(It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and it wasn't the French Revolution. It was 1969, and I wish I had a time machine. Now pretty much sucks, in my opinion.

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1969

Part Two

Hoover's little stiffie, cradled there in my hand while he was humping, was what you would call a little thing, but growing. I mean, it wasn't a little little boy penis, but it had a ways to go to look teen aged. I wouldn't have minded too much if he'd already sprouted a little bit of bush, but he hadn't. That was good. Bush on a boy holds a little too much funky aroma, and I never liked those curlies going up my nose and making me sneeze.

I was getting a great deal of pleasure, you might imagine, from licking his little pink rosebud while he was fucking my hand. Okay, a boy's asshole can get pretty funky too, but he must have showered after he shit that morning, because he smelled and tasted just fine. As I mentioned, he arched his back and squirted a tiny bit of something into my hand, and when he went limp I rubbed it into his belly.

I licked and nibbled his hot little bottom a little more, then said, "Well, you said you wanted me to jerk you off. How'd I do?"

"It felt real good," he answered, "but a little weird. Like, I mean, you were licking my asshole. And I shit from there."

"Yeah," I replied, "but you've got the cutest ass I've ever seen." I nuzzled it again. "I just couldn't help myself."

"Well, you better brush your teeth if you got any plans of Frenching me later."

"I'll use the Listerine. In the meanwhile, you can get the dope from the other room and we'll do another couple of hits."

I went to the bathroom and swished around some mouthwash, thinking how Hoover was a very special boy. Hell, hardly any boys his age would even consider tongue kissing, even with a girl. Granted, I was a pretty hot looking young guy in those days, but he still was a very special boy.

..........

So we fired up the pipe and had a couple more hits each, and I had some more wine to get the taste of the Listerine out of my mouth. While I was in the other room, I turned over the Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young album so we could listen to the other side, but I stacked up a few more records on the spindle. I'm pretty sure there was some Diana Ross, and I definitely remember Procol Harum's "Whiter Shade of Pale" playing a little later. That song, because of that night, still gets me hard.

The place had cooled down a lot, so I closed the front window but left the bedroom window open. Hoover just stayed naked. Well, I kind of pulled off his socks, because I wanted him all naked, and I got all naked too. He took hold of my dick, which was more than half hard, considering I hadn't cum yet. As soon as he touched it, it got all hard.

"It's a nice one," he told me. "Like, no ugly veins sticking out the way some guys have. Do you want to know why they call me Hoover?"

"I think I figured that one out," I said. He giggled a little, took me into his mouth, and sucked like a Hoover. I know I told him he didn't have to do that, and I suspected he might not have done me if he hadn't been so stoned, but I didn't raise any objections. Anyway, it wasn't his first time if his nickname was Hoover. Maybe the others were boys more or less his own age, and maybe he could only take the first three inches or so, but he worked the rest of my dick with one hand and rubbed my balls with the other.

I warned him. I told him I was real close to shooting my wad, but he didn't let up. Some dribbled out the sides of his mouth, but some of it he must have swallowed. In the background, Gary Brooker was singing, "We skipped the light fandango, turned cartwheels 'cross the floor..."

..........

We mostly hugged until the needle came off the last track, then swallowed some more Chablis to freshen up our mouths before we spent a while swapping spits. Yes, people still called it "Frenching" back then, and I'd never done it with a boy before. I'd tried it with a couple of girls when I was in high school, but doing it with Hoover was the first time I got to understand why people liked it so much.

My hand was back in his ass crack, of course, and I guess a finger got a little too inquisitive, because that was about when he rolled out of bed and turned the TV back on. He flipped the channels to Johnny Carson, and was happy to see that Professor Irwin Corey was on that night. If you are too young to remember Irwin Corey, he was part borscht belt comic and part anarchist, and Johnny Carson (whom you also don't remember) loved him.

We laughed our asses off, not entirely because we were stoned, but Professor Irwin Corey was enough to inspire another toke on the pipe. (I already was half a year in Nam when the song, "One Toke Over the Line" came on the radio, but -- sweet Jesus -- that's where I was that night.)

Something crazy happened in my brain about then, and I started crying. Who was I crying for? Him? Me? The world in general? I don't know. Something about watching Professor Irwin Corey on the Tonight Show with a sweet, hot, horny, really really vulnerable naked twelve-year-old in my arms was breaking my heart, and I couldn't stop sobbing. I was sobbing as hard as I'd been laughing a minute earlier.

Being a boy, Hoover's response to my craziness was mostly embarrassment. "Hey, man," he inquired, "what the fuck is wrong with you?"

How could I answer? I didn't have a clue what the fuck was wrong with me. I just hugged him harder, which probably made him even more uncomfortable. Then I said, "A little too stoned, I guess. Sorry. Got to come down."

