Men in Suits

You know those young men, late 20 something, early 30 something, who are a part of the corporate world, who've well and truly lost their puppy fat, and have hit the handsome 30’s. They have grown into their style, smart and relaxed, and they have it all together. Handsome dark-blonde boys with short hair and blue eyes. Handsome dark-haired boys with green eyes and cheeky smiles. Striding some place in this world.

You know the ones who wear those suits that are snug fitting, that hug their bodies that don't have a gram of excess material in them. Those trousers that fit tightly around their, well exercised, arses. All those squats. Their, seemingly always, nicely padded out crotches. The ones who have those jackets that are cut just above the curve of their butts, that just finish above their… the tops of their legs, just enough to show their delights, their hours of training, their dedication and effort.

(It would be appropriate to woof whistle at this juncture, if you so choose)

I love those guys, they are my favourite suit wearers. Those suits make them look muscular and lean, all at the same time. I can see a singlet and jocks, not far from the surface. I imagine the jocks they have on. The contours their bulges and bumps form in the hidden cotton layer below the fine wool. The dark trail of hair that rises up out from under the thick elastic, embossed with large print, that rises in a line up their flat stomachs to their chests. Those perfectly shaped buns with a thick line of hair up the crack, maybe spreading in a fine downy covering across their arse cheeks. The blond ones. Those blond boy's hairy arses are hot, I reckon, all downy with fine hair.

I love it when they stretch at the lights to reach for the traffic crossing button, when their shirt untucks for the first time in the day, and suddenly there is bare flesh and white cotton undies, with a tick red elastic waist, and just the hint of a furry bum crack, snatched in a glimpse. Sometime they notice me looking. They don’t care, for the most part, they just smile. Dark-haired guys with olive skin. Italian and Greek men, hairy underneath that neat cotton dress. Blonde-haired guys, blue eyes, smooth as a babies bottom, no hair at all, down there, just their hard skin and their muscles to turn you on. It’s a modern world, streamline, smooth.

The Wog boys, the uncircumcised boys have to keep touching theirs, pulling at them, tugging them about. I never really understand why they have to tug so often, but then I wouldn’t. Bruno and Mario. Boyish-faced Alexi. You should have seen the massive bulge he had, whenever he lazily stretched his legs out in a meeting room seminar. He was always tugging at his too.

Uncircumcised Y Gen. I can't help but think about it sometime. You know, when they have a smiley face and a sweet manor. Ian Carter. The nice guy accountant, Tim. Tony, in his black bonds t-shirt. The big strapping blond dude in the café. Jason, the exc. He wore the pink top hat to our Xmas party and couldn’t have looked more adorable. I was surprised when somebody said he had a wife and kids. James in IT is smoking. Ron in IT is sexy. Ron and Alexi drunk and shirtless at the end of the Xmas party, that year, I wanked about that for weeks. If straight boys give bro jobs, then I reckon Ron would have got a gob full of Alexi, and Alexi would have got a gob full of Ron, by the morning, the way they were looking at each other when I left. That I would like to have watched. But I digress. I’ve thought about all of you.

We usually think about it, being gay men. Sorry straight guys, but for the most part, most of us have lied to you, you know, just to spare your feelings. We’ve thought about you. For the pretty, sexy, rugged, handsome, gosmackingly beautiful guys, we have ever set eyes on, we’ve imagined you in one of our wank fantasies. Don’t kid yourself

Y Gen are now running the world, and they are looking pretty good doing it to, I have to say.