Little Squirrels Can Climb Tall Trees (2 page)

He didn’t seem to notice.
I
certainly did. He turned and tossed his jock strap into his locker. When he turned back toward me, he very casually faced me full-on once again. Clearly the guy had no body issues, none, absolutely none. He was comfortable in his skin. And what skin it was.

And then it happened. He was animatedly making some point to me about… I have no clue, since I wasn’t able to distinguish one word from another any longer, when his right hand dropped down to his crotch to scratch a spot behind his dick and in front of his balls and to loosen up his dick, which had been folded up inside the constraining jock. And he kept on talking. He must have thought either (A) I was an idiot, (B) I was a sex-crazed stalker who was going to rape him on the spot, or (C) I was actually paying attention to what he was saying rather than his body. And his dick. Did I mention his dick?

Now, all guys have dicks. I’d been in enough locker rooms to learn that fact. That plus I’d made it my lifelong goal to study dick. Dicks “R” Us could have been my motto. In this case the “us” was me.

Dicks. Loved the things. Loved ’em. Couldn’t get enough of them. What’s not to love? They were predictable in their design, consistent in their behavior. Oh yeah, loved those dicks. And then there was this one. Shudder. Was I having an orgasm?
Oh, crap! No! Breathe!

Okay. You can do this! You’re gonna make it! Come on!
I instructed myself with every ounce of self-control I could muster. But he just kept standing there, seemingly playing with his low-hanging balls as he talked. I mean, really! Who can talk presidential politics while prying their sweaty nuts away from their penis? Well,
clearly this guy
! That’s who! He seemed to be doing remarkably well at it. It was
me
who was having all kinds of problems. It was me who was one breath away from hyperventilating. It was me who was one hair away from dropping to my knees and wrapping my lips around the most delectable penis I’d ever seen. And remember, I was a professor of penis, a connoisseur of cock, a devotee of dick, an epicure of erections. I had made it my life’s work to worship the male member. And what a member this one was.

The man’s dick screamed perfection. From the tip of the large circumcised head to the arcing length that ran several inches toward a light brownish pubic bush that begged for a tongue to become entangled with it, a tongue to slather it with saliva. And those big, swinging, low-hanging nuts. If someone were to write a book dedicated to the world’s most perfect penis, I had just found the model to pose for the cover. No more calls, we have a winner!

My newest friend seemed to have a penis that was perfectly proportional to his body. In other words, there was a lot of it. More than a mouthful, I guessed. Which led to this huge debate going on inside my head between decency and respectability and simply gobbling it down to test my hypothesis that it was more than a mouthful. Data! I needed data! But I kept telling myself that I also needed to keep my teeth. Logic told me that dropping to my knees and sucking the guy’s dick—uninvited and in a locker room filled with mostly straight men—would probably not be conducive to staying alive with all of my teeth in place. Oh, but what a way to go! I’d die with a toothless smile on my face.

Somehow I maintained a poker face. How, I have no freaking idea! I had never played poker in my life, and I was certainly not noted for being perpetually calm and unexcitable. But I apparently did a respectable job because the guy just kept talking and laughing—and scratching his damned balls! Was he trying to kill me? I mean, really! At least get your hand out of your crotch, dude!

I looked at his ultrataut nipples again, now not so worried about checking out his chest. Since he was so tall, it was logical that I should look at what was more or less at my eye level. And also, I had to be careful. The damned things were so erect they could have put out one of my eyes. I needed to keep the things in sight. Either that or put up warning tape or those big red cones, something to warn away the innocent passerby.

It was at that moment that I came to believe in the existence of a deity. Yes, I was prepared to fall to my knees and worship… oh wait, wrong track. Deity, not Dick. Yes. Okay. Back on the appropriate track. I came to believe in a deity because—you ready for this?—I was able to say something semi-intelligent! I mean, I caught enough of what he was saying to be able to link two neurons together—other than the two neurons required to get an erection—and was able to remember something I had read.
And
I was able to make my lips move to form words. Oh, what I could do with my lips.

