Every Frat Boy Wants It

Every Frat Boy Wants It

by Todd Gregory
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Every Frat Boy Wants It by Todd Gregory

Jeff Morgan is about to get the education of a lifetime. . .

At eighteen, Jeff Morgan is the quintessential all-American boy—blond, blue-eyed, and a star jock at his small Kansas high school. Enrolling at California State University-Polk, Jeff plans to become a writer. He also hopes that the macho nature of fraternity life will help him get over his lifelong attraction to other men. The reality couldn't be more different. . .

Through Blair Blanchard, the drama major son of divorced movie stars, Jeff discovers the Beta Kappa fraternity, and enters a world where alcohol and drugs serve as an excuse for covert trysts between frat brothers. . .where the pledging process becomes a sensual, S&M-fueled bacchanal. . .where weekends in L.A. and Palm Springs are no-holds-barred adventures in sexual exploration. . .and where Spring Break is a boys-gone-wild porn movie come to life. Through every encounter, from intense couplings with older frat brothers to sizzling three-ways with hot new pledges, Jeff also deals with his increasingly complex feelings—for Blair, for a handsome new arrival, and for life within Beta Kappa itself.

Sexy, steamy, and incredibly erotic, Every Frat Boy Wants It proves that when it comes to learning all there is to know about mind-blowing pleasure, nothing beats hands-on experience. . .

Todd Gregory is a New Orleans based writer who survived Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath with the help of prescription medication. He has edited the anthologies Rough Trade, His Underwear and Blood Lust (with M. Christian). He has published short stories in numerous anthologies and his works have been translated into German. He is currently working on an erotic suspense thriller titled Sunburn.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780758217196
Publisher: Kensington
Publication date: 12/01/2007
Pages: 288
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.55(d)

About the Author

Todd Gregory is a New Orleans based writer who survived Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath with the help of prescription medication. He has edited the anthologies Rough Trade, His Underwear and Blood Lust (with M. Christian). He has published short stories in numerous anthologies and his works have been translated into German. He is currently working on an erotic suspense thriller titled Sunburn.

Read an Excerpt

Every Frat Boy Wants It

By Todd Gregory


Copyright © 2007 Greg Herren
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-7582-1719-6

Chapter One

As I walk into the locker room of my high school to get my backpack, I'm aware of the sound of the shower running. Even before I walk around the corner that will reveal the rows of black lockers and the communal shower area just beyond, I can smell that pungent smell of sweat, dirty clothes, and sour jocks. I would never admit it to anyone, but I love that smell. Especially when it's warm outside-the smell seems riper, more vital, more alive. For me, it is the smell of athletic boys, the smell of their faded and dirty jockstraps. At night, when I lie in my bed alone jacking off in the quiet darkness, I close my eyes and I try to remember it. I imagine myself in that locker room after practice, the room alive with the sound of laughter and snapping towels, of boys running around in their jocks and giving each other bullshit as they brag about what girls they've fucked and how big their dicks are. I try to remember, as I lie there in my bed, the exact shape of their hard white asses, whose jockstrap is twisted just above the start of the curve, and below the muscled tan of their backs. It's the locker room where I first saw another boy naked, after all-the only place where it's acceptable to see other boys in various states of undress. The locker room always haunts my fantasies and my dreams.

And now, as I reach the corner, I hesitate. Who could still be showering at this time? Everyone else has left; baseball practice is long over, and I'd be in my car heading home myself if I hadn't forgotten my bag and I didn't have that damned History test tomorrow. Could it be Coach Wilson? I shudder at the thought. I certainly hoped it wasn't him. He was a nice man, but Coach Wilson was about a hundred years old and had a big old belly that made him look like he'd swallowed every single basketball in the equipment room. I take a deep breath and walk around the corner.

Maybe it was-um, no, that was too much to hope for. Just get your bag and go.

The locker room is filled with steam from the hot water in the shower. Wisps dance around the overhead lights, and it is so thick I can barely see the floor and make out the row of black painted metal lockers. Yet, through the steam, I can barely see a tanned form with his back turned to me, his head under the water spigot, hot water pouring down over his muscled back and over the perfectly round, hard whiteness of a mouth-wateringly beautiful ass. I catch my breath as I stare, knowing that I shouldn't-the right thing to do is call out a "hello," pretend not to look, get what I need, and get the hell out of there. But I am utterly transfixed by the sheer beauty of what I am seeing. I bite down on my lower lip, aware that my dick is getting hard in my pants as I watch. I can't tear myself away-I don't want to turn and go or stop staring, the body is too perfect. And with the wetness cascading down over it, the glistening flow of the water emphasizing every defined muscle in the lovely male form that has haunted my dreams and my fantasies ever since I transferred here my junior year and started going to this small rural high school. Go, hurry, before he turns around and catches you watching-what are you going to say? Um, sorry, I was staring at your ass?

But still I keep standing there, continuing to run the risk he'll catch me, every second passing making it more likely. How long can he stand there like that without moving?

