Hairy Straight Guys Novels & Stories

I said with some swagger. Scott then teased “I saw that man bun - Did you guys discuss similar hair care product?” He said with a smirk. “Wait is this some Fabio type mother fucker? Are you for real?” Grady asked sharply. “What?! No! Not even a little!” I responded with a chuckle. Scott always being the voice of reason said “Well was he a nice guy? Or am I the only one without ‘hemp sex’ on my weekly bingo card?” “I don’t know, Grady - his nipples weren’t pierced but he had gauges… that’s kind of the same thing right?” I asked sarcastically. “Not even a little - girls with nipple piercings do the most wild and kinky shit without much convincing. Guys with gauges just wants to ride a fucking

I declared like the brave hero I am. The expression on his face looked like I just farted in church. Pure disgust. "What the hell, bro?! I'm straight!" he shouted. My jaw hit the floor so hard no doctor alive could fix it. "You're STRAIGHT?!!"

she muttered. The knocking grew louder, more insistent. Olivia came down stairs, her curiosity piqued. “Mom, don’t open it,” Olivia whispered, her voice shaky. Her mother hesitated but ignored her daughter’s warning, unlocking the door. Three men in dark suits stood on the entrance, their faces unreadable. Behind them, the black SUV’s headlights cast a glow on the driveway. “Mrs. Harper?” the tallest of the men asked, his voice calm yet chilling. “Yes?” her mother replied, her voice trembling.

Harry had always been a horny, feral young man, his insatiable appetite for sex never seeming to be fully satiated. At eighteen, he was a tall, athletic figure with chiseled features and piercing blue eyes that seemed to undress every woman he looked at. His parents, John and Sarah, had always been a bit concerned about his voracious sexual appetite, but they chalked it up to typical teenage hormones.

he chuckled. "Must have been wild." "That was in the past," I murmured, peeling away at my finger nails. "Okay. So, why did you insist they were gay?" "I didn't insist. Well, okay! I think they're bisexual, because, yunno!" I sounded flustered, embarrassed maybe. My cheeks heated up, and I wondered why we were even discussing that at the moment. "No, they're not," he snapped. "What?" "I said what I said. They're f**king straight old men. They are hot gym daddies, but too h**ny for their ages."

“We’ve got enough players, so take off.” “Fuck that, man,” the blond spat. “We were invited.” “Yeah,” the hairy one chimed in, “move it.” “Make me.” No way was he letting these guys past him. No. Fucking. Way. “You think you’re tough,” hairy guy sneered. “There’s two of us and only one of you. I’d say the odds are in our favor.” “Yeah? Then bring it, motherfucker, ’cause I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

It was them—broken excuse of men whose brains and dicks had been wired wrong since birth, Most of them claim to be straight, yet they’d take anything, living or not, even their own kind, especially when they discover someone doesn’t fit the image of “straight” they brag about. And somehow, that turns you into the vilest thing on earth, driving people like me to shrink in despair, while they exist there, the hungriest, most shameless gluttons of all. I let out a bitter scoff. The sound dragged his ogle back to mine. His smile widened as if my defiance was foreplay.

“Are you perhaps straight?” I couldn't even give him a clear answer. I was straight, at least in some sense but then again, I'd always been too busy to actually like either genders. “Doesn't matter though, I'll be sure to go easy on you,” he made a circle with his fingers and stuck his tongue out. I looked at him with irritation. I really did hate this guy. “I heard straight guys feel it more.” “I'm leaving,” I couldn't stand his jargon anymore.

((SENA)) I almost choked on the water from my throat when something poked at my chest. But when I opened my eyes, I was surprised at what I saw. There were people in front of me and their hair were a crown of curly locks just like Michael Jackson. Ah, I forgot that Michael Jackson got his hair straightened. Their skin were olive and their physique were rather thin than athletic. Their clothing was scarce and the fabric look ethnic. Most were only wearing woven loincloth.

The FBI was keeping things on the down low – just as Vlad had lived his life. Jean-Jacques came over around noon, and we went through the lineup of acts. We had a gay rapper named Baby Huey; Iona Trailer; the acrobats we’d seen the night before; and a pair of guys who did ballroom dance “with a twist,” among other acts. “Who’s Big Rod?” I asked Jean-Jacques, pointing at one of the names. “You’ve never seen Big Rod?” Jean-Jacques asked. “I’ve seen plenty of big rods.”