(No warnings. You know why you're here. This story is set in a wonderful, terrible year, so you might learn some obscure history while you're getting your rocks off. I sort of remember that year, although I passed a good part of it doing acid and smoking a magnificent opiated Nepalese hash they called "surfboard," which figures into this story. This tale never really happened, but I wish it had. Hell, I wish it would happen tomorrow -- but it won't.

This story is pornier and, perhaps, a little less literary than most of my shit, but I think it may give you a feel for that famous "sexual revolution" most of you probably missed -- and how important it was to those of us in the perv community. Life was different back then.

There will be only three parts, so if you like reading your stories straight through, you won't have long to wait for parts 2 & 3, and have your extended wankfest.

1969 is public domain, free of all copyright protection. Steal it if you are so inclined. Although the story is free, Nifty is not. Go to http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html and make a tax deductible contribution.)

1969

Part One

So, my recent degree in journalism had won me a job rewriting and editing classified ads for a local weekly that consisted, mostly, of classified ads. My job was important, because most of those who placed those ads were, at best, semi-literate, and readers might not have had any idea what those assholes were advertising without my editorial help. They should have let me edit the "local news" and the "columns" too, but they didn't. Anyway, for just seven grand a year, they'd already bought enough of my talent.

The story begins with me driving home on a Friday evening in my 1957 Buick Special, a couple of weeks into the grand new year of 1969. I had hopes for sixty-nine, numerologically speaking, for obvious reasons. It turned out to be not so wonderful as I'd hoped, because I wound up spending most of it in Vietnam, but it started out quite nicely.

People still hitchhiked back then. Privileged to own a twelve-year-old car, I picked up most of those I saw -- just not those who looked too crazy or too smelly. Well, unless they looked like a boy. I picked up all of those. They called us "chicken hawks" back then, and young boys were "chicken."

So, I was headed down the main drag into town when I saw this boy with his thumb out. He looked kind of underdressed for the January chill, but he could have been wearing a parka, and I still would have stopped for him. He was a boy.

"How far are you going?" I asked.

"I don't care," he answered me. "Like, I just had to warm up. It's fucking cold out there."

"Well, where do you live?" I asked. "I'll drive you home."

"Not going home," he replied. "Not while George is there."

He was totally open about it. George was kind of his mother's boyfriend, a long-haul trucker who came to town every couple of weeks. George was inclined to smack him around -- and his mother too, but he didn't care about that. If she was stupid enough to keep welcoming him back, she deserved to get smacked around.

"Usually I can stay at my friend Ryan's house, but they're out of town for the weekend," he told me. "Like, I just have to get by on my own this time."

I figured he was about the same age as my car. The hippie-length hair sticking out from under his stocking cap was dirty blond, and his face was pretty cute. And he wasn't a fatty. Hell, even if he'd been a fatty, I'd have offered him a spot on my couch for the night. Since he wasn't a fatty, though, I was thinking about getting him to sleep over in my bed.

"Stay at my place," I said.

"Which means you'll want me to suck your cock," he answered.

Yes, he'd read me pretty accurately. Just the same, I said, "You can sleep on the couch, and I won't make you do anything you don't like. If you wanted to fool around, I wouldn't say no, but I won't bother you -- except, maybe, for the sound of me jerking off all night."

He thought that was pretty funny, and laughed. Then he said, "Well, maybe you could jerk me off. Another hand feels different. It feels good."

"Just ask," I told him "and ye shall receive. I'm Jeff."

"Howie," he replied. "But my friends call me Hoover."

Things were looking up.

..........

We climbed the stairs to the converted attic I rented from the old lady who lived in the house below. It wasn't much, but for forty bucks a month, I wasn't complaining. Also, she was just about stone deaf, so I could play the stereo as loud as I wanted and she never complained.

"Shit, it's hot up here," Hoover observed. It was. The old lady always was cold, and she had the only thermostat in the house downstairs.

"I'll open the windows," I told him. There was one at the front of the attic and one at the back, so if you left the inside door open between my two rooms, some air could get through. "Usually, I just strip down to my underwear as soon as I walk in. Do you mind?"

"Okay by me," he said. When I started shucking off my clothes, he started doing the same, until he was standing there in just his little white socks and his little white underpants. I took a good, long look.

"Like, try not to drool on me," he commented. Yes, he was a funny kid.

I got a frozen lasagna out of the freezer and started heating the oven. Hoover was bent over by the cabinet where I kept my LPs, seeing what I had. I can only say I was transfixed by his ass, stretching out those little underpants, round and plump as an ass can be. I can't even begin to tell you how much I wanted that ass. I wanted to squeeze it, and kiss it, and rub my face all over it. I tried not to think about fucking it, because if I didn't get to do it -- and I figured I probably wouldn't -- the disappointment would have been just too great.

It would take over an hour before the lasagna was done, back in the days before microwave ovens, but eating could wait. I always kept a jug of cheap California wine in the refrigerator -- usually Chablis, but I didn't mind chilling the Burgundy either. I was no wine snob, by any means. I just bought what was cheap and not entirely terrible. Then, there was the hash.

