I’m hairy and I adore sniffing gorilla men. They say that the nasal cavities are developed as early as the second month in the womb. As an infant, I was particularly responsive to olfactory cues emanating from my mother. Within minutes after my birth, the maternal breast odors elicited preferential head orientation and guided me to mom’s boobs. Research indicates that the scents most attractive to guys are vanilla, jasmine, ginger, patchouli and sandalwood, all known to provoke aphrodisiac reactions. I way prefer the musky smell of a man’s woolly pecs, fuzzy armpits, jungly crotch and furry ass.
As a kid, when I came back from primary school, as soon as I entered the house, I knew what we were going to have for desserts, just by the smell of freshly-baked cookies, apple pie or cinnamon buns. On Saturday, when mom made a two-layer cake, I always stayed close to sniff the vanilla extract, imagining exotic adventures. Every Sunday, dad would prepare breakfast and I would relish in smelling the crispy bacon sizzling on the stove. I didn’t drink coffee at the time, but I really liked the aroma of freshly-grinded coffee beans.
In high school, when I started to shave my thick beard, mom suggested that I use a bit of my father’s Old Spice after-shave lotion. I think she liked the niffy scent associated with this brand. Personally, I dreamed of a lotion that would reproduce the odor of dad’s musky armpits after a day’s work. I didn’t know the word yet, but I found it… intoxicating. Yes, so manly, so virile! At 16, I was so glad to be almost as hairy as my father. I guess my first sexual fantasizing was burying my face in a man’s hairy ass crack.
The occasion to do so came up but I was too shy and didn’t know how my father would react. One day, while my mother was preparing supper, dad took a shower and laid down on the bed for a snooze, naked on his stomach. When the meal was ready, mom asked me to wake him up. I entered the bedroom on the tip on my toes, my eyes glued to the massive hairy ass exposed. I did not dare sniff it, let alone caress or kiss this fucking awesome temptation. I just gave him a slap on the butt and said: “Wake up, dad, time to eat.” Well, I did a little more but I’m not sure if he noticed that one of my fingers briefly slid in his crack. I smelled it and almost got hard.
I thought that my father had forgotten about my 18th birthday because he didn’t offer me a gift, just a card signed by him and mom. Almost two months later, he came home with a second-hand Low Rider Harley-Davidson motorcycle in the back of his pick-up truck. “Son, this is what I wanted to give you. The delivery took more time than I expected. Hope you will get great rides on it.” I thanked dad with a big hug (and sniff), adding that I would think about him every time I embarked on my 103-horsepower engine. He knew I wanted to join the well-known Roaring Thunder motorcyclist gang, but had no idea that some patrons would end up riding me hard and deep, thundering my hole like I could not yet imagine.
I’m telling you all this and I didn’t even introduce myself. My name is Jérôme, I live in Sudbury, a northern city in the Canadian province of Ontario. With nine operating mines, two mills, two smelters, and a nickel refinery, Sudbury is arguably the hard rock mining capital of the world. I measure 5 foot eleven, weigh 190 pounds, and display an average size cut dick (8 inches when fully hard). I am covered with hair from head to toe. My cock and asshole are buried in a fuzzy jungle. I never dated girls because they find me too gorilla-looking, because I prefer guys anyway.
My first blow job and 69 happened with a classmate pretending to be straight. We were both 16 and enjoyed flooding each other’s throat with loads of jizz. He enjoyed swallowing the creamy nectar and French-kissing to share the milk run. I think he has sucked just about every gay student in my school. The gym teacher was the first one to fuck me; it was in the shower area once all the guys had left the locker room. As I pleaded him to go further in, he made me moan with pleasure. We discreetly met for a whole semester. He’s the one who initiated me to rimming and double-cock fucking (with his lover).
My gym teacher and his partner are motorcyclists. Both are in the closet but encourage me to participate in Sudbury Pride events on my bike. According to them, whether you are gay, straight, queer, bi, dyke, or some other flavor under the vast and expansive spectrum of human sexuality and preference, we can all agree on one thing: motorcycles are sexy as hell. So, it’s no surprise that bikes have played such a big part in popular culture as they captured our imaginations and called to the wild side of our inner being.
When I first met the Roaring Thunder motorcyclist gang, I had put on close to 40 pounds, had hardened my biceps and thighs, and had started to wear jockstraps that highlighted both my bulge and my butt. In welcoming me, one motorcyclist said it was nice to have a Cub or younger Bear in the group. That’s when I learned about this sub group of the LGBT community. Roaring Thunder is not a gay group, well not entirely. Some motorcyclists do not want to get fucked by a guy but do not mind to pound his ass. Some, like me, just have sex with dudes. Two riders of the Roaring Thunder gang are instrumental in my utmost sexual satisfaction. On one hand, there’s well-hung Jimmy who can’t get enough of pounding a hairy hole; on the other hand, there’s super hairy Desmond who adores getting tongue-fucked. I’m their God-sent queer savior!
Jimmy reminds me of Marlon Brando[1] in the film The Wild One (1953). At 22, Brando’s plays the role of Johnny Strabler, a handsome Californian rabble rouser who races bikes and gets into tussles with the law and beyond. Brando rides on a 1950 Triumph Thunderbird T6. The echo of the film’s most famous line – “Hey Johnny, what are you rebelling against?”– stirred something in an entire generation, especially of underground queers who were lurking fearfully in the shadows. To them, the nuclear family, baby booming world was mostly void of queer representation anywhere. The homosexual overtones in The Wild One catapulted Johnny Strabler into iconic status.
Jimmy adores bareback fucking, so we get tested before engaging in raw penetration, Tom of Finland style. When I see him approaching me in leather boots and chaps, cock sticking out like a dagger, I immediately kneel down to suck all 9 inches of his veiny rod. He then searches for my hole in a jungle of hair, finds it begging for a rough treatment, and quickly lubes the receiving and the penetrating puzzle pieces. His cock shoves in sharply, pounding hard and deep as if his life depended on the explosion of creamy junk in my hairy trunk. We French-kiss and I let him suck my firm nipples; that arouses him and triggers another juicy hard-on. This time, I join him as he floods my hairy chest which becomes a woolly stained pillow case for his dosing off.
As for Desmond, he bends over his Harley-Davidson Wide Glide to get his ass caressed, slapped, kissed, licked, bitten, sniffed, tickled and eaten with the utmost frenzy. He has the widest butt I have ever seen, the hairiest one too. I get hard just admiring his appetizing frizzy rump roast. It seems that my tongue is never long enough to fully honor his rosebud, but I manage to twist it in deep inside, taking time to spit on his fucking tasty shit hole. What I adore the most is kissing his anus and his lips back & forth, mixing man juice and saliva. Our cocks are the same size, both cut. We enjoy fencing, then wrestling, grabbing each others hairy nuts, taking time to fuck and get pounded. Sometimes, we invite Jimmy to join us. He penetrates me while I rim Desmond who beats his meat.
After carnal pleasure, we ride our motorcycle with greater satisfaction!
[1] Biggest icon of the 1950s rebel culture, James Byron Dean was born on February 8, 1931 and died in car crash on Septembre 30, 1955. He is known for three major films: East of Eden, Rebel Without a Cause and Giant. Dean’s death at age 24 leaves a lot of mysterious shadows and controversy surrounding his sexuality, but it is widely believed that he was bisexual or gay. Analysts point out that Dean was emotional with women and sexual with men.
