Gay Interracial - Sex Stories

Gay Interracial

... weeks or a month later he asks me again. He has this distant look in his eyes, I don't think he remembers asking me before. It's as if he wants some reassurance that some image of perfection in his mind is really attainable. Yes, already he's thinking long and hard about pussy. He's all boy. He plays football like a demon. I don't think there's a single kid in all of white Westchester that can catch him when he finds an opening in a line and kicks it into gear. I watch him dance and strut in the end zone after another touchdown and I think of that long ago baseball game with Kyle, when he beat me under the measuring eyes of our fathers. Now it's my turn. Now I get to be the father of the stud. I know what all the other parents are thinking: I should talk to him, tell him to tone it down, tell him that it's not right to humiliate a boy once he's beaten him. Sportsmanship, that's the word I hear under their breath, and to me it's just a word for losers. Why should he hide his fire? Why shouldn't he exult in his power? As far as I am concerned, the other boys should just learn to deal with it -- they can deal with it the way I did. ** I have been to Africa. I took Anthony there just a few months ago - I wanted him to see where his people came from. We spent three wonderful weeks in the jungles, plains and cities of East Africa. I had never been there myself, I had never been anywhere in the tropics, and it affected me deeply. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the power of a ...

... sun that burned with an equatorial brilliance. Or maybe it was the shock of arriving in Nairobi, the sudden realization that since I didn't go to Harlem anymore, I had never been in such a concentrated mass of black people. And they were spectacular. Men of every shape, more shades of black than I had ever seen, and almost all of them radiated sex in an almost casual way. I came close to indulging myself, I wanted nothing more that to make inquiries at the hotel, to find out where I might go to find a suitable man. But I refrained -- Anthony was with me, and I wanted this trip to be for him, not me. I took him to some museums in Nairobi, hoping he'd be impressed with the archaic history of the area, its place of singular prominence in the history of mankind. He was uninterested, though. While I walked among the display cases, studying skull fragments from earlier humanity, he wandered around listlessly, listening to rap CD's on his earphones. Then we joined a long safari, and he was thrilled. He loved the freedom, the adventure of it, the wildness of spending all day in a muddy, shaking jeep that leaped when it crested a hill as we chased through herds of Zebras and Gazelles. Sometimes we saw lions licking each other in the noonday sun. We had planned on doing this for just a few days, but we both loved it so much we did it for more than a week. Anthony would stand up in the jeep, holding onto the gun racks, and he was always the first to spot a new type of animal in the high ...