Booty Call (vignette) (Patreon)

*** WIP that's a little different style than the normal stories around here.  Let me know if you like this sort of thing! ***

I actually got one of those “booty calls” earlier.  Not a fun one, either.  My phone didn’t even ring, just showed the notification that I had a voicemail, and as soon as I hit play I got an earful.  It was so loud.  I didn’t even know my phone could make that much noise.  My neighbors probably thought I was having a rave when the music started blasting because no matter how many times I hit the button it wouldn’t stop.  I even tried to turn my whole phone off, but the damn thing just kept playing.  It was like holding a subwoofer.  My whole fuckin’ body started vibrating.  It didn’t hurt, but I’m kind of surprised I even managed to hold onto the phone with all the shaking.  It just caught me off guard, you know?  I don’t listen to that kind of music to begin with, so to go from dead quiet to a blasting beat with a dude yelling “BOOTY BOOTY BOOTY BOOTY BOOTY CALL!” in the background was super jarring.

I’m just glad I got it at home and not when I was at work or at the gym.  It’s the kind of shit Hodge would do to me back in our frat days, but I don’t think this is just one of the guys being an asshole.  From what I saw online people have been getting these calls all over the place.  No one knows where they’re coming from, and it’s always the same as what happened to me.  The phone doesn’t ring, you just get a message with a deafening dance track.

The stuff I read about what happens afterwards, though.  Holy shit.  People on the internet are wild.  They’ll believe literally anything.  Apparently I’m now supposed to go out and get fucked by a dude, and if I don’t I’m going to change more and more every day until I finally do.  The fact that people are dumb enough to believe this sort of trash is really depressing.  It’s just a prank robocall.  That’s it.  The only thing that changes about a person is their ability to hear after getting blasted in the ear by that fuckin’ song.

I mean, let’s be honest; if I was going to hook up with a guy it’d be me doing the fucking, not the other way around.  I know there are plenty of thirsty dudes in this town who’d love the chance, but it’s not going to happen.  I don’t blame them.  Hell, if I was into guys I’d want some of this too, mainly because I know how much goddamn work it takes to keep things looking like this.  I’m almost thirty.  This shit isn’t as easy as it used to be.  If I’m not in that gym every day things start to slide real quick.  One too many beers or an extra cheat meal and these abs practically run away.  And don’t even get me started on the skin-care, hair-care industrial complex.  If you would’ve told me ten years ago that I’d be using face masks and moisturizers and taking pills to keep my hairline in place I’d have given you a swift kick in the dick, but here we are.  Shit works, though.  Just because I’m not one of those guys who always has to look in a mirror doesn’t mean I can’t acknowledge the results.  Still got a full head of hair, all brown, no grays, and my face looks better now than it did when I was that dick-kickin’ kid ten years ago.

So yeah, when I see a guy who looks like me I can appreciate the effort, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to turn around and bend over.  That garbage about “the call only going to people who secretly want it” is just that: trash.  If I wanted to get with a guy I’ve had plenty of opportunities over the years, with some choice cuts if that’s what I wanted.  And It’s not like I’m saying that ‘cause I’m a homophobe, either.  People should be able to live whatever kind of life they want, and bigots can fuck right off.

I’m actually a little jealous of some of these guys and girls and otherwise who manage to find their place in spite of all that.  I mean, I still don’t talk about the times me and Smitty got a little too drunk and fooled around back in the day.  Partially because there’s nothing to really talk about, but also because I know how some of the guys would react.  So we got hammered and jerked each other off?  So what?  It’s not like we were making out with each other all night.  And even if we were, that doesn’t mean shit.  Smitty got more pussy than all the guys in that house combined.  The guy’s a stud.  He’s got a dick like a donkey and it honestly wouldn’t have taken much to get me to make out with a pretty face like that.  Solid dude, too, both literally and figuratively.  Guy had a body chiseled from stone but he was a big ol’ softy at heart, so it’s only natural that I’d be a little curious.  Who wouldn’t?  When the guy everyone wants asks you to blow off some steam, of course you say yes.

I still think about his face sometimes.  His big, blue eyes all wide and eager, and the way his tongue would flick out against those soft lips while I pumped away on him.  I’m sure I was making the same face, but there was something so pure in his desperate expression that it got me going way more than his infuriatingly perfect abs did.  Guy popped off  like a geyser, too.  You needed an umbrella when he came, and I choked every time I blew him.  It didn’t help that his monster meat barely fit in my mouth to begin with, but I tried my best.

Whoa.  I’ve never actually told anyone about that.  I’ve never even written it down.  There’ve been a few people I’ve mentioned the jerking off too, but I actually try not to think about the other stuff too much.  Makes me feel weird.  Smitty’s still the best head I’ve ever had.  He used to brag about how good he was at eating girls out and I believe him because those lips could work wonders when they had a death grip on my cock.  And if you thought his face was something when he was whimpering and moaning during a handjob you should see it beaming up at you, dripping with cum.  This hot, pretty-boy jock just shellacked on his knees and loving every second of it.

