From Six to One
Chapter one


Our hope is that every homosexual youth in this country can find a home and someone to love them as they are.
No one deserves to be discriminated against, no matter what their differences from society's norm

A tidy quote from our favorite author,
"titles belong on books, not people" ©Carl Dickson–2007

Does your mother know you're reading this shit?

Warning: This story is PORNO. I have tried my hand at friction, now I'm trying fiction. This story contains vivid descriptions of sexual activity between men and teen boys.
It contains no truth, partial truth, or half truth. What it does contain is stroking material. If this kind of story turns you off, or offends you, please find something else.
The author does not encourage or condone sex between adults and underage children.

If you are underage, or if this is illegal where you are, then please go away. If you're under 18, Adios come back when it is legal for you to read this smut.
If you lied about your age in order to access this story, remember this is our story. Life doesn't always work out like a story.

A strongly worded suggestion has resulted in this statement.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitioiusly,
and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Thus said, this story is copyrighted, ©2008 It is therefore illegal to copy or use any part of this story without my written permission.

This is the first part of the true story of My Life as I lived it through high school.
The story is taken from notes and blurbs that I wrote down over the years so it may seem a bit choppy. I believe that all of the important parts are here so please read and enjoy the truth about My Life.

    Do you ever think about the one that got away? Do you ever wonder, "What might have been?" I suppose we all do. I really had been thinking about it, maybe a little too much. I was going home for a vacation. I moved one thousand miles from home twenty three years earlier. I had a job that I really liked. I had been with the company for five years and they offered me a dream promotion, but it meant leaving family, friends and all things familiar, behind. My wife was loyal and would follow me wherever I went. My children had no choice in the matter. My eldest was just entering highschool and we made an absolute promise that we would not move again until she graduated from high school. My wife and I are both big on highschool friendships and their lasting impressions.
    My job went south a year and a half later, the company went insolvent. My extended family knew all along that this would happen. They just couldn't believe that I had given up everything to follow some pipe dream. Yeah, well hindsight is 20/20. If they knew so much why weren't they talking about it before we left?
    I did the best thing I could think of and went into business for myself. I am good with my hands and have a natural ability with things mechanical and electrical. I started an air conditioning repair company. It made me a millionaire. I could thumb my nose at the nay sayers back home. However, I had to thumb it over the phone because I never had time to go visit.
    My daughter graduated from the same high school. My youngest daughter started her social climb at a different highschool. Once she graduated my son was ready to enter his journey to an advanced education. It was during his tenure that the wife and I decided we had nothing in common and split up.
    During this nine year to ten year period I had constantly extolled how much I had enjoyed the friendships I had made in my years in academia. My wife and I raved on and on about this friend and that. We had been classmates and highschool sweethearts. We had known each other and had dated each other since jr. high. A time span of twenty eight years. She wasn't my first piece of pussy. I fucked around on her. I sucked around much more, but I knew that my family wanted heirs and being homosexual in the fifties was not an option.
    My wife took my son and I took my job and we were content. Or so I thought. I won't go into that part of my life here, this story is about the one that got away. By the way, in case you are wondering, this story is true. The names have subtle changes and the dialog might not be precise, but the events and their repercussions are a true representation.
    There were many that I thought of as I prepared to go home for the first time in twenty three years. I had not seen these old school mates in thirty nine years. I wondered what had happened to some of my closer friends. I would sit for hours and look through my yearbooks and study their pictures and try to figure what they looked like now. I don't know what first made me seek the information on-line, but that is what had happened. I had listed my name with a web site that touted the ability to connect people with classmates. Sure enough, I got a response. Pam was our class secretary and she was still on the job, some thirty nine years after graduation. She saw my posting and contacted me.
    That really made me determined to go home. She and I e-mailed back and forth for a few months as I learned what had become of most of my classmates. I knew that I had to see one in particular, he was the one that I had fallen in love with., but some of the other ones that I was really interested in were either older of younger than myself and she had no knowledge of them. One in particular, the first one, yeah that one, had a sister in my class. I got her e-mail address and started a correspondence with her. She told me how to get in touch with her brother. I had to go home.
    I wanted to write to him, but I didn't know how he would feel about me after all of the years that had passed since we were last together. I decided that I would go home for my visit and hope that I could find him in a casual setting and that we could talk. It is very rough carrying a torch for a hard bodied boy for thirty nine years. We did love each other, but society demanded a lifestyle in direct opposition to our desires. We both married and, as I understand, he has children. Pam won't discuss him with me, but she tells me that I should visit and renew old acquaintances.

