Yes, I like cock in a jock, I like almost anything cock, ass, muscles, sweat, whatever the fuck is man. I have a vision (right now I mean) I have a vision of a man walking in the street in a little countryside town, his cock bulging under his jock; he’s wearing a sweatshirt too, and people drag themselves on the street and reach for him: women and men want him. But he’s jogging fast, it’s the evening, and has a ring at the base of his cock whose twin is the ring at my finger, and when he’s come he asks me my name: I say something I cant figure out right now. He’s happy that what I said has let him in, though: he steps forward and we talk to each other in a little opening in the woods, sitting on two marble white rocks, some feet apart: we’re on the side of a mountain. We’re just sitting there, and we find communion, talking. From communion come orgasms, one after the other: we try to hide them, as our god Coolness requires, but from time to time, we cry them out like we played at who shouts the best, who shouts out best during orgasm, and we keep on talking. Evening is eternal. We have many orgasms, and the sensation tangles me to him thereafter. I watch my hand while I talk: I have marble dust on my palm, and I try to hide it because I know it’s his Sperm.
He sees it and opens both his hands: he’s got palms full of white dust too. It’s then I understand that he’s all around, and I’m glad I made this second leap. He’s looking at me and he smiles and nods, and I know it’s a charm I could to some effect, and I know the next time I look he won’t be there anymore. I have the charm in my hand anyways. No I made it up, it won’t work, I think, and I feel a fit of pain that I denied him. So I go in the middle of the opening, in the circle of the trees, and let myself have more orgasms. I let the trees and the grass get to me, because, who cares, it’s always him. When I stop it’s the night, and he’ gone. But no: he’s coming out of the dark under the trees: he smiles proud. Maybe next time we can give meaning to a fuck, I think as he goes away, who knows. Seb, this site is perfect: perfect the navigation, great the information; the ad with the man crying that sex is magick, is magick. I am amazed. All praise Crowley if he’s inspired this. – EricTheViking.
I love wearing jocks. I have a bit of a collection that has built up over the years. A few of them are ‘swaps’ from fun times with great memories that get me going as soon as I slide it on and tuck my cock and balls in comfortably. It’s like replaying a hot video memory. Woof. Some guys seem to go for those super snug, splat your gear tight against the body. Arg. Not me—I like “just enough” support but also that feeling of being one small step from going commando (also fun in the right situations). When I see a guy proudly sporting a jock, whether it’s in the lockerroom, the sauna/steamroom, etc. to me it is an open, honest way of saying “here I am.” Be proud guys!