Date: Thu, 27 Jul 2023 18:57:34 +0000 From: kleiner.gespenst Subject: Lessons from the Granny Flat | Part 1 ======= Recollections of a boy's sexuality emerging in middle school, and the conflicts it created - until he meets an older mentor. This story features consensual sex between a few boys, and one college student. If this work of utter fiction violates your local laws or your moral code, close the tab. If you enjoy this story, or any of the works here on Nifty, please chip in to keep the lights on: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html ====================== You know how certain aromas gut punch you with a particular feeling, even drag you back to a particular time and place? That's what sandalwood incense does to me. People don't burn it much these days, but they don't need to disguise weed smoke anymore. Anyway, it was burning in a hippie's antiques store in Copper Harbor, this afternoon. On a whim, my husband and I had stepped in to browse, and - wham! That woody, leather scent almost dropped me, filling my brain with memories of a college sophomore kneeling between my 13-year-old legs, giving me very first blow job. But well before that college boy rented out our detached guest house, and opened me up (in more ways than one), I was already a penis enthusiast, a budding erotic adventurer who needed just a little encouragement to find different routes to conquer Trouser Mountain. It was the summer I turned ten that an erogenous hurricane hit my fleshy southern latitude, in tandem with a change in the literal weather. A freak heat wave settled over Boise in July. Like most houses in Idaho, we didn't have air conditioning. In fact, we had a total of two working fans that first sweaty night, which we put in the hallway, leaving our doors open, and everyone sweat it out on top of our beds. I don't know about you, but I don't sleep well in the heat. I was tossing and turning and greasy wet in the hot, still air, in nothing but my underpants. With all that movement, inadvertently dragging my groin to and fro across my bed, my tiny boy bean flourished into a small stalk, stretching my sweat soggy briefs. Restlessly squirming face down on the mattress, I stumbled over the same discovery countless boys have made through history: rubbing one's blood-engorged joy stick against a bed created the sort of enthralling friction that demanded yet more friction. A kind of animal need swept away my sweaty fatigue, and I pumped with a fever-dream determination. As I thrust more violently, I bit into my pillow to stifle my moans (though that did little to silence my bedsprings, as I learned later from my big sister, Sarah). In moments, I thought I was going to pee - and I didn't care if I did! Over the years - even once a few months before - I'd had a few nocturnal accidents, and Mom had long-before coached me through changing the sheets without waking the house. And just then, I would have painted the house in pee, if that's where this feeling was going! I went berserk, and throttled my bed with savage desire; my little pole plowing back and forth again and again. Who knows how long I'd been fucking the furniture before strange muscles crinkled behind my tiny nuts, and a pulsating lightning storm burst out of me. My whole body convulsed uncontrollably. I'd never felt anything as good as the itchy tingles quaking through my dick, and shooting out my tummy. I was panting, delirious from the amazing sensations, (and amazed I hadn't peed myself). And within moments, I was sound sleep. Of course, the next day, I panicked that I might have broken my personal plumbing. I wished I'd had a big brother to talk to about these things. Bringing it up with my dad was out of the question. His "birds and the bees" lecture a year before had lasted 5 minutes, muttering about body hair and body odor, while making sex sound like injection molding a baby. According to my dad, the reason boners occasionally struck was some mistake of nature, and the idea that an erection was really a plaything never came up. Years later, Dad admitted he'd been horrified by the idea of his son sexually maturing, and just wanted The Talk over with. Thank God his only son was gay, or he'd have been a grandfather well before I was mature enough to be a dad. Anyway, with nowhere else to turn, my best friend, Justin became my confidant and biology lab partner. Recreating the test conditions at his house a couple of days later, I pulled down his top sheet and blanket, then dropped my 80's short-shorts. Justin giggled at my insistence he do the same. But in that heat wave, he was ready to strip to his underwear anyway, just to watch TV. Side-by-side, with our young cocks grinding into his bed, our silly chatter melted away, and our laughter turned to determined grunts. I was fascinated by his buttocks, stretching his briefs as they rose, before slamming down with increasing brutality. I couldn't understand why his cotton-wrapped buns were so enticing, but I reached over to give them a squeeze. Even now, through skin memory, I recall that the side of his snug underpants was ribbed, because it felt like parallel valleys of warmth that I could have strummed like a harp, while the back panel of his undies was thick and soft against my index and second finger. It was like flakey puffed pastry filled with the sweetest meat. His sigh was the kind you make when your tongue drags over over the first ice cream of the summer. Copying me, he reached over to squeezed my ass, but firmly, like a tennis ball, and seemed use it as leverage for even harder plunging. In minutes, with gasping convulsions, Justin became a confirmed mattress molester. Maybe days later, one of us figured out that pillows were even better to plow. Sometimes, we'd do it facing one another, giggling at each other's delighted but determined expressions. More often