- Joined
- Nov 18, 2017
- Posts
- 475
- Media
- 3
- Likes
- 1,925
- Points
- 313
- Location
- Somewhere over the rainbow 🌈 Midwest
- Verification
- View
- Sexuality
- 69% Gay, 31% Straight
- Gender
- Male
I’m Bryan, 35, straight—or at least that’s what I’d always believed without question. Divorced three years, a handful of flings with women since Sarah walked out, nothing that stuck. I grew up in Ladue, went to Horton Watkins High School (Ladue Horton Watkins, but everyone just called it Horton Watkins), where I swam varsity all four years. Those early-morning practices in the old pool, the smell of chlorine and wet concrete, the way my Speedo felt like armor and advertisement at the same time—8 inches of thick cock bulging obviously, drawing stares from teammates and opponents alike. I told myself it was just part of being a swimmer. Never let it mean anything more.
Sam and I had known each other since freshman year at Horton Watkins. He was the big, athletic kid who played football in the fall and swam in the winter and spring—broad shoulders, easy confidence, always the one organizing after-practice hangouts. Even back then he was out to close friends, though in 2000s suburban St. Louis that took guts. We stayed in touch after graduation. I went to Mizzou for a bit but transferred to SLU to stay closer to home; Sam finished at the University of Missouri in Columbia, majored in business, came back to the area, and built a solid career in real estate. He bought the house in Kirkwood with the big private backyard and the killer hot tub years ago.
Todd was the transplant. He grew up in Chicago—South Side, then Evanston for high school—moved to St. Louis five years earlier for a marketing job that turned permanent. We met him through Sam’s circle; he’d shown up at a few barbecues and watch parties, always with that boyish grin, soft hazel eyes, and an ass that looked sculpted even in jeans. He fit in fast, easy to talk to, flirty in a light way that never felt pushy. I’d caught myself noticing him more than I admitted—his laugh, the way he moved—but I filed it under “just appreciating a good-looking guy.”
That Saturday in early March 2026, Sam texted the group chat: “Hot tub night at my place. Bryan, Todd—you in? Bring suits. Weather’s cooperating for once.”
I replied: “I’m there. 7 good?”
When I pulled up to Sam’s Kirkwood house, Todd’s car was already in the driveway. The backyard smelled like pine mulch and faint chlorine. String lights glowed over the bubbling hot tub, tall fences keeping the neighbors at bay. Sam greeted me with a bear hug; Todd followed with a quick one that pressed our chests together a beat longer than usual.
“What are you guys doing tonight?” Todd asked, flashing that crooked Chicago smile.
“Just having drinks,” Sam said, pouring three generous whiskeys. “Would you like one?”
“Yes,” I laughed. “Maybe three.”
We settled on the patio chairs with the drinks, talking the usual—work bullshit, Cardinals spring training, how St. Louis traffic had somehow gotten worse since high school. After the second round, Sam leaned back.
“Hot tub?” he suggested, eyes sparkling the way they used to when he’d dare us to do something stupid after practice.
Todd and I grinned. “Hell yes.”
We changed in the guest room. I slipped into my navy Speedo—the same cut I’d worn since college, still hugging every inch, making my heavy 8-inch cock look almost aggressive against the tight fabric. Todd emerged in tight red, the material clinging to his slim hips and showing off a solid bulge. Sam, true to form, wore a black thong-style Speedo that framed his thick thighs and left the weight of his package swinging obviously.
We grabbed fresh drinks and towels, easing into the steaming water. The heat hit like a drug, loosening every muscle. Sam settled between us on the bench, arms draped casually behind our shoulders. Legs brushed under the bubbles—first accidental, then deliberate. We sipped, laughed, reminisced about Horton Watkins: the time Sam and I got caught sneaking beers into the locker room after regionals, the way Coach used to scream at us for shaving too close to meets.
“You two look damn good wet,” Sam murmured, voice low.