    I need to start at the beginning of the nineteen fifty seven-fifty eight school year; the first time through the eighth grade for me. Coach wanted to see what we were made of so we started with running from one end of the gym to the other as he and his two assistants watched us. They were pointing at one guy then another and talking back and forth. I saw them point at me two or three times. Now I have to tell you, Webster was putting together a new book called a dictionary. In this book he listed all the words he could find in alphabetical order. Then beside each word he wrote down a definition for that word. There are two words for which I am famous, paranoid and ugly. Both words have my picture beside them. The word Ugly has my picture, the math symbol (X210) =, then the picture of the ugly forest.
    The next portion of our interview consisted with the running of the stairs. As I have mentioned, or maybe not, my highschool gymnasium was built by the crew of the Santa Maria on a lazy afternoon. Age? What is a little age in a fine old building with so many young minds passing through its halls on their way to the glory of adulthood? Being this ancient it had been built to host teams of raging aborigines on the backs of dinosaurs. That is the only reason I can give for the enormous number of steps in the place. A full three stories high with six sets of stairs to each side of the gym. A total seating capacity of one small state, such as Texas.
    At the sound of the whistle fifty strapping lads shot off to conquer the heights and delights of stair climbing. As I came back down the second row of steps I noticed that fully ten boys were having real difficulty in getting it up, the steps, get your mind out of your pants and onto the story. I whipped on down to climb stairway number three and was on the down stroke of that glorious stairway four. Looking to my right I again saw even more stragglers, breathing heavily as they trudged ever onward and upward.
    I realized that there were only about ten or twelve boys still climbing as I made my way up number five and over to number six and the end? Yeah! Across the floor to the opposite side and up the stairs the flow continued. By now I was only fifth from the front of the pack. As I started down stairway number eight I accidently let my foot slip and I learned something that I love to do to this day. I am blessed with really long feet, thirteens. I can put my foot on the edge of the step and actually slide down the entire way using my right foot as an anchor. I don't know how to explain it, but it is kind of like skiing the steps. I literally skied past the next two boys and at full speed I was up the next set of steps.
    I was really just getting my wind. My old man is a doctor, he was on my ass about me being on my ass all of the time so he got me a paper route. What the old fart didn't know is that I love to run. He usually came in to see me laying back, trying to recover from a long run. At the end of my twelfth year of life I was running six miles a day and I was going for speed. A paper route gave me precisely what I needed. My route was three blocks by two blocks.— Kind of like a double HH, if you can picture it.— Two blocks up the first street and two blocks back. One block over to do the same. I only had the west side of the street on the cross street. On the last street I cheated a little bit. On the south side of I only had four morning papers to throw, and no afternoon papers, so I crisscrossed the street until I came to my house where I dropped my empty paper bag and then continued the last half of my block, around the next block then back to my house. Only I did this at a full run. Well not really full at first. It took about two months before I could go full out. I measured it out one time on my bike and it was one and one eighth miles long the way I ran the route. A good run with about twenty five pounds, seventy five pounds on Sundays, of newspapers at the start. As I got my wind I ran from the paper station to the beginning of my route adding another three quarters of a mile. Plus the little more than a half a mile from school to the paper station. My morning route was just over two and a half miles, but my afternoon route, with the start from the school was only about two and a quarter. I could leave from school at three thirty and have my route finished and be sitting at home by four fifteen kicking back with an herb tea or fresh squeezed juice.
    I had the legs and the lungs. I just had a prepubescent body. My dick was growing, I had already found the joy that it could bring. It was the rest of my round shoulder, protruding belly, skinny legs, flat chested body that I hated. My upper jaw had outgrown my lower jaw by a good inch so I had a Bucky Beaver overbite., but to top it off I wore coke bottle bottoms on my face for eyeglasses. I could shoot the tail feather off a crow at a hundred yards with my twenty two single shot rifle, without my glasses. I couldn't read a newspaper without them. Contact lenses were just coming along, the old hard kind that hurt like hell. My vision was 20/5, uncorrected, for distance, but on the eye chart I only got a 20/40, uncorrected. I could see the grouping of my shots from the bullet holes in the bulls eye on a target sheet at one hundred yards, with my naked eye. I couldn't see the door facing in front of me, I had a lot of encounters with those.
    Finished with all twelve stairways I was on my way back across the gym for another lap when the coach yelled at me. "Hey, four eyes, that's enough." I stopped and turned on him. He had just put a handle on me that would grate at my soul for the rest of my life. I was almost sixty when I had the surgery for freedom and was without glasses forever. Oh, how I wish I could have had the surgery then. I see that the military is doing the procedure as routine for our kids going to Iraq. I think it is wonderful. I had such an infection after failing to find clean water to wash my contact lenses in Vietnam, I was sure I would never be able to see again.
    I looked to the stands as the first of the boys behind me made it across the top and down the last row of stairs. Coach came up to me and asked my name. I may be small, but I have a big mouth, much bigger than my ass. "Well it sure isn't four eyes." He flinched. I showed him how well I could do twenty push ups while the rest of the class came heaving onto the floor. Many of them fell to their knees or to their, butts. I laughed.
    Back in the locker room I hurried to the showers as a coach stood watch to see that everybody went into the water. He checked pits as we came out so if nothing else they, got a good soaping. I kept my towel on and sat down to pull on my socks and pulled up my briefs at the same time. Everybody wore briefs then, only our fathers wore boxers and they only came in white with gapping flies.

