Little Squirrels Can Climb Tall Trees, Michael Murphy [best books to read for self development .txt] 📗

the charts, and whether those levels went up as much and as fast as a man’s testosterone level did.

The big hand was pointed my way. That face was aglow with delight. And me? Well, I did the responsible thing and moved my own hand up and grasped his proffered hand. And Mr. Tall, Dark, Handsome, No Body Issues, Fantastic Dick caught me off-guard. I know! Really! And there I had been so on top of everything to that point!

“Dude! I’m really sweaty. I need to grab a quick shower. Can you wait? Do you have time to maybe go grab some coffee? It is so rare to find someone who understands the implications of the president’s economic policies.”

What policies? I wondered. What president? What is economics? And who is this man talking about? All I’d done was stand there and try to quietly worship a man more glorious than Michelangelo’s David, a man who could sub for Apollo the next time Apollo was busy or out sick.

“Sure,” I said, hoping the word made it from my brain to my lips and then to his ears.

“Great!” he said, grabbing a towel and dashing toward the shower. “Don’t go anywhere!” he yelled back over his shoulder. “Please. I’ll be fast!”

Oh, darling, I thought to myself, I’m not going anywhere if you don’t want me to.

I finished packing my gym clothes and tried to find a mantra to thank and praise whatever deity had seen fit to smile upon me that day. Previously I had considered it a good day if I could admire a printed image of a nice penis. Today I’d had the honest to God real live thing wagging in front of my face. And surprise, surprise, a nice guy was attached to it. I had almost come to expect that attached to a great penis was—well, a real prick.

Now, I had one problem—okay, lots of problems, since I was human, after all, not to mention male with a brain under assault by too much testosterone. In this case, my problem was that as I had gotten older (I had just recently turned thirty-two), I had acquired the habit of speaking my mind. Well, not so much acquired as honed. So I frequently opened my mouth and firmly planted my foot in it without intending to do so. I was really, really, really glad I hadn’t done that yet with Mr. Tall, Dark, Handsome with No Body Issues and Dick of Perfection. But then, I’d only known him for maybe six minutes, so there was plenty of time yet to fuck it up and say something utterly stupid and pigheaded and narrow-minded. I wasn’t really all of those things. Okay, well, maybe pigheaded. But certainly not narrow-minded. No, the gutter in which my mind resided was quite wide.

Before I had finished packing my things in my backpack, my newfound friend was back. Really, how did the man do it that fast? I couldn’t even have turned on the water yet, and he was done and back at his locker—naked. Did I say that he was naked? If not, I really should have. He was naked. Gloriously naked. And he wore nudity really, really well. Part of the reason he was back was that he hadn’t toweled off. He was dripping water everywhere.

Oh, no. Please, God. On each of his taut nipples, as well as on the head of his perfect penis, lingered a few drops of water. I swear to God they were taunting me, jeering at me, screaming at me, Lick me! They were screaming at me so fucking loud that I’m surprised other men didn’t turn around to hear what they were ordering me to do.

I didn’t, but I licked my lips like a dog salivating over a meat-covered bone. My newfound friend didn’t seem to notice, or if he noticed, he didn’t comment. And thankfully he didn’t mind the puddle of drool I was afraid was collecting at my feet.

He was most likely used to men making utter and complete fools of themselves in his presence. He was, after all, perfection on the hoof, the man wet dreams fantasized about, the stuff porn stories were written about, the man who turned straight men gay, could make the lame walk—no, wait, that was someone else. But I swear, if I was lame, I’d have crawled to my feet to get to this man. Maybe he could make the lame rise.

He certainly was doing an impressive job with my libido and my dick. The poor thing had been stretched uncomfortably since he’d first dropped his clothes. And once he’d started scratching his balls, well, my guy was suffering terrible abuse confined in my briefs and jeans. He was a trouper, though. We’d been through a lot together. Stormed lots of fortresses, scaled walls, plundered… no, don’t go there. Let’s just say we hung out together. Well, obviously. I was rather attached to the little guy. No, wait! Don’t call your dick “little” anything! Need a more masculine name—the Storm Trooper! That’s it! My little soldier. Damn! There’s that “little” word again. I assure you, my dick is a perfectly normal human male dick. He isn’t huge, but he isn’t small, either. Like the rest of me, he is probably perfectly average. But I had tried my damnedest to give the guy some good experiences. I am, after all, responsible for his care and feeding throughout life, and I take those responsibilities seriously.

Somehow I tore my eyes away from Mr. Perfect with the water droplets on his nipples and dick—look away, look away, car wrecks, mangled bodies, blood, gore, mayhem, exploding gasoline tankers, trains smashing into cars full of baby kittens—and zipped up my backpack.

“By the way, my name is Kyle,” Mr. Perfect said as he stuck his big right hand my way. We’d shaken hands before but hadn’t shared names. And I had no objection because it was still the hand that had been where my mouth wanted to