Graffiti

Chapter 2: Alan-2

“Alan?”

“Yea, Ma,” Alan answered as he came into the house and hung his suit jacket in the hall closet. Dusty, his parents’ gray schnauzer, came trotting up to him. He leaned down and gave the dog a scratch behind the ears.

“Alan,” she repeated. He could hear the disappointment in her voice. “I thought maybe you’d gone out with the nice young folks you work with. You never seem to do that anymore.”

“No, Ma,” Alan said, heading for the stairs, undoing his tie as he went.

“Well, I just don’t understand,” his mother said, coming to the foot of the stairway and calling up after him. “You used to go out with them all the time. Is there something wrong?”

Is there something wrong? Alan thought. Yeah, there’s something wrong! But I’m not going to discuss it with you. “No, Ma, nothing’s wrong.”

His mother sighed loudly. “Well, I’ll go heat up your dinner. You’re father and I have eaten already. I wish you would have called, I could have…”

Alan had reached his room at the top of the stairs. He went in and closed the door, not hearing the rest of what his mother wanted to say.

Alan took off his tie and his white shirt, and threw the latter in the clothes hamper next to the closet. Opening the closet door, he hung the tie on the rack. After taking off his black wing tip shoes Alan got out of his trousers and neatly hung them on a wooden hanger so as not to leave an unwanted crease at the knee because he intended wearing them again next week. Black socks followed the shirt into the dirty clothes. As he walked back toward his chest of drawers to take out some clean white socks and a T-shirt, Alan passed his dresser and stopped to look at his reflection in the mirror.

He was tall. His lean, muscular body filled out the white sleeveless undershirt quite nicely he thought. His white briefs revealed a more than adequate bulge. Alan shook his head. Why was he appraising himself this way? Normal guys didn’t check themselves out and give themselves an attractiveness quotient, did they? Sighing, he picked up a brush and ran it through his blond, well-trimmed hair. He finished dressing by pulling on a pair of Levis and returned to the kitchen.

His mother had set a plate for him with spaghetti with meatballs and a side salad. He thanked her and sat down to eat. Dusty came and sat next to him. His mother was at the sink finishing the dishes.

“Where’s Dad?” Alan asked, between bites.

“Out in the garage tinkering with the lawn mower. He’s having trouble starting it again and he’s too stubborn to take it in to be fixed. Why haven’t you called Millicent?” his mother continued, turning from the sink as if the two subjects were connected.

Alan felt a surge of annoyance. “Millie and I broke it off three months ago, you know that.”

His mother walked to the table and leaned on a chair. “Yes, I know and I don’t understand why. She was such a nice girl and it was obvious that she liked you. Whatever happened between you?”

“Nothing.” Absolutely nothing if you want to know the truth!

“Nothing? There had to be something. The two of you seemed to get on so well. Why, I would have thought you’d be at least engaged by now.”

“Who’s engaged?” asked Alan’s father as he came in. “Hi, Alan. You get engaged?”

“Hi, Pop,” Alan said, laughing. “No I’m not engaged.”

“And that’s the problem, George,” Alan’s mother continued as she went back to the sink. “Arnie’s been married for two years. He’s three years younger than Alan and he’s given me three grandchildren already.”

“That’s because he knocked Sarah up the summer after he graduated high school,” his dad said. “Move over, Martha, I need to wash my hands.”

“Not in my clean sink! You go into the laundry and use the utility tub. The fact that Arnie and Sarah had a little accident—”

“Accident,” hooted George. “The i***t didn’t know enough to wear a rubber. You got more sense don’tcha, Alan? You ain’t gonna put no bun in anyone’s oven. Right, Son?”

“George! The way you talk! But that’s not the point. Alan isn’t getting any younger. He needs to think of his future…”

“Give it a rest, Ma!” Alan said.

“Yes, woman, give it a rest. He’s got plenty a time,” George said as he left the room for the laundry. “Hey, Alan, grab us a couple of beers when you’re done and we’ll go watch some TV.”

Glad to have that particular conversation shut down, Alan picked up his plates and took them to the sink for his mother to wash. He could tell her feelings had been hurt. Kissing her on the cheek, he said, “Don’t worry, Ma. It’ll be okay.”

She patted his cheek and sighed, “I know. You’re a good boy. You’ll make your old mother proud…someday. I just hope I’m not too old to enjoy it.”

Alan laughed and gave her a hug.