    Monday, the second week of school, we started field exercises. We were timed as we ran the hundred and fifty yard general use field. There were no markings as everyone used it from the marching band to the girls cheer leading squad. Lunch time saw the heaviest use as we skipped lunch for a rousing game of football. Sweaty and muddy we began the afternoon classes to many complaints from the teachers, girls, and sissy boys.
    Coach had found himself a seat at the side of the field as he watched each boy very carefully. He was also sitting as we played our lunch time game. He called to me as I ran to get my jacket one day after our lunch game. "What was lunch today?" I held up a carrot stick and a tomato. He stopped me, he grilled me as if I were the delinquent of the year.
    I told him that I was a light eater. I usually eat a big breakfast after my run then I eat fruit or veggies for lunch. At dinner I have cereal, usually hot, with cinnamon and honey. He asked about what I drank and I told him raw, whole milk, about a gallon a day. He told me this was an unhealthy diet. I told him that my father would be the one to discuss that with as he and I had developed the diet to my lifestyle. He wanted to know if my dad was qualified. I gave him the name of my dad's clinic and he shut up real quick. My dad is well known for his medical abilities and volunteers as the state's medical know it all.
    My dad made the state quit dumping improperly treated effluent into the river that runs through town. The river runs over a hundred miles down hill into a very large reservoir which supplies the city's drinking water. I guess they had tried running the effluent up hill, but were flooded out at the source. Any way, my dad showed, conclusively, that hepatitis survived the treatment then given and was contaminating the city's water. I wonder what he would have to say today with the onset of AIDS. I wonder if it is killed in the sewage treatment. I know I won't walk on grass that is watered by treated effluent, or to be politically correct, reclaimed water. Is that recycled piss you're putting on that grass?
    Coach asked me to see him after school and I told him I couldn't that I had a morning and afternoon paper route. He wanted to know where my route was. I told him, but I felt like I shouldn't have. Sure enough, he was parked alongside my route as I jogged by. I grabbed my papers on my way home from school and folded them as I ran. I have my books in the bottom of my paper bag so I don't have to stop. I run my route and then head home for a snack. On this day I was glad that the coach was there.
    My mother had sewn a pocket to the strap of my paper bag so that I could carry a bottle of household ammonia with me. It was in an old Mennen Deodorant spray bottle that I plucked the tip out of and filled with the ammonia then put the atomizer tip back in. I had learned to squeeze for a straight shot or a wide spray. I had been attacked twice by large dogs and was badly bitten when I was twelve, requiring the Pasteur Treatment of twenty nine shots, over twenty nine days, right into my belly with a four inch needle. The Doberman was in the final stages of rabies and I was lucky to live. Fifty seven stitches lucky, all around my right kidney area. At this time I still had nasty red scars around the right kidney area. So far no one had asked me about it. I guess most of the kids remembered from last year. They sent me cards while I was in the hospital for nine days getting the first of the shots. A passing cop saw the dog trying to eat me and he shot the dog as it lunged for him.
    A large shepherd was hard on my tail as I ran along. I didn't see him until the coach started laying on his horn. Without missing a step I ran backwards and sprayed the dog in the face, took out a paper and porched it, spun around and porched the small apartment down the driveway. The dog was yelping as it ran down the road, crashing into trees and parked cars in its path. Coach pulled alongside of me and asked to talk. I told him I had a schedule, but he could catch me at home in ten minutes. He stayed with me as I wound my way along. He had to turn around as I laughed my head off. I tried to find more ways to make his life miserable as I kept my pace.
    I ran by my house and tossed the now empty paper bag with my books in it at the front door and kept on going. I looked back, I had lost my shadow. I finished my route and ran home to see coach's car in the driveway. My heart sank, "What the heck does this guy want from me?" I grabbed my books and ran through the house to my room. My mother called to me that I had visitors. I hollered back that I had a lot of homework and headed to the kitchen, I was starved.
    Mom had four fresh bottles of milk from my grandfather's farm west of town. I poured a large glass and pulled out a carrot muffin from the hot tin cooling on top of the stove. I put a glob of papa's fresh honey down the middle of the muffin and turned to go to my room. My mother and coach blocked the way. Mom turned me around and pointed me to the table. I was not allowed to eat in my room, but I thought maybe I could sneak in there and lock the door so that I could avoid this stalker of small boys.
    Coach looked at me for the longest time. I looked hard and long at the raisins in my carrot muffin. Mom had outdone herself as she used oatmeal, raisins, whole wheat flour w/bran, flax seeds, and honey to make these. It was a new recipe that she had tried. I really liked it and I told her so. She nodded and rolled her eyes at coach. I stopped and took a deep breath. I turned and looked at him. "Want to see what I see?" I handed him my glasses. Not a good move. He stiffened and glared at me. "I don't like being called names. Four eyes is what everybody calls me now, thanks to you." My mother jerked back and glared at coach.
    "Can I say I'm sorry? I didn't know your name."
    "So if I was fat you'd have said, "Hey fatty" or lame you'd have called me "Gimpy." I don't like name calling. It really hurts, Waddle, butt."
    "Do they still call me that?"
    "Yeppers." That got me a smack to the back of the head from my mom.
    "I was All State, on my way to a full ride scholarship. I got called to Korea. A well placed bullet to the glutenous maximus and I am a gimp."
    "Like the name?"
    "Can I say I'm sorry?"
    "You can say the word all day. Does it undo the harm? No. Sorry is just another overused word."
    "What kind of grades do you make?"
    "I haven't learned to make any yet, but I usually earn As unless the teacher doesn't know what they're doing. I have to go show them their error to get it corrected.
    "That happen often."
    "Ye…yes sir," I looked at my mom. She smiled at me.
    "May I see your notebook?" Nosy cuss isn't he. I got up and grabbed my book bag then brought it back to the table. I took out my binder and passed it over. Oh shit!!! I forgot about my doodles. He looked the book over and turned it sideways a few times and smiled at me. "You have a pretty good arm. You always on cue with those papers?" He closed my notebook and put it in my bag then folded the top over. He looked at my mother with a kind of, "Don't go there." look on his face.
    I took him out to our large back yard. The season was over so most of the large vegetable garden was plowed under and the yard had a fine covering of winter grass on it. Fifty feet out was my old swing set with an old tire swinging from a rope. I picked up my football and put it right down the middle. I handed him an old broom stick and told him to swing the tire. I grabbed a bucket of old baseballs and tossed them through the tire ringing the old service station bell, that I had scrounged a few year earlier, with every toss. He walked over and picked up the football and threw it at me hard and fast. My reflexes are quick and I had the ball tucked. He stood back and crossed his arms as he stared at me. "Want to play ball for me?"
    "Can't. Got a paper route."
    "I don't do that. 'Sides, I promised."
    "Dick. The manager." I quickly added. He looked at me sideways. "He can't keep a boy on this route. He threw it himself till two years ago. My dad told him I could do it. Dick didn't want a quitter. I don't quit."
    "How much money you make?"
    "About four dollars a week."
    "Know anybody that would want to take the route?"
    "Never looked. Never asked."
    "Shall we go look and ask?"
    "Why? I like it. It's good exercise and it's fun."
    "How about when it rains? Or snows?"
    "It gets wet and cold. I'm young. I dry and I get warm." My dad walked out the back door. He and coach walked around the house to coach's car. I went inside to do my homework. Dad called me to the kitchen. Mom was making an eggplant casserole for breakfast. It really looked great. I didn't want to tell them that I was always hungry at night and sometimes couldn't sleep. My stomach growled. Dad looked at me. He felt my belly.
    "How about we eat some of that tonight?" Mom smiled at him and put it in the oven. I set the table and we sat down to a big meal of salad and casserole with warm carrot muffins. Dad made me go to my door facing. He took out a pencil and made a mark over my head. I stepped away and looked. I had grown two inches since school was out the past May.
    "Son, you're at your growth spurt. Your belly has been telling me to get ready. We need to redo your diet a little. You need to eat more often to keep your body full of fuel all of the time." Mom was cleaning the table and we were around the corner. Dad stuck his hand down in my pants and fondled me. "You are growing up. I need to get you in for a physical." He smiled as he tousled my hair.
    I went to bed with a full stomach and a lot of questions. What did it mean? Coach? Dad? Too much.