than not, though, we did it side-to-side, sharing skin-to-skin contact, while giggling and grunting in our combined naughtiness. At home alone, I'd bunch my pillow width-wise, creating an ass-like crevice I could pretend was Justin's bottom, and I'd fuck it until my dick was spent and sore. Jeez, at ten, I could do it 4 or 5 times in a row without stopping. Not long after that, during sleepovers, we'd forgo the pillows, grinding our groins together in face-to-face ecstasy. With our erections held firmly in place by our snug underpants, his cock felt glorious, pushing against mine. It was so hard, and made mine sparkle. When Justin joked that one of us was gonna get pregnant, I was thunderstruck with revelation - finally understanding that sex was about so much more than the drab sperm-and-egg choreography my dad had described. At the same time, though, neither of us was even close to producing baby batter. Of course, I'm making it sound like this was our only pastime; that we were obsessive little pervs focused 24/7 on cock frolics. Memory's a fickle thing, and these are the recollections that withstood the test of time. In reality, most of our summer days were dedicated to the usual things boys got up to before the advent of mobile phones: biking, fishing, exploring creeks, shooting hoops, and playing war with other boys in the forest. I have better memories of skinny dipping with my friends than earning medals at swim meets. But most of the specifics or our days are lost to time, except for those that made the most important impressions. I can still remember the afternoon Justing and I finally figured out our hands were vastly more efficient instruments to use on our tools. After a long day of biking, we ended up stripping to our undies in my backyard, with the garden hose spraying sweet relief over our skinny, rubbery bodies. Screaming with laughter, we found a lot of terrain that garden hose had never before visited, and soon enough, we were rolling around in a filthy mess on the lawn. Justin reached into my mud-slathered briefs, and filled his fingers with my raging hardness for the first time. I don't know why we hadn't directly explored each others rigid little bones before, but I quickly followed suit. His hand made me squeal, because it tickled exquisitely. At the same time, I loved clasping his throbbing little meat. Thank God no one was home, because our undies went flying, and we rolled savagely, giggling and grunting in the loam. Our fingers moved with the same motion we'd learned through humping. But now, that lovely friction surrounded our dicks, rather than just the undersides. I couldn't get enough of his pulsating flesh in my fingers. Lying on our sides, grinning widely at one another, we laughed and gasped and groaned as we pulled each other off, with the total trust only best friends can know. And when he shuddered, crying out in the hot afternoon, the sensation of his little prick flexing in my fingers was almost as good as when my little cock's violent dry vomiting. Still hard in each other's grip, we closely inspected one another, talking in awe about our latest discovery. We repeated the experiment again, just to see if we got the same results. And a couple more times, just for the scientific record, of course. I think the only reason we stopped is because we heard the garage door opening, and we scrambled to pull on our underwear, and hose one another off. Once 5th grade started, thanks to Justin's forest fort, we eventually initiated most of our school friends into the secrets of boy toy joy - something that came in very handy during Cub Scout campouts. As prepubescents, we were always racing for the climactic tingles, never stopping to savor the sensations on the way. And after we'd all climaxed, we'd be on our way to something else, like trading baseball cards or having dirt clod fights. On through 6th grade, forest circle jerks were gratuitous (if discrete), and way less important than winning a Little League game or earning a Scout merit badge. Well, for most of my friends, that is. I was often at the center of the storm, initiating things, and I only grew more eager to wrestle friends, just so I could slip my finger in their pants, making them squeal with tickle squeezes, at the very least. And I took every opportunity to check out my friends when we changed clothes, which never failed to make me hard. They'd just laugh at my erections, and call me "boner boy," not really connecting the dots. Meanwhile, I was puzzling over why I craved to see them naked, and how come I was always instigating mutual masturbation more frequently than most. At night, with my hands buried in my soft, snug briefs, I'd replay what we'd done, then imagine doing other things with Justin, or another friend, Billy; things that I couldn't explain. I wanted to caress my friends all over, from head to toe. Worse - I wanted to kiss them, like a boy kissing a girl - a secret I chained in my deepest shame pit. I even wanted to kiss their cocks. But why?? And there's the thing. Sometime in 6th grade, many of my friends had discovered girls, and talked about which classmates they wanted to fuck (as if they had any clue coitus would be any different from a fistful of hand lotion). They started bringing purloined Playboys and Penthouse magazines to the fort. While furiously pumping one another, their gazes were glued to crusty-page photos of naked women. Though boobs and snatches grossed me out, I pretended to go along with it. Yet the only thing that pushed me over the finish line was discretely watching knobs appearing and disappearing in my friends' furious fists. One day Andy proudly showed us how he could spunk (really, just bubbles of clear drool from his hairless, 2-inch tool), and we all touched it out of curiosity. Most pretended to be grossed out, including me. And yet, when no one