Date: Wed, 07 Oct 2009 21:14:28 -0400
From: das__auto@hushmail.com
Subject: The Fourth of July

July Fourth was never really a big deal for me or my family.
Although my dad was a veteran and had fought in WWII and my mum was
a school teacher, we never decorated our house in the standard
patriotic garb of the neighborhood, nor did we ever attend a group
picnic or barbecue. Nevertheless, like most people, we did enjoy
the annual fireworks at our local community park.  The lack-of-
hoopla on my family's part has left me pretty barren of any fond
July Fourth memories.  However, there is one Fourth of July that I
will remember forever.

I had just finished ninth grade.  My uncle called my mum to tell
her that my maternal grandfather had had a heart attack and was in
critical condition in hospital.  Fearing the worst of events, my
folks decided on traveling to see my grandfather.  Due to the
logistics of the situation, it was determined that my younger
brother and I would go to a neighbor's and my little sister would
go to Nonie's house (her sixty-some years-old Italian babysitter)
for a few days.  We all packed overnight bags and then were
shuttled to the appropriate locations.  Once reassured by our
neighbors and Nonie not to worry about anything, my folks quickly
departed.

Our neighbors, the Schroeders, were nice people.  They had two sons
the same age as my brother.  In fact, Jeremy and Nate were my
brother's classmates and they both played on my brother's baseball
team.  Unlike my family, the Schroeders loved to celebrate July
Fourth.  In fact, this particular year, Mrs. Schroeder decided to
pepper their annual family barbecue by inviting a few friends.   I
don't remember what the head count was, but I was able to lose
myself in the crowd of people that attended.

The food was bountiful and good, and the beer (they were all
drinking Michelob) and vodka (Stolichnaya-- was the first vodka I
ever drank!) were flowing like water from the kitchen sink.  No one
really monitored the beverage station, so I helped myself to a few
drinks.  I remember enjoying getting high, but the next morning I
had one hell of a headache.  The barbecue was quite exciting.  The
Schroeders had an awesome sound system and music emanated from rock-
looking exterior stereo speakers.   Some people were swimming in
the pool, others were in the hot tub, and then there were other
guests who preferred eating, drinking, and socializing all over the
side and back patios.

Eventually dusk came and with it a barrage of Chinese fireworks.
From what I learned, Mr. Schroeder religiously trekked all the way
to Virginia to make his annual firework purchases.  At the time,
although perhaps even today--I am not sure; one could not purchase
fireworks in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.  Looking back, I am
really surprised that the police never stopped by to issue a
citation.  Of course, I suppose the police were more concerned
about people drinking and driving.

Despite the occasional sparkler, the exterior patio lighting, and
the votive luminaries, it grew darker.  The combination of alcohol,
overeating and the heat made me sleepy.  I dozed off for a while,
but woke up to the massaging of my shoulders. It felt so good.
When I arched my neck backwards at the man who was making me feel
so good, he simply smiled down at me and whispered, "I missed you
at the baseball park last week.  Where have you been?"

I must have stopped breathing because I got really light-headed.
My heart raced and I felt hot all over.  I turned, looked down at
his feet, and noticed the red Nike sneakers.  My right arm feel to
my side and my hand was groping his crotch.  I knew this guy; we
met about a week and a half ago in the mens restroom in the
baseball park.

"I'm surprised to see you here kid.  Guess we have some friends in
common.  My name is Larry."  He was now kneading my shoulders and I
was melting like butter to his touch.  I moaned a little as he
pushed his crotch into the side of my face.  "Fuck yeah.  You have
me so hot.  Here let me help you."  Quickly and efficiently, Larry
unzipped his shorts and out popped his stiff rod.  I couldn't see
it, but I remembered his sweet smell and the taste of his sugary
pre-cum.  We were hidden by complete darkness since the candles on
the table and the luminaries had burned out, but I was able to see
other people sitting across the patio eating, drinking, and
talking.  In retrospect, the scene was very surreal.  I was sucking
the cock of a man whom I had met in a public restroom.....at my
neighbor's house in front of God knows how many people.  (Sex
always seemed to make me more daring, or terribly stupid.). Anyway,
while Larry was fucking my face, I pulled out my dick and was
masturbating fiercely.  Although he shot in my mouth several times,
I kept swallowing his cum.  As I downed Larry's last shot, he
quickly removed his cock from my mouth, and fell to his knees.
Initially, I thought he had simply collapsed because of his
ejaculation, but he didn't.  He grabbed my dick and sucked it into
his mouth.  A few seconds later, I came with such a shudder that
Larry had to shove several fingers into my mouth to quiet me.

"Look, I'd really like to stay and play more, but I really need to
go look for my wife.  I hope to see you soon."  I continued to suck
hard on his fingers.  I didn't want him to go.  "Hey...I'll see you
again soon, kid.  However, I really have to go now."  Larry quietly
withdrew his fingers from my mouth, zipped up and began to briskly
walk away.  "Larry," I called after him, "my name is Justin."  I
didn't think that he heard me, but I promised myself that we would
somehow see each other again.

My folks returned two days later.  My grandfather was out of
danger, but he remained in the hospital for a few more days for
observation. The Schroeders were kind not to mention my little
hangover to my parents.  I guess they thought my headache the next
morning was punishment enough.   I learned later that Larry was a
full time firefighter and lived only a few miles  from me.  About
two moths later, however, I experienced the most bizarre thing.  I
met Larry's wife, Mrs. Johnston, at school.  She was the librarian
at my parochial high school!


Thank you for taking the time to read my story.  Comments of praise
or criticism are always welcome.  Please send them to
das__auto@hushmail.com.