    Now we'll move to nineteen fifty eight when as a horny fourteen year old boy I discovered that there was more to life than going to school and church and being a good kid for my parent's friends to admire. Let me take a minute to explain my budding sexuality.
    My father was a bookworm and a Doctor. All of his free time was occupied with hunting or fishing. I accompanied my dad on fishing trips from the age of four. I joined him on hunting trips as soon as I was old enough to keep my mouth shut so that I wouldn't scare the game out of three counties. We bonded in many ways. We both loved to hunt and fish and the two of us had many outings together, even weekend camp outs alone. I received my first rifle as a birthday present when I was eight. I was so proud of my single shot .22 long. I was an excellent shot and brought home two rabbits the first time out with that rifle. I shot both of them on the run. My father was one proud papa. He took me to the hospital and showed me off. He had pictures of me and my rifle with my kill at my feet.
    We never hunted big animals, just squirrel, rabbit, and birds, in season. I really miss the way my mother could fry up a rabbit or squirrel. Fresh killed quail or dove piled on a plate in the middle of the table makes my mouth water to this day. We won't even talk about the tons of catfish rolled in cornmeal and fried in home churned, butter, or how about bass and crappie. There was the time when I was about fourteen that dad and I came home with forty two crappie, none under a pound and a half. I had every boy in the neighborhood green eyed as they stood around admiring my collection of fish heads that I had laid out on the table for inspection. There wasn't a fish head on the table that was less than four inches wide with some going up to almost seven inches wide.
    The problem we had was with communication. We didn't communicate. If I had a question he had a book that would give me the answer. I had read the entire encyclopedia Britannica, twice, by the time I was ten. Every other year he would buy a new set and I would have to read the entire set within six months. I had some sex questions and he gave me fourth year medical textbooks to search for the answers. My questions had to do with feelings and what I had seen on our vacation during the summer of fifty eight. Those answers weren't in books. Well, maybe they were, I just didn't know how to find them.
    I worked for everything I had. I had to buy my first bicycle when I was six years old. We were on vacation and I had to carry water from the well for ten cents a bucket and haul the garbage over to the pit for a quarter a bag—there were no plastic garbage bags in 1950. I managed to earn the five dollars to buy an old bike from a kid in the neighborhood and I loved that bike like it was made of gold.
    Anytime you earn something it is much more valuable. I have been given nice and expensive gifts by grandparents and other family and friends, but somehow, as much as I love what they gave me, I am more protective of what I bought. My funny uncle bought me a transistor radio. It was about the size of a pack of cigarettes and only picked up AM stations. It had a tiny little speaker that made the sound kind of hissy, but I loved that radio. At that time transistors were brand new and the radio cost over twenty dollars. The big deal was that no body else had one.
    When I was twelve I got into a fight with a kid who tried to steal my radio and stack of brand new comics that I had just bought and was on my way home to read. I nearly killed the kid over the comics, never once thinking about the radio. I almost got into trouble for breaking the kid's nose and arm. He was almost fourteen and a head taller than me, but he told his mother that I snuck up behind him and cold cocked him for his lunch money. My dad grounded me. A neighbor lady stopped by later to ask how I was, she had seen and heard the entire fight, but couldn't get out of her house before the kid ran away, crying. My dad cried for doubting me and took me out to dinner with ice cream. I was miserable for three days. Too much rich food can ruin your body. The kid got his when my dad took our neighbor to confront him and his mother. She was looking for a lot of money from my rich doctor dad.

