My Aussie Mate Paul

One of my best jacking partners at the American school in Mexico was a handsome Aussie dude with sun-bleached curly blond hair and a super tan. "Paul" talked like he was 100% straight. We were the kind of friends whose conversation drifted immediately to sex whenever we were alone. Paul had his eye on certain of the most sexy girls in school and would describe how he looked forward to kissing, fondling, and finally entering them. He was captivated by the desire to puncture a girl.

I think he believed I was just as straight as he claimed to be. He described his erections to me, saying he was always ready for action. He claimed to have bought rubbers at a Mexican pharmacy, to have explored a girl's inner sanctum with his middle finger, to have shown admiring girls his erect dick. The truth was, at 14 when we began our relationship he had never had the slightest physical contact with a girl, never even had a fleeting glimpse of a mammary nipple. It was all fantasy or wishful thinking with no action to back it up.

Here's what I found curious: all these conversations began with talk of hetero conquests, but Paul led every one of them to diverge quickly and invariably into delightful mutually-assisted masturbation. With "straight" Paul I experienced the most fulfilling male partnership that ever produced an ejaculation.

As we discussed various girls and the possibility of mounting them Paul would tell me the details that he was imagining about propelling his stiff dick into a begging lass. He became erect as he talked, necessitating that he frequently rearrange his fly right in front of me. As if I hadn't noticed for myself, he invariably called my attention to the ridge developing in his pants as his peter expanded into a large bulge, saying "See that, Mate?! You see that?!"

His erection (and not the girl talk) triggered my own erection which would then in turn draw Paul's focus to my crotch while I tried to make room in my pants for my growing boner. He would watch me closely and then observe "You've caught it too, eh?"

Paul's family had a swimming pool, complete with a bath house that was separate from the main Casa Grande. He was magnificently tanned as a result of sunning himself in the pool and on the deck. We conducted most of our naughty conversations (and masturbations) in the bath house where we could recline on the lounges, play with our boners, and see in advance if anybody was headed our way.

When Paul was fully erect but still wearing his pants, he invariably asked me sort of apologetically to squeeze his boner, saying "Want to give me a hand with this, mate? There's enough of it for both of us." Sometimes we were wearing bathing suits; sometimes street clothes or school uniforms. I gladly did as he asked, wrapping my hand around the ridge in his pants and delivering a few little squeezes. Soon he would say "Allow me, mate?" and without waiting for an answer he clamped a matching grip on my boner and began to rub back and forth on my still-hidden prod, saying "We better take care of this."

Before long our zippers would go down with Paul staring at my fly while my boner came into view. "Ah, there it is in all its beauty," he would sometimes say in that devilish Aussie accent. Soon our shirts were up, our pants were down and our crotches were completely exposed. One of the things about Paul was how obvious his tan line was. Everything except the area covered by a tiny Speedo was perfectly bronze, while his crotch was starkly pale. I loved watching his pants reveal the stretch of untanned territory as he slid them down and his boner popped rigidly into view. With two swollen peters out in the open, we began to stimulate each other's bodies. Paul would reach for my dick with both hands, gently feeling and caressing me in an unusually tender way for another guy.

Paul continued to talk about girls while we played together, but at the same time he was fully attentive to my stiffie, wanting to know if I was feeling good yet, telling me my dick felt larger or hotter or stiffer than usual. The bath house was stocked with towels and we each grabbed one to catch our cum in. We took turns kneeling next to the other guy's lounge and playing with the contents of his crotch in every way we could think of. Paul was sensitive to my needs, intuitively adjusting his grip or speed to my degree of arousal. He was a master at tickling my nuts during that exquisite moment when all the sensations reach their peak but the ejaculation hasn't quite begun yet. He would keep me just at the trigger point, kneading my balls, fingering my boner and asking "How's that, mate? Almost there?"

In one way Paul was different from my other buddies. He was interested in my navel. He would sometimes slide the towel out of the way and wiggle his finger around in my belly-button. A few times he aimed my dick so that my cum shot into my navel. He said "Bull's eye!" as the ejaculate squirted out and collected there.

I was in heaven during these encounters, both from the ecstasy I felt as Paul ministered to my horny organs and also from my role in assisting him with his. Paul's pubic hair was a darker blond than his head. It was a shade of gold that fascinated me. I would run my fingers through his curly golden bush, swirl my hand around to enclose his tight round testicles, and then give his hard boner a squeeze. Repeat again and again while his erection tries to outdo all its previous hardness. After a minute or so we changed places so each of us could have equal time.

We kept track of whose turn it was to ejaculate first. Some of my best memories are of this "straight" friend with his stiff dick and glistening golden pubic curls bending over me and sliding his hand back and forth on my needy dick, asking softly whether I was ready for the end yet.

If it was Paul's turn to cum first, I would be fully enjoying the privilege of bringing him to an ejaculatory explosion. As he approached his climax his peter stiffened harder and harder until I felt like I was rubbing the limb of a tree. He would ask me to slow down and help him maintain the almost-ready feeling for a few seconds. I'd stop and tickle him with my fingertips. And then his body would accept no further delay. He'd beg "Give it a stroke, mate! I can't stand no more!" I would resume pumping and the erect tool would triumphantly blast its contents onto the towel while Paul trembled all over and whispered unintelligible noises.

When the two of us had properly serviced each other we wadded the towels and dropped them in the wicker basket for the maids to deal with. (Years later I suddenly wondered if those maids guessed what we'd been up to.)

Sometime in our junior year Paul succeeded in laying a girl, a rather plain and withdrawn one. He described the experience to me in minute detail. Such minute detail, in fact, that we capped the conversation with one of our best pool-house masturbation sessions as we lay side by side on a single lounge and catapulted thick loads of cum onto our towels.

Paul continued to hunt cooperative girls, occasionally making a very rare score. But he also continued to recount those scores to me, including descriptions of how hard his condom-clad dick became and whether the humping procedure matched a good masturbation with me. Soon we would both be stiffly erect and proceed to help each other achieve sticky gratification. It was almost as if his hetero escapades were just a minor bit of foreplay leading up to the main event which was our wonderful male intimacy.

Arnold