He walked to the refrigerator and took out two Pabst’s, then got the bottle opener and popped the caps. He went into the family room to wait for his father. Setting the beers on coasters on the coffee table, he took out the TV Guide. Figuring his dad would want to watch Rawhide, he turned on the TV and dialed to the CBS channel.

George came in and said, “Not tonight. They’re into summer reruns already. Let me see the guide. He took the book from Alan and studied the page.

“Hey, here’s some excitement. WWWF Championship tonight. Bobo Brazil vs. Ernie Ladd. That should be a good match. Whatcha think?”

Alan didn’t think much of the idea, but before he could voice any objection, his dad tuned in the show and settled into his big over stuffed lounge chair. Dusty, who had followed the man into the room, jumped up on his lap and lay down. The announcer introduced the combatants, who walked up the aisle to the cheers and boos of the avid wrestling fans.

Alan felt a tingle of excitement as the men approached the ring.

Shit, no. Damn it, he thought.

The two titans jumped into the ring and threw off their capes, revealing two very muscular bodies already gleaming with oil. Alan took a sip of beer.

“That Ernie Ladd, he’s somethin’ else, ain’t he?”

Alan knew his dad was referring to the man’s wrestling prowess, but Alan was thinking other thoughts about what qualified Ernie Ladd to be ‘something else’.

The match started. The men circled each other and made ineffective attempts to make the first move. Finally Bobo lunged at Ernie and grabbed him in a classic head lock. It didn’t last long and Ernie escaped easily.

As the match continued, with George giving as much commentary as the TV announcers, Alan found himself becoming more and more uncomfortable. He was getting a hard-on.

He crossed his legs, afraid his condition would show. Finally when Bobo reached between Ernie’s legs, grabbed his ass, lifted him into the air, slammed him to the mat and fell on top of him so their chests were pressed together, Alan let out an involuntary gasp.

“Yeah, they can be brutal,” Alan’s dad said in response.

That maneuver ended the match. Bobo had won the championship. Alan sat for a few more minutes, letting his c**k soften enough to get up. When he felt he could, he excused himself and went into the living room where his mother was sitting, reading a book.

“Is that awful wrestling match over?” she asked. “I don’t know what your father sees in it.”

“Yeah, Ma,” Alan replied. “Uh…I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

“Oh, my,” she sighed. “You’re too young to be going to bed this early on a Friday ni—”

“Ma, don’t start,” Alan said, bending down to kiss her cheek.

“All right, I won’t, but I still think that—”

“Ma.”

She sighed again. “Goodnight, Alan. I’ll go in and sit with your father for a while, but God knows, he’ll probably be asleep in fifteen minutes.”

Alan went up to his room, took his clothes off, put on his pajama bottoms and went down the hall to the bathroom. He pissed and brushed his teeth. Going back to his room, he closed the door, then pulled the covers back and stretched out on the bed, lying on his back with both hands behind his head. He turned out the light and stared up into the darkness.

Closing his eyes, unbidden images of the two wrestlers he had just watched on television came into his head. Alan felt his d**k begin to harden. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and tried to think of something else: his work at the office. A vision of Trent intruded into his thoughts: his bright smile, wavy black hair, tight muscular ass. He’d stood next to Alan at the urinals once. Trent had a big d**k. Alan was completely hard now.

Giving into his arousal, Alan reached down and pushed his PJ bottoms to his knees. He ran his hands over his smooth abs into his thick blond pubic hair. He grabbed his c**k with one hand and began massaging his nuts with the other. He made a small whimpering sound.

As Alan began a slow rhythmic stroking of his erect d**k, images of the wrestlers, now naked, came into his mind. They were no longer fighting, but embracing, kissing, and humping against each other. Alan’s excitement increased. His legs began to flex and extend. Suddenly Trent was there between Bobo and Ernie, kissing first one then the other. They in turn were fondling Trent’s big boner. Trent was reaching around and running his hands over their muscular butts.

As his climax approached, the wrestlers disappeared and Trent was holding Alan in his arms, kissing him, telling him he loved him. Alan groaned. His legs stiffened and c*m spurted from the tip of his throbbing d**k, landing on his chest, stomach and—as the volley’s decreased in strength—his bush. The flow finally dwindled to a dribble and ran down his hands.

Alan lay for several minutes, letting his breathing return to normal, feeling his c**k soften and retract. He ran his hand over his c*m-drenched torso.

“No way to deny it,” he whispered into the darkness. “Alan, you’re a homo.” He got up and went to the bathroom to wash off.