Reed, meanwhile, had spent a lot of the afternoon getting ready for Chance. He'd picked up a twelve-pack of Beck's earlier, on his way back to the dorm from his marketing seminar. Then he spent time transferring the wrestling photos to his computer.
He couldn't believe how hot they were. He had lots of Reed and Brock, of course. A couple incredible ones of their naked torso's, a few choice ones of Chance's thick dick snaking around under that singlet, and a great series of the two boys half-wrestling, half-fucking that looked like the photo gallery from a porn DVD.
As he'd hoped, the ones of Coach putting the moves on Chance, pressing his crotch into Chance's ass while stroking his arms and shoulders, turned out hot as hell. There were lots of the other boys stretching, lifting, and wrestling (lots of biceps and butts, Reed realized - oh well, can't fight my fetishes!).
It was interesting to see the typical athletic photo shoot seen through such a gay sensibility as his own. No straining grimaces, no cool escape moves, no cornball scenes of wrestling match triumph - instead, he was like the Degas of the mat-room.
For Degas, the drama wasn't the actual ballet performance, but rather the small, sensual moments before and after: the ballerinas putting on tutu's, stretching, adjusting each other's dresses, undressing backstage.
That's what Reed dug: the stretching, the private moments of wrestlers dwelling in their hard bodies, helping each other with weights, feeling each other's muscles, patting butts, then the undressing later.
And so, of course, there were the locker room shots. Chance wouldn't know about what happened when Reed hit the locker room after practice with all of the team there except Brock and him. A lot of the guys were pumped, saying, "C'mon, dude! You haven't really got a full set of practice pic's unless you get us in our jocks and in the shower!"
They laughed and teased him, amateur exhibitionists hoping to shame him into it, but Reed was only too happy to oblige. He started shooting guys at once; he got them stripping off their singlets, standing around in jocks, peeling off those jocks, scratching and fluffing their now-freed dicks, walking to the shower with their cocks swinging and bouncing, and finally hard young bodies soaping themselves.
There were even a few photo's of some mock-gay horseplay as a couple guys pretended to fuck their team-mates from behind. Reed was worried about some of those shots coming out, in the steamy mist of the shower, but they were all incredibly clear and hot as hell.
He organized the photos, stroked his hard-on a little (but not too much, he wanted to save all his cream for Chance tonight), and then went through his clothes to figure out what to wear.
After trying on a bunch of his hottest clothes, he decided to go with a little variation of the 'outfit' he wore (or, rather, was caught in) last night - namely, his underwear.
It might have been such a turn-on for Chance to see Reed lounging around the dorm in just underwear, that might have explained why Chance was stoked enough to do that strip-tease, so why not try it again?
Besides, Reed - thinking of every angle - had another reason why he wanted to wear as little as possible tonight. They were going to order pizza for dinner, and Reed REALLY wanted to flirt with the pizza delivery guy. He was about a year or so older than Reed, and shit, was he hot.
The guy was a real surfer-jock dude, with long, dirty blonde hair that he wore in a sort of loose variant of dreads. Sexy as hell. Looks-wise, he was a total A&F coverboy, definitely an ex-college jock.
Reed'd never seen him naked, of course, but he looked like he had that jock build. He was tall, and Reed had noticed he had big hands and big feet. His plan was for the pizza stud to see Reed in briefs and
Chance either naked or in a jock when they answered his knock. With Chance there with him, flashing that wet-dream of a body, if this dude was into boys, something hot could very well happen. Reed was hard again just thinking about it.
So Reed went through his underwear to pick out his sexiest stuff. He decided on a couple pieces of the new 2(x)ist stuff he'd bought last week: he chose a square-cut tank, which had those thick, sexy shoulder straps that came in a little farther than the average tank, showing more of his pecs, and was also lower cut in front, again flashing more flesh.
It was very tight, so Reed could bunch it up to right above his belly button and it would snugly stay there. Then he pulled on a very, very short pair of low-cut nylon briefs, very see-through, showing his tan, uncut meat beautifully. It had a thick, low-riding waistband with the 2(x)ist logo boldly printed in front and back.
Damn, did he look good in them. Oh yeah, dude, you're gonna be fucking tonight. He took them off, placed them on his bed, and showered and shaved (face, pubes, and ass) to get ready.
He dried off, and then got the wrestling practice pictures all queued up on his computer. For mood lighting, he flicked on just the desk lamp and lit some candles throughout the room.
Then he put some throbbing, bass-heavy reggae dub on low (one of his favorite soundtracks for hot, steamy sex) and lit a couple sticks of sandalwood. He gelled and spiked his blonde hair, which he thought looked so good against his tan skin.
Finally, he put his new underwear on. A big grin spread across his face as he looked at himself in the mirror: fuck, do you look good, he thought. He especially liked seeing that his nice, fat, uncut dick, worn sideways, was so alluringly visible in those skimpy nylon briefs.
That big old country boy is gonna be putty in your city slicker's hands. Tomorrow was Saturday; he was hoping Chance's curfew didn't hold for the weekend cause he definitely wanted them to spend the night together.
He wanted to fuck all night with Chance, then wake up tomorrow morning, have more hot sex, and maybe do breakfast together. Disgustingly domestic, maybe, but it seemed hot as hell.
He was nervous, at loose ends, like a schoolboy before a first date, so he popped the top on a Beck's. As he sipped it, he thought about Chance. The whole thing seemed like a country song: trying to love a rolling stone or a rambling man or something corny like that.
He'd fallen hard for this young stud, but he knew that Chance was too into the exciting rush of gay sex now to even think about an exclusive relationship. Truth to tell, though, Reed was kinda too into sex to think about an exclusive realtionship himself.
But he hoped Chance and he could form something, some kind of 'home base' of a relationship, one allowing for dalliances, sure, but having a strong central bond of deep physical and mental love that could grow and flourish over time.
Aw hell, he laughed, as he drained his bottle, dream on. That little corn-fed hottie is so fucking randy he just wants to hop from one dude's bed to another now. Oh well, enjoy the fun with him while you can.
Reed knew when he looked back on his college career, this 'Alien Culture' project was going to loom large as a true high point. Still amped, he did a quick one-hit of pot in his bathroom - not enough to get high, just enough to give him a kind of heightened body-buzz. He wanted every sexual moment he'd spend with Chance to be the most intense it could be.
A few minutes later, Reed heard the knock on his door. Taking a deep breath, adjusting his thick cock, checking out his hair, and making sure his tank hugged his torso just right, he opened the door. Chance's eyes bugged out.
"Holy fuck, do you look hot! Damn, Reed, I'm gonna bust a nut just looking at you. That's the hottest fucking underwear I've ever seen."