Dressing Up
Todd Young
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Todd Young
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Cover Design: Justin Baxter
Warning: This book is not suitable for readers aged under 18. It contains sexually explicit descriptions. All sexually active characters in this book are aged 18 or over.
1
Skipper stepped out of the dressing room and stood in front of the woman. He was dressed as Spiderman, in a one piece lycra outfit that was too tight. Already he felt hot and uncomfortable. He pulled at the neck and supposed he had to do it. He lifted the headpiece and tugged it on. There seemed to be room for his nose — somehow — though the lycra flattened his ears against the sides of his head. The lenses were darkened, as though he were a fly — or a spider. Did spiders have large eyes? Not ones like this.
The woman was staring at his groin. Skipper had had to leave his boxers off. His cock and balls were bulging, clearly outlined under the thin fabric. The suit was just too damned tight. It was painful.
If only he had got here a little earlier. He had aimed at getting to the store by three-thirty or four, but as it turned out, the woman was closing up when he arrived, closing the door in his face. He had knocked, rapping on the glass that had Eunice's Costumes etched into it. She had turned. She could see him. She had hesitated. Then she had walked back towards the door, unlocked it and pulled it open.
"Dark hair, dark eyes, and a shy smile," she said, standing on the threshold. "Big chest, biceps, wet T-shirt." She glanced at his groin and raised an eyebrow. "Is that something you've stuffed in there?"
"Please, ma'am."
"You think you can have anything, don't you?"
"No, ma'am, really. I just need a costume."
"Some big function you're going to?"
"A party."
She nodded, her hair a gray fuzz. Frizzled steel wool. She pulled the door back and Skipper stepped into the store.
It was dark inside — an old house that had been converted into a store. The floors were bare and the air was thick with camphor and dust.
"It's Friday, as you can see."
Skipper nodded. She had already killed the lights, but he could see the place had been cleaned out. The racks were empty. Here and there hung a crumpled costume. A fairy, he supposed one was supposed to be, and he walked toward it, frowning.
"The men's is down the back."
Skipper saw where she meant. He had to step down, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floorboards. It was darker back here, the watery light of a stormy afternoon filtering through rivers of glass.
She called out to him. "I suppose you'll be wanting the lights."
Skipper nodded and the lights snapped on, lighting up an empty room, emptier than the big room at the front. Here and there hung a single costume — a gorilla, an astronaut, a frog. Skipper supposed any of them would do, only it was so hot and sticky outside. He fingered the silky fur of the gorilla costume.
Hell, he didn't want to go as a gorilla.
Across the room there was something else, something blue and red. He started towards it, figuring it looked possible. It was a Spiderman costume.
Skipper bit his bottom lip.
He took the costume down and held it up to the light as the woman — he supposed her name was Eunice — stepped down into the room.
"There's a dressing room at the back."
Once he was in the dressing room, Skipper pulled his jeans and his boxers down to his thighs. He lifted the head of his cock and saw that it was red, just as he had supposed it would be. It would probably swell up. And his balls were aching.
He had had a hell of an afternoon.
He had meant to get to the store early, but had got caught up talking to Chris, his roommate, who was traveling back to his folks' place for the weekend. By the time Skipper was on his way to the store, it was raining, the afternoon gray and dark, and the roads slick with oil.
He had skidded into the back of a Lexus on the Parkway, and hearing the steel crumple, he had closed his eyes. He had been lucky, hadn't even had his belt on. If he had been going faster ...
The woman who owned the Lexus, a woman named Terry Anderson, had called him an idiot kid and suggested he was some sort of drug addict just because he was a college freshman. And when he told her he didn't have insurance, she had hit him in the groin with her handbag, flipping it up into his crotch like it was a weapon. The buckle, or some hard thing, had hit the head of his cock, and Skipper had crumpled, tears streaming out of his eyes. He had knelt on the road, a sick feeling traveling from his balls to his abs to his inner thighs, while cars wound around the scene, faces pressed against glass. And all the time it had been thundering, the rain falling harder and harder and soaking him through.
It had been hell.
"It's a little tight."
"It looks it," Eunice said.
Her eyes flicked up and down the suit, glancing here and there, at the way it hugged Skipper's thighs and abs, his chest and biceps. Her eyes came to rest on his groin, where his gear was bursting, hot and painful.
Skipper wanted to reach down and tug the suit away from his gear. It was squeezing his balls together, and squashing them underneath him in a vise-like grip.
He didn't know if he could stand it, and he didn't feel much like Spiderman.
"You want to have a walk around in it?" the woman said.
Skipper stepped forward and walked across to the other side of the room. The suit slid further into his ass and tightened around his groin. There was a mirror by the window. Skipper stopped in front of it and a flash of lighting lit him up like he was a superhero.
Skipper smiled. It did look good.
He turned back on and glanced over his shoulder. He supposed he did have a bubble-butt like Kelly had said. But the way the suit was hugging his ass, sliding into his crack, he didn't know if he could stand it. He could barely catch his breath due to the pressure in his groin. And his whole head was covered in lycra.
"Do you think it looks okay?" he called across to the woman, his voice muffled by the fabric, deeper and stronger.
Through the dark lenses of the headpiece he could barely see her. She was standing, staring at him, her arms folded. Skipper figured she was checking him out, getting off on the look of him in the suit she had made. Her site had said she made all her costumes, and Skipper could believe it. The suit was as good as the one from the movies, or damn close to it.
She didn't answer him. Skipper turned back to the mirror. His cock. His balls. That was too much. She ought to have put some sort of fabric inside the suit, some sort of cup, but there was nothing. And it was made for someone the size of Tobey Maguire.