They called it "surfboard." It was black hash, with a white marbling. It was opiated, and hallucinogenic. The grass mostly sucked in those days, but the hash was very, very good. I got out the Sucrets box which held my hash, the razor blade I used to slice it up, and my little brass pipe made of lamp parts. Yes, lamp parts. That's how the head shops did it back then.

(Jesus, how I wish I had some of that surfboard right now.)

Hoover surprised me by putting on Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young instead of Hendrix. Then he sniffed my hash, which I'd fired up, and turned around. "Shit," he said, "that smells real good. What is it?"

"Hash," I replied. "Real good hash."

"I never tried hash," he said. "Like, we get a joint or two from Ryan's brother sometimes, but I never got to try hash."

"Come try it."

He did. He took a big toke, and he coughed, but it hit him right between the eyes. He got more than a little unsteady, and stumbled off backwards until he landed on my couch -- because my living room and kitchen were the same room. I took another hit, and poured myself a tumbler of Chablis. Then I sat there, just taking in the smooth expanse of his inner thighs and the cute little bulge in his underpants.

I would get him stoned, I decided. Really, really stoned. And maybe a little drunk too, but not so much he'd puke on me. I gestured to him with my lamp part pipe. He managed to get to his feet, and came over walking kind of sideways. He didn't object when I pulled him onto my lap and put the stem of the pipe in his mouth. He took a smaller toke than the first time, then another.

I put the pipe down so I would have a hand free to stroke those beautiful thighs. He let his head fall against my shoulder, so I pulled him in against me. Then I thought, "What the fuck," and kissed his cute face, but I didn't grab for his dick or even his sweet round ass. It would wait until after we'd eaten our lasagna.

..........

By the time the lasagna was cooked, we'd eaten two sleeves of Ritz crackers with sardines and mayonnaise and marshmallow fluff. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young kept playing over and over until I finally got up to shut it off. We finished off the lasagna in about five minutes. That surfboard was some good shit.

"Oh man," Hoover told me, "I gotta get my head together."

"Television," I said. "Works every time." I led him into the bedroom and turned on my thirteen inch black and white TV. I didn't switch the dial around looking for anything, I just let it play whatever was on whatever channel the dial was turned to. I think it might have been a John Wayne movie, but who can remember so long after?

"Jeff," he said, "I'm dizzy."

"Just hold onto me and watch the movie," I answered. "You'll be okay again real soon."

He grabbed onto me hard, turned his face towards the TV, and relaxed a little. I kissed him some more, which got him to grin. It was looking like he liked it.

"Hoover," I asked, "would you mind too much if I put my hand down the back of your underpants?"

"Oh, why not?" he said with a little sigh. "You already felt me up pretty much everyplace else."

I gently lodged my finger between those wonderful ass cheeks. I guess John Wayne saved the day, as usual, but the movie was over when I woke up from my nap. Well, I guess you'd say I got woken up. Hoover was sitting on my chest, giggling hard, and tickling my nose with the end of a hank of his dirty blond hippie hair.

I pulled my arms out from under his knees, and pushed him over backwards. Then I lifted him up by his waist, so he hung upside down, with his legs in the air and his long hair tickling my chest. He liked that a lot, and it was a good thing my landlady was stone deaf. I kind of rocked him back and forth, then plopped him down so we lay face to face, and I held him there and kissed him some more.

When I let him go, he climbed back up and tried to pin me again. So, once again, I pushed him backwards, picked him up by his waist, hung him upside down, swung him back and forth, then plopped him down on his belly. He got some more kisses.

On the third try, when I had him upside down, I hooked my thumbs in his underpants and let him drop right out of them, so his bare ass landed right in front of my face. He got some more kisses, but not on his face that time, and I wrapped my arms around him to hold him in place. He never stopped giggling while I nibbled at his perfect ass, making stupid growly animal noises. Then he grabbed one of my hands which had been holding him around his belly and pushed it at his crotch.

Yes, he was rock hard, and I held that little cock and balls in my hand while I pushed my face up between those luscious ass cheeks and poked my tongue at his hole. By then he was less giggling and more panting, and energetically humping at my hand. Not long after that, he was making a lot of noise, and wiggling around like an epileptic. It was a really good thing my landlady was deaf. That delicious ass got hard, and soft, and hard, and soft again. Can you have an orgasm with your face? Maybe I did.

Not long after that, I felt a little moisture on my palm. It wasn't much, but it was something -- not enough to lick, but enough to rub into his belly. He kind of collapsed on me then, and I just ran my tongue up and down his crack a couple more times.

So that's how you do it, you perverts. Find a boy with the proper inclinations, get him stoned, and make it into a game. Okay, I never planned it that way -- it just kind of happened, and I know it's not 1969 anymore. It won't ever be '69 again, not in my lifetime. But back then it was, and I was thinking it was only January. All I could think of was '69 with Hoover. It was a lovely thought.

(If you wish you'd been around back then, or if you were, write to heedon@tormail.org )