(If you're reading this section of Nifty, which consists entirely of fantasies spun by pervs for other pervs, you know what to expect -- so the whole idea of affixing a "warning notice" is totally absurd. This story is public domain -- not copyrighted -- and may be used however you want in addition to the way you usually use stories from Nifty. Fan mail and/or passwords to inspirational usenet groups may be sent to: email@example.com )
Randall and his Candle
"Sometimes," he said, "I put a candle in my ass. That's gay, right?"
"Well," I replied, "I guess there are gay guys who do that. How does it make you feel?"
"Feels pretty good," he said, "but a dick would feel better, don't you think?"
"Well," I said, "that sounds pretty gay."
"Then I'm gay. Do you hate me?"
"Don't be a jerk," I told him, mixing the words among a string of kisses down one side of his cute face, "How could I hate you if I already love you?"
"Then you're gay too," he concluded. "Guys who love guys are gay, right?"
"Not necessarily," I told him. "Anybody is allowed to love anybody without being anything. Being gay isn't about who you love, it's about who makes you horny."
He nuzzled up the side of my neck, finishing with a kiss on my lips, and somehow managed to work his body even closer to mine. "Don't I make you horny?" he asked. "I'm trying my best."
"Oh shit," I thought. "This really is not what I expected."
Let me step back a little and tell you how I wound up with Randall's perfect twelve-year-old body rubbing up against mine and his beautiful full lips smooshed against my well-worn face. Yes, I've had a thing for boys all my life, but I still was okay with women -- and when you consider how much easier it is to make it with a woman than it is to make it with a boy, you can understand how I'd satisfied myself with women for most of my life.
The problem with my straight lifestyle started when I was pushing sixty, and "little Billy" just wasn't as perky as he used to be. Marcia, my third wife, insisted I try Viagra, and I did. Yes, it got me hard, but Marcia still could tell I really wasn't that into it, so she left me too -- just like Ellen and Susan did. Women eventually figure it out when your dick is deep inside them but your mind is far away.
Not long after that final divorce, I retired from the teaching job I'd held for thirty-odd years at a small southern college that shall remain nameless, and I had some time to think. Maybe, I thought, it was time to have a boy in my life again. Really, I wasn't planning on seducing him or anything -- I'd reached a point where I needed "vitamin V" just to jerk off -- but maybe a boy could help me feel a little younger, and less like the old fart I was getting to be.
So I did what any guy with no criminal record would do when he wants a boy in his life -- I called Big Brothers. As it happened, though, our local chapter wasn't accepting volunteers. It seems that the rough economic time we were going through had forced them to lay off staff, so they wouldn't be able to "process" volunteers until things got better. The woman on the phone had a suggestion, though.
"There's a church group still taking volunteers," she said. "The program's a bit different from ours, but you could give 'em a call and see if it suits you."
I called the number she gave me. It was an independent Evangelical church, and I won't give the name of it here because if I did it probably would be mobbed by hundreds of you perverts trying to volunteer for its special mentoring program. I won't mention the name of the program either, but I'll tell you its purpose. The idea was to take boys who seemed like they might be growing up gay and, by pairing them with macho he-men like me (go ahead and laugh), turn them straight.
Which is not to say that Reverend Hurley was especially interested in me -- hell, not only was I three times divorced and not a member of his church, I was not much of a Christian. On the other hand, there was this boy... a boy whose mother was not a member of the Church, and who had, as the Reverend put it, "more than a little of the devil in him."
Yes, that was Randall -- and by hooking us up that hypocrite Hurley got rid of all three of us, the third being Alice, Randall's mother. Alice is quite a piece of work. The first time I went over there, a Friday afternoon, she and some truck driver were most of the way through a bottle of bourbon. I accepted a couple of fingers of that in a smudged jelly glass that featured Porky Pig on the side, and asked her why she'd gone to Hurley's church and requested a mentor for her son.
"Oh," she slurred, "that guy. My sister, Jeanine, she was up here then and made me go see him. Thinks my Randy is some kind of fag. Well, why not take him for the weekend and see what you think?"
Actually, one look at Randy was all I needed to decide that: a) he probably was "some kind of fag," and that b) I'd be happy to take him for the weekend, the month, or the year. He had dirty blond hair that fell over his ears, gigantic green eyes, and the kind of full, pouty lips that professional models get at the plastic surgeon's. He was wearing cut-off jeans shorter than I'd seen since the seventies, and a yellow tank top. When he bent over to pull on his sandals, his ass took my breath away. I wrote down my phone number for Alice -- not that she'd asked for it -- and took him home.
Randy really was an appropriate nickname for my boy, but he preferred Randall. He didn't hesitate for a second when Alice told him he was going with me for the weekend -- just happily tossed a change of clothes into a paper bag and followed me out to my car. It turned out he didn't much care for Alice's truck driver -- or any of Alice's truck drivers, for that matter.
I fired up the charcoal grille and let him cook the burgers while I got out some cold salads and lemonade. There was hardly anything to clean up, so after we ate I asked if he wanted to have a catch or something. He said he'd try if I really wanted to, but he didn't much like that kind of thing.
"So what do you like?" I asked.
"Acting," he replied. "I like to put on costumes and do scenes from movies and stuff."
"That sounds like fun," I said, "but I don't have any costumes."
"Oh, come on," he said, pulling me by the hand. "Let's see what you've got."