Skipper dragged the headpiece off and stared at his groin. He could see the shape of his cock and balls. He could see the shape of his head. He might as well go naked. He ran one hand up the inside of his thigh, feeling how tight it was. Then he ran his hand over his chest and shoulders, where the woman had stitched a thick web pattern into the suit.
He had been right to come here. The costumes on her site had looked awesome, though Skipper had figured on getting something different from this. She had had a schoolboy costume. Skipper had figured he could say it was from some school he had been to, though he hadn't ever been to any school like that, not one where you had to wear a uniform. He didn't want to look like an idiot at the party, his first as a college freshman. But now he was stuck with Spiderman.
He exhaled and glanced at his groin again. It would just have to do. And when he got back to campus he would put some ice on his gear and take some Tylenol, maybe some ibuprofen as well.
He turned and glanced at his ass again, just to make sure. Well, that was some look. Girls were going to be checking his ass out all night. Checking out his gear. He would probably get with some girl, almost certainly.
Skipper frowned.
He turned and took another look at his groin. His cock and balls were so big. Ridiculously big.
A sudden flash of lightning lit up his body in three stuttering flashes.
Skipper smiled.
The thunder struck so unexpectedly that he jumped, leaping like a child jumping rope.
When he turned to the woman she was smiling at him, laughing at him, Skipper supposed. He was used to that.
"I'll take it," he said, walking back across the room and trying to look confident, as though he was in control. He handed her the headpiece and stepped into the dressing room, pulling the curtains closed behind him.
He struggled with the zip and peeled the suit over his naked body. He was going to say to her that she needed to put some sort of cup in the groin. He didn't care what she thought of him. He knew she couldn't put a cup in now, but she had sewn the rest of the suit perfectly, all the webbing, and if she could do that, then she could sew a cup into the groin. It wasn't very fair to people, giving them a suit like this when there was nothing you could wear underneath it. You had to have all your gear on show.
"You should sew some sort of cup into the groin," he said to her at the counter as he handed her the suit. He was dressed again, though he'd stuffed his boxers into the pocket of his jeans, seeing as how his cock and balls were so sore.
"A cup?"
"Yeah."
"You don't have to take it."
"No. I want it."
"People like it like that, you know. They like to see a bit of your package."
Skipper opened his mouth to say something, anything. She had been looking at him. And she was old. In her fifties.
"It's not like you've got anything to be embarrassed about."
"How much is it?" he said.
"One hundred and fifty till Monday. And three hundred deposit."
Skipper didn't have that sort of money. He took his wallet out, made like he was looking through it, though he knew he didn't have that much in cash.
"Do you take VISA?"
"Cash only."
"I don't have that much."
The woman waited.
"I can give you two-fifty," Skipper said. That would leave him enough to get some beer. He could call his folks when he got back to campus. He was going to have to tell them about the Chrysler, and about Terry Anderson, who was going to phone his parents, she had said. She had made Skipper give her the number.
"Two-fifty deposit?"
"No. I mean, all-up. One-fifty for the suit and one hundred deposit."
"I can't do that."
Skipper nodded. He felt like tearing her suit to shreds. She had got him into it, gawked at him, and now she was telling him he couldn't take it? Like he had put on a private show just for her benefit?
He stood still for a moment, his head turned down. What he really wanted to do was put his hand around his penis and hold onto it. It felt like it was burning, the head of it dripping with oil.
"Have you got anything ... are any of the other suits cheaper?"
"I've got a Tarzan suit."
Skipper stopped, trying to take this in. A Tarzan suit? Stronger than Spiderman. That sounded okay. He nodded, wide-eyed and swallowing. And it would be better that he didn't have to wear the Spiderman one, he said to himself, as she walked away from the counter.
She called from the back of the shop. "You want to try it on?"
Skipper hesitated. "It'll be okay," he said, raising his voice and hearing it echo uncertainly in the empty store. He cupped his hands over his groin. How painful was that!
Eunice returned, disappearing into a room behind the counter, carrying something.
Skipper threaded a hand into his jeans and held the head of his cock, milking it gently. It was getting worse, if anything, and the pain was traveling into his teeth.
What was she doing?
He craned his head a little. She was bent over a work table, pulling at something, a piece of thread in her mouth.
He turned away from the counter and tried to see what was happening with his balls. He cupped them gently and squeezed. Fuller and softer than usual, it felt like. Had Terry Anderson done him some serious damage?
"All keyed up for the party?"
Skipper started, pulling his hand out of his jeans. He turned to her, his face and neck flooding with heat. She was smiling at him, laughing at him, Skipper supposed, the corners of her lips tugged upward, her eyes darting over his features.
"You can have it for two-fifty all-up. Seventy-five for the costume and one seventy-five deposit."
Skipper nodded. She already had it in the bag and the bag was on the counter.
2
Skipper wrenched the car door open and threw the bag onto the passenger seat. He rested his head against the steering wheel and cupped both hands over his groin.
"Oh, dude. Your fucking cock!" He gritted his teeth. "Your fucking balls!"
What right did Terry Anderson — what sort of a stupid name was that? — have to hit him in the groin with her handbag? She had flipped it into his crotch like it was a ready-made weapon. It was his grill that was cracked, his headlight that was smashed. Her Lexus had hardly had a scratch on it.
He pulled his head away from the wheel and started the car. He drove back towards campus, but remembered, only at the last moment, that he had to get some beers.
