felt peace was in the pool. I discovered almost as soon as I started, around twelve years old, that I was rather good at it. My swim coach was a man nearing middle age called Peter. He believed in me the second my feet hit the water and boy did he let me know it. He always carried on about how quick I was and how my breaststroke and freestyle forms were so natural, better than some of the kids that had been training since their first Learn to Swim classes.

And so, I kept swimming. I dutifully awoke early every morning and trained, all through my high school years. On the weekends, my mum, and later my older brother, would drive me around to different competitions. I'd even go to Sydney a few times a year and compete in some finals. By the time I had reached Year 12, the end-pieces of our curtain rods in the living room held an assortment of a hundred or so dangling medals from all over Australia.

Mum and my brother were proud, and I guess I sometimes ...