was looking, I guiltily sucked on my finger, kind of liking the vaguely sweet flavor. Later, replaying that moment in my mind that night, I came so hard - puffing dry desert air from my rabidly vomiting little cock - I passed out. A few times after that, I coupled up with Andy in the fort jerk-offs, milking his spurts into my hand - though I made sure he never saw me licking it clean. Anyway, a month into 7th grade, my friends were either pussy-crazed, or pretending to be, conversationally obsessed with different girls at middle school. I couldn't understand why I wasn't swept up in the same madness, though I knew it had something to do with my growing penis obsession. I chalked it up to a phase, since I was still on the physically childish curve of middle school kids. The alternative was too terrible to contemplate, and there was a term for it that boys used as an insult. Studying my utterly hairless 12-year-old body in my bedroom mirror, I was sure that I'd grow interested in girls when my first pubes appeared. If only my smooth little balls would drop, as well. Half of my peers were like me, behind the puberty curve. Yet they bragged about asking various girls out, and a couple had even gotten to first base (or so they claimed), while I couldn't care less. And my clumsy seductions were becoming less welcome with some of them, even greeted with disgust by John (who, a year earlier, had been enthusiastic about penis play). But puberty is an effective friendship filter. Friends-since-first-grade fade into the background, while new people enter your life. There were so many cute boys I befriended in 7th grade, just in the hopes that they might want to "experiment." But caught in the twilight zone between childhood and adolescence, I had no idea how to talk my way into a new friend's pants without becoming a social pariah. Our crew dissipated, and Justin abandoned his fort. The plywood shanty had become a party palace for older teens with beer and weed, and no longer a refuge for young boys. Seemingly overnight, jerk-off Xanadu was no more. Still, Justin was always eager for a joint jerk at either of our houses, and never bothered bringing a stroke book. That was should have been a clue about my best friend, but I remained clueless. "We're both just horny kids, Tommy," he'd always say. But even with my best friend, I couldn't broach the fact that boys really turned me on, while girls didn't. I dedicated my spare time to swim practice. I'd work out my frustrations with meditative muscle straining. Still, after showering with boys 10-17, trying not stare at rivulets of water cascading from slender, well-toned buttocks, I'd bicycle home at lightning speed, always well before my parents returned from work. Most days, I'd race past my older sister with barely a word of greeting, before slamming my bedroom door shut. Sarah always tossed out some wise ass remark like, "Get a new hobby, queer bait. You'll give that thing gangrene." Sarah had me figured out. I wasn't diving into homework. No, I was diving into my underpants, to play with my best buddy. I adored jerking off, and no sooner were my jeans and tighty whities bunched around my ankles, and my ass bouncing on my mattress, than my fist was flying. And in my mind's eye floated images of slender swimmers. If I had time, I'd rub my hairless cock to 3 dry orgasms before mom got home from work. But I was always racing to get those glorious tingles as quickly as possible, with a technique that hadn't much evolved since the Summer of Discovery in my tenth year. Deep down, I grasped the unendurable truth about myself, yet clutched at denial. I couldn't use the word "gay" about myself. My parents said homosexuality was a mental disorder, and I didn't want to be...couldn't be... When my dad came home unexpectedly early one day, and walked in on Justin and me wanking one another, he didn't get mad. He just walked out, while we frantically pulled our clothes back on. Then he sat us down and told us we were getting too old to be playing "grab ass." The next day, I found a goddam Playboy on my desk. And a new one there every month for at least a year. Thanks, Dad? Days later, at Justin's place, a gentle argument about the NBA turned into a wrestling match, which, of course ended in a draw, with our hands gripping each other's blood-engorged groins. Sparks shooting in our cocks, we squeezed giggles and gasps and grunts out of each other. But when Justin followed time-honored ritual, and started unbuttoning my jeans, I wriggled away, and begged off. My father's words still echoed in my ears, and I mumbled excuses that I had to go. To this day, I remember the mixture of shock and sadness rolling across my best friend's face. Embarrassed, we avoided one another at school, which wasn't difficult, given that we shared only one class. But soon enough, I noticed he was hanging with other guys at lunch, laughing as easily with them as he used to with me. Heart-broken, I found a lonely corner where I could read comics and much sandwiches gloomily. My parents asked why Justin never came around any more, and I said something like he was becoming a jerk. Of course, that didn't explain how I was transforming from an outgoing and perky kid, to a sullen boy locked away in his room. Of course, in the "Just Say No" era, my parents first suspected I was "on drugs." Thankfully, in their room searches, they never found the secret stash of underwear and bathing suit ads I'd clipped - the closest things to gay porn a boy could collect, at that time. In all the years we lived there, they never discovered the loose floorboard under my desk. Anyway, I grew into a committed loner that Fall, keeping to myself when I wasn't at school or the pool. And then, around Halloween, my life changed, when a renter moved into our unused "granny flat." ================= To be continued...