Just look at him, and you can see that he’s the whole package. One of those guys who, when you knew him in high school, you wanted to hate him so bad, because he was so good-looking and athletic and popular, but you couldn’t hate him, because he actually was nice. A boy scout type. And smart, too. Yeah … that’s Ethan.
The high school quarterback at his mid-sized school, now at college on an academic scholarship, a nice boy, his parents love him. So does his girlfriend. He seems serious about her. His little brothers look up to him. His fraternity has already made him treasurer.
But on Sunday mornings he comes here, to my apartment, wearing whatever pair of undies I secretly sent him the week before, and makes breakfast, or my coffee, or whatever the hell else I want him to do around the place. And then that beautiful, perfect boy slips off the undies and climbs into my bed, or on my lap, or between my legs, or on the floor in front of me, and I have him that way, too.
Who knows what makes him do it? I’ve never asked, he’s never offered. Sometimes, right after I cum in his ass, or as he pulls off my dick, I see it in his eyes, that lingering question: “Why am I doing this?” Maybe he craves male attention, maybe his dad’s an ice cube, maybe he really is a closet case and fucking that girl of his takes more effort than I think. Maybe he was just born to it.
For my part? I don’t really care. In two years he’s gone, off to get married and make babies and start counting the days until vacation and retirement. But I like to think, on Sunday mornings, he’ll always think of me.
What is it about boys named Ethan that keep getting themselves into gay trouble?
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