    My dad had a favorite spot across the state where we had spent our vacations since I was about five or six years of age. All of us loved it, it was true rustic. There were a dozen clapboard cabins set along side a very wide, deep, and fast flowing river. These were small two room cabins with no facilities. We used our Coleman gasoline, two burner stove, two porcelain pans and an ice chest for the kitchen. Coleman lanterns provided our lighting. The toilet was an outhouse set back away from the cabins on the edge of a ravine. Water came from an old cast iron pump that stood in the middle of the cabin area. That well had the best tasting water in the world and I made my spending money for the vacation by bringing in water for my mother at the rate of ten cents a bucket.
    The river made a bend at the west end of the camp and ran over a set of rapids. As I grew older my dad and I would shoot these rapids in our one man, inflatable life raft. On the east side of the camp was an ice cold creek full of the nicest catfish and small mouth bass one could ever hope to catch. My mother was a master chef when it came to frying the fresh fish and wild greens that my dad, sister, and I brought in each night. The whole area was alive with wild fruit and vegetables that we gathered as a family. My mother could bake a cake with wild strawberries or blueberries on top of that little two burner Coleman stove. I still have that stove and I use it every few weeks when I go camping.
    My dad loved his time in the wilderness and would leave the cabin before sunup to fish some far away hole or to go hunting. He would come home with rabbit or squirrel or a stringer full of fish every afternoon. I usually had five or six nice sized bass of my own and nearly always had a three or four pound channel cat that I had caught on my trot lines that I set out each night.
    I didn't mind my dad going off alone most mornings. It meant I could be a boy and play in the creek. There were some great swimming holes and over the years I had learned them all. One morning it was drizzling rain and everyone sort of stayed in their cabins. I put on my old cut offs and a cheap pair of tennis shoes to go check my trot lines. You could not go barefooted in this area because of the rocks, they would cut your feet to ribbons. We bought cheap slip on canvas shoes each year and threw them away at the end of our two week stay. They would be torn to shreds.
    I got to the first swimming hole to check my trot line that I had in the Willow rushes at the narrow inlet. There were two boys there playing in the water. I thought it strange that they were there since it was raining, but what the heck, they were going to get wet anyway. We started talking and they followed me to my trot line. I had three really big catfish on my line this morning and their eyes bugged out of their heads. We really had all of the fish we could carry home and I thought about just releasing these. My dad worked it out with the owner of the park to freeze our fish and then we would pack them in the ice chest when we left. We had maybe twenty pounds or more of dressed fish in the freezer now.
    As I sat looking at my fish the oldest of the boys told me that he would let me watch them as they sucked each other's dicks if I would give them one of the fish. Now I had just turned fourteen two days earlier, but I didn't know a dick could be used for anything, but peeing and making a mess in my pants in Miss Reeves class room. More about that further down the page, keep reading. I had never heard of someone sucking a dick and I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to put a piss spout in their mouth anyway. So of course I said okay.
    The youngest boy was twelve. He was small and skinny. He got down on his knees in front of the fourteen year old who was short and fat and his face was covered in pimples. The little guy pulled the other's swim suit down and a tiny, fat dick of about four inches popped out. The boy instantly took it in his mouth and was sucking like a calf on its mother's udder. I squatted down so that I could get up close and watch. I heard both boys moan in obvious satisfaction. Suddenly the older boy backed away and I saw his tool all wet and up close. It looked gross sticking out under his very fat belly. He went to his knees and pulled the little guys pants down and started to suck the tiny little two inch pricklet that stuck out from this boy's belly. He was bobbing his head back and forth and, I realized much later, the little guy had a climax as he jerked around moaning and humping his cocklet in the older boy's face.
    They pulled away and pulled up their pants as I started to get up. "We'll let you watch us cornhole each other if you'll give us another fish." I had no idea what they were talking about. Remember, I'm the son of a non-communicative book worm. I agreed, out of curiosity. The smaller boy pulled his swim suit off and stood there naked, except for the necessary shoes. He bent over and the older boy walked up behind him with his pants down and proceeded to stick his dick into the other's, butt hole. I picked my chin up off the ground and got back on my knees so I could see this dick going in and out of the tiny little hole that formed a hideaway for it. The boys continued on for several minutes until the fat boy started ejaculating. I watched as cum squirted out of the little hole then the bigger boy pulled his dick out, cum still shooting out the end of it. I looked at the hole it had just left and it was open about the size of the other boy's dick and cum was running out and down the back of his leg.
    The little guy got up and turned around as the older boy bent over in front of him. In one quick move he had his tiny cocklet inside his older friend's butt and was humping like he had been doing this all of his life. All too soon the smaller boy had another orgasm and was going into his buddy, balls and all. I just sat down on the sharp, tiny rocks under me and stared. "Hey, we'll both suck you for another fish." I got up and ran to my trot line. I took the two smaller fish off and tossed them on the rocks. I let the larger, maybe three and half to four pounds go. Then I grabbed my tackle and ran all the was back to the cabin. I have never told anyone about this, but I have thought about it many times over the last forty six years. That had to be about the sickest thing I had ever seen. I couldn't imagine that little boy allowing himself to be used by that ugly, pimple faced, fat kid like that. I really wanted to hit that fat kid and tell his mother. I never saw those two again and I'm really glad that I didn't.