Todd chuckled. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Talk drifted to bodies—old swim team rivalries, gym routines now that we were all pushing 35. Sam’s hand found my thigh under the water, thumb tracing slow circles. Todd mirrored on the other side. My cock stirred, thickening against the nylon. I told myself it was the heat, the whiskey, old friendship vibes.
Then Sam turned it up.
“Bryan,” he said seriously, “don’t you think Todd is cute?”
I looked at Todd—cheeks flushed from steam, wet curls sticking to his forehead, lips parted. Something shifted in my gut. “Yeah,” I admitted quietly. “Definitely cute.”
“Todd, don’t you think Bryan is handsome?”
Todd’s eyes locked on mine, soft and open. “Yes. I always thought he was really handsome.”
Sam’s voice dropped. “Bryan, would you like to kiss Todd?”
My heart slammed against my ribs. This was insane. I liked women. Always had. But the air felt thick, everything slow and possible. “I’d love to,” I heard myself say.
“Todd, would you like to kiss Bryan?”
“Oh yes,” Todd breathed. “More than anything.”
Sam stood, water cascading off him, giving us space. I slid closer. Knees touched, then thighs. I cupped Todd’s jaw—smooth skin, faint stubble. We leaned in slow. Lips met—soft, tentative, just a brush. Sweet. Then I parted mine. Todd made a quiet sound, opening. Tongues touched, exploring—whiskey, heat, something electric and new.
My hand slid to his side, tracing ribs, down to his hip. Todd’s fingers grazed my chest, then lower, cupping my bulge. I groaned into his mouth. Sam pressed against my back, hands roaming my pecs, thumbs circling nipples. His lips sucked my ear. “That’s it… so fucking hot.”
We kissed deeper—slow, wet, tongues curling. Todd stroked me through the fabric; I squeezed his ass, pulling him tight. Our cocks pressed together under water, hard and throbbing.
A distant chair scraped—neighbors. We broke apart, breathing hard, laughing it off. “Work talk?” Sam suggested.
We mellowed, chatting surface stuff. Fifteen minutes later, Sam stood. “Another drink? And something to really relax us. Movie inside after?”
We toweled off, suits clinging obscenely, and headed in. Sam poured more whiskey, then sparked a joint.
“Let’s unwind properly,” he said, inhaling deep, passing to me.
I took a long hit. The high rolled in fast—body melting, edges blurring, every touch amplified. We passed it around three times, sinking deeper into warm, horny haze.
On the couch, thighs pressed, still damp, Sam turned to Todd.
“Todd, I have to be honest.”
“Yeah?”
“Bryan and I started messing around a little before you got here.”
Todd grinned. “Not surprised. You two looked sweaty.”
Sam laughed. “I was right, though. Bryan wasn’t into guys till tonight.”
“No way!” Todd covered his mouth, delighted.
“Yes way,” I joked. “You owe him fifty bucks.”
Todd leaned in. “Bryan, did you know Todd and I have messed around a few times?”
My cock jumped. “No. But that sounds hot.”
“We should share him,” Todd said. “What do you think?”
“We should.”
We pulled Sam to the bedroom. He lay back in his thong. We flanked him—hands on pecs, thighs, shoulders. I kissed his neck; Todd sucked a nipple. We peeled the thong down. His thick cock sprang free—gorgeous, leaking. Todd and I kissed over it, then licked, sucked, teased mercilessly. Sam begged.
“Todd,” Sam rasped, “let’s make Bryan the main attraction.”
They positioned me, lubed fingers stretching me slow—weed making every touch bloom. Kisses everywhere. Todd sucked me while Sam fingered deep.
Todd fucked me first—cute, playful. Then Sam—slow stretch, then deep, pounding. Todd sucked me through it. I came hard. Sam flipped me, kissed me deep as he finished.
We collapsed, then worshipped Todd—fucked him in turns.
