– A Horny Short Series –

No fruit is sweeter than that which has been plucked from the forbidden tree.  This revelation probably comes to most people fairly early in life.  For me, it was at the age of fourteen.  By that point I had spent an entire year polishing my joystick with any sock I could get my hands on–but up until then the habit had never extended past the territory serviced by the clothes hamper in the upstairs hall.   

That changed one Friday after school at Brett Tapp’s house.  

Having known him since kindergarten, I had spent most of my life simply thinking of him as my good friend, the only distinction a typically dichotomous, youthful mind would allow.  But adolescence is marked with the introduction of shades of gray, and only a year or so before, I had discovered that I couldn’t so easily categorize my relationship with Brett.  

I remember the day he had playfully snatched a bag of chips from my cafeteria tray, jamming it between his thighs, and my intrepid hand went after them.  I still remember the soft folds of his gray sweatpants on my fingers and the way his entire body folded around my hand when it had dipped between his legs, like a millipede coiling beneath a touch.  We had both laughed at the time, but I knew that our pristine and innocent childhood friendship had been tinged with something else: a drop of something gray.  I had been confused at the restless way the incident stirred inside of me and replayed over and over in my mind.

In the months that followed, and while I wasn’t looking—too distracted with testing the depths of just how much sweet pleasure I could extract from myself—that single gray drop had apparently developed into a roiling, writhing stew.  I became acutely aware of it that particular Friday afternoon at Brett’s house when he dropped his Playstation controller and left me alone in his room to take a call from his dad.  

My eyes had roamed from the ancient Zenith console television that dominated his bedroom to the soccer socks that lay crumpled over a pair of cleats in the corner in a way that had felt organic enough.  Innocent, even.  So it was all the more surprising when I suddenly found myself pressing one to my face and the other to my crotch.  I remember the terror-thrill hybrid of hearing Brett’s side of the phone conversation drift up the stairs as small spears of grass dislodged from the heel of his royal blue Nike sock and became glued to frenzied slick that began to bloom from me as I ground it harder between my legs.  

By this point in my adolescence, countless socks had brought me to ecstasy, but this pair was different.  Because for the first time, there was no need to fantasize.  With the tang of Brett’s exertions on the field curling in my nostrils and the sound of his pubescent voice murmuring into the receiver downstairs, I wrapped the sock around me, slipped the cleat over top, and lay prone on the bedroom floor.  

I don’t remember being there long. It could only have taken about ten good thrusts to slay me.

I remember feeling the heat expand to fill my entire body before rushing to leave me.  I remember the charge of knowing that I was leaving my mark blunting the fear of being caught.  And I remember propping myself against his bed to keep from swaying in the aftermath of my unbridled pleasure and—when Brett returned to the room to resume our game—stealing glances at the socks and shoes for the rest of the evening knowing the residue of my sin was there.  

Forbidden.  

Such a musical word for what it means.  And just as it had so many years ago in Brett Tapp’s bedroom, it had magnified every sensation as Coworker’s head lolled on the hood of the car and he whimpered that he was close.  He had been so enraptured with how I was teasing and torturing him with my lips and tongue that he had been oblivious to my fingers inside his boot, hooked around his damp heel, and to my crotch as it ground and bumped along his shin, pulling at the cuff of his pants.

I couldn’t see his beautiful pink herringbone socks at that moment. And I had so longed to feel them against my cock the way I had Brett’s socks. But the next best thing came when Coworker did. In that moment, at the dawn of his climax, he had arched his back off the car hood, which popped back like a flimsy aluminum sliding board, and pressed his heels inside his boots. 

The noise coupled with the sudden pain had surprised me, and I had released Coworker from my lips as I slid my smarting digits from his shoe.   

“Oh, God!”  As he moaned, his chin—outlined in the light of the parking lot flood and shimmering with drizzle—jutted to the night sky. I had watched his Adam’s apple slide along his neck as if he was greedily gulping the pleasure that possessed him and prodded me.  No longer tethered to me, his cock had jumped and bobbed as small arcs of semen tapped onto the car, their small percussive arrivals accompanied by Coworker’s shrill whisper, “fuck…”

I had only been seconds behind him.  Although watching him squirm in ecstasy while dry humping his leg would have met the requirements for my own perfectly respectable finale, I knew I could do better. Bringing my freed fingers to my face, I had drunk the scent of his sweat saturated sock. Simultaneously, I had stepped back off the car, sliding my unfortunately-still-sheathed cock down his pant leg and coming to rest at his ankle.  His scent, coupled with the knowledge that my crotch was next to that lovely pink and gray houndstooth, sent me sailing into oblivion. 

I had rested my head against his knee as I ripped open inside my clothes. I remember the warmth of him radiating through the fabric of his trousers, and the faint smell of sandalwood, pear, and mint mingling with those of the raw night and our savagery.