Polyester Shirts

 I went to high schoool when polyester shirts were in style the first time around. I can still picture Mr. DePalma, my English teacher, the only teacher young enough or cool enough to wear trendy clothes. He was probably around 30 years old, slender and well toned and I knew that because he wore colorful polyester shirts which always fit a little too tight. He wore strong cologne. Every day Mr. DePalma strutted into the room, took off his jacket and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt exposing a tuft of dark chest hair. Then, unbuttoning the cuffs, he slowly folded them over - one, two, then three times. First the right arm, then the left revealing muscled hairy forearms. For a guy his size he had some big hands and long thick fingers. I was mesmerized by him.

Mr. DePalma's teaching style was unique, too. He didn't just stand at the front of the room. As he talked about Hemingway and Virginia Wolff he would wander up and down the aisles between the chairs of students. Sometimes he would pause at one student and continue his lecture looking straight into his/her eyes for a minute or two. I think he figured this would keep us alert and with our eyes following his movements. Mine sure did.

His pants were also a little too tight and I loved it when he'd hop up and sit on the high counter at the side of the room right by my desk.
With his knees apart he'd talk about Symbolism while I stared right at the meaty package between his legs. Sometimes, you could even see the outline of his cock down the side of his beige pant leg.

Like most kids that age, I wasn't ready to express my innermost desires. I did, however, clip out a picture of Mr. DePalma from the student newspaper. I brought it home and slipped like a bookmark in a Hustler Magazine I kept hidden in my dresser drawer. One of the layouts showed a nude couple and the guy's body looked like what I imagined DePalma would look like sans polyester. I can't tell you how often I jacked off looking at those pictures, shooting jets of young spunk into my white gym socks.

Kids at school talked about Mr. DePalma. The girls all loved him. The boys snickered that, "he must be a fag, wearing all those fruity shirts!" This really captured my imagination, since Mr. D talked about his wife and little girls once in a while during class. It had never occurred to me that this family man might really like guys, too. I was also thinking about Mr. D when those same boys said that you could tell how big a guys dick is by looking at his hands. Long fingers ....long schwanz. The girls said that was crude, then whispered and giggled.

When that year was over, I was disappointed that I would probably never see Mr. DePalma's daily unbuttoning ritual with his polyester shirts. That summer, I looked for his name in the telephone directory and found that he lived on a familiar street that I often biked through on my way to the handball court. From then on I slowed down and looked toward his house, the one with the slate roof and covered front porch. Did he really have a wife and kids? Did he fuck her often? What did his ass look like as he pumped his cock into her? How long was it? Did she suck it for him? If not, I'd be happy to do the deed. I never saw him and eventually gave up looking as my fixation faded and I moved on to lust after guys my own age.

After a few years I was off to college. That first summer back home I had a hard time finding a good summer job so I spent a lot of hours on my bicycle, trying to keep active and maintain the hard body that I had been pumping up at the college weight room. I could see the change in my body. I had added 15 pounds to my 6 foot frame. I was proud of my pecs and my quads. My stomach wasn't a six-pack but it wasn't a keg either given how much beer I'd consumed as a college freshman. I let my hair grow out. It was thick and red and finally, it was no longer an embarrassment to me. There was even a little hair on my chest and an auburn trail to the world below the belt.

On a hot July day, I had decided to bike out to Jones Beach. It's about 15 miles from my folks house and I though I could check out some bodies on the beach. I spent an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom watching guys whip their sandy dicks from their trunks and shaking the last drops off in the urinals. I was hoping for an encounter but too chicken to start one.

When I started to get too much sun (us redheads get pink and freckled pretty quick), It was time to go home. The afternoon heat made the bike ride home much more strenuous than it was in the morning. By the time I got close to home I was hot, sweaty and exhausted. Pumping my legs down Washington Lane, I was on autopilot in the final stretch.

"Roarke, is that you?" I heard someone calling my name. I hopped off the bike, looked around and there he was . . . Mr. DePalma, painting the woodwork on his front porch.
"Yeah, it's me, Mr. D How's it going? I didn't know you lived here," I lied.
"Ten years, Nick," he said putting down the brush and walking towards me. "I'm spending the day fixing up the place. But what about you? You've really filled out since you were in my class. It's only that thick red hair that clued me in it was you. Quite a handsome man, now!" He approached me and held out his hand. Long fingers, hairy forearms ......the blood went straight to my, let's just say sssccchwwinnnnngggg. "Man, college must really be agreeing with you cause you look great."
"I didn't even know if you'd remember me."
"Well, Nick, you were hard to forget."
"How's that, Mr. D?"
"First of all, you wrote the best essays on my tests. And of course, you stared at me every second of every class."
"Well, uhhh, you know, uhhhh, I really liked English Class. I'm a Journalism Major at Cornell, now."
"That's terrific, Roarke. I hate to ask, but while I've got you here I have a favor to ask. Can you give me a hand?"
"Sure, what do you need me to do?"
"In my backyard there's a little trim that I'm just a few inches too short for me to reach. You're what, 6'2"? I'll bet you can reach it and save me from having to stand on the top step of the ladder."
"Nahhh, Mr. D, that's dangerous. I'm only six feet but maybe I can help you out."
As we walked over to the paint, then around to the back yard, I noticed Mr. D's body was still able to get a rise out of me. His ass was snuggly packed into a worn pair of jeans. He wore a white tee shirt that hugged his broad back and there were some wet circles under his arms as he was sweating from this work under the summer sun. Even sweaty, I liked the way he smelled.

"Here's the ladder, Nick. You see that trim on the high soffit? It's just out of my reach? I'll stand here and hold the ladder steady for you."
He reach out his hand and clamped it on my bicep, sending a jolt of sexual energy through my body and down to my crotch. A little eye contact seemed to suggest a lot but I found it hard to believe he was flirting. He's just being friendly, I figured.
After taking the brush from him, his hand landed softly on my back and as I climbed again on my calf. I was getting red, from the sun, and from the erotic touch whether intended or not.

The soffit was high even for me to reach so I stretched, lifting one leg off the step. Just as I finished I heard:
"Hey, Nick. Not to be rude or anything, but you don't seem like the kind of guy who'd go out without any underwear."
Shocked, I turned around and saw Mr. D on the bottom step of the ladder looking up my shorts and staring at my testicles. My dick tented up the front, making it even easier for him to inspect my wares.

"Shit," I said. I had dropped the paint brush out of my hand. It bounced off my calf and onto his chest. "Uhhhh, Mr. D., I can explain. I just showered off at the beach and forgot to bring..."
"Hey man, I'm just teasing you Roarke. You have every right to let it hang loose if you want. Frankly, I can understand how a monster like that doesn't want to be cooped up."
"I'm sorry I dropped the brush on you"
"It's Latex, don't sweat it. But I guess it's too late for that for both of us," he said as the sweat poured off my brow and dripped onto his.
"Come on inside, looks like we both need a shower!"

As I climbed off the ladder he gripped my shoulder and gave me a wink. . . . . . Stay tuned for Part II