Disclaimer and preamble:

1. This story is very roughly based on my life experiences and any resemblance to persons living or dead is probably pure coincidence, since I have taken especially great pains for this story to anonymize personal details, vicinities and other relevant aspects while preserving what I feel to be the storytelling truth of this sharing.
2. This story may depict acts of physical intimacy between boys, as well as between men and boys, as well as between adult men. If this content is anathema, distasteful or otherwise illegal for you to consume, please, go in peace, and take necessary steps to surf elsewhere.
3. This story seeks to be part of a collection of original works based on an online literary community's sharing of real life observations, encounters and imaginings. No men, boys or cucumbers were harmed in the making of this, nor should they ever be. Plants have feelings too.
4. I wrote this story for me, that is- my enjoyment and reminiscing. I hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I hope you will.
5. This has been uploaded to the Nifty Erotic Stories Archive and may not be reproduced without express written permission from the author. As it is also an invitation to our community for collaboration, permission to edit, re-order, re-publish, de-list or otherwise manage this, my individual contribution, is hereby vested in the Archivist, in whose sense of enlightened self-interest this writer places his trust for this piece.
6. The author welcomes constructive feedback and critique from readers. I can't promise to do requests, but I welcome reading what you would like to see in stories- maybe I can incorporate those ideas into future work.

7. Last but not least, please support Nifty financially as your means permit. It is a gem of a community resource and we all have a part to play in keeping it alive. If you do nothing else, let this be your activism.

Charles Rubin
January 2017


In our writer's camp: A bench overlooking green fields
One short story by Charles Rubin (c.rubin@contactoffice.net)


Melbourne, Australia, 1979.

Greetings reader, my name is Billy and mine will be your narrator's voice in this tale.

My first crush was Kelvyn (not his real name), a browned haired boy with laughing eyes and a ready smile who sat to my right during Year 8 English Literature. Coming from a poorer family, he had gotten into this slightly posh all-boys' school through the sacrifice of his parents and the indulgence of a school bursary, the latter aimed at providing `diversity' to a student demographic that otherwise drew heavily from the city's middle and upper-middle class. My own parents, an auditor and a retired ADF soldier-turned-PE teacher, were not rich but they made enough to get by and to afford the mildly exorbitant school fees that were the cost of admission to these ivy-covered corridors of learning. In reality, I was probably quite spoiled. Between having access to first hand cricket gear, current edition textbooks and never needing to borrow money to buy lunch at the tuckshop, I had none of the worries that, I would later learn, were Kelvyn's daily companions. He concealed his discomfort from the hunger pangs, tight shoes and the nagging fear that he would be `outed' as a bursary kid behind an earnest generosity of spirit that I now can only think of as saintly, especially in a boy of only 14.

We had not been such close friends at first, despite sitting adjacent or close to one another for many weeks on end, across different subject classes. However, after being randomly paired up for a group project where we had to learn and perform a dialogue between Hamlet and Polonius from Shakespeare's work of the same name, we had started to hang out more often.

Skipping ahead to the part where I had a crush on him, Kelvyn smelled sweet. I don't know how else to explain it. Maybe it was chemistry or something genetic, but I loved the way his body odor, and it was anything but stinky to me even after PE during the summer, would occasionally waft over from where he sat not three feet away. I would become lost, albeit briefly, in thoughts of resting my head on his shoulder, just feeling his breath on my face.

In true awkward Year 8 fashion, I found myself foolishly testing whether Kelvyn had similar feelings for me one afternoon after school. The first pricks of winter were already in the air and we had both stayed late in the school library researching for a history project on, of all things, the experiences of Australian soldiers who had fought at the Battle of Gallipoli during World War One. ANZAC day was, and still rightly remains, a big thing in Australia and it was considered only proper for all young men of learning to have sufficient knowledge of the sacrifices of those who had gone before. As a Briton growing up in Australia, I viewed the subject with a mixture of immature annoyance and indifferent ignorance, but the assignment comprised a huge part of our grade so I expressed the minimum amount of interest and intellectual curiosity required to get through the task. Kelvyn and I had finished our work for the day and were waiting outside for our parents, sitting on a bench overlooking one of the rugby ovals near the campus' side traffic gate. It was almost six in the evening and the campus was quite deserted. Daylight was already fading, on account of the time of year, and by some unseen force of gravity we had started to huddle close together as we were `starting to shiver our bollocks off'.

