Silver heat - Sex Stories

Silver heat

Sailing Away By Robert Reams© It all began at my eighteenth birthday party. My parents just would not believe that I was through with all that juvenile 'birthday' stuff, so I had to endure one more embarrassing round of phony smiles and worthless gifts from all my parents' f****y and friends. I am, I have learned since, a fairly attractive guy. Short, about 5'7&#034 and slim but not too skinny, blond, with sparkling blue eyes and a captivating smile that makes me look even younger than I am. My situation was somewhat unique. I had been going to college for over two years on a special program for 'gifted' individuals. That was fine and I loved it, but I had no friends and no social life. (Well, being a book nerd, I never did have much of a social life.) I had not come out to f****y and friends, even though I was fairly certain I was gay. Having never had real sex, there was no way I could know for certain. I did know that I loved the sight of a good hard man and a good hard dick. But then, pictures of sex acts and naked women in mags like Hustler, really turned me on too, so confusion reigned in my life. Technically I was still a virgin, not counting fooling around with a couple friends in boy scout tents. (Mutual masturbation and one quick taste of cum.) Well, anyway, as I was saying. It was my birthday. A lame party. f****y. Friends. One of my mom's friends had put together a jazz quartet to play. It was unfamiliar sounds, but I was drawn to the dissonant quality which ...

... seemed to fit my life. It was getting late, close to midnight and things were winding down. Dad, of course, was passed out on a chair somewhere, probably pissing himself. Mom had long-since retired for the night. I was hanging out near where the band was set up, loitering and taking in the melodious sounds. Earlier I had noticed the sax player; he was tall, maybe six four and big, but not heavy, perhaps 200 pounds. He was firmly muscled in all the right places, but not the bulging weightlifter kind. I watched his deep brown eyes, his lips caressing the reed of his instrument, the dark shock of hair that danced around his forehead as he closed his eyes investing his entire being in the music. There was a touch of gray at his temples that made it hard to judge his age, but I was going with forty. It surprised me that I was attracted to a man so 'old', but there was something about him, something about the languid, self-assured way he moved his body, and about the way he filled his worn jeans. I had noticed earlier that he was checking me out, or at least that's what I thought. I was way too shy to approach him, so I merely watched. I began to fantasize about those sensitive hands touching me, those lips. . . The song, a jazzed up version of Sweet Home Chicago, ended on a long trill and the band began to put up their instruments. The saxophonist looked my way and caught me staring at him. To my extreme embarrassment, he ambled toward me. I felt like running away, but that would have ...