As he was sitting in the drive-through, he glanced at the bag on the passenger seat. It looked empty, the bright florescent lights reflected in the white plastic, the words "Eunice's Costumes" crumpled. Was there even anything in it? He pulled it onto his lap and opened it just as the guy came up to his window with the beers. There was something in there. A rag, it looked like.
He pushed it onto the passenger seat and frowned, taking the beers and the change.
"Everything okay?"
"Tarzan," Skipper said.
"What's that?"
"Nothing." Skipper took off, bunny-hopping out of the drive-through, his tires screeching.
"Tarzan!" he said. "Oh, no." He shook his head.
At the next set of lights he thought about taking another look. He bit his lips and looked sideways at the bag, wondering how bad it was, because by now he understood what Tarzan meant, and that it meant a loincloth.
"You fucking idiot," he said to himself. He took a breath. "Fucking bitch."
He glanced at the lights, wondering if he had enough time to take a proper look. It probably wasn't that bad.
He leant over, but thought of Terry Anderson and how he had crashed his car. He would have to be more careful. It wasn't the first time he'd had a near miss, though it wasn't a near miss this time. He had really crashed.
He lifted his eyes, and there she was — Terry Anderson — sitting in profile, her blond hair pulled up into a ponytail behind her head. She had been somewhere, Skipper supposed, and was now returning home, wherever that was.
Skipper twisted his mouth into an ugly line. He wondered how she would like it if he hurt her — hurt her tits, or hurt her ...
He didn't want to think about it.
Though he couldn't help staring at her.
She turned toward him, and the two of them looked at each other. She frowned, scowled at him, really. She turned her head, and slid away from Skipper.
Skipper was suddenly disoriented. He figured he was moving backwards. He pressed his foot a little harder on the brake, though somehow the car kept rolling.
The guy behind him blew his horn and Skipper jumped.
What an idiot he was. The lights were green. He took off slowly, trying to let Terry Anderson get some distance on him. He didn't want to end up beside her again, though he could see the back of her car now — and yeah, it did look pretty badly dented.
Fuck! How was his dad going to pay for that and the Chrysler? Skipper was supposed to have insurance. He had told his parents that he did have it. They had given him the money, but Skipper had used it to go to Vegas with Cal. He had figured he'd come back with more than enough for insurance. Cal had said he would. Though as it turned out he had come back broke. Cal had won two grand. Cal always won. Though when Skipper had asked him for a loan, Cal had said only sucks did that. Skipper was a friend, and only sucks loaned money to friends, Cal said. When all the time it had been Skipper who had loaned the money to Cal — the money he had used on the tables. No wonder Skipper wasn't seeing Cal anymore.
Though it was the — fuck, Skipper didn't even want to think about it. Cal had tricked him. In the hotel in Vegas, Cal had said to Skipper, "I'm feeling horny, dude." And then he had said that if Skipper sucked him off he'd return the favor. Cal would suck Skipper off afterwards. It was the sort of thing true buddies did for each other, Cal had said.
Skipper remembered frowning. He remembered thinking how he couldn't imagine Cal doing that, but at the same time he saw in his mind what it would look like — Cal's lips around his cock. Cal had red lips. And a naughty smile. When Skipper imagined Cal's mouth around his cock, he said yes, not thinking, really, because the two of them had been a little drunk.
Cal pulled his shorts down, and Skipper knelt on the carpet in front of Cal. He took Cal's cock into his hand and guided it into his mouth. Cal's cock was pretty small. It stuck straight out from his body like a stub. Though it wasn't all that small, Skipper supposed.
When Skipper saw it, he got hard. He hadn't ever got that close to a guy's cock before, and Cal's cock didn't even look that good. But Skipper had liked it. He had liked the hardness of it, the slipperiness of it, and the sweaty scent of Cal's groin. It had been something like a drug, that smell.
Skipper now worried that he might be gay. But he didn't want to think about that. He frowned, trying to concentrate on the road. The lights ahead of him were red, and that meant he had to stop. He knew that much.
Cal had grabbed Skipper's head. He had pulled Skipper towards him, thrusting the head of his cock into the back of Skipper's throat. Skipper had gagged, the way he did on a too-ripe banana. He had been sucking Cal gently. His hands had been all over Cal's ass. He had taken fistfuls of Cal's cheeks into his hands, and had liked the hardness of it. He had slid his fingers into Cal's crack, and had even felt Cal's hole. Though Cal had then clutched Skipper's head and pressed it against his groin.
He had come in the back of Skipper's throat. The warm cum had pulsed and Skipper had swallowed it, feeling it trickle down his throat. He hadn't even minded. He had liked it. He had wanted it to go on for longer. But when he said, "My turn now," once Cal had finished, Cal had chuckled. There was no way he was going to do that. He had been resting on his bed with his hands behind his head. He had been naked, his cock lying soft in a nest of hair. But if Cal had asked him, Skipper would have done it again.
The guy behind Skipper blew his horn again, loud and long, and again Skipper jumped. He took off, glancing at Terry Anderson beside him, who was smiling and shaking her head like Skipper was some sort of idiot.
Skipper wasn't sure he even liked women anymore. He certainly wouldn't want to go to bed with Terry fucking Anderson. She was old enough to be his mother.
The guy behind him — a guy in a Cadillac — was tailgating Skipper. Skipper flipped him the bird. The guy blew his horn again, and Skipper put his foot on the gas. The back of the Chrysler sank into the road, and Skipper ran the next set of lights, passing Terry Anderson who was slowing to a stop. Well, that was the last he was going to see of her.