    My grandfather had offered me a job on his farm for the remainder of the summer and I jumped at the chance to be away from the family and out earning money on my own. I had a paper route that had consumed my time for the past two years and I was ready to move on to bigger money. There was a strong side benefit to the paper route though. I ran the route. Yeah, ran. Full out, at top speed for sixteen blocks. Well the route was two blocks up and back on three streets, with side streets in between. So the overall route was sixteen blocks if you added them up the way that I did. I loved to run and it kept my ass tight and skinny.
    At age fourteen I could get a farm to market driver's licence to help out on the farm. Hey what kid would ever turn that down? Two days after we returned from our family vacation I was on a thirty mile train ride out to Papa's farm. He spent the week teaching me to drive every piece of equipment he had, starting with his old John Deere tractor. By the end of the week I could drive the combine, the harvester, the two and a half ton truck, and the pickup truck, which was mine. I cried I was so happy. He told me to do a good job and he would give it to me with the insurance paid until I got out of highschool.
    Papa took me to the county seat where I took my driver's test. I had never seen a book and didn't know about a written test. Papa had forgotten and he was telling me how sorry he was when the examiner looked at us. "You never studied the book?" I shook my head as I looked at how neat my feet looked standing there with the toes pointing toward each other. "Son, how did you get the answers that you wrote down?" I told him that I just kept reading the question until I figured out what the best answer should be. He shook his head. "You missed a question on stopping distance of a car at sixty miles an hour." My shoulders sunk. "You got all of the rest correct. You passed son, with a ninety seven. Now let's see you drive."
    I was on top of the world as I drove home with a brand new driver's licence in my pocket. I bet no one at school has one of these. Yeah, it is only for farm to market, but it beat nothing. Papa wanted me to drive after supplies and to run the deuce and a half alongside of the combine or bailer. I wanted to work and there was no time to run.
    We had a man get his leg hurt the first day out. He couldn't buck bales and papa had eighty acres of alfalfa to get into the barns before the rains came. I begged him to let me buck. I didn't have a lot of upper body strength at first so I was on the truck, but by the end of the week I was on the ground throwing those bales up onto that truck right alongside of the rest of them.
    The rest of the summer I looked for the most labor intensive part of the work we had to do. I was sad to see harvest come. School was about to start, but the wheat had to be brought in. I drove the big trucks. I had the arms to handle them over the ruts in the field and I could put them on a dime at the yard silo where we dumped them. I'm allergic to cotton hulls so I had to leave before that season began, but I didn't want to miss too much school so I said goodbye to my grandparents and drove home in my own pickup truck. It was three years old, but it was mine and I was so proud. I took a bale of hay with me when I left. I told papa I had a use for it. I had it in my mind that if I got stopped driving in town I could say that I had to feed after school. I never got stopped so I never had to lie. My dad told me that if I got caught that I was on my own.
    A nice feature of my farm truck, papa didn't take off the air horns. Two big old chrome plated horns, one twelve inch and one ten inch with a fifty psi compressor alerted everybody within a mile of my presence. The band was filtering out onto the field when I arrived Monday morning. I blasted the horns and pulled into the student parking lot. I got there so early that there were no monitors present. I learned that they would not let me drive if they caught me. I had plans to not get caught.
    I had bulked my skinny ass up. So much so in fact that I impressed the coach and all of the boys in the school. The girls liked my new bod, but I just wasn't into any of them, I still had my steady girlfriend. I went to the office to get my schedule. I couldn't believe my eyes. I had band first hour, then English, History, Geometry, lunch, drama, P.E. I asked why P.E. "Because you don't have a paper route and coach wants you to play football." I was told. I knew that he was responsible for my having P.E. on my schedule, he had been after me the entire previous two years to play junior varsity football.