No! Focus! Words! Conversation! Intelligence! Respectability! PLEASE
! I made my lips move to form words, which I spoke aloud. And whatever I said met with my new friend’s hearty approval because his face lit up with excitement and he lifted his right hand—yes, the one that had been fondling his testicles; yep, that’s the one—and stuck it out in my direction. I briefly wondered if he would be offended if I lifted that hand to my mouth and licked the digits. Part of my brain thought it would give me a hint of a taste of the Promised Land while being somewhat responsible.

Wow! The male brain sure didn’t work at peak levels when flooded with testosterone. Makes me wonder how we ever survived to the present day. Our forefathers must have gotten laid a lot or jerked off a lot to clear their brains and allow us to evolve into what we are today. Either that or they were just perpetually horny like me and made a whole lot of bad decisions because their brains were clouded with too much testosterone. I wondered briefly if women’s brains had a similar problem when their estrogen levels went off the charts, and whether those levels went up as much and as fast as a man’s testosterone level did.

The big hand was pointed my way. That face was aglow with delight. And me? Well, I did the responsible thing and moved my own hand up and grasped his proffered hand. And Mr. Tall, Dark, Handsome, No Body Issues, Fantastic Dick caught me off-guard. I know! Really! And there I had been so on top of everything to that point!

“Dude! I’m really sweaty. I need to grab a quick shower. Can you wait? Do you have time to maybe go grab some coffee? It is so rare to find someone who understands the implications of the president’s economic policies.”

What policies?
I wondered.
What president? What is economics? And who is this man talking about?
All I’d done was stand there and try to quietly worship a man more glorious than Michelangelo’s
David
, a man who could sub for Apollo the next time Apollo was busy or out sick.

“Sure,” I said, hoping the word made it from my brain to my lips and then to his ears.

“Great!” he said, grabbing a towel and dashing toward the shower. “Don’t go anywhere!” he yelled back over his shoulder. “Please. I’ll be fast!”

Oh, darling
, I thought to myself,
I’m not going anywhere if you don’t want me to.

I finished packing my gym clothes and tried to find a mantra to thank and praise whatever deity had seen fit to smile upon me that day. Previously I had considered it a good day if I could admire a printed image of a nice penis. Today I’d had the honest to God real live thing wagging in front of my face. And surprise, surprise, a nice guy was attached to it. I had almost come to expect that attached to a great penis was—well, a real prick.

Now, I had one problem—okay, lots of problems, since I was human, after all, not to mention male with a brain under assault by too much testosterone. In this case, my problem was that as I had gotten older (I had just recently turned thirty-two), I had acquired the habit of speaking my mind. Well, not so much acquired as honed. So I frequently opened my mouth and firmly planted my foot in it without intending to do so. I was really, really, really glad I hadn’t done that yet with Mr. Tall, Dark, Handsome with No Body Issues and Dick of Perfection. But then, I’d only known him for maybe six minutes, so there was plenty of time yet to fuck it up and say something utterly stupid and pigheaded and narrow-minded. I wasn’t really all of those things. Okay, well, maybe pigheaded. But certainly not narrow-minded. No, the gutter in which my mind resided was quite wide.

Before I had finished packing my things in my backpack, my newfound friend was back. Really, how did the man do it that fast? I couldn’t even have turned on the water yet, and he was done and back at his locker—naked. Did I say that he was naked? If not, I really should have. He was naked. Gloriously naked. And he wore nudity really, really well. Part of the reason he was back was that he hadn’t toweled off. He was dripping water everywhere.

Oh, no. Please, God. On each of his taut nipples, as well as on the head of his perfect penis, lingered a few drops of water. I swear to God they were taunting me, jeering at me, screaming at me,
Lick me!
They were screaming at me so fucking loud that I’m surprised other men didn’t turn around to hear what they were ordering me to do.

I didn’t, but I licked my lips like a dog salivating over a meat-covered bone. My newfound friend didn’t seem to notice, or if he noticed, he didn’t comment. And thankfully he didn’t mind the puddle of drool I was afraid was collecting at my feet.