It sure was something, I’ll tell you that much.  I think I might go dig out some of the pics we took.  I still have them on an old harddrive somewhere.  I couldn’t bring myself to delete them, and I’ve always wondered if he kept the ones of me.  It’s not like I look at them all the time, obviously, but I’m not too proud to admit those memories got me through a few dry spells when I first moved out here.

If Smitty wasn’t on the other side of the country with a wife and three kids, maybe I’d rethink the phone call thing.  If I was ever going to let a guy fuck me it’d be him for sure, but I don’t even want to think about what that fat pole would feel like splitting me open.  It’s like a third arm.  His wife must be a champ, though, if I’m being honest, it’d probably be worth the pain.  Smitty’s adorable fuck-face and that tight, jock body pressing down on you while he worked his piece deep inside?  I’d take a beating for that.

Okay.  I just read what I wrote and I think I need to go cool down.  Still doesn’t mean anything, though.  Fuckin’ internet shit just got me rattled enough to dredge up some real old memories.  That’s all.

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7/14/21

I don’t even know what to say here.  Nothing’s wrong.  Nothing.  That stuff about the call isn’t real just because I fucked my laundry up.  Or went too hard on leg day.  There’s a perfectly rational explanation for why my pants are tight and it doesn’t involve a cursed voicemail.

Anxiety’s a bitch, though.  It’s the same ass I’ve had for the past twenty eight years, but now all of a sudden I’m second guessing how big it should be.  All because I got up in my head about some bullshit on the internet?  It’s embarrassing.  I’ve never been one of those chicken-legged meatheads at the gym who’s allergic to the squat rack because a nice ass is a nice ass, nothing gay about it.  Personally, I think those top-heavy dudes with their swollen tits and scrawny thighs look ridiculous.  Even if you don’t want a steady dumper you have to balance that shit out, you know?

So while I’ve never been “thicc”, I’ve always had a nice set back there.  I catch everyone checking it out all the time.  I mean, there’s a reason I buy the slim-fit pants.  Yeah, I work hard to keep my waist at a trim thirty-two and want to show that off, but they also make my cakes look great.

A little too great, today.  I mentioned balancing out earlier, and I know it’s just my imagination running wild, but I swear my ass looks bigger than it should.  It’s not like a balloon or anything, just enough to make it seem a bit more prominent than the rest of me.  I keep my shirts as tight as my pants to show off my chest and arms, I’m not above admitting that, but my whole torso seems too small by comparison.  It’s the same size, my shirts fit exactly like they should, which only makes me more aware that even my boxer-briefs feel tighter than they’re supposed to be.  How did I mess up my pants and underwear but not my shirts?

I probably shouldn’t be writing any of this down.  I’m sure it’s just reinforcing the crazy.  It’s so bad that I spent the last half hour staring at my naked reflection, prodding and squeezing and bouncing my cheeks in a failed attempt at reassurance.  That certainly didn’t help.  All it did was get me hard, which, ironically, wasn’t difficult at all given how ramped up I’ve been all day.  Fuckin’ things been on a hair trigger after the trip down memory lane yesterday, to the point where I had to practically run into the locker room during my workout this afternoon when I started to spring right there on the floor.  And considering how tight my shorts already felt, I didn’t have a lot of wiggle room.

Look, I might not have the fattest log in the showers, but I don’t walk around worrying about it either.  If my pants or my shorts give a little show every now and then I’m okay with that.  Give the people what they want.  If they’re already looking that direction and get a glimpse of my print, then hey, there you go.  Enjoy.  But that doesn’t mean I want to throw a piece of lumber and prance around with a tent in my shorts.  I just couldn’t help it.  I’ve been thinking about that shit with Smitty all day.  I thought about it all night, too.  Three fuckin’ loads worth of thought, to be exact.  I dug out the pictures and it all came rushing right back.  I wonder what he looks like now?  We lost touch when I deleted my social media a couple years back, but he still looked just as good then.  I might reach out.  We need to catch up anyway, so this could be a good excuse.  He’d probably find all this hilarious, honestly.  Until then, I’ve got the photos of that beautiful, naked body.

The problem is that my own beautiful, naked body wants the real thing.  Right now.  I couldn’t stop staring at the gym.  Like, at all.  It was far from subtle.  I like to think I’m pretty good at checking out the ladies without being a creep, but that skill apparently doesn’t translate to the men in the room.  Several of them caught me openly looking, and if that’s not bad enough, it didn’t even occur to me that I was exclusively checking out the guys until just now when I wrote all that down.

So when I got hard staring at my possibly-fatter-ass earlier, of course they were the ones I thought about.  How have I never noticed the stiff competition around here?  Unintentional choice of words, but I stand by it.  I never realized just how hot some of these guys are until I found myself jerking off thinking about literally all of them.  Short, tall, older, younger, ripped, beefy; there’s something to love about each one.

I don’t know what any of this means.  I’ve always thought of myself as straight, but maybe that’s not as hard a line as I took for granted?  At least not as hard as my dick is while I’m writing this.  My hope is that getting this all out helps things move along, and that if this is just a phase, maybe by not fighting it’ll breeze through and let me get on with my life.  Radical acceptance, or whatever.  Right now I’m going to go accept it until I start to chafe.

