The trim

by BRK   

When your cock size is tied to the length of your hair, getting a trim can be the last thing you want—or, if it’s not too drastic, something to look forward to.

It was funny running into Jake again. We’d been best friends in middle school. We’d always felt totally comfortable together—we tended to watch TV at my house nestled in the lay-z-boy together, that sort of thing, without really giving it a second thought. Never really did anything together—he seemed a little reticent to explore beyond just “getting comfortable”; though when my SATs came back in the 99th percentile we had a good kiss, and then held on to each other for quite a while after that laughing and talking over my future as a world-famous scientist, before he took me down to the Devil’s Idol with our fake IDs for a lots of drinks.

The odd bit about Jake was that he was obsessed with his hair. He kept wanting to grow it long, and he had the bad luck to be the kid of two uptight relics of the 50s who thought that long hair on a boy was just to the left of Communism. Long hair on a very good looking boy was even worse—they must have thought model-handsome Jake would have looked like pretty Jacquelyn if a shoulder-length bob were allowed. Personally, perhaps it was my rebelliousness, but I thought Jake looked great in longer hair. He was really distressed at being forced to go to the barber, and refused outright several times, until his dad laid down the Law: the more Jake resisted, the shorter the cut would be. He knew that would hit Jake hardest. The Law was only applied once. Jake’s dad let Jake get away with growing his hair a little, just to feed him rope I guess, then yanked him in. I went with him to the barber’s, but hair parents sat outside in the car (after his dad instructed the old barber in no uncertain terms, doubling his fee to insure compliance despite Jake’s wishes). When we came out, his hair was gone—shaved off, and he was crying, furious, and humiliated. He didn’t speak to his parents for weeks and weeks, but he glumly agreed to cut his hair to a moderate length, lest the machete be applied again. But he always said as soon as he was out of the house he’d never cut his hair again.

Flash forward to my senior year in college. We’d gone to different schools, Jake and I. We’d planned to go to Princeton together but I got a soccer scholarship to UCLA, much to my amazement, and he encouraged me to take it. We’ve talked on the phone all the time, and emailed, and I kept bugging him to come out to LA to visit for a while, but he’s afraid of flying, the wuss. Finally, he agreed to come out during spring break of my senior year.

I met him at the airport. I could tell it was him from miles away—for one thing, he was a little unsteady from the flight, and for another his straight strawberry blond hair was almost down to his waist, as if it was trying to tickle his bubble butt. He his face opened up into a huge grin when he saw me. In a second we were hugging, and then we were kissing as if kissing were as natural as hugging, which at that moment it was. Then he pulled back, grinning bashfully, and as we headed for baggage claim I noticed he was walking a bit funny—kind of stiff, only in one leg. I resolved to ask him about it later, wondering if he’d been hurt (one of my friends on the team had had a nasty accident on the field a year ago and was still walking stiff.)

We fell right in with each other, going for dinner and a ton of drinks. We talked about old times and new, told each other we looked great (Jake had discovered the endorphin rush of weight training, though from his muscle tone I was guessing he hadn’t worked out much in a while), and joked about our classes and profs.

As the evening got late something odd happened. He got up from our table at the generic gay bar we’d gone to, expressing a need to pee, and stumbled to the bathroom. I sat for a few moments, listening to the music mindlessly, when suddenly I heard loud noises from the direction of the men’s room. Jake appeared suddenly, all business. “Let’s go,” he said, barely pausing on his way to the door. I looked down and noticed that the bottom couple inches on his wide-leg jeans were soaking wet, but I barely had time to register that before five hunky circuit boys appeared, chasing after Jake and calling for him to wait!

I found Jake crouching in my car, trying not to be seen. “Where were you?”

“Me first,” I said. “What happened in there?”

Jake pauased a moment as if considering. “I’ll tell you when we get home,” he said.

“But—”

“Later,” he said firmly, and so I had no choice but to clam up and drive.

By the time we got home we were back to normal—avoiding talking about the bar, but normal. When we got into my apartment and flicked on the lights Jake started laughing. “The lay-z-boy!”

Sure enough, the brown monstrosity was practically the only furniture in my small living room. I was laughing too. “Mom practically begged me to take it with me,” I said.

I fetched some chip and some bottles of beer for the end table and popped in the movie “Trick,” which we’d always enjoyed watching together, ensconced in the easy chair on those carefree high school nights. Turning back from the VCR, I walked over to him and we smiled at each other. “Shall we?” I said. “For old times’ sake?”

Laughing, we folded ourselves into the easy chair as I pressed “play.” It was a tighter fit than in the old days—Jake, as I’d said, had discovered weight training, while I had been playing the student athlete for four years—which, if you don’t know the life, means you spend half the time studying, half the time in practice, and the other half the time working out. We found, however, that this merely meant more overlapping, which was fine. I slid down a bit, my head on his shoulder, his arms around my shoulder, his hand on my bulging right pec. With his free hand he pulled his hair out from behind him, letting it flow down his chest.

“Does that ever get in the way?” I asked.

“Boy does it ever.”

“Maybe you should cut it.”

“I may have to,” he said softly.

He put his right between mine, and I put my right left on top of it. I was so comfortable I never wanted to move again. I was boned like there was no such thing as soft. I looked up at him and smiled, and then we were kissing, and it wasn’t like our other kisses which were born of pure joy—these were kisses of love. And, suddenly, passion.

I pulled away to catch my breath and get a good look at him—god, he was sexy, especially now with that hair draped over his muscular torso. As I looked down his bod, feeling that he was watching me, I squawked as I saw something moving under the left leg of his jeans near the ankle. “What the fuck is that?” I said, and added sarcastically, “Your cock?”

“Yes.”

I looked back up into his eyes and he said, “Remember how I always had to be forced into haircuts? That’s because—“ (he took a deep breath) “—because my cock grows with my hair. Always has.”

“Shut the fuck up.” The story was fascinating and explained much. Did I dare hope it was true?

“Swear to God,” he said. “My cock is always the same length as my head hair—soft. And hard—well, look at it,” he added, for as I looked down to see his hardening cock was emerging rapidly from his pants cuff. In a moment just the part that was sticking out of his pants was twice as long as anything I’d ever seen. He rubbed it idly with the side of his foot.

“Dude, that is fucking awesome,” I said. “Wait—what happened when you were shaved? Did it—“

He nodded. “I just had the cock-head for a few days. I was really, really angry, until I realized that it was growing back—thicker.”

“Your hair, or—“

“Both.”

I was in awe. “Dude.”

“I swore I’d never cut my hair again, but it’s just getting too big now. I can’t even suck myself any more.”

My mouth was suddenly dry, so I kissed him. “How big—“

“Twenty five, soft. Forty three, hard.”

“Shit!” I came in my pants. I actually came in my pants! Jake laughed.

Then he looked at me fondly, and said, “I’m ready to find out what happens.”

I smiled at him. “Me too—but let’s give this monster one last night of fun!”

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