He was most likely used to men making utter and complete fools of themselves in his presence. He was, after all, perfection on the hoof, the man wet dreams fantasized about, the stuff porn stories were written about, the man who turned straight men gay, could make the lame walk—no, wait, that was someone else. But I swear, if I was lame, I’d have crawled to my feet to get to this man. Maybe he
could
make the lame rise.

He certainly was doing an impressive job with my libido and my dick. The poor thing had been stretched uncomfortably since he’d first dropped his clothes. And once he’d started scratching his balls, well, my guy was suffering terrible abuse confined in my briefs and jeans. He was a trouper, though. We’d been through a lot together. Stormed lots of fortresses, scaled walls, plundered… no, don’t go there. Let’s just say we hung out together. Well, obviously. I was rather attached to the little guy. No, wait! Don’t call your dick “little” anything! Need a more masculine name—the Storm Trooper! That’s it! My little soldier. Damn! There’s that “little” word again. I assure you, my dick is a perfectly normal human male dick. He isn’t huge, but he isn’t small, either. Like the rest of me, he is probably perfectly average. But I had tried my damnedest to give the guy some good experiences. I am, after all, responsible for his care and feeding throughout life, and I take those responsibilities seriously.

Somehow I tore my eyes away from Mr. Perfect with the water droplets on his nipples and dick—
look away, look away, car wrecks, mangled bodies, blood, gore, mayhem, exploding gasoline tankers, trains smashing into cars full of baby kittens
—and zipped up my backpack.

“By the way, my name is Kyle,” Mr. Perfect said as he stuck his big right hand my way. We’d shaken hands before but hadn’t shared names. And I had no objection because it was still the hand that had been where my mouth wanted to be. I guess I would just have to live vicariously through my dirty mind and by shaking his hand. So I did.

“Joseph,” I said, I think. At least I hope I said something intelligible. If I didn’t, Kyle didn’t seem to notice.

As I watched him, I was absolutely amazed by how fast the man moved. I couldn’t believe the speed with which he pulled on some briefs.
No!
I wanted to scream.
I need to ogle you some more.
My dirty mind still had room for more trashy images of…. Moving on. You would think with legs as long as his were that he would get all tangled up in his pants, but no. With amazing dexterity he threaded those big feet into the legs of the pants, pulled them up, and snapped them shut.

He pulled a shirt over his head, and his nipples, too, were removed from my sight.
Sigh.
But then I noticed what had first captured my attention: his smile. Oh, yeah, okay. So he wasn’t naked anymore, but he still had a killer smile, and it was, at the moment, directed at me. Why, I had no idea, since I couldn’t believe I had said two sentences that made any sense to anyone listening. Or maybe I had—I couldn’t remember. Visions of bouncing penises were racing through my head, making any other thoughts nearly impossible.

I picked up my backpack and looked back at Kyle. Somehow, I really don’t know how, he was completely dressed and had socks and shoes on his feet. Damn, but the boy was fast! I hoped he could get out of his clothes as fast as he got into them.
No, don’t go there.
He was probably straight. Überstraight. Ultrastraight. Could even be Mormon straight. With my luck he could be what straight looked to, to be straight. Sigh. Oh, that smile. What was I saying to myself?

“Thanks for waiting for me!”

“No problem.”

“There’s a coffee place down at the end of the block. Want to get some coffee?”

“Sure!” I agreed, even though I didn’t drink coffee and certainly didn’t need any more stimulation at the moment.

Talking to Kyle turned out to be extraordinarily easy because he was a fantastic conversationalist. He was superenthused about so many things and seemed to be absolutely gifted at drawing others out—not that I had far to go on the In/Out spectrum.
Don’t go there. Remember, probably Überstraight.
But he really was fun to be with. He seemed to know about a lot of things and loved to talk but wasn’t one of those pompous know-it-all people who liked to lord their knowledge over others. And anything I said seemed to make the man smile that killer smile. I could live with that.

We sat in the coffee shop and talked for hours. Gradually I relaxed a bit and got my sleazy overactive libido under control and stopped looking at him as a giant walking penis. Still, it was a nice image that I would definitely revisit when jerking off that night. And it didn’t work at the moment because he was sitting, not walking.