3
Skipper cried. When he saw the costume and what she had done to it, he cried. He was sitting naked, with an ice-pack in his groin, sitting on the end of his bed and shaking his head. Tears dripped onto the carpet at his feet, and every now and then he sobbed again, his chest and shoulders heaving with a breath.
What a fucking bitch, he said to himself. Why would she do that?
He winced, trying to get a handle on the ice-cold bite in his groin. If he didn't put up with it now then his gear would swell up.
A long piece of phlegm dangled from his nose, as clear as water in the afternoon sunlight. The storm had fled and the heat was back, the air thick with moisture, steamy and intense. The phlegm hitched itself to Skipper's inner thigh, and dangled like a vine. Skipper stared at it as though it was a fascinating thing, something beautiful, turning in the sunlight.
"I may as well go like this," he said to himself, though his voice sounded childish, stupid.
He straightened up and pressed the ice pack firmly into his groin. He would have to put up with it. He had said ten minutes, and it would have to be ten minutes. He glanced at his watch again and closed his eyes. Three minutes to go.
It felt as though his gear was being frozen off. Like a doctor with nitrogen. Could he be doing himself some damage? Skipper didn't know. He waited, and managed to push himself to twelve minutes.
Slowly, he pulled the ice-pack away. He leant forward and picked up his cock, inspecting the head. It was red and frosty. Shriveled. His balls were tucked tightly under his body, so numb that he hadn't even realized he was sitting on them. He straightened up and cupped his hand around them, trying to find them while he frowned at the head of his cock.
He didn't suppose it would swell up. It wasn't that bad. He got up and found two ibuprofen in the bathroom.
The costume was lying on his bed. He picked it up. It probably wasn't as bad as he had thought. He threaded his hands into the waistband and stretched it out. It was a single piece of leather, a loop in the middle, stitched at the waistband, a flap falling over the front and the rear. The front of the loop was a few inches wide at the most, and the flap that fell over it was no bigger, or almost no bigger.
In the middle, where it would sit underneath him, the loop narrowed until it was almost a piece of string. It ran up the back and widened out again at the waistband, though the flap at the rear was hardly any wider than the one at the front. How was this supposed to cover him?
The thing that frustrated Skipper — the thing that had made him cry — was that he could see very clearly that there had been some sort of pouch, or something, sewn into the inside of it. But Eunice, the costume lady, must have done something to it. Skipper could see loose threads. He didn't see how she could have done it or when, but he had a very strong feeling that she had.
Skipper frowned, and tried to think about it sensibly.
He knew that he had said that to her about the Spiderman outfit, that she should put some sort of cup into it. And he remembered what she had said, that people liked it like that, that they liked to see a bit of your gear. She had said he had nothing to be embarrassed about.
Maybe it was just the way it was made. Maybe that was the way she made things.
He pulled at a few loose threads in the front of the loop and they came away in his fingers. Were they sewn in there? He looked at it closely, able now to see a hole or two where something had punctured the leather, though it was difficult to see because the leather was as soft as a T-shirt. It had a furry feel, but there had definitely been something in there.
Skipper suddenly remembered how she had stepped into the room behind the counter, how he had seen her in there pulling at something, thread in her mouth.
But had she really done that? Pulled a pouch out of the costume?
Skipper didn't understand it when people did things like this. He didn't do things like this, and when other people did it came as a shock.
He supposed she must have done it, removed a cup-piece or something. He sighed, sitting on his bed again, the costume in his lap.
The only thing that was cool about it was the knife. On one side of the elastic, there was a hard leather pouch, and inside it, a knife — the sort of knife Tarzan would use to kill a crocodile. It wasn't made of steel. Skipper could see that. But it was some type of metal, very light, maybe aluminum. And really, it was quite sharp.
Skipper pulled it out of the pouch and poked the tip of it at his thumb. He supposed he could draw blood if he wanted to. He tucked the knife under his cock and imagined what it would be like if he pulled upwards, with all his might, towards his abs.
"Okay, fucker, your cock is history," he said to himself. And he did pull back a little. And it did cut him. And Skipper jumped up, holding onto his cock and dancing around the room on his toes.
"Jeez, Jeez, Jeez, Jeez, Jeez," he cried.
The door opened, and Skipper was caught naked, hopping around the room with his cock in his hand.
"You alright, Skipper?"
It was Tim, and then, behind him, a moment later, Matt and Jared.
"Yeah. Sorry." Skipper had forgotten to lock the door again, a thing that Chris had been complaining about.
Matt, a dark-faced boy, nodded at Skipper's cock. "You pleasuring yourself, Skipper?"
Skipper let his cock go.
The boys looked Skipper up and down, their heads moving in unison.
Shit, Skipper thought. He'd only been here a week, and now he'd been caught naked, with his cock in his hand.
"I hurt myself," Skipper said.
"Yeah. We figured."
Skipper felt like cupping his hands over his groin, though he didn't suppose he could really do that.
"You going to the party tonight?" Jared said.
Skipper nodded.
"What're you going as?"
"Tarzan."
4
Skipper had a shower.
He had a thing about showers. He had a shower every morning and every night, and if he played sports, he had a shower after sports as well.
Cal had once told him that he only had a shower some days, and Skipper hadn't believed him. Though when they went to Vegas, Skipper found that it was true. Cal only had one shower the whole time they were there, the same night that Skipper had sucked his cock.
Skipper had a brush. A brush for his back and another brush, a hand-held brush that he used on the rest of his body. Chris said it looked like the sort of thing you would use to clean tiles with, and Skipper said that it was, though you needed that sort of thing to clean yourself properly.
