Date: Fri, 01 Jun 2007 07:07:24 -0700 From: mychael@hushmail.com Subject: On the Road Disclaimer: The following are the expressions of an acknowledged boylover, but does not advocate any particular lifestyle choices. Also, the stories are not necessarily true accounts. For information, contact the writer. On the road, with writer;s block By Mychael mychael@hushmail.com Writer's block. It isn't supposed to be this way, especially for someone on a paid getaway, looking for subjects in a series of anecdotes about of everyday people claiming to have spent time on distant ground. So far, the assignment had gone well. That is, until this morning, the morning after. This wasn't what I enjoy about writing, but it does help pay the bills and there have been enough good days to make it all worthwhile. Writer's block happened and there is little I could do about it. Alone in a freeway close motel room, I put aside the computer keyboard, lay down on the king-size bed and stretch out my legs. It was too early to sit by the swimming pool with my thoughts and a notepad, maybe even the laptop. On Thursday, I had done that, until three young people -- a girl and two boys between the ages of 8 and 13 -- had decided to spend about an hour swimming and tanning. Soon, my thoughts are elsewhere, my left hand rubbing my bare chest, my right hand slipping inside my white briefs grabbing hold of my mildly hard cock. My eyes close and I start to pull on my cock a little harder, though there's real pleasure in a soft and gentle motion Writer's block is an everyday occurrence to every writer; for me, it is not something to bemoan but to embrace because I often tend to write the first thing out of my mind. My right hand wanders slightly across my right leg, then rubs against my white briefs, my cock getting even more hard by my thoughts. Thoughts of those 8- and 9-year-old boys in my neighborhood, boys I noticed from my bedroom window, boys who stirred feelings I never knew possible Thoughts of my neighbor friend Mark, a 12 year old who I had noticed from afar until this particular moment when my strongest fantasy became reality -- a game of strip black jack followed by an awesome pleasure. Thoughts of Harley, a 17 year old who visited me one afternoon, taking me to bed for a wonderful and memorable experience that I relive often, his arms around me, his smell, the feeling of Thoughts of John and Robert, 13 year old neighbors who I befriended during my first year in junior college, two boys whose curiosity took me into another wonderful place. Thoughts of my cousin John who, as an 11 year old, invited me to share his bed, and with whom I enjoyed many intimate moments. Thoughts of a 10-year-old standing outside the restroom located near a trail at Sequoia National Park, a boy so fresh, so beautiful, a boy who so much needed my special touch that summer in the late 1960s, when I was in my early 20s. By then I knew I was like the other boys I had grown up with, the boys I met at my fifth-year high school graduation only months before, including Harley and Jim, who, as a 14-year-old freshman, paraded his massive cock in front of my during gym class. I had no interest in any of the girls in my school, but the girls pretty much ignored me, perhaps sensing I would ignore them as well. It was the boys who caught my attention, the boys who created in me those feelings that have become even more wonderful through the years. It has, though, been a struggle as I have tried to fight back my feelings, only to come to understand they are natural...they are me. And, I hope, they are you, too. ** Two of my classmates had married shortly after graduating and now, five years later, were attending with their wives and young children. One, a boy, was almost 4, and created in me such feeling that I offered to watch him while his parents went out onto the dance floor with other couples. The feeling of that little boy on my lap so aroused me, that I had to move him to my right knee, fearing that he might notice that my cock was hard and getting even harder as he moved around. So, what is the purpose of this? Memories. Wonderful memories of someone who years ago had come to grips with his sexuality, including his feelings for boys, for his wants and desires, for his pedophilia. Yes, I am a pedophile. Pedophile? Boylover? Certainly nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to deny because, it is what I am. And right now, with the thick cockhead peering out from the opening in my briefs, with tasty precum starting to drip, with thoughts directed toward that 10-year-old on the television, I was right where I wanted to be,. A day before, after completing two chapters, I had taken myself to a nearby mall, to the food court for lunch. But it just wasn't the lunch that brought me to the mall, it was the thought of seeing dozens of beautiful boys, there as part of a middle school athletic competition. I had images of these boys, images so vivid that I completed my manuscript in less than two hours, put on some clothes and made the 20-mile drive. On the way, I stopped at one of those sleazy adult book stores to buy a bottle of Rush. Welcome to my world. * * * Now, don't get the idea I am lurking through malls, around city parks or schools, or that anything is out of order. While my interests are deep seeded, my actions are totally mutual. I reached out to and befriended thousands of boys, some more than others. Sharing a hamburger and soft drink, a cigarette or even a bottle of poppers, maybe a ride from here to there -- so, what's wrong with that? There's never a hint of taking advantage of him. The word no means no, and, yes always doesn't mean yes. Think about it. *** "Are you really a pedophile?" 