I must have been feeling bold, or perhaps the cold had gotten to my head, but I leaned against him and hugged him, nestling my face in the crook of his neck and letting my freezing cheek press against the soft skin above his jugular. Kelvyn (and this is true!) didn't pull away but put his arm around my shoulder and kind of hugged me back. I remember feeling his rib cage press against my shoulder and that he was shivering through his thin hand me down school jumper. We just sat there, as the sun continued to drop below the horizon, waiting like idiots for our parents to come pick us up after work. As I now recall, there was actually a sheltered seating area- the kind with slatted wooden walls to break the wind and take some of the edge off the chill- just fifty paces away, but we had always sat on that bench and, like frogs in a slowly freezing pond, we did not think to break from our routine even as the colder months wore on. Stupid, we were. But that was how I got to hug Kelvyn for the first time.

I don't know why, or maybe I did but had not the words to describe it then, but I moved my head slightly and pressed my slightly chapped lips against his neck. A little peck is all I dared to give him, making it appear almost accidental in case he reacted badly and thought that I was trying to get all `poofy' on him. To my surprise, he turned his head downward at me and gave me a peck of his own right on my lips. What followed was an awkward and gut churning sequence of unskillful attempts by two boys to kiss, but not kiss. Our lips and noses kind of bobbed and bounced off against each other like bumper cars at low speed, neither of us having the experience or intuition to turn our heads slightly offset or use the `French' techniques so well known to adults, movie stars and fictitious teen and pre-teen boys in all manner of erotic literature now available for free, online, on a website in earnest need of charitable support.

Back to Kelvyn, he actually asked me after a few moments:

"Billy, don't get the wrong idea, but would you like to jack me off?"

I was actually taken aback by his boldness. Kelvyn was an upstanding, reserved and conscientious student. He was, in hindsight, the last person I would have expected to be so forward.

"Erm... if you like?" I was already getting a little hard, but I didn't want to show it. Fortunately, the cold wind blowing against my too-thin school pants was, for once, helping.

"Do you mind unzipping me then? I'd like to keep holding you like this and watch, if you didn't mind." Would I ever!

I fumbled a little with his pants zipper, never having used one before from that particular angle, and eventually got it open. He wore silk boxers, blue and black Collingwood (an Australian rules football team) ones. The fabric was cold to the touch but what lay beneath was warm and inviting. Kel, as he went by in school almost everyone went by some short form or nickname in those days- had an uncut penis, hiding like a clown fish within the safety of the curly anemone that was his dark hazel pubic push. I wrapped my fingers around it, still feeling a little shy, and gave it a little squeeze and tug.

"Mmmm... that's nice." Kel said softly, still hugging me close. "Do it some more."

I gradually got him up to a fuller erection, perhaps 3 or 4 inches or so- I honestly cannot remember- but it looked both huge and beautiful in the palm of my teenage hand. It had a very slight smell of perspiration, being the end of the school day and all, but otherwise merely carried a stronger version of the general `Kelvyn smell' that I had grown to love and crave for. I had a sudden urge to lean down and take it into my mouth, but I didn't both on account of not wanting to freak him out and also because he was still hugging me really tightly. So I pounded his pud for a bit in the way that I typically did for myself, using a full finger grip with my index digit slightly extended upward to nudge the perineum every few strokes. Kel seemed to really enjoy it. He still held me close but began to slide down the bench a little, giving me better access to his crotch. I switched hands, this was tiring work, and continued, hoping that he would not lose hard-on as I sometimes did when I passed the precious cargo from right to left winger. The change in hands also necessitated that I turn my chest to face him more directly. I curled my right ankle under my left thigh as I turned to face him, and then shamelessly brought my face closer to his, hoping for another kissy kissy as I resumed jerking him in full view of anyone who might have been walking by within a hundred yards. Fortunately there was no one, that we saw or noticed anyway, or we would both have been royally fucked, and not in the way naughty boys in amateur slash fiction about William and Harry were either.

Kel obliged me and we started our kissing action again, exchanging closed lip kisses as we breathed in the scent of each other. Strangely enough we didn't seem to feel the cold any more, but neither of us said anything at all other than a very occasional "mmmmm" as we just enjoyed being close. The whole experience didn't even feel particularly sexual at the time. It was more just two really good friends helping each other keep warm, and pass the time as the sorry excuses for human beings that were our parents left their teenage children shivering in the cold dark of winter with nothing but each other, and two schoolbags chock full of math homework, to keep them warm. Kel started to move a bit more as he approached cumming point. His kissing became more intense, though he still didn't know to use his tongue- nor did I. Eventually he came with a little yelp, pulling me against him such that I could half feel his orgasmic spams as my own.