Back in the hot tub later, then all Sunday—more sex, more joints. Me topping Todd while Sam watched; the train—me in the middle, filled and filling.
By Sunday night, packing to leave, everything had changed. Pussy felt distant. Cock tasted right—salty, alive. A tight ass gripped perfectly. Sam inside me felt like home. Todd’s sweetness added fire.
From Horton Watkins teammates to this—St. Louis had just rewritten my whole story.
Am I gay now? Probably. One taste, and I was hooked.
What do you think?
Sam and I had known each other since freshman year at Horton Watkins. He was the big, athletic kid who played football in the fall and swam in the winter and spring—broad shoulders, easy confidence, always the one organizing after-practice hangouts. Even back then he was out to close friends, though in 2000s suburban St. Louis that took guts. We stayed in touch after graduation. I went to Mizzou for a bit but transferred to SLU to stay closer to home; Sam finished at the University of Missouri in Columbia, majored in business, came back to the area, and built a solid career in real estate. He bought the house in Kirkwood with the big private backyard and the killer hot tub years ago.
Todd was the transplant. He grew up in Chicago—South Side, then Evanston for high school—moved to St. Louis five years earlier for a marketing job that turned permanent. We met him through Sam’s circle; he’d shown up at a few barbecues and watch parties, always with that boyish grin, soft hazel eyes, and an ass that looked sculpted even in jeans. He fit in fast, easy to talk to, flirty in a light way that never felt pushy. I’d caught myself noticing him more than I admitted—his laugh, the way he moved—but I filed it under “just appreciating a good-looking guy.”
That Saturday in early March 2026, Sam texted the group chat: “Hot tub night at my place. Bryan, Todd—you in? Bring suits. Weather’s cooperating for once.”
I replied: “I’m there. 7 good?”
When I pulled up to Sam’s Kirkwood house, Todd’s car was already in the driveway. The backyard smelled like pine mulch and faint chlorine. String lights glowed over the bubbling hot tub, tall fences keeping the neighbors at bay. Sam greeted me with a bear hug; Todd followed with a quick one that pressed our chests together a beat longer than usual.
“What are you guys doing tonight?” Todd asked, flashing that crooked Chicago smile.
“Just having drinks,” Sam said, pouring three generous whiskeys. “Would you like one?”
“Yes,” I laughed. “Maybe three.”
We settled on the patio chairs with the drinks, talking the usual—work bullshit, Cardinals spring training, how St. Louis traffic had somehow gotten worse since high school. After the second round, Sam leaned back.
“Hot tub?” he suggested, eyes sparkling the way they used to when he’d dare us to do something stupid after practice.
Todd and I grinned. “Hell yes.”
We changed in the guest room. I slipped into my navy Speedo—the same cut I’d worn since college, still hugging every inch, making my heavy 8-inch cock look almost aggressive against the tight fabric. Todd emerged in tight red, the material clinging to his slim hips and showing off a solid bulge. Sam, true to form, wore a black thong-style Speedo that framed his thick thighs and left the weight of his package swinging obviously.
We grabbed fresh drinks and towels, easing into the steaming water. The heat hit like a drug, loosening every muscle. Sam settled between us on the bench, arms draped casually behind our shoulders. Legs brushed under the bubbles—first accidental, then deliberate. We sipped, laughed, reminisced about Horton Watkins: the time Sam and I got caught sneaking beers into the locker room after regionals, the way Coach used to scream at us for shaving too close to meets.
“You two look damn good wet,” Sam murmured, voice low.
Todd chuckled. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Talk drifted to bodies—old swim team rivalries, gym routines now that we were all pushing 35. Sam’s hand found my thigh under the water, thumb tracing slow circles. Todd mirrored on the other side. My cock stirred, thickening against the nylon. I told myself it was the heat, the whiskey, old friendship vibes.
Then Sam turned it up.
“Bryan,” he said seriously, “don’t you think Todd is cute?”