    It was the summer of fifty eight that I turned fourteen. Through the seventh and eighth grades I had a compulsion to be in. Trouble was, I was in with the outs. I was hanging with the hoods. For the past two years I had worn Levis with rolled up cuffs, a white tee shirt with a pack of Lucky Strikes or Camels rolled in the sleeve and of course the oiled down hairdo. You probably saw the kind in old movies. A high pompadour roll with a curl down on the forehead. A wave down the side to accent the part and all of this ending in the badge of defiance, the duck tail. I had heard somewhere that a Judge had ordered a gang of hoods to wear duck tails that they may be identified as criminals. Therefore it was this sign of non-conformity that the less desirable in my school chose to identify themselves.
    I identified myself. As I said, the summer didn't make this lesson obvious to me, but when school started again in September… There I was, back in the eighth grade again. All of the kids I had known all of my life were a year ahead of me. They were now freshmen, I was still in Junior high. It really sucked. The eighth graders laughed at me for being a failure. The ninth graders shunned me as a hood and therefore a failure. I had a lot of work to do to prove myself. I was a good student, if I wanted to be, so I set out to be the best in the school of twenty seven hundred seventh through twelfth graders.
    The high spot was that I had Marty again. Martha Reeves, twenty three, oops now four. Fresh out of school the previous year. She was at her first teaching job. Five foot four, one hundred and four pounds. Fiery red hair that hung to her hips. Green eyes and a figure that would set any hormone overloaded, pubescent boy on permanent erection. Her hour glass figure was topped with the best set of knockers any of us had ever seen. She was a wonderful English teacher and I really learned conjugation and how to diagram a sentence in her class. However, as with every other boy in the class, I was almost always constantly erect and more often than not had very wet underwear at the end of the period. Someone figured out that emissions were going to happen around her and it was spread around to all the boys in school to wrap their dicks in several feet of toilet tissue before going to her class. It was always funny to see fifteen or twenty boys rushing to the restroom after class. Since we all knew what the score was we got where we weren't worried about modesty and just dropped trou, as soon as the boy's room door shut, to pull off the soaking tissue. We made a game of sticking it to the ceiling as we rushed to the lavatories with our pants around our ankles so that we could rinse the last vestments of our jizz from our cocks. We would pull our pants up and head for the next class.
    Oh, I forgot to mention one of her greatest assets. Her parents had given her a brand new MGA convertible for her college graduation. A 1957, white, with red interior, sports car. A beautiful young female driver with flowing red hair trailing like a liquid flame behind her as she drove down the road. Many times I would be riding in the back seat of my dad's Cadillac and would see her drive by, I would instantly cum in my pants without the benefit of an erection. I was devastated that she had given me an F in her class, but then again, I deserved it because of my attitude.

    I love the first few days of a school year with the smell of brand new denim in the air, it became a favorite fetish of mine. The first day of the eighth grade, second time, I found myself back in Marty's class. As was her practice, each student had to stand and introduce themselves and state their age. I of course was wrapped in about three feet of toilet tissue, but none of the other boys had yet been warned. This was a rite of passage that was too much fun to miss for anyone fortunate enough to witness it. Maybe being a failure had a silver lining after all. I had taken my old seat, back row window isle. To my right was a tiny little guy named Jimmy T. He was thirteen, like everyone else in the class, but he was small. He stood about four foot ten and weighed seventy five maybe eighty pounds, but when that boy stood up I started thinking about boys in a whole new way. The kid had a boner that was remarkable. It was pressing across to his left thigh and practically in my face as he stood in the isle beside his desk to introduce himself. The tight jeans held him close, but since he was less than a foot away from my face I could see it all. That fucker was thick. I guessed it to be about the thickness of a roll of half dollars and as long as maybe two rolls or more.
    As Jimmy talked his cum oozed though the thickness of his brand new jeans and made a very pronounced white spot on the front of his pants almost to the seam at the edge of his leg. Like I said, less than a foot from my face. He held his textbook in front of him so that nobody else could see what I was privy too. His whole body flushed and his breathing became erratic as he took his seat. He looked at me and blushed, adding this hue to his already flushed complexion, I feared that he would pass out.
    The bell rang and everyone headed to the door. I grabbed Jimmy and pulled him across the hall to the boy's restroom. Without a word I shoved him into a toilet stall and opened my jeans. His face was a comedy, half fear, half curiosity. I pulled the spunk filled toilet paper from my dick and tossed it to stick on the ceiling as I explained to him the problem Miss Reeves caused her boys. Jimmy T smiled and opened his pants to reveal a nice four inch, fat, soft cock which he proceeded to wipe off with a wad of toilet paper. I went to the lavatory to wash my hands and he moved to the one next to me, "Thanks he said. I never did that before. She is so fucking hot." I laughed and agreed with him. We were on a "hi, there" type relationship for the next few years, but didn't become friends until our sophomore year.
    A few weeks into the school year Jimmy T came to me as we were unsheathing our cum covered cocks from the wet toilet paper. Jimmy T opened his Levis and I noticed that he had on a jock strap with no underwear. I asked about it and he told me that the older jocks passed on a secret to hide the ever present hard on. I tried it. I could get hard all day and it hardly showed because the jock kept my dick upright. Sometimes the head of my dick stuck up over my belt so I learned to be sure that my shirt tail was to the outside of my jock. If I bloused my shirt tail, slightly, the loose material would completely hide my condition. I wore a jock all the way through college.
    Jimmy T and I left the boy's room for our next classes. I had Algebra. Algebra was not an eighth grade class and I was surprised that I had it on my schedule. I walked in to the class and looked around There was one other kid in the class and the others were all sophomores or older. Mr. Stark was the teacher. He told us to take our seats. He called the other kid and me to come to his desk. He explained to us that we were part of an experiment the school board was conducting with gifted students. Both of us had scored over one hundred and sixty on the school's standardized IQ tests the previous year so it was felt that we had the potential to do well in this class.
    Then he looked at me. He told me something that made me proud and determined to do well. He said that I had the highest scores on the IQ tests of anyone in the school system's history. He was aware of my problems the proceeding years, but it was generally felt that I hadn't been challenged. The school was going to challenge me this year and see what I was made of. I must have been made of more than I thought, I was a straight A student the next five years of school. I was nominated into Mensa at sixteen with a qualifying score in the top ninety nine percentile of the world's tested population. I'm still a member of Mensa, which is Latin for Table because of the round table atmosphere, no race, creed or other considerations, just brains. I know I have brains, I saw the CT scans.
    The other kid was fourteen year old Tommy. If ever I could fall in love with a boy this was going to be the one. I had sort of met Tommy earlier that morning as he stood naked in front of me trying to figure out how he was supposed to wear his cup in his jock strap. Of course I was willing to help him.
    On the first dress out day for P.E., during my second eighth grade year, I sat on the bench in front of my locker trying to get a fucking knot out of my shoe lace. Tommy had the locker next to me. He was naked in a flash and stood before me, in all of his fourteen year old glory, trying to untangle his jock strap. He looked me in the face and reached down to scratch his balls. Tommy was a good half a head shorter than I was. He was almost skinny, but buff. You know the kind, you can see the ribs, but the beginnings of a body are there, everywhere. His pubes were almost non-existent, as was the case with most of us. I could make out a few whispy blond hairs before I realized that I was staring at him.
    "How the heck does this thing work?"—Cussing was considered crude and crass in that time period, and it would get you sent home, after a call to your parents—He was having a real time trying to figure out how to wear a jock strap. I pointed to the other guys in the locker room who were pulling their brand new elastic boulder crushers into place. He looked at me with a blank stare. I took his strap from him and held it by the waist band and opened it for him to step inside. He took the cue and had it on his ankles. I grabbed my knotted shoe lace and the thing untied, all by itself. I hurried to pull my clothes off so that I wouldn't be late.
    I was naked as Tommy turned to me with his cup in his hand. I told him where to put it, he looked at me with a stupid stare on his face. I grabbed the thing and grabbed his jock, I pulled the material out and slipped the cup in. I had to lift his balls to get it in place then I tucked his dick in and let go of him. Electric shocks were racing from my hand to my dick. I looked up to see the widest shit eating grin I had ever seen. He looked like the cat that had gotten the cream. He sat down to pull on his shoes while I was pulling my jock over my knee caps. I had my back to him and quickly stole the moment to sniff the hand that held his balls. Oh, he smelled so good. I stood and turned a bit as I pulled the stubborn elastic up my thighs. He reached out and grabbed my dick and lifted it up then wrapped his hand around it. "That is huge, man." I was fourteen, man, my dick wasn't anything. I had never measured it, but I could see the other monster hangers in the room and looking down at mine…it weren't no big thing. Some of the other guys were like two inch baby dicks, but some of the guys had dicks as thick as a man's thumb and almost as long. Tommy's dick was right in there with them.
    I backed away and got myself tucked in with my cup in place and turned my ass to him to pull up my gym shorts. I felt something like hot breath on my ass. I spun around as he stood up and put his lock on his locker. I hurried to dress and ran to get out on the floor, just making it ahead of several others.
    That night I drifted off to sleep thinking of Tommy's dick waving at me. I wanted to suck it so fucking much. I grabbed my dick and got a handful of cum. To heck with it. I just licked it off and fell asleep wishing it was Tommy's cum.
    I mostly avoided Tommy for the next few days then things changed in my life.

