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Tommy Grows Up...Very Well
by Fan O.F. Sixtynine


All the usual stuff about you must be old enough in your jurisdiction, etc.  In other words, if you are underage, don't read this unless you have a really cool teacher who assigned it.  Otherwise, come back in a few years, when nobody will yell at you.


I just want to share an episode from my usually uneventful life from a couple years ago.  I have a sense that more of you can relate to this than would be willing to share with your mothers.  I promise you that I don't plan on asking my mom to read this.

Oh, by the way: I have not changed the names in this story to protect the innocent; I've just changed them for the heck of it.  It's been quite a few years since I have been innocent enough to deserve protecting.  Besides, as the saying goes, "It pays to advertise."

Tommy, the title character, is my cousin.  More accurately he is one of the sons of my cousin.  I always thought that sort of familial relationship was referred to as a second cousin, but recently a friend informed me that it is properly called a first cousin, once removed.

However we should be describing each other isn't really relevant to this tale.  I've known him since his birth, since I am his senior by quite a few years.  When he was young I didn't bother referring to him as my cousin, my second cousin or my first cousin, once removed; I simply thought of his as a pain in the ass.

He was rowdy, somewhat inconsiderate of everyone else and noisy.  In other words, he was a typical kid.  And at this point in my life, I was probably a rather typical gay bachelor, despite having been married prior to Tommy's arrival into a family of older kids--kids who had already passed their pain in the ass prime.  So about the time that family gatherings had recently returned to a placid state, Tommy came into the world with plans to disrupt any pretense of calm.  He was instantly successful!  And he kept up his single-handed effort of destruction and mayhem for well over a dozen years.

A couple years ago, a strange thing happened.  He started to grow up.  And then he grew some more, up and up.  He had somehow survived those early years, despite my promises to myself to insure that he wouldn't.  He had also turned from a kid who was simultaneously awkward and athletic into a young man who was tall, trim and, frankly, making me a little uncomfortable with his hypnotizing good looks.  

I have this problem.  Well, I'm not sure that "problem" is the right word.  I have a mischievous streak that demands that I make every possible effort to embarrass any good looking adolescent guys as much as possible with any remark that I can think of that can be interpreted both as a sexual innuendo or as a harmless, naive phrase.  

The key to my sinister style is that I know adolescent guys are going to interpret practically anything as sexual, but they are still inexperienced enough to believe that such sexual thoughts are evil.  The normal course of events is that they laugh, because they read the sexual connotation into what I have said.  However, when the see my deadpan face, they incorrectly take that as a sign that my remark was entirely chaste and that I am totally unaware that it could have been taken any other way.  That inevitably leads to the embarrassment phase, during which they worry that I may have noticed their original reaction, and that I probably realized just how sinful they really are with their minds in the gutter.  It only works for a while, before they eventually figure out that I happen to be a big fan of that particular, metaphorical gutter.

I had been a little reluctant to play this particular game with Tommy.  After all, I certainly did not want him to report to his dad (my cousin) or his grandparents (my dear aunt and uncle) that I was speaking in sexual terms with him.  

Last year, when Tommy had reached the ripe old age of 20, I couldn't pass up an opportunity that fate and the meteorologist sent may way.  The prediction for the next day's high temperature was sixty-nine degrees.  It was like a slow pitch into my sweet zone.  (Do gay, bisexual and bi-curious guys understand baseball allusions?  Let me know.)

I said to Tommy, "Hey the high tomorrow is supposed to be sixty-nine. Sixty-nine, for some reason, is my favorite temperature."

If you are rewriting this as a play, make sure the sexy actor playing Tommy pauses a beat, looking somewhat unsure.  Have him then break into a huge grin that will light up his handsome face.  Pause another beat as he checks out the face of the actor portraying me.  Since he sees no smile on my face, panic sets in, the smile disappears, and the face reddens.  All of the facial changes must occur in exactly 2.4 seconds.

Yes, that is what happened to poor sinful Tommy, although it may not have taken quite 2.4 seconds to transpire.  I laughed inwardly, but (talented and experienced performer that I am) nothing but confusion over his reaction showed on my own face.  It ended there...for that day.

The next day, the temperature actually went up well past the predicted high.  However, I happened to be alone with him at the magic moment in the morning when our outside thermometer read the hallowed sixty-nine.  

I commented aloud, "It's sixty-nine, now.  Doesn't sixty-nine feel great?"

This time, he didn't smile as broadly, but he kept what smile he produced much longer and said, "It sure does."

A couple days later was a scorcher.  We seemed to go from a pleasant, brief spring to a boiling oppressive summer in that two day period.

