Drunk & Disorderly by Bulge Voyeur
Indulge in ‘Drunk & Disorderly’ by Bulge Voyeur, a tantalizing gay sex story that explores the thrill of spontaneity and desire. Join the characters on a wild night full of unexpected encounters and passionate moments that will leave you breathless. Dive into this captivating tale and let the adventure unfold!
How many young men, doubtful as their sexuality, have been too shy to do anything about it without first getting drunk? So what was I supposed to do when my neighbours’ 18 year-old, in a state of compliant drunkenness and terrified of his parents’ wrath, was dumped by his friends on my doorstep one night?
In those days, I had a walk-up apartment on the first floor. I had moved there after I split with my partner of 12 years and I was in no mood for another relationship right now; I was quite content to live alone. The apartment above me was occupied by a couple with two kids; the girl was about 12 or 13 but it was the lad I was interested in – he was in his late teens, fairly short and lightly built, with neat hair and a complexion unusually clear and smooth for a young man of his age. His name, I had established a while back, was David and he was gorgeous.
I was on good terms with his Mum & Dad and they had obviously considered me “decent sort”, as they had invited me to dinner with the family upstairs not long after I moved in, a rather uncommon act of neighbourliness on their part these days, I thought at the time. We often used to pass in the car park or on the stairs and pass the time of day but because of David’s age, I always took care to avoid situations that might put us alone together, although he had once or twice loitered with me on the landing, as if he hoped I would ask him in. He seemed to like me and he was a nice, well-behaved and studious chap but apart from adoring his cute face and his young trim body, I was old enough to be his father and I felt a bit sorry for him because his mother did seem to constantly fuss over him while his dad was, in my opinion, excessively strict and rather intolerant. Goodness knows what they thought of me! I didn’t exactly tell them I was gay and I’m not generally considered “camp” in appearance or behaviour but anyone with reasonable powers of deduction should have been able to work it out from some of the things I said in my conversations with them. Whatever, it didn’t seem to alter our essentially amiable co-existence in the same building.
One night, I was watching TV on my own, as usual. It was gone midnight when the doorbell rang and as I went to the door, I could hear giggling and scuffling going on outside. When I looked through the peep-hole, I saw two young guys, somewhat dishevelled and a bit the worse for alcohol by the look of things. However, they had between them, supported in their arms, a distinctly bedraggled and flushed David. I opened the door.
Before I had a chance to say anything, the two guys straightened-up and attempted to look very serious, while one of them simply said,
“Um…sorry Mr. Edwards, but we believe this belongs to you.” And proceeded to attempt to pass David to me through the doorway.
Now, my surname isn’t Edwards, but David’s is, so I realised at once that they thought I was his father and that this was David’s apartment. But before I was able to correct them and protest, they turned on their heels and disappeared down the stairs. Meanwhile, David had slumped at my feet in a heap!
Then I remembered. He had been getting uptight about doing so many exams at school recently and had said the other day that the last one was this week and that it was also his birthday this week-end. That’s what this was; it was his 18th Birthday and he had got drunk celebrating the end of exams with his mates. Heaven knows where he got the booze but as the legal drinking age in the UK is 18, I figured that technically it was above board. And besides, young guys can be highly resourceful when they set their mind to it!
What was I to do? There he was, propped against my doorframe, dressed in slim black trousers and a white shirt, sleeves fashionably half-rolled up and his collar and top buttons undone, revealing a hairless chest. But his skin was all blotchy and his hair, which was usually neat and gelled, was all tousled and squashed. He was, frankly, a mess and he was drooling down himself and mumbling. I knelt down to listen and all he kept mumbling was,
“Dad’ll kill me. Just let me crash with you. He’ll kill me if he sees me like this.”
I realised that, while he was obviously drunk, he had been sufficiently aware to tell his mates to deliver him to the wrong apartment on purpose. Knowing how much of a disciplinarian his father was, I figured the lad needed a break, so I decided to drag him inside and let him sleep it off.
I struggled as best I could, lifting him to his feet and staggering inside, bumping into things and trying not to make a noise, while he cut an almost hilarious figure as the classic drunk, weaving all over the place, dribbling and muttering all the time. This was the first time I had laid hands on him and I was already aroused by the warmth of his body, albeit sweaty and smelling of booze! I slung his arm over my neck to support him and I secured it by holding his hand on that side, while my other arm was firmly around his waist. My heart meanwhile, was going nineteen to the dozen!
We staggered down the hallway, with him muttering some kind of apology. He just kept saying, “Sorry – I’m so sorry.” Then, quite suddenly, he groaned and uttered those fateful words,
“I’m going to be sick!”
And before I could do anything, he clasped his hand to his mouth and began to vomit. As quick as I could, I pushed him into the bathroom, where we both fell on the floor in front of the lavatory. In that instant, he retched and threw-up into the toilet; well, all over it actually! God, what a mess! And the smell was enough to make me want to vomit too! But I managed to keep hold of him, kneeling upright in front of the toilet, with his head half down the pan, retching his whole insides up and moaning in-between.
Most of us have been in that situation at one time or another in our lives and I knew only too well how the poor guy must be feeling right now, as he heaved and retched with all the energy his body could muster, evacuating from his insides, every morsel of food and every drop of fluid he had consumed in the last 4-5 hours.
After he had more-or-less emptied his insides into my toilet pan, or over it, I flushed it and held him there for a minute or two, my arm still around his lovely waist and my other hand now stroking his hair and aching head to comfort him. He was nearly falling asleep now, he was so exhausted from all the retching, so I cleaned his face with toilet tissue, washed his hands and made him blow his nose – just like a little boy. God, it gave me hard-on something rotten!
I made the decision to flop him on the bed rather than on the sofa in the living room. I only had one bedroom but I figured he might be easier to handle that way and he would be nearer the bathroom, just in case. Mind you, I’m sure my subconscious desire for him influenced my choice at the time! I had just about managed to get him back to his feet but I virtually had to carry him next door to the bedroom, he was so exhausted and limp. As we got to the bed, I brought his arm up over my head and he fell forwards, flat onto the bed, with his legs half-on and half-off the bed. He groaned and lay there, muttering,