Skipper scrubbed himself with it, though when he came to his cock, he used it gently. He hadn't really hurt himself he found, once Tim and the others had left. All he had done was mark a red line with the knife.
Skipper stroked the brush gently over his cock and balls, sending shivers into his thighs and ass.
He had a special thing about his ass. He had once seen a porn site on the net, and had seen this guy's asshole in close-up. It had been stained, stained brown all around it. And ever since he had seen it, Skipper had made sure he cleaned his ass as thoroughly as possible. He scrubbed it harshly, making sure that he didn't end up with the same brown stain.
When he got out of the shower, he checked it. It was a thing he always did, standing on the tips of his toes and pulling his ass cheeks apart, bending and glancing over his shoulder at the mirror. His hole was as pink and clean as it had ever been, and Skipper supposed he was clean. He had scrubbed every inch of his body. He had shampooed and conditioned his hair. And now, standing in front of the mirror, he picked up his deodorant and sprayed the intoxicating scent under his arms.
The stupid thing about having to wear that loincloth tonight was that he'd shaved all his pubes off — not only the patch of hair that sat above his cock, but under his arms as well. Before leaving for college, a week ago, he'd done it. He'd been doing it for a long time. He had some idea about how dirty it looked, and he knew that. The guys at school had never ribbed him about it, because Skipper had swum as well as playing football, though now he'd got into college on a football scholarship, he didn't suppose it made much sense.
Chris had said something about it the first night, when Skipper had been lying on his bed, in his shorts, with his hands behind his head. Chris had said, "You've shaved under your arms, dude."
Skipper had taken his arms down and pressed them against his sides, though he'd felt silly like that, and it was so damned hot.
"I used to swim," Skipper said. "At school."
"That must have been some time back"
Skipper nodded, knowing he'd shaved over the summer. And he wished he hadn't done it. He'd told himself he'd let his pubes grow back, though they hadn't grown much in a week.
"Practically not at all," Skipper said, looking in the mirror and holding his arms stretched above his head, his hands clasped together, as though he was going to dive. "Just a dark shadow."
He frowned. And though he didn't really mean to do it, he picked up his shaving foam and squirted it under one arm. He shaved the hair off, and then did his other arm. He stopped, but decided to do his groin anyway, telling himself it would be better, really, because at least it would look natural if he was shaved. If he left shadows, then people could tell that he had definitely shaved sometime. Whereas, if he made it smooth, people might suppose he was a person with no hair — and it wasn't like he was going to show anyone his groin, so it didn't matter.
He squirted the silky foam onto the shadow above his cock and spread it out with his fingertips. He dragged the razor over it and then tested the skin with his fingernails, testing to see if he could feel any bristles. He figured it was as smooth as he was going to get it. He opened the door to the shower, figuring he had to wash his armpits and his groin again, though once he had started, he couldn't stop. He washed his whole body. He would be going practically naked, and he had to be clean everywhere. He scrubbed himself, sluicing the soapy water over his body with the brush. He finished up by paying special attention to his groin, scrubbing his cock and balls a little harder, because really, he hadn't washed them properly the first time. He gave his ass a second scrubbing, and then stepped out of the shower.
His skin was glowing pink and he was way too hot. He stepped into the bedroom and stood in front of the fan, an old fan that had grease and dust all over it, not only on the blades but on the frame, and so thick that it looked like fur.
It wasn't Skipper's fan. It was Chris' fan. Skipper hadn't thought of bringing a fan, though if he had thought of it, he certainly wouldn't have brought an old one, a dirty one. And he had already decided to clean Chris' fan sometime soon.
Chris wasn't a very clean person. Skipper was learning that. Though he supposed the two of them had to get along together the best they could. Chris was here on a football scholarship as well, and the two of them would be playing together, so it wasn't as though Skipper could leave Chris and get another roommate. And anyway, Chris had a nice smile, and Skipper liked his eyes. They were blue like the ocean, though Skipper hadn't seen his cock yet.
Skipper frowned. He was starting to get a hard-on.
He looked down at his cock, which had risen into a horizontal position. He put the heel of his hand on it and pushed down gently.
Outside, the storm had fled to the horizon, and the last rays of the sun were lighting up a world impossibly green and gold. The storm had banked beyond the hills, forming a wall, and within it, Skipper could see the flash of an occasional spark of lightning.
"Someone's copping it," Skipper said, a thing that his granddad had always used to say, though Skipper's granddad had disappeared three months ago now, disappeared somewhere. No note. Nothing.
Skipper sighed.
He looked at the costume lying on his bed. It probably wouldn't be that bad. "Probably better than the Spiderman costume, anyway," because in that, he would have been too hot.
Skipper picked it up and fingered it again. The leather was so smooth, so soft. He stretched the elastic out and stepped into it, though at first he wasn't sure if he had put the thing on right. It didn't feel like he was wearing anything.
Then he saw that his cock was hanging out of the loincloth, lying against his leg. Skipper picked it up and tucked it under the leather strip, but it fell out the other side.
"Oh, shit."
Skipper lifted the flap and tried to see what was going on. The strip his cock and balls were supposed to sit under didn't have any shape to it. And it wasn't even wide enough to cover his balls, not really, or maybe just, and Skipper knew that that wasn't the way the costume was supposed to be. There must have been some sort of pouch sewn in there. He was sure there had been.
He tucked his cock under the strip again and tried to get it to sit right. The real problem was that his cock was just too damned long. He had to wrap it under his balls, and this was where the costume started to get narrow, narrowing until it was less than an inch wide before it traveled up behind him. The only thing covering his ass was the flap.