16-year-old Josh asked me a couple of years ago. "...cool." Josh, who has lived with the stigma of being gay, confided to me his interest in Ryan, a 12-year old friend. It sounded all too familiar. The two had been friends for some time and Josh noticed his attraction to Ryan (and other boys) after a week-long scout trip. One day, Josh was sitting bear the pool, surrounded by a dozen or so boys between the ages of 8 and 14. Ryan, Josh told me, walked over to him and started to talk about the day's activity. As he looked up, Josh could not help but notice the boy's tight red speedos, his firm flat stomach. Ryan also had what Josh called "a massive boner." Soon, Josh was hard, his eyes fixed on Ryan. He tried not to be too obvious, looking around at the other boys, but that affected him even more. That night, in their area of the cabin, Josh mentioned that he had been looking at Ryan. A little later, in the quiet of his bed, Josh's thoughts of Ryan became even more vivid as he took his own cock in his hand and started to stroke it gently. His body started to twitch as his cock grew. He licked his lips with his tongue as he felt himself being swept away by this wonderful feeling, a feeling he had been experiencing for some time now. But this was different, very different. This time, Josh was thinking only of Ryan, only of the other boys he had seen, and the explosion of cum was sweet, extreme. As he wiped the milky cum from his chest and legs, Josh noticed he was still hard. He smiled. He looked at the boys around him and began to stroke himself again, feeling no shame or guilt, not even for his feelings toward the much younger boys in the cabin. At 16, Josh had come to the realization that boys are a gift, that they should be treated with love. Feelings I had discovered years before. ** It was only a matter of time before Josh and I grew closer, sharing several intimate moments of our own, sharing our mutual love for young boys. It was, for both of us, a beautiful and natural time. He needed me. I needed him. We all need one another -- no matter our age. ** The Angels had beaten the Baltimore Orioles in an infrequent Thursday afternoon baseball game, a game I attended as a spectator, not a working journalist. When the game was over, I took my car on a beach-front ride, turning toward the 405 Freeway once I got to Long Beach. A city park, though, had been a nice place for me to visit, not far from several popular gay bars, a well-known "cruise area." It wasn't even 5 o'clock, I wasn't cruising, and I never enjoyed bars, but I went by the park anyway. My idea was to make a couple of runs through the park -- maybe there was another guy like myself -- and then drive home. As I drove by the children's play area, I noticed a boy about 13, dressed in jeans and a black jacket, with dark hair. He was walking toward another area of the park, and I stopped by car to watch him. "Gawd," I told myself, "he is beautiful." I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out a bottle of Locker Room, opening it and putting it to my nose. I inhaled deeply, and felt that deep rush, my awareness of him growing, my desires creating a strong intensity. In seconds, I had left the car and was walking in a roundabout way, so as to perhaps pass the boy, to get an even closer look at him. As I approached the boy, I took the bottle of Locker Room and put it to my nose again, inhaling two more times and feeling myself even more desirous to see him, to touch him, to love him as only a pedophile can do. We passed, I noticed he had just lit a cigarette, and I put the Locker Room to my nose again, taking another deep hit. I was hoping he might notice, that he might not be turned away, that maybe he might even follow me. I walked toward a restroom, located off the main trail of the park, and went to the urinal. I took another hit, unzipped my jeans and took my cock out, thinking about the boy, my mind wandering his body. My cock was hard, it started to drip cum, and then the boy showed up, standing a few feet inside the restroom door. He looked and smiled, watching me stroke myself, the cum starting to drip even more. I took another hit from the Locker Room and motioned for him to come closer. I turned away, facing the urinal, and the boy stood next to me. "Please, let me see your cock," I asked him, my own now releasing spurts of cum. The boy, to my surprise, started to unzip his pants. I held out the bottle of Locker Room and told him to put it to his nose and inhale. He did, and pierced his lips as his jeans and white briefs fell toward the floor. "Ooooooooo," I groaned, looking at the boy's beautiful little cock, his ball sac and a pubic area just starting to develop. I moaned and stroked myself even faster, my cum exploding into the urinal. I watched the boy, his own cock was getting hard, and then I suggested he and I move to the back of the restroom, to a stall. He looked skeptical, that is, until I took a hit of the Locker Room and offered him another. He put it to his nose and followed me to the back stall. By then, I had cum twice, and my cock was still rock hard. I wanted him, I want to put my mouth on his boy cock, I wanted my tongue to lick his balls (and maybe even his boy ass), and my breathing got deeper. Inside the restroom stall, I sat on the seat of the toilet and pulled the boy close, my mouth taking his cock, my hands holding on to his tight little ass. I looked up and noticed the boy's eyes had closed. He took a hit of the Locker Room and started to thrust his hips. Obviously, he was enjoying himself and in a couple of minutes, he started to drip. I pushed his cock deeper in my mouth, swallowing a combination of cum and piss, continuing to suck him for about 30 seconds after his cock had softened. Then, with the boy standing in front of me, I took my own cock and stroked it again, cumming within a matter of seconds. Explosive. Again. The boy seemed surprised; I seemed pleased. Very pleased. "Can you run me home?" he asked, taking a cigarette. We moved toward my car, sharing small talk. I learned he was 14, that he was visiting his brother, who is 19 and a student at Long Beach State, and that he would be returning to his home in Denver within a few days. And, yes, he told me, his brother knew that he smoked, that he enjoyed sex. His brother, he said, was gay and actually approved of man-boy love. "We do it all the time," the boy told me. I smiled to myself, thinking about that boy again, thinking about his brother. *** It may not be the most desirable lifestyle, but it is what it is, and every time I see a beautiful boy, I am thankful I am what I am. Or, am I? There will be more ... See ya then.