But still-

How many times have I fantasized about him while pulling on my soapy dick in the shower at home? Or while lying in my bed after everyone else in the house has gone to sleep? Kneeling on the bathroom floor with the door locked behind me? How many times have I snuck glances over at him in the locker room after football practice, as he peeled off his pads and stood there in his jock turned grey from sweat? How many sidelong looks have I taken at his body as he stood under the shower, hoping that no one else noticed me looking at his crotch, the wet pubic hair, the curve of his balls, the length of his soft cock?

How many times have I sat next to him in the darkness of a movie theater, our knees almost touching as we scarf down popcorn and slurp sodas, hoping against hope our knees might brush against each other, or his hand might come down over mine on the armrest and squeeze gently? How many times have I hoped that he might want me too, that one night as we sat on a country road on the hood of a car sharing a six-pack of beer he might confess he desired me as much as I did him?

I've been in love with him almost from the first moment I saw him.

Just as I open my mouth to say something and let him know I'm there, he turns around and sees me.

"Jeff!" Kevin's handsome face breaks into a smile, and I almost melt right there. I don't think I have ever seen a boy anywhere as handsome as he is-and what makes him even handsomer is he has absolutely no idea the effect he has on people. Every girl at Southern Heights High School has had a crush on him at one time or another. He has the most amazing even, white teeth, his eyes are a deep shade of blue, and on top of his head is the thickest curly dark blond hair. When he smiles, his dimples carve deep grooves into the sides of his cheeks. Surely no other boy in history was as effortlessly beautiful as my best friend, Kevin Hansen.

"Hey, Kev." I force a smile on my face and try to keep my voice even. "Forgot my backpack." I focus on keeping my eyes on his face and resisting the urge to glance down. His body is also fantasy material. He's been lifting weights since junior high, and there's no fat anywhere on his body. His stomach is flat, hard and defined. And he has two brown quarter-shaped nipples that balance on his big hairless chest. His thickly muscled legs are covered with soft downy white hairs that are almost invisible unless they catch the light and flash gold.

"Oh." He glances down. I can't help myself, I look down as well, and I swallow hard. I can hear my heart pounding in my chest. He is soaping his crotch, and his hard-on is everything I could have dreamed of-thick and long. He looks back over at me. He smiles again, a little more shyly this time. "Wasn't expecting anyone, obviously." His cheeks color a little bit.

"Yeah, well." I feel myself turning red. My mouth is suddenly dry. I gulp. Don't look at it, Jeff, look away and just grab your bag and get away from here before you do or say something stupid.

"Looks like you've got one too, bro," he says teasingly, pointing with his soapy hand at my own crotch, where my traitorous erection is outlined against the denim. He rinses the soap off and steps out of the shower area and stands, his legs spread apart, not even ten yards away from me. Naked, dripping wet and erect, with his hands on his hips, posed like some kind of Greek god, almost as if he's daring me to look, he laughs. "What do you say, Jeff?"

"Um, about what?" I reply, feeling like the lamest idiot on the planet. Surely he can't mean-no, life doesn't work like that, dreams and fantasies about other boys don't come true, and Kevin's not that way, you're the only freak who dreams about other guys and sucking their dicks, who steals glances in the locker room.

"Remember all those wrestling matches we've had?" he goes on in a low voice, like I haven't said a word.

"Um, yeah." Like I could ever forget them? Every time I'd spent the night at his house, or he'd stayed at mine, we'd had a wrestling match in our underwear. We pretended like we were WWE superstars, but not doing any of the crazier stuff-wrestling around like boys. We talked trash to each other before, after, and during. Kevin, being bigger and stronger, almost always won. I didn't care so much about winning-although he seemed to enjoy it when he won. He'd jump up and flex his arms, talk about what a stud he was, and all that kind of stuff.

Of course, I was never really trying to win. I was more interested in the closeness of our sweating bodies, the way his muscles felt against mine, the way he smelled, while at the same time hoping against hope he'd never notice that my cock was hard. I sometimes wondered if his was as well-but never dared to look. I certainly never dared to actually touch him there. Even though I knew deep down Kevin and I would never be together, I liked being around him. I didn't want to lose that. And those wrestling matches were prime jack-off memories for me. Generally after one of them I'd go straight into the bathroom and remember the highlights as I jacked off-which didn't take long anyway. I was so turned on by the wrestling it's a wonder I didn't come during the match. There was one time he'd wrapped his legs around my head and squeezed, my face going right into his crotch. Even though it hurt, I hadn't wanted to give up. I wanted my face to stay there all night. That was my favorite memory-but he'd never done that to me again.

I always wondered why.

"Those always turned me on." He puts his right hand on his cock. "Man, I always wanted to suck your dick, bro."

Gulp. "Um, seriously?" I feel like a crushing dork. The boy I love just told me he wants to suck my dick and that's all I can think of to say? I can feel my face turning redder, and my own dick is straining against the fly of my jeans.

