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Pantsless in Portland

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The creator of Erotisphere writes about the website,
the Portland scene, and life without pants.

by AnDroid
admin@erotisphere.com

Underwear Shopping

Written by AnDroid   
Thursday, 02 July 2009 16:20

Shopping for underwear is like browsing the gay porn section in a seedy back-alley sex shop. The guy at the register looks at you as you slink in, and you wonder, “Does he know why I'm here?” The security guard eyes you suspiciously. You try to act casual, moseying along, perusing the wears, thumbing through t-shirts, until you arrive at the men's underwear section as if by accident.

You approach the aisle casually, trying to look disinterested. From the boxes on the shelves a hundred glistening men stare at you, flexing their oiled muscles, thrusting their over-sized packages at your face, beckoning you to get into their underpants.

An older man is standing there, holding a box of briefs. He looks up at you as you approach, and –was that a wink?– you recoil, fidgeting, avoiding eye-contact. You pick up a package of large boxer-briefs and examine it even though what you're really looking for is a tight pair of bikinis, maybe a three-pack, to go with your new short-shorts. You don't want this fucking pervert to know your real intentions. He's probably not even looking for underwear. He probably loiters in the men's underwear section all day, watching young studs like yourself pick out their underthings so he can imagine what you'll look like wearing them while he's jerking off in a bathroom stall.

Avoiding the old man, you circle around to the other side of the display, where a butch lesbian is looking at tank tops. Then you see it: a three-pack of bikini underwear, small, and they're in your colors! The man on the box has such a huge cock it looks like it's going to burst through the bikini and slap you in the face. You imagine what you'll look like wearing them, imagine your package looking like a little puppy curled up in your underwear with its tail dangling out the side.

You peek between the shelves to make sure that pervert doesn't have a camera-phone aimed at you. He seems to have gone, and the lesbian, having made her decision –white, extra large– is wheeling her shopping cart away. You grab the bikinis and curl your sweaty hand around the box to hide the label, tucking it under your arm as you hurry to the register.

You carefully place the box in front of the checkout guy, peering at him intensely as he scans the bar code, watching for a reaction, but the man's face betrays no emotion. What is he hiding? Is he already planning to write about you in his blog tonight? Is he going to laugh it up with the security guard while the two of them watch the security camera footage and drink cheap beer? You glare at him as you hand him your debit card.

At home you rush into your bedroom, throw your stuff on the floor, and strip naked. It will be two, maybe three hours before your roommates get home, but you still feel as if someone could burst in at any moment. The excitement already has you partially erect as you pry open the box, undies tumbling out onto the bed. They have a pleasant smell, like perfumed hospital soap, and you crush a pair against your face and breathe deeply while absent-mindedly fondling yourself.

The bikini feels foreign as you slide it up your legs, and you can't help but feel a little naughty. Bikini briefs are like panties for men. They fit snugly around your junk while the top rides just above your bush, your happy trail bursting out like a hairy flame. You leap on tip-toes into your roommate's bedroom to look at yourself in his full-length mirror. Your bulging package looks huge, smashed so tight against the thin material you can clearly make out the shape of the head. You flex and turn around and look over your shoulder. You reach through a leg hole and start blatantly masturbating while staring at your own ass in the mirror. You imagine the old pervert from the department store watching you through the window, and you close your eyes and pump furiously.

The orgasm comes unexpectedly. You are not prepared. When you open your eyes you watch in horror as your ejaculate spurts across your roommate's bedspread, onto his pillow. Your erection starts to fade even as cum continues to pump out, slowly now, down your leg. You dash into the bathroom, whip off the soiled man-panties, grab a wad of toilet paper, and run into your roommate's room and scrub the pillow and comforter, but it only smears the stuff around and leaves little balls of toilet paper everywhere. All you can do now is flip the pillow and hope he doesn't notice. Feeling guilty, you go into your bedroom, put on a fresh pair of bikini underwear, and try on your short-shorts.

The way your ass looks right now could bring a house full of cancer patients to tears.

 

Comments  

 
# Marko 2009-07-03 20:36
and not something that you dug out of the archives from a few years ago.
Reply | Reply with quote | Quote
 
 
# AnDroid 2009-07-04 03:14
...it was Devo's pillow.
Reply | Reply with quote | Quote
 

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