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7/15/21

Okay.  Okay.  I think I was wrong.  I don’t know how it could be even remotely possible, but there really was something to that call.  My ass is officially bigger, and not by a small margin, either.  None of my pants fit.  None.  I can still fit into some of my shorts and joggers, but holy hell am I putting on a show.  Between these fat sacks of meat hanging off my back and the fact that none of my underwear fits either, I might as well be walking around naked.  Shit’s so tight people aren’t getting a print anymore, they’re getting an entire oil painting of my perfectly rendered cock.

Actually, I should amend that to say my perfectly rendered hard cock.  I’ve never been this horny in my life.  Despite the fact that my body is somehow changing and I’m now lugging around an embarrassingly large ass, the only thing I can focus on is how badly I need some dick in my life.  All night I dreamed about getting fucked.  Most of the time it was Smitty, but just about every guy I’d crossed paths with in the last ten years showed up at some point.  I woke up painfully hard to a set of sheets that had been drenched in cum since my boxer-briefs had turned to shreds in the middle of the night.

I was so disoriented that I didn’t know what I was feeling at first.  It wasn’t until I staggered out of bed and felt everything shift and bounce that I realized how bad it actually was.  The elastic from my underwear was intact around my still-tight waist, but south of that things looked drastically different.  Even my upper thighs had expanded to accommodate this fattened ass, which not only makes my dick look smaller, they rub together constantly now.  Given how fit I’ve tried to stay my whole life it’s a foreign sensation, as is the way these chunky cheeks bounce and shift with the slightest movement.

I’ve never felt anything like it.  Standing, walking, sitting, jogging, jumping; everything’s different now.  I don’t just look curvy, which is embarrassing enough to have to write, I move curvy.  There’s a sway to my hips that I can’t stop because of the way everything shifts against each other, but I don’t hate it.  Believe me, I can’t believe I just wrote that either.  I know on a logical level that I should be seeking help, though from who or what I have no idea, but I just don’t want to.  I like it.  I like the way it all feels.  I like the way it all looks.  I like the idea that it draws attention.  I like the idea that it tells everyone I’m made for one thing and one thing only.

I know how weird that sounds.  I’ve re-read what I just wrote a couple days ago and that version of me wouldn’t believe it either, but that doesn’t make it any less true.  I don’t know what’s happening in my head; I only know that it feels amazing.  Since I couldn’t get any pants on I worked from home today, sitting through virtual meeting after meeting with my bare, thick cakes on full display just offscreen.  From the vantage point onscreen it was the same broad shoulders and chiseled pecs straining against my tight polo, but they couldn’t see me squirming in my chair and working my cock just out of view.

I actually came.  I bit down on a grunt, and I think I managed to keep my expression under control, but I blasted under my table right there in front of all of them.  I couldn’t help it.  As soon as Jared started talking, all I could think about was how much I wanted him inside me.  He’s a tight, wiry kid straight out of college with a face I’m just now realizing is devastatingly cute.  We don’t cross paths much in our day-to-day so I’ve never really thought much about him, but during the meeting all I could think about was how much I’d love for him to spread these melons and fuck me on the conference table while they all watched.

I was so turned on by it all that I even went back to the gym.  I didn’t care how I looked or what I was showing.  I didn’t care about the obscene performance that was me on the treadmill.  I didn’t care that people looked at me like I was a creep as often as they checked out my slamming cheeks.  I just needed to be around those men again.

I almost caved.  There was this gorgeous, shredded guy checking me out the whole time.  Taller than me, with massive shoulders and a chest that makes mine look small, his whole body covered in this jet-black dusting that just begs to be touched.  He’s got a jaw like the bumper of a car and a set of lips that clearly know their way around a cock, not to mention an ass that’s just slightly smaller than my current pillows.  He followed me into the locker room when I was done so I stripped down and took my time walking to the showers, a move he also repeated.

We stared at each other the whole time, and I kept thinking about how I must look, with this trim torso slapped onto these colossal cheeks.  He was big all over, but I’m officially lopsided.  If this is real, and permanent, my days of walking around as a classic jock are officially over.  Now I walk around as a fat-assed perv jerking off while other guys watch.  The way the showers are set up we were able to take the two in the back, directly across from each other.  There are half-walls that provide some cover when you look in from the door, but nothing as you pass someone or stand across from them.  As much as I wanted to, we didn’t risk sharing one but stood there and watched while the other tugged away, him flexing all that furry muscle and me toying with these supple sandbags.

He asked if I wanted to keep going when we were done.  No one was around so he reached down and gave me a squeeze, his fingers brushing against my whole in the process.  But as much as I wanted him to finger me in the middle of the locker room, I couldn’t bring myself to actually say yes.  Not yet.  It just doesn’t feel right.  Since I’ve been thinking about him non-stop I feel like I should call Smitty and see what he’s up to.  I know it’s a longshot, but I’m living proof that stranger things have happened, so who knows?  There’s only one way to find out.