Skipper really needed some sort of pouch to put his gear in. He stood up, caught sight of himself in the mirror on the closet, and he smiled.
That looked pretty good.
Skipper straightened up and ran a hand over his chest. He had seen an old Tarzan movie one time, one his granddad had shown him. It had starred Johnny Weissmuller as Tarzan, and now, looking at himself, Skipper figured he looked better than Johnny Weissmuller had. Johnny Weissmuller had had a weird shaped body, a strange shaped chest, though he had been pretty strong. Skipper had to admit that.
When the woman in the store — that Eunice — had said she had a Tarzan costume, Skipper had thought of Johnny Weissmuller, because really, that was the only time he had ever seen Tarzan, except maybe a cartoon when he was a kid. But Skipper hadn't thought of what Tarzan had been wearing. He had just thought, Johnny Weissmuller, and the idea of him being strong. Skipper's granddad had told him that Johnny Weissmuller had been a swimmer, an Olympic athlete. And Skipper swam too. That's what he had been thinking — that Tarzan was like a natural for him.
Skipper frowned.
It did look good. Maybe it was supposed to be like this. He could see how the flap at the front was just covering his cock and his balls, leaving his thighs bare, so that Skipper could see the front of his thighs traveling up past the waistband and into his abs. His skin was pale where he normally wore shorts or speedos, though he was tanned everywhere else. That looked okay.
And Skipper's abs were well defined. He didn't have an eight-pack, but you could see a six-pack very clearly. He ran his fingers over his abs and down to his thighs. The only thing separating them was a band of elastic with a few tatty pieces of leather sewn onto it.
It looked like Johnny Weissmuller's costume. Almost the same, except it didn't cover as much ...
But that had been an old movie. If they made a Tarzan movie these days, then it would probably look like this.
Skipper turned around and looked over his shoulder at the back of the costume.
No way, dude, he said to himself. His butt was practically naked. Half of each cheek was bare, and under the flap, the strip of leather had started to rise up into his crack.
Skipper turned around again and scowled at his reflection.
He could see why people thought he was hot. Though he didn't see how it was his eyes, which girls were always talking about, that made him look so good. Dark and large — too large, and much darker than his hair.
Inky, Kelly had said. Mysterious. Though Skipper wasn't seeing Kelly anymore, and he was glad of that.
He sighed, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly through his mouth, watching his chest lift and fall.
He felt a little down now.
That Spiderman costume would have been good, but hell, he would've been so hot. Particularly with the mask on his head.
Skipper ruffled up his hair a little. He didn't suppose Tarzan, living in the jungle, would have perfect hair. Skipper's hair was still a little wet from the shower, and he decided it needed some gel. As he walked toward the bathroom, his cock fell out of the costume again and flopped against his thigh. Skipper ignored it.
He worked the gel through his hair, dragging it into clumps and trying to make it look like bed hair. When he was happy with it, he washed his hands and walked back into the bedroom. He remembered that he hadn't locked the door. He locked it, and as he was walking back towards the mirror again, he tucked his cock back into the costume.
His hair looked pretty good, but Skipper didn't know if he could really go. Not like this. He would be less naked if he was wearing a thong. The strip of leather at the back was riding up into his ass crack, and the flap that was supposed to cover his butt was barely wide enough. His dick was falling out of the front of the costume, which also wasn't wide enough. And there wasn't even a pouch for his gear. If he was wearing a thong ...
A thong!
If only he had a thong.
He could wear it under the costume.
Skipper turned and walked across to his dresser, pulling open the top drawer, but knowing, as he did it, that he didn't have a thong in there.
He did have a thong. He had bought one. Just to see. But he knew, as he opened the dresser drawer to check, that it wasn't in there. It was at home. He had left it there on purpose. It was something he hid, because he didn't want his mom to see it. It was sitting in the bottom of his closet inside his baseball mitt.
Skipper frowned, wondering whether Jake, his kid brother, might some time take his mitt, or give it to one of his friends to use, but as Skipper realized he was getting off the point of what he was thinking about, he pushed the idea away from him.
A thong.
Maybe Chris had one.
Skipper hesitated. Chris was at his folks by now, or well on the way. His sister was getting married this weekend. It wasn't like he would suddenly come back. Still, Skipper hesitated.
He decided to lock the door. He turned the catch and opened Chris' dresser, pulling the top drawer out carefully, and trying to make as little noise as possible.
Chris' underwear was all jumbled together, not folded or anything. Chris wore tighty-whities. Skipper had seen him in them, because Chris wore them to bed. And it looked like that was all he had. Skipper put his hand into the drawer tentatively, moving some things this way and that. He didn't suppose Chris would be able to tell that Skipper had opened the drawer, seeing as how the stuff was all tumbled in, but still.
At one end, in the corner, there were three or four jockstraps. Skipper put his hand in and pulled one out. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled gently. Then he took a second, deeper breath. It was the same smell — the floral, dusty-sweet smell of laundry detergent, but underneath it, the smell of a man's groin — a thing Skipper had only smelt that one time, in Vegas, when he had been sucking Cal's cock. The cotton was soft. Skipper gathered as much of the groin together as he could and pressed it firmly against his nose.
It didn't smell like a girl. Not at all.
Skipper's cock had started to lengthen, and now it strained against the leather strap. Skipper reached down and tugged the leather aside, letting his cock spring out, and rise up, until it was angled at the ceiling.
