Date: Fri, 8 Nov 2013 02:48:58 -0800 (PST) From: John Michaels Subject: Discovering Jayson - Chapter 1 DISCOVERING JAYSON BY JM email: mmanlookin@yahoo.com Disclaimers and other info: This story will sometimes contain graphic scenes of sex between 2 males, one of which may be of illegal age (17) in your jurisdiction. If such material is illegal in your area or if you are under age to be reading such stuff, leave now, although what you do is up to you. You've been given proper warning. This story belongs in it's entirety to me. Do not reproduce it in any way without checking with me first. It is a total work of fiction, and any similarities to anyone living or deceased is purely coincidental. I'm trying to create a believable story and not trying to piss someone off. The only thing recognizable will be the geographic location near the Okeefenokee Swamp in southeast Georgia. There will be no actual towns mentioned, although there may be a few historical facts thrown in. Not sure about that yet. Haven't gotten there. As with all my writings, this one will evolve as it goes. And if you're looking for fast, frequent and hot j.o. material, then you'd better look elsewhere. The main focus of this story, as with the others I've written, will be centered on relationships, family and love. But yeah. There will be sex involved----eventually, but probably not the steamy kind a lot of you may be looking for. I'm hoping that the story itself will hold the reader's attention. I've been told more than a few times that I write a good tale. I hope you find it so here. And please consider a donation of whatever amount you can comfortably afford to the good folks at Nifty who work hard and long hours to bring you the many stories on their site. It takes money to keep this a free site for the readers. Please send any amount to http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html. And thanks. CHAPTER ONE It was a hot, steamy day as I pulled up to the large, squat cinder-block building that was the local senior center and soup kitchen, and I was so very grateful for the air conditioning in my 12-year old Civic. The car may not look like much, but everything that really counted - engine, drive train, transmission, suspension, etc. - were all in top-notch condition. I made damn sure of that on a regular basis. I know I could have easily afforded a new car if I wanted. Hell!! I could have bought a half-million dollar Lamborghini if I wanted. I guess you'd have to say, I'm fucking loaded!! But living and working here in south Georgia, even my 12-year old car is a luxury to most, and doing the type of volunteer work that I do, it's necessary for me to keep things under the radar and blend in. It's the quickest and easiest way to build the trust that's needed when working with the needy and elderly, which is what I do, besides writing. To everyone who knows me, I'm just that nice young man that lives out by the Swamp who writes books. Only the members board of directors have any clue about my true wealth, and even then, just a small fraction of it. I have their sworn secrecy to never divulge the name of the benefactor behind the Center and its services. I even have them sign a non-disclosure statement that I had my lawyer in Savannah draw up. It even covered for when they might leave the board, and every new member had to sign. Threatening to pull the plug on the financing was also a huge motivation for them to keep their mouths shut. I even had the Center built with my own money, having decided several years ago that this remote area was going to be my home and witnessing the abject poverty around me. The humanitarian inside me screamed for action, so I took on the task of doing what I could to ease the burden of the locals. I have no problem letting the board members be the public face. They can take all the accolades, as far as I'm concerned. My greatest satisfaction is knowing that I'm doing a lot of good in the community. I work here at the center 5 days a week, even though there's no money involved for me. Everything I do here is strictly volunteer. The Center serves 5 small surrounding communities, and we even have a 12-passenger van, donated anonymously (ahem), that goes around every day, picking up those who have need for the Center's services but don't have their own transportation. I have a budding career as a novelist, and I already have a modest but steady income that more than covers all my expenses. I also blushingly admit that I have a huge trust fund, left me by my grandparents, that I was able to have complete control over on my 24th birthday, and I was now 28. It was the income generated by this fund that was financing everything here. The only money I used personally from the trust was to build my house. But the thing is, my needs are few and my wants, simple. In fact, I had everything any guy like me could want or need. Except love. I guess I'd better introduce myself and give you some background, so you'll know who's telling the story. My name is Eric Clarkson, and, as I said before, am 28 years old. And let's get the info that you're probably all panting for out of the way. I'm 5'11, 160 lbs., with brown hair and hazel eyes. I have a swimmer's build with wide muscular shoulders, arms and pecs, a defined 6-pack, strong thighs and calves, a 29" waist and a 7 1/2" (hard) uncut cock and a large, snug ball sac with balls the size of medium-size hen's eggs. Because my balls are the snug type and not low-hangers, I always show a goodly bulge in pants and shorts, and will usually wear a jock to make it less obvious when I'm out and about. And I've been told by others that I'm fairly easy on the eyes. I hold a black belt in karate and like to run at least 2 miles every day. That, plus working out in my home gym and swimming laps in my pool that's hidden behind my house keep me in very good shape. I grew up in a rather ritzy suburb of Savannah, the only son of my dad, who's a neurosurgeon at the medical center, and mom, who's a psychologist. My dad is well-respected and one of the top in his field. His talents have been called upon from hospitals all over the US, Europe and Central and South America. Needless to say, he makes the big bucks - 7-figure yearly income. My mom is also well-known in her field, and several of her books on psychology are used as text books at a number of universities around the world, and while her income isn't as much as dad's, she still pulls down a healthy 300 grand a year. I guess it was from her that I got the writing gene. She was the one who practically raised me alone, since my dad was frequently off somewhere performing surgery, so it was a rare and very special time when he was able to be home for any extended period of time. Despite his frequent absences, we still had a close father/son bond, and I never felt deprived. Both my parents doted on me but didn't spoil me. Even though we had the money, and I'd get an allowance, it wasn't an exorbitant amount - enough for my school lunches and activities, going to the local teen hang-out after school for your typical teen junk food fix, a movie. Things like that. Of course, they also clothed me, but if there was something I just HAD to have - the latest fad clothes, video game, whatever - and it wasn't near Christmas or my birthday, then I had to earn the money. This could involve anything from mowing the lawn - almost 2 acres!! -, weeding the flower beds - a SHIT load!!! Mom was a gardening fanatic! -, cleaning the pool, washing the cars (3), and so on. Despite their healthy incomes, both Mom and Dad insisted that I had to work for those things that aren't normally provided by parents. And the thing is, I didn't mind. It felt good to know that I was actually earning money for something I wanted, and it made whatever the purchase was that much more meaningful. Oh, sure. I had to make the token adolescent grumblings, but it was all part of the act. I didn't fool them for a minute, although they'd play along with me. My parents did everything right to ensure I grew up to be a decent, responsible adult while always showering me with unconditional love. That meant more to me than any latest toy or clothing. The most gut-wrenching moment was when I knew I'd disappoint them when I came out as being gay. I had pretty much known that it was guys I was attracted to from about age 10. Seeing a cute boy and wondering what treasure lay behind his zipper always got my young cock hard. It was also about that time that I discovered the joys of masturbation quite by accident. I remember lying on my bed, thinking about this one boy at school that really got my attention, and the inevitable hardening took place in my cock. I grasped it and was slowly stroking it, noticing that it got to feeling better and better. Before I knew what was happening, I was in the throes of my very first dry cum. It scared the hell out of me, until I realized that it was the most incredible feeling I had ever experienced, so, since I was still hard, I stroked it again. And again. Eight times without stopping I brought myself off until I simply had to stop. My poor peter was feeling a bit tender, although I'm sure I had a huge grin on my face. From that time on, I decided that maybe just a few times would be enough then give it a rest for a while. And it gave something to look forward to later. I finally settled into a routine of about 4 times a day - once when I first woke up, since it was always hard then anyway, once after school - or mid-afternoon if it was vacation - and usually twice before falling asleep. I shot my first watery load just before I turned 12, just about the time the first few, wispy pubic hairs emerged, and up until then, for some of these times, I'd get started by thinking of some cute boy. As the pubertal hormones began racing through me, I found that I was always fantasizing about one boy or another as I brought myself off. Girls never once entered into my mind when I jerked off. For some reason, I never told my best friend, Jimmy Long, about my jerking off, until one day, when we were both about 13, I got up the nerve and asked him if he ever jerked off. He hesitantly admitted that he did and asked if I did, too. I told him I did, and before he went home that day, we had both shot two small loads each. I spent the entire time watching him pleasure himself, and noticed that he was also keeping an eye on my stroking fist. We ended up doing this just about every time he came over or I went to his house, and it wasn't too long before we were jerking off each other. The feeling of a "foreign" hand on my cock that first time caused me to blow the biggest load ever, one shot even shooting over my head. Jimmy was no slouch, either, although his only reached his neck, but it was the farthest either of us had shot up until that time. I really wanted us to take things to the next level with blow jobs, but sadly, it never got beyond hand jobs. As we got older, Jimmy's interest turned to girls, and things between us gradually tapered off until they stopped altogether the day he started going out with Amy Washburn when we were 15. He made it very clear that there would be no more of that "gay" stuff, and I was crushed, although I hid my disappointment well. The rest of high school was silent torture, especially in the showers at school after P.E. or after a game, where it was a constant battle to keep my unruly cock from inflating with all that hot, young male flesh around. But I made it through, even managing to graduate as valedictorian of my class. I was headed to Dartmouth College in New Hampshire in the Fall. I had researched and found that they had quite an active gay community, as well as a course of study in journalism, and I hoped that I would finally be able to come out, be the "real" me and maybe find a boyfriend. My biggest hurdle was going to be telling my parents. It was about 2 weeks before I was to leave for college in the north when I finally took the plunge. My dad had been home for a couple of weeks with nothing looming on the horizon other than his regular duties at the medical center, and things had been fairly routine there, too. He'd been managing to get home in time to relax for a while before dinner, and Mom was on a short sabbatical and was well rested. This seemed like the best time to drop my bomb, so after dinner, I asked them if I could talk to them about something important. I noticed