Gay Interracial - Sex Stories

Gay Interracial

... white fight fans who would grasp at any hope now to defeat Ali, their nemesis. I was only thirteen; I had no investment in these things, but my father still spoke of Rocky Marciano with reverence. And he hated Muhammed Ali, enough to take a liking to Joe Frazier, because he was a man that beat Ali, and his because his style was close enough to Marciano's that it convinced my father that Rocky could have beaten him. "Tell you what, Bill. . ." Ken smiled at my father. " . . . why don't you and your boy come down to our place tonight." He motioned down the hall. He and Kyle exchanged a quick glance. "Four of us can watch the fights tonight." "Well, I don't know . . ," Dad said, looking down as if the excuse he needed was written on the dirty hallway tiles. Kyle was looking at me. I met his eyes and immediately looked away. Jesus, Dad. No. Kyle was smirking, the thin wispy hairs that formed a fringe around his upper lip made him look evil. Now Ken stiffened. The smile was going quickly. "C'mon man. I'm just being friendly. We're neighbors. . ." He seemed to stand taller, harder. "OK. OK. I guess we can come down." Shit! Kyle was grinning now, daring me to look back at him. My eyes had nowhere to go, they kept getting caught on his torso, the white cotton stretched tight over his dark brown body, over a chest and abdomen that was hard, rock hard. "OK, then," Ken said. He and Kyle turned, and he said over his shoulder" "Come by around 8:30. 5E" We turned too, towards our apartment ...

... on the opposite side of the long hallway. When we got to our door, Dad fumbled with his bags, and started opening the locks. I looked back over my shoulder at them, the two of them still walking, laughing about something. But Kyle was looking back too. He was waiting for me to turn, and when he saw me he gave me the finger. ** We didn't say a word about it. My father didn't want to admit he had been cornered, outmaneuvered by Ken's wily friendliness, a friendliness that only partially covered something malevolent underneath. I thought about telling him I wouldn't go, but he might challenge me - he might ask what I was afraid of - as if his fear wasn't apparent. So at 8:30 we walked down the corridor like soldiers who'd rather take a bullet than admit even the most understandable fear before their comrades. We knocked on the door, and knocked again, louder so they would hear us over the Temptations. Their stereo was loud enough that we could hear the base as a pulse against the floor. The door opened. Kyle didn't even look at my father, he bored in on me with his eyes, and didn't manage anything beyond a sullen "hey." We walked past him into a small entryway. The living room was off to the left, and a hallway led to the right. Kyle was behind me. This was a man's home. While our apartment still had many of the outer niceties of my mother, clearly any female presence in their lives had left long, long ago. There was a small amount of furniture scattered on the hardwood floors, ...