I didn't want to verbally spar with Tommy around the other family members, so it was rather late in the day when I finally seized my next opportunity.

"Today is too hot for me.  We keep our house at a steady year round temperature, so if you ever get hot and want to feel sixty-nine, just come on over any time you want."

The poor guy is unfortunately straight, so this time I managed to elicit an uncomfortable smile, but a smile nevertheless.  I had achieved my goal, but I always have to get in one last jab.

I added, "And if it happens to get too cold, again, just come to my house and you can experience 69 any time you want."  And one more... "I never even lock my door."

Point, game, set, match!  (Do gay, bisexual and bi-curious men understand tennis references?  I think so, because the guys wear shorts, so we all watch that sport. Some of the players even remove their shirts to wipe away the sweat.)

That all was last year.  This year, a taller, even hotter Tommy accompanied his family to our annual lake gathering place.  I didn't have anywhere left to go with this now twenty-one year old stud.  I had carried my game as far as I could, with a fairly unambiguous invitation.  I received no RSVP to my open door invitation. 

Near the end of their stay, however, he said, "Hey, Fan.  Would it be okay if I came over to check my class schedule for next semester on your computer?"

"Sure, any time," I replied.  Pardon the cliche, but hope springs eternal.  Let me change that, because there is really no excuse to use that sort of trite expression.  Let's say, my previously dashed hope soared anew.  Wow, I think maybe the eternal line is better, so skip that previous sentence.  In fact, let's just leave the whole paragraph at nothing but, "Sure, any time."

He practically beat me to my house, although he had said that he'd be over in ten or fifteen minutes.

My computer and Internet connection are on the second floor, so he waited at the base of the steps for me to lead the way.  While he was waiting, he kept readjusting himself through his loose fitting shorts.

Was that a signal, an invitation?  (Shout out your answer.  Sorry, I can't hear you.  Besides, this is a true story, and I can't leave the truth to a vote of the readers.  What happened, happened.  What didn't, didn't.  This is my story, and I won't hurry it along just so you can satisfy your lust and go to bed.)

I've been around a lot of guys in that age group, and I've discovered that they adjust themselves in public, in mixed company, probably in church.  They seem to think nothing of it, so I fought my natural inclination to offer to help.

As we were climbing the stairs, I asked, "Are you really checking you class schedule or is this just an excuse to check out some porn?"

He laughed and explained why he had to check his schedule so far in advance.

When we arrived in my office, I logged on and invited him to take over in my desk chair, while I assumed the chair that I use mostly for reading.  It occurred to me that he may want to check his personal email while online, so he might want to be left alone.

Rather than asking my real question, I asked, "Do you mind if I stay in here or would you rather have some privacy so you can jack off?"  

He laughed and told me I could stay.  Of course, I would have been much more anxious to stay had he planned to check his schedule and then jack off.

I added, "I know you've been sharing a bedroom with ____ [his brother] and the walls in your cottage are not very well sound proofed, so I can get out if you want."

He laughed and said, "No.  I can make it a week, and I'll be back to my house in two days.  I'll be able to catch up then."

So there I sat, with three thoughts racing through my mind.  First, what healthy 21 year old goes a week without exploding (even if he is straight)?  Second, if I had been in his shoes, I would have taken the opportunity offered to me and maybe even suggested that I could certainly use some help.  Third, that huge load was going to end up on his stomach in two days rather than in my mouth in fifteen minutes.  Who am I kidding, at his age it would have filled my mouth in less than two minutes.  At that age, they may be cute, but they have no staying power.

So that's where things stand.  I am an incurable optimist.  I have thoroughly broken the ice by talking about sexual things openly and not just in innuendos. He'll be back here again before the summer is over.  

I plan to drop a few emails in the meantime, giving him hints about signals he could use if he is too embarrassed to ask directly for gratification.  Like he could hold one foot high in the air while he scratches his back with his foot.  I would know that such a signal clearly means either, "Would you help me jack off?" or "I sure would appreciate a blow job from an experienced man.  I'm tired of getting them from all these incompetent women."

If none of that works, I'm going to give up on Tommy and begin my patient work on his brother who will be nineteen next summer.  Hey, that's legal by three years in this state!

Sorry that I didn't help you get off, but at your age you really should learn to do it without my help.  Just come up with your own mental ending for what happens when Tommy returns in a few weeks.  Don't tell me about it, though. is a "PG rated" (okay, sometimes a strong "R") community for gay, bisexual and bi-curious men to share their first hand, true stories of coming out, same-sex dating and relationships.  We invite you to participate with true descriptions only.

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