Mom glance at Dad with a small smile and a nod. What was that all about?!? Once they had turned their attention back to me, I decided to just blurt it out and get it over with. Kind of like taking off a band-aid. Pull it off slowly, and it hurts longer than just ripping it off quickly. So, taking a deep breath, I did it the quick-pain way. "Mom, Dad, I'm gay, and I've known it for a long time now." Then, I waited for the explosion. Which never came. Both of them looked me with soft, sad smiles and Mom said, "We know." My mouth dropped open in shock. They went on to tell me that they'd known for several years. When I asked them how they knew, Mom pointed out that as a psychologist, she's trained to look for signs in people that will help her to better understand them so she can provide the type of help they need. She said that a lot of times, it's what people don't say that provides the best clues. She said that in my case, I never dated, although I did go out with a few girls just as friends; that I never talked about girls and certainly never brought one home to "meet the 'rents". I did, however, talk about guys at school, and any friends I brought to the house were always male. Dad had been quietly listening up until now, so I asked him how he felt about it. He told me that he was glad I finally felt comfortable enough to tell them, but that he was a bit sad, because being a guy man in the South - or anywhere - is never easy. He said that they hoped I would someday find the right guy for me, but in the meantime, that I should move cautiously into the gay life at college. He advised me to wait until I found someone with whom there was a mutual connection before jumping into any kind of sexual activity, and then, to always play it safe.. I translated that in my mind to "Don't be a slut!", and I have to admit that I agreed with him and told him so. I added that even though I may be at the smorgasbord, I didn't have to pig out. They both chuckled at the analogy, and said that's probably the best way to go about it. Our talk ended in a group hug that assured me of their unconditional love and support, and I knew that I would never do anything that would jeopardize that bond. My college years were filled with new and mostly wonderful experiences, although the biggest was being out on my own for the first time in my life. I had several relationships during those four years, the longest one being with my room mate my junior year. This could have easily grown into something permanent, but he was a senior and was going to living and working on the west coast. We both cared for each other deeply, and it was a wonderful year of exploration and discovery for both of us. We spent our last night together simply holding one another, each breaking down in tears at times throughout the night. There was no sex that night, just mutual grief and comfort. The next morning, I kissed him one last time and left the room as he finished packing. He'd be catching the bus in front of the Hopkins Center that would take him to Boston's Logan airport, and from there all the way across country to his new life. When I knew his bus had left, I went back to the room, and broke down again. I finally got the rest of my things packed and took a cab to the regional airport in Lebanon, where I'd catch a "puddle jumper" to LaGuardia, and from there, take the big commercial airline home to Savannah. My senior year at Dartmouth, I immersed myself in my studies, foregoing any kind of romantic entanglement. I had even requested - and got - a single room. I really missed Rick, my room mate, and for a while, over the summer, I couldn't help wonder if maybe we were meant to be together. We had kept in touch with emails and phone calls, but the frequency of both gradually dwindled and the messages got less and less personal, until I realized that he was moving on with his life, and I needed to do the same. During my final year, I decided that I wanted to try a career as a writer. I graduated with a degree in journalism, and with the cushion of the monthly stipend from my trust fund, I knew that living expenses wouldn't be a problem as I cranked out the "Great American Novel". My parents were delighted to have me move back in, though I told them that it would only be until I had enough money, either from my writing and/or until I reached the age when I'd have access to my trust fund to get my own place. I pounded away at my keyboard every day, my first attempt at writing something of this length flowing onto the screen. I made myself keep a regular schedule that approximated a normal work day, although there were times I spent longer when I was on a streak. And when the urges became simply too much, I'd hit the gay scene in town and always manage to get my pipes cleaned during those times. But it was my book that held my attention, and it took almost a year to finish, with revisions and all, and I had found a publisher that was willing to take me on. Once it had been accepted and sent off, I took some time off and just drove around the southern part of the state. That's how I happened upon the place I was now. I immediately fell in love with the area, which was dominated by the Okeefenokee Swamp. The rural-ness and somewhat mysterious aura of the place struck something deep within me, and I knew I'd found my new home. I was able to purchase the property outright with advance from my book, but it was another year before I was able to gain total control of my trust and build my house. Once it was built and I had moved in, it was then that I was really able to look around my new neighborhood and assess what I could do to help improve the lives of the folks who had proven to be a kind and generous sort. I established a blind trust that was what made the creation of the Center possible and the services it was able to provide. Which brings us up to the present, as I step out of my air conditioned car and into the sultry air and head inside for another day of doing what I can to help my neighbors. ***I hope you're enjoying it so far, even though not a lot happens - just "setting the stage", so to speak. Things will start to pick up in the next chapter. I hope you'll stick around for it.***