Randall found his treasure trove in the back of the closet in my guest room -- some old clothes that Marcia had left behind, and I'd never gotten around to taking down to the Goodwill store -- and, oh, what a fag he turned out to be! Never was there a more delightful, ass wiggling, limp wristed fag in the history of fagdom. I loved it.
He kicked off his shorts and camped it up in an old evening gown and a hat with a feather Marcia had worn four or five Easters before, and was very disappointed that she hadn't left a pair of high heels behind. Then he did an impression of a soap opera actress I'd never seen nor heard of, so I really can't tell you how good he was -- but he enjoyed himself immensely.
Then, all at once, he got a serious look on his face and said, "Billy, you can't tell my mother. Promise? She caught me wearing her stuff one time and she got real mad."
"I won't tell," I promised, "but maybe she was mad because it was her stuff you were screwing around in, and you hadn't even asked her first."
He thought about that. "Maybe. Just the same, don't tell. Okay?"
"Okay, I promise."
That game kept him amused for an hour or so, but then he remembered that a zombie movie was supposed to be on TV that night, and asked if we could watch it. I'm not a great fan of zombies, but I said "Sure." He hung the evening gown carefully on its hanger, and put the hat back up on the shelf. He didn't bother to put his shorts back on, and I noticed that the boxers he was wearing probably fit him when he was ten, but now were stretched tightly across his delicious round ass, and that there were twin gaps just over and under the button of his fly, offering enticing glimpses of skin.
I handed him the remote, and settled into my recliner -- which I sometimes call my "throne." Randall stretched out on the couch, and the zombies lurched across the screen. I couldn't keep my eyes on the movie, of course. Those long, smooth legs kept distracting me, and I loved the way he curled up his toes when the movie got extra scary -- which, frankly, I knew only from the way the background music swelled. I had to touch him, and was trying to figure out an innocent way to do that when the background music became very loud and dissonant.
He jumped off the couch, flew into my lap, and wrapped both arms around my neck, burying his face in my shoulder. Naturally, I comforted him with a big hug, with a special hard squeeze to that lovely bottom, lightly wrapped in his tight, threadbare boxers.
A commercial came on the television, and he relaxed. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just got so scared."
"No problem," I told him. "I like hugs, and that was a very nice one."
He grinned. "Then can I stay here and sit with you?"
"Now that you're here," I answered, "I'd be very disappointed if you got up and went back to the couch."
With that, he wiggled himself around and hugged me again. Once again, I helped myself to a sweet handful of boy bottom, and as we broke the hug, I dared to leave a little kiss on his cheek.
"Hey! You kissed me!" he exclaimed.
"Don't worry," I replied, "I won't do it in public and embarrass you."
He grinned again, then put his hands on the back of my head and planted kisses all over my face. I paid him back, kiss for kiss. At the end, our lips met, and we just let them stay pressed together gently for ten seconds or so. Then the commercials were over, and the movie began again. He settled onto my lap with his back against my chest, and I wrapped my arms around him from behind.
"Next commercial," I thought, "I'll get up to get us a snack or something -- and while I'm at it, I'll lose my pants and come back in just my boxers." Maybe I'm an evil, calculating old man, but I figure anybody reading this is no better than I am -- and if you think you're better, that's only because you haven't met Randall.
Fifteen minutes later, I was back in the recliner without the pants, enjoying the feel of Randall's bare legs on my own. I'd brought him a glass of ginger ale, and poured myself a glass of Moscato, a moderately sweet white wine that's not much stronger than beer. I was ignoring the wine, though, concentrating on seeing what I could glimpse through the gaps around Randall's fly button. Then, when I finally reached for my wine, the glass was mostly empty -- and the ginger ale glass was almost full.
"You little devil," I said, "you've been drinking my wine!"
"Tastes better than shinger ale," he observed, already slurring his words.
"No more," I insisted. "I don't need you barfing all night and hung over in the morning." I drained the remaining Moscato just to make sure, and we went back to watching the zombies snacking on human brains. The movie was approaching its climax, and Randall was wiggling around on my lap so much that it's a wonder I didn't approach a climax of my own.
And then it happened. He'd put so much pressure on that fly button that it popped off and sailed across the room -- and out popped his little circumcised winkie, which was about the size of my thumb. He didn't seem to notice for a minute or two -- the movie seemed to be holding his attention -- and I pretended not to notice either. His winkie must have noticed, though, because it stiffened right up.
He'd definitely noticed by the time the closing credits rolled, though, because he took one of the hands I had nobly and chastely kept on his belly and moved it down a few inches. I couldn't stop myself. I closed my hand around that little boner and gave it an affectionate squeeze, saying, "Hmm... I guess zombies give you a stiffie."
He thought that was very funny, and as he giggled he closed both his hands around the hand (okay -- my hand) holding his dick and started it moving up and down. I noticed that my own dick was rock hard, without benefit of Viagra. Some combination of guilt and sheer terror seized me then, and I pulled my hand away.
He looked at me with an expression of deep disappointment, and asked, "Are you really gonna try to make me not gay?"
"Of course not," I told him. "If you're really gay, nobody can make you straight. But you might not be gay, you know. Guys your age get so sexed up almost anything is a turn on. You get stiffies for no reason at all, right?"
And so began the conversation that you found at the beginning of this chapter. Needless to say, my iron willed self-control did not last for very long, but that part of the story will have to wait for chapter 2.