"Ugh... Ugh... Billy... Ugh... Ugh..." Kel's little gasps were very cute, I clearly recall his cum dribbling down my fingers like ice-cream melting from a cone, except that this was warm rather than cold and oddly comforting in its sliminess. Not really knowing what to do next, I released his now softening cock and sat back into a regular position beside him, my left hand still covered in his fresh spooge. Kel zipped himself back up before reaching over to grab my left wrist, bringing my fingers up to his face. I looked on incredulously as he actually licked up his own cum from my hand, slurping ever so slightly as he cleaned me off.

"That was wicked." He said, giving me an appreciative kiss on the lips, followed by another affectionate peck on the cheek. I could taste the cum on his lips. I can still taste it now whenever I think of it.

Kel seemed like he was about to offer to reciprocate when my mum arrived in her Ford Falcon. A poorer sense of timing I had never thought possible, then or since. Helpless, I touched Kel on the shoulder- giving him just a little lingering squeeze- in farewell for the day as I picked up my school bag and walked toward the blinding headlights of the family car. I knew that I would need to cum at least twice that night before bed to make up for this disappointment, but there was nothing to be done about it now.



Kel and I never really got into anything more serious beyond what had already transpired. We remained besties both in and outside class, continuing to seek each other out as partners for group work whenever the opportunity presented itself. Over the course of our remaining time at school, until we finished Year 12 and went on to different universities, I'm happy and honoured to report that we did occasionally find the chance to revisit what had happened that chilly evening at the bench overlooking the oval. Naturally we were more savvy as we got older, but to anyone who has ever had a buddy with whom your friendship has extended into mutual masturbation without the baggage of `faggotry' or the pressures of dating getting in the way, you may have some insight into the special bond that Kel and I shared through our school years. We would both eventually go on to have girlfriends at university, though my foray into straightness did not last. I had come to realize by the time I was about seventeen that I was not meant for that life, even if I did not fully accept that part of myself until much, much later in adulthood. Kel, however, married a beautiful and smart girl who was studying to be a vet and together they had three beautiful children, to whose christenings and confirmations I was always invited. Due to my work which often saw me based out of Europe or the United States, I was not always able to attend, but I kept in touch with Kel and his wife as a friend of the family as best I could for many years. I think she never knew about us, or if she did she never said anything- either not caring or not fretting about it, such was the open-minded (and, from what I heard from Kel, foxy) maiden that she was.

Kel passed away over ten years ago (and this much is true). While driving from Melbourne to Geelong, his car was hit by a drunk driver just off the M1. He never woke up from the coma. I want to say that I was there for his family as they grieved, and stood by them when the doctors finally pulled the white sheet over his sleeping face in the hospital. But I wasn't. I was so caught up in my own feelings at the time that I withdrew, trying to make sense of my own hurt and loss. I eventually lost touch with them when they moved out of state, probably to stay with Kel's wife's parents whom I knew were originally from Queensland.

I miss Kel, even though I do not use his real name here. I still miss him today and I miss him even more as I write the words of this story/sharing. He and I were never meant to be together, but he was `my first' and also `my best friend' over so many years that even though things played out as they did, I know that I am a better person and that my world is a better place for his having been in it. I will always love you, Kel, not as a pining unrequited valentine or as the guy who (maybe?!) gave you your first non-self handjob, but as someone eternally grateful that he could just `be himself' around you. I could confide anything, ANYTHING, knowing that you would look back at me with your gracious, healing, eyes and pass me another beer without judgement. (Unless it was about the Hawks vs the Magpies... in which case you could go get stuffed!)


Sleep well young soldier, your job is done 
your war is over and your battle won 
No armour now to weigh you down 
Cast it off into the sandy ground 
Lay down your weapon for you need it not 
No more bullets need be shot 
Take off your helmet, look to the sky 
For my friend it is your turn to die 
Have courage now, go rest in peace 
For the fighting here will never cease 
You fought bravely and with honour died 
You leave your family so full of pride 
Sleep well young soldier, your job is done 
your war is over and your battle won.


Closing note:
I don't know the author of this poem but I first found it some while back and it has always reminded me of Kel, for some reason, even though he never served in uniform.


If anyone has more information about it, I would love to hear from you, if only to be able to purchase a proper copy and frame it on my wall.


Thank you for listening to my story. Enough of it is inaccurate that you will likely never know who Kel is, and that is perhaps for the best. As for what remains; his kindness, his generosity, his laughing eyes, and many schoolboy afternoons of company spent on benches, in locker rooms, underneath grandstands and even, once, in the reference section of the library, all of that is true, as are all stories written from the heart.