I let go of him, not that I really wanted to, and lurched back into the kitchen/living room. I found the butt of an elderly salami and some slightly crusty American cheese in the refrigerator, and stuffed them into my mouth. I found half a fifth of vodka in the freezer, and poured a few fingers of it down my throat. It seemed to work, because I stopped sobbing and just stood there thinking what an asshole I was.

When I turned around, Hoover was standing there in the door to the bedroom, his kind of disheveled hippie hair brushing his narrow shoulders, his pinky-tan nipples looking at me almost as hard as his dark brown eyes, and his soft little dick hanging there over his cute balls. He was beautiful, slim but soft, unmarked, perfect. I almost started crying again.

"Like, you okay now?" he asked.

I couldn't really speak yet, but I nodded, and took another pull on the vodka.

Then I managed to say, "Yeah. Too much dope. You hungry?"

Really, you shouldn't try to fry bacon naked and stoned, but I guess the gods were with me because somehow I put plates of bacon and eggs on the table without putting any painful red dots on my stomach or, worse yet, my crotch. Hoover poured a little vodka in his Coke. We dumped the dirty dishes and frying pan into the sink with the other dirty dishes, and headed back to bed.

"Shit," he observed, "it feels like the whole room is spinning."

"You gonna puke?" I asked.

"I don't think so," he answered. "Just grab onto me so I don't fly away."

I pulled him close against me. I sure didn't want him to fly away. Back then, I was young and naive enough to dream of keeping him, never letting him fly away. Now, of course, I know better.

..........

It was a bad case of cotton mouth woke me up a few hours later, so I untangled myself from Hoover and from our messed up sheets and blanket so I could get to the refrigerator and find something cold to drink. He woke up while I was doing that, and asked, "Where you going?"

"Thirsty," I said. "You want something?"

"Any Coke left?"

"Not sure. I'll see." I stumbled into the next room, and opened the refrigerator. "No Coke," I called back. "No nothing. I could make some Tang."

He said okay. If you don't know about Tang, it was this bright orange stuff you mixed up from powder, and they said the astronauts took it up into space. It tasted something like orange soda you made with a chemistry set. I mixed up a pitcher of Tang with ice cubes to cool it down, and poured us a couple of glasses. I put the last of the vodka in mine.

Hoover had switched on the bedside lamp, and was sitting up on the edge of the bed, looking rumpled and cute. I handed him his glass, and he drank down about half of it. Then he said, "I bet you put the rest of the vodka in yours."

"You want some?" I asked.

"Nah," he said. "The room finally stopped spinning."

"You want your dick sucked?" I asked, thinking how cute he looked sitting there.

He finished his Tang, put the glass on the bedside table, and let himself fall backwards onto the bed, his legs still hanging over the edge. He didn't say anything. He just pointed at his soft little willy, which was starting to twitch a little as it thought about getting sucked. I didn't want to miss the getting hard part, so I put aside my Tang and vodka and dropped to my knees.

He was a little bit sweaty, so I tasted salt at first. As he hardened up in my mouth, the saltiness disappeared. If there was any pissiness, I didn't notice. It was just so nice feeling that cute little piece of boymeat stiffening against the roof of my mouth, then reaching down with my tongue to suck in his blossoming balls as well. He started wiggling very nicely.

I released his balls, pulled back a little, and ran the tip of my tongue all around his cockhead. His little peg was as stiff as it could be by then, and he panted as he tried to poke it as far into my face as it would go, over and over. Naturally, I had his amazing ass in my hands, and I felt it tightening and loosening and tightening and loosening as he humped at my mouth. I tongued up and down his shaft, then sucked in his tight nutsack again.

I wished I'd had some lube on my finger, because I figured he might not mind one a little way up his ass about then, but I wasn't about to interrupt his blowjob to find the Vaseline. He was having too much fun.

I lifted his legs a little so I could feel his perfectly smooth inner thighs on the sides of my face. It was about then he clamped them tight around my head, thrust forward as far as he could, grunted "Oh God," and shot his little load. I didn't get to find out how it tasted because it went right past my tongue and down my throat. Well, I suppose I got to milk one last little dribble as he began to soften, but it didn't taste like much of anything at all. I figured he was still shooting blanks.

Anyway, when he finally tossed his load, so did I, without even touching myself. It was the first time that ever happened. I finished him off with some little kisses all around his groin area and up to his belly. The belly kisses made him giggle.

"Like, that felt good," he told me. "Should I do you now?"

"No," I replied, "I just shot a puddle of cum on the floor. If you get out of bed, don't slip in it."

I took a minute to straighten out the sheets and blanket and finish my Tang and vodka. Then we climbed back into bed, grabbed hold of each other, and fell back to sleep.

(More to come from heedon@tormail.org )