"Oh, yeah, man. I've always thought you were sexy, you know." He grins and leans forward, and his lips press against mine. Electricity rushes through my body; I can feel a tingling all the way to the tips of my toes and fingers. My lips part and his tongue enters my mouth, and I stroke the bottom of it with my own. My hands come up and touch his chest, my fingertips brushing against his nipples. I can feel his entire body stiffen and a low moan begins in his throat. I open my eyes as he pulls his head back from mine, and he whispers, "I love you so much, Jeff-"

* * *

"Dude, class is over."

Startled, I jumped and opened my eyes, somehow managing to knock my notebook and pen onto the floor. "Fuck!" Embarrassed, I looked around. The classroom was empty, and the clock on the wall showed that class had been over for a few minutes.

"You were having one hell of a daydream, though." The voice continued, a note of amusement evident. As I slowly became more aware that I was, indeed, still seated at my desk, I turned to get a look at the guy talking to me. He was standing to my left in the aisle, a backpack slung over his left shoulder and expensive looking mirrored sunglasses covering his eyes. His hair was bluish black and gelled so it stood up in every which way. He was wearing a pale blue T-shirt that said Stiff Competition Wrestling on it, with the graphic of two guys in singlets on a mat in the center of the lettering. The shirt fit him tightly, and veins showed in his tanned forearms. He was wearing a matching pair of long shorts that stopped just below his knees, and a pair of leather sandals. His calves were also well-defined and covered in thick, black curly hair. His arms were crossed, and there was a huge smile on his handsome face. Dimples danced in his cheeks, and his lips were thick. There was a slight bluish black stubble under his nose. "Can't say as I blame you. Is there anything more boring in this life than Macro Economics?" He tilted his head to one side. "Maybe Micro Economics, or Biology, or pretty much any required class at this stupid school." He stuck his right hand out. "Blair Blanchard."

Uncomfortably aware of both my hard-on and how tight my jean shorts were, I stayed in my seat. "Um, Jeff Morgan." I shook his hand. His hand was dry, the grip firm, even though my hand was a lot bigger than his.

"Nice to meet ya, Jeff." As I stayed in my seat, he cocked his head to one side again. "Your next class in this room?"

"Um. No." I could feel my cheeks starting to turn red again. My cock was still hard. I am never wearing tight shorts in public again, I decided.

He knelt down and handed me my notebook and my pen. "Then someone is going to be needing your seat, don't you think?"

"Um, yeah. I guess."

He threw his head back and laughed. "So, you had an erotic daydream and got a big ol' boner, Jeff. It's no big deal. I read somewhere that the wind can give guys our age a hard-on if it blows on us just right-and I think that's true. Besides, probably half the guys walking around on campus right now have one. Get over it." He slapped me on the shoulder. "Come on, bud, if you don't have another class, I'll buy you a soda at the Pit."

"Okay." I adjusted myself a bit before standing up and slipping my notebook and pen into my backpack. My mind was spinning. No one before in my life had ever so casually talked about anyone else's boner before-at least not in front of me, at least not without referencing slipping it to a girl-you know, the typical locker room I'm-such-a-stud bullshit. All through high school I'd wondered if my teammates really were getting as much action as they claimed when they were undressed. As I stood up, he walked up the aisle and I couldn't help but stare at his ass. The shorts rode low on his hips, and there was a line of tanned skin where the T-shirt rode up on his back. His ass, like Kevin's, was round and hard, but his was more compact. He was a lot more slender and lean than Kevin, who had a football player's thick body. Blair looked more like one of those guys who maybe ran a middle distance on the track team. Or maybe a swimmer-he did have pretty broad shoulders for his size.

I followed him out. Polk, California, I thought, sure is a long way from Kewanee, Kansas.

Kewanee was where I'd graduated from high school barely a month earlier.

I'd been born and raised in Newton, Kansas, where my father worked for the Great Plains Pacific railroad as an engineer. No, he didn't drive trains; he was a structural engineer, building bridges and buildings. I was an only child, and after my sophomore year at Newton High my father was transferred to Emporia. Mom and Dad decided to buy a house in the nearby town of Kewanee because it was cheaper, not realizing I was going to have to go to a small, consolidated rural high school called Southern Heights High rather than Emporia High until it was too late. They'd been very apologetic, and with good reason it turned out. Southern Heights was tiny; one hundred and eighty students drawn from seven small towns scattered throughout the southern part of the county. All the kids there had been going to school together since they started school; they didn't get many new kids and I stood out. But I was also lucky-as a football player, I had instant status in the school, especially since I'd lettered at the much bigger Newton High. I was a fullback, and became instant friends with Kevin Hansen, the starting halfback. My two years at Southern Heights wound up being pretty cool-I made a lot of friends, got invited to parties, and there was always a girl who had a crush on me. It would have been perfect if not for the fact that I was madly in love with my best friend. It was so weird. At Newton High there were guys I'd get a crush on for a while, but nothing like the way I felt about Kevin. (Continues...)

Excerpted from Every Frat Boy Wants It by Todd Gregory Copyright © 2007 by Greg Herren. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Every Frat Boy Wants It 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 15 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A great sexy story.  well written  .    J/////
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