Outside, beyond the window, beyond the courtyard, there were a few guys kicking a ball around on the field. But that was a long way away. They couldn't see him, Skipper figured, but still, he pulled Chris' jockstrap away from his nose and stood, staring out of the window. The storm had washed the world clean. It was glowing in brilliant colors, so bright that they hurt the eye, and as vivid as wet paint.
Skipper reached for his cock absent-mindedly. He wrapped his hand around it and pulled back and forward a few times, raising the jockstrap to his nose again, and looking over the white fabric at the sunset, which was turning the world green and gold and lavender.
Skipper came suddenly. His cum jerked out of his cock and sailed through the open window, though the second spurt hit the sill and slid down the wall.
Shit, that must have landed somewhere. Skipper knew that people parked their cars down there. He parked his own car down there. He leaned out of the window, and sure enough, directly below him was Mr Turner's Saab. A thread of Skipper's cum was splattered against the windshield.
A girl in the courtyard looked up at Skipper. Skipper pulled his head out of the window and closed it, tucking his cock back into the loincloth at the same time.
He turned around and found Jared, standing in the doorway, staring at him.
5
"Is that what you're wearing?"
"You think it's okay?"
"It's a little small."
"I thought I might wear a jockstrap under it," Skipper said, though he only said this because he had Chris' jockstrap in his hand.
"That would look pretty stupid."
Skipper nodded and took a deep breath. Chris' drawer was still open, but Jared wasn't looking at it.
"Can I get a ride with you?"
"Sure," Skipper said.
"What happened to your car?"
"I crashed it."
Jared nodded. He looked Skipper up and down. "You look pretty good."
Skipper took another breath and smiled. "What are you wearing?"
"You'll see," Jared said. "I'm almost ready." He pulled the door closed.
Skipper walked towards the door, frowning. He was sure he had locked it. He turned the catch and tried the door. Now it was locked. He wondered why it hadn't locked the last time, though he then remembered that he had locked it after putting gel in his hair.
"Dude, you seriously need some brain cells," he said to himself.
He tucked Chris' jockstrap back into his dresser and spent some time trying to make Chris' things look natural, as though Skipper hadn't touched them, though if Chris had simply folded his underwear like a normal person, this would have been a lot easier. When Skipper was satisfied, he closed the drawer gently. It was a good thing Jared hadn't seen it.
Skipper pulled some tissues out of his box and used them to wipe the window sill and the wall. Though when he bent down to dab at the cum on the carpet, his cock slid out of the loincloth again.
Skipper cursed.
He flushed the tissues and returned to the mirror, tucking his cock back under the leather and trying to see what he could do about it.
He found that if he tucked his cock under his balls and pulled the waistband up high, his cock would stay in place, even if he squatted down. The only problem with doing this was that it squashed his balls out of the leather loop, and the flap at the front was too narrow to cover them properly.
When Skipper turned side-on to the mirror he could see his balls, though when he pulled the waistband back down again, he realized that it was even worse. He hadn't looked at the costume from the side before, and with the waistband pulled down, he could see through the leather loop, see the patch of skin where he had shaved his groin and the top of his cock. The loop bagged out when the waistband wasn't pulled up high.
Skipper pulled the waistband up again. He had to adjust it a little so he was pulling it up higher at the back, otherwise the strip of leather he was trying to put the head of his cock under was too narrow. It was too narrow anyway, but if he didn't pull it up higher in the back, he couldn't get the head of his cock to stay under it. He pulled it up high, so that it was tight, though this meant that the back strip was wedged firmly into his ass. He could see his balls from the sides. But then he realized that he could get the front flap to wrap around them if he rolled it in a little, and he spent some time rolling the front flap in from either side until it had some shape to it. He rolled it tight and let it go, and yeah, it did curve around his balls enough to hide them from the sides.
He stood up again, satisfied that he had done everything he could to make it look right. The front flap was only just long enough to cover his gear now, but still, you couldn't see it.
He remembered how in the Johnny Weissmuller movie his granddad had shown him, how Johnny Weissmuller had had his costume pulled up high. Skipper had thought it looked pretty stupid, though maybe that was how it was supposed to be. Maybe that was what he had been doing wrong and Eunice hadn't done anything to the costume at all. And anyway, he didn't have it pulled up real high, not like Johnny Weissmuller had. It wasn't big enough for that. And it didn't look that stupid.
Skipper turned around and glanced over his shoulder.
"Oh, hell," he said.
He could see half his ass. Because he had had to pull the costume up higher at the back, the bottom of his butt was naked. He could see the crease of his ass cheeks and how they curved up into his crack.
Skipper turned around again and put his hands behind his head, wondering what he could do about it. He took a deep, frustrated breath, expanding his chest and exhaling. It looks okay, he said to himself, trying to convince himself, though the way his ass was—
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Jared, ready to go, Skipper supposed.
Skipper opened his closet and pulled out his overcoat. He had thought about it when he was in the shower, and figured it would be better for driving over there than simply wearing the costume. He put it on and did the belt up, and then he opened the door.
"What happened to Tarzan?"
It was Jared.
"Aren't you wearing that anymore?"
"Yeah," Skipper said. He undid the belt and opened the overcoat to show Jared.
"It looks pretty good."
Skipper swallowed. "You think?" he said.
"Are you worried about it?"
Skipper shrugged.
"It looks fine. There'll be girls there. They love that sort of thing."
Skipper closed the overcoat again. He had been thinking people might laugh at him, but Jared wasn't laughing. Skipper asked Jared what he was wearing.
"This."
"What is it?"
Jared pulled a strip of white cardboard out of his pocket and tucked it under his collar. "A priest," he said.
