Boy's Night Out

I was, practically, drunk and disorderly on my walk home last night, not that anyone noticed me staggering through Fitzroy, in the dark. Bongs and a nice chardy (not my usual poison) made me stagger, let me tell you.

I'd been to dinner with Tim and Nicolas, Nicholas' cousin and her baby-bonus children and a fat, mentally deranged friend of Tim's, someone he used to work with, who was the most bizarre, never-stop-talking type I'd ever met, at a pub in Fitzroy. Fat Bizarro Girl stole food off the children's plates, everybody noticed, spoke with her food in her mouth and quaffed wine like there was no tomorrow.

We sat outside. We were entertained by a group of boys, who were on a pub crawling buck's night, who'd come in costume. There were tennis players, Elvis look a likes, jockeys and seventies retro. One fine specimen of a man - tall, athletic, handsome - wore a stripey, seventies jersey top and a pair of blue pants so tight that they could only be described as "sprayed" on. Literally.

My goodness, did those pants get our attention. Nicholas' head was turned, in such a way that I've never seen before. He's the dutiful boyfriend, usually, to be sure.

Blue pants boy left nothing to the imagination. Not his fine legs, not his great arse, not his huge cock that was, clearly, pushed downwards in his jocks. I would say he was cut.

The whole group, who'd clearly had quite a few beers, were totally cockscentric. A number of them clearly had tennis balls or socks stuffed into their jocks. They played with them, discussed them and showed them off to their mates. They were all standing around comparing packages, at one stage.

"I thought I had the tightest pants on (and he did)," said blue pants boy, rubbing his hand seductively down his thick bulge, as another seventies throw back - yellow pants boy - arrived.

"I don't know," said yellow pants boy, grabbing his bulge, as he spoke. "They are pretty tight," he said looking at blue pants boy.

"Is that all you?" asked the seventies rock star - he quite a hunk himself.

"Yes," said blue pants boy, rubbing his hand down his shaft again. (The boy was hung, everybody could see it... no, could actually, see it )

"Damn!" slurred seventies rock star. "I wish I filled my pants, just like that," he replied, gazing at blue pants boy's crotch, which could only have been described as lustfully, while he rubbed his own bulge, intently, as if checking in comparison.

Nicolas turned to me with a huge smile. "Those blue pants sure are tight."

"He wouldn't want to dribble after a piss," I said.

We both laughed.

What is it with straight boys, when they get together with beer, being turned on to their own cocks?