I looked at Todd—cheeks flushed from steam, wet curls sticking to his forehead, lips parted. Something shifted in my gut. “Yeah,” I admitted quietly. “Definitely cute.”
“Todd, don’t you think Bryan is handsome?”
Todd’s eyes locked on mine, soft and open. “Yes. I always thought he was really handsome.”
Sam’s voice dropped. “Bryan, would you like to kiss Todd?”
My heart slammed against my ribs. This was insane. I liked women. Always had. But the air felt thick, everything slow and possible. “I’d love to,” I heard myself say.
“Todd, would you like to kiss Bryan?”
“Oh yes,” Todd breathed. “More than anything.”
Sam stood, water cascading off him, giving us space. I slid closer. Knees touched, then thighs. I cupped Todd’s jaw—smooth skin, faint stubble. We leaned in slow. Lips met—soft, tentative, just a brush. Sweet. Then I parted mine. Todd made a quiet sound, opening. Tongues touched, exploring—whiskey, heat, something electric and new.
My hand slid to his side, tracing ribs, down to his hip. Todd’s fingers grazed my chest, then lower, cupping my bulge. I groaned into his mouth. Sam pressed against my back, hands roaming my pecs, thumbs circling nipples. His lips sucked my ear. “That’s it… so fucking hot.”
We kissed deeper—slow, wet, tongues curling. Todd stroked me through the fabric; I squeezed his ass, pulling him tight. Our cocks pressed together under water, hard and throbbing.
A distant chair scraped—neighbors. We broke apart, breathing hard, laughing it off. “Work talk?” Sam suggested.
We mellowed, chatting surface stuff. Fifteen minutes later, Sam stood. “Another drink? And something to really relax us. Movie inside after?”
We toweled off, suits clinging obscenely, and headed in. Sam poured more whiskey, then sparked a joint.
“Let’s unwind properly,” he said, inhaling deep, passing to me.
I took a long hit. The high rolled in fast—body melting, edges blurring, every touch amplified. We passed it around three times, sinking deeper into warm, horny haze.
On the couch, thighs pressed, still damp, Sam turned to Todd.
“Todd, I have to be honest.”
“Yeah?”
“Bryan and I started messing around a little before you got here.”
Todd grinned. “Not surprised. You two looked sweaty.”
Sam laughed. “I was right, though. Bryan wasn’t into guys till tonight.”
“No way!” Todd covered his mouth, delighted.
“Yes way,” I joked. “You owe him fifty bucks.”
Todd leaned in. “Bryan, did you know Todd and I have messed around a few times?”
My cock jumped. “No. But that sounds hot.”
“We should share him,” Todd said. “What do you think?”
“We should.”
We pulled Sam to the bedroom. He lay back in his thong. We flanked him—hands on pecs, thighs, shoulders. I kissed his neck; Todd sucked a nipple. We peeled the thong down. His thick cock sprang free—gorgeous, leaking. Todd and I kissed over it, then licked, sucked, teased mercilessly. Sam begged.
“Todd,” Sam rasped, “let’s make Bryan the main attraction.”
They positioned me, lubed fingers stretching me slow—weed making every touch bloom. Kisses everywhere. Todd sucked me while Sam fingered deep.
Todd fucked me first—cute, playful. Then Sam—slow stretch, then deep, pounding. Todd sucked me through it. I came hard. Sam flipped me, kissed me deep as he finished.
We collapsed, then worshipped Todd—fucked him in turns.
Back in the hot tub later, then all Sunday—more sex, more joints. Me topping Todd while Sam watched; the train—me in the middle, filled and filling.
By Sunday night, packing to leave, everything had changed. Pussy felt distant. Cock tasted right—salty, alive. A tight ass gripped perfectly. Sam inside me felt like home. Todd’s sweetness added fire.
From Horton Watkins teammates to this—St. Louis had just rewritten my whole story.
Am I gay now? Probably. One taste, and I was hooked.
What do you think?