Jared was wearing a suit.
Skipper nodded. He didn't think it was much of a costume. "You're going to be pretty hot," he said.
"Hell, I'll take the jacket off after an hour or so, after the judging. They've got a pool. We'll all be in the pool by midnight."
Skipper often felt that people said too much, too many things all in one go. He heard judging, and wondered what that was, but he could only ask one question. "A pool?"
"Yeah. He's got a pool."
Skipper nodded.
"I've got shorts on underneath," Jared said, pulling at the sides of his trousers.
"I probably should bring some," Skipper said.
Jared frowned. And then his mouth opened in a smile. "Skipper, you can swim in your costume. You're Tarzan."
Skipper hesitated. He supposed he could. "I've got to put something on my feet," he said.
Jared closed the door and sat on Chris' bed while Skipper put his runners on.
"You look like a flasher," Jared said.
"What's a flasher?"
"I don't know. A guy who goes around in his overcoat. He stops people and opens up his coat."
Skipper frowned. He had done up the overcoat. He wasn't going to open it. He was going to take it off.
"He's naked," Jared said.
"I'm not naked."
"I know that."
Skipper suddenly felt as though Jared was laughing at him, though he wasn't actually laughing.
Skipper didn't much like Jared. He had decided that already. There was something about his mouth that Skipper couldn't like, something about the way Jared held his top lip. And Jared wasn't very attractive. He had a freckled face, his hair was thin, and it was high up on his forehead like he was already going bald.
Skipper laced his runners loosely and then stood up. He turned to look for his keys. They were on the dresser, where he had left them. Jared got up and the door suddenly opened. Three people piled into the doorway, fighting with each other to see through it. It was Tim and Matt and another guy Skipper didn't know. They were smiling and laughing and had run here. Skipper had heard them thumping up the hallway. It didn't look like they were coming in.
Skipper didn't like the way people kept opening doors in this place. Someone was going to catch him jerking off if he wasn't careful.
"I thought you were Tarzan," Tim said.
The boys stared at him.
"He's a flasher," Matt said.
"I'm not a flasher."
"Show us," the other guy said, nodding at the belt on Skipper's overcoat.
Skipper hesitated. And then he pulled the overcoat open.
The boys locked their eyes on Skipper's costume. They looked him up and down, looking at his chest and his thighs and his abs. Skipper supposed he was good looking. People had been telling him he was good looking ever since he was a kid, though he only half believed it.
The boys' eyes returned to his costume and they smiled. Tim, who Skipper liked, had his mouth open. He let his eyes drift from the costume to Skipper's face, his mouth still open.
"Oh, dude," Matt said, in a deep voice. He was shaking his head, and then he too was looking at Skipper.
The other guy had his eyes locked on Skipper's costume.
Skipper began to feel uncomfortable. He closed the overcoat, buttoned it and did up the belt, thinking that it must look pretty stupid.
And then the guy he didn't know said, "Dude, that's the best costume."
The guy had blond hair, curly and ruffled and piled on top of his head. A lock of it fell over his forehead, and his eyes looked like silver, flashing in the afternoon light. His full lips curled at the corners. And he had dimples, his skin tanned a pale, golden brown.
Skipper had caught a glance of him a few times over the past week, and he had an idea that someone might have introduced them on the first day, though he wasn't sure if this had happened. Somehow, though, he felt as though he knew the guy, as though he had known him forever.
"It looks awesome," Matt said, nodding his head quickly.
Skipper breathed a little easier, and then he noticed a smile tugging at the corners of Matt's lips.
Skipper knew that look. He glanced at Jared.
"I'm a priest," Jared said, saying it to Matt defensively.
"Oh," Matt said.
All the boys were smiling.
"He looks pretty stupid, eh?" the new guy said, nodding at Jared in his costume.
"Not too bad."
The boy glanced at Skipper. They stared at each other for a moment. The boy smiled.
6
"What's his name?" Skipper said, after the door had closed.
"Who?"
"The blond guy."
"Lake."
"Lake?"
"Yeah, like water." Jared made a hard line with his mouth. "Everyone's calling him Canada."
"Canada?"
"He's from Canada."
"Oh," Skipper said, and he nodded his head with his mouth open, a thing that Kelly had said looked stupid, and that he shouldn't do. Skipper told himself for the umpteenth time not to do it again. "Is he coming to the party?"
"Yeah."
"Do you think he wants a ride?"
"He's got a car, Skipper. He's got money, real money. He's got a fucking B'mer."
The two of them were ready now, but they didn't seem to be going anywhere. Skipper wondered again if he could really wear the costume. The way it looked from the back — had that been okay? He frowned. He could feel the strap etched tightly into his ass. He could feel his cock, strapped tightly underneath him, and his balls bulging out on either side. The waistband was too tight. It was digging into his skin, though it was a good thing it was so tight, because it was keeping his cock and everything else in place. But was it really okay?
"Do you think I could go as a flasher?"
"What?"
"Maybe I could just go like this, and say I was a flasher."
"You'd have to be naked underneath."
Skipper thought about it — about taking the costume off. He didn't really want to go naked in a coat. It was too hot. And it wasn't like he was going to open the coat up and show anyone. He supposed if he was a flasher, then he would have to do that.
"You wouldn't have anything to swim in," Jared said. He started, as though he had just remembered something important. "Come on," he said, moving towards the door.
Skipper hesitated, feeling that he couldn't go, not like this. He remembered the beers and pulled them out of the fridge. His wallet was on the dresser. He put it in the pocket of his coat and walked hesitantly toward the door.