    Tommy and I worked our little, butts off and both of us maxed the course. We had a hundred percent on every paper, every test for the entire year. We were even tutoring the older kids to help them understand. Tommy and I had math classes together for the rest of the time that we were in school. The real challenge for Tommy came with differential equations which I breezed through. I took college level Calculus in my Junior year and assisted the Physics teacher in my senior year.
    Tommy and I didn't have too much interaction outside of class, however that would change. My family lived in an older, what most folks would call, mansion. It stood on a high lot eight feet above the city street. It was a small city lot, which my dad didn't mind because we had no front lawn. The back yard was framed in my dad's vegetable garden. He was born and raised on a farm. Now he is a big city doctor, but the farm has never left the man. The house was forty seven hundred square feet. It was three stories tall plus it had a full basement.
    My dad had an office on the first floor, just off the front entrance. This was for emergency patients only as he had a clinic just six blocks away. Also, I know now, it was a major tax break to have an office in the house. And the utilities were paid by the clinic. There were two bedrooms and two and a half bathrooms on the first floor. There was another bedroom for the maid/cook off of the kitchen and it had its own bathroom also. There were five bedrooms and four baths on the second floor and a large family room, with a half bath and a shower off of it. I suppose that would be called a three quarter bath. It was meant to be used as an extra bathroom for guests to use.
    The third floor was the room that I coveted. It was one room with the upper half of the walls slanted from the roof line. The room was seventy feet long and thirty feet wide. It had four dormers to the north and four to the south. There were two dormers to the east, The west end of the room was a huge walk in closet and private bathroom. My queer uncle lived in that room. I didn't know he was queer until he had moved out of our house when I was almost sixteen. I heard my parents laugh about him and his roommate. My mother asked who my dad thought was on the bottom. This didn't make sense to me as I was still naïve.
    I discovered masturbation in the fall of my fourteenth year. I never thought about the two boys at the river camp. I thought about Tommy. The first few times I did it was in the bathroom that I shared with my sister on the second floor. I sat on the toilet and began to play with my dick. I didn't even know it was hard. It just felt good to play with it. At first a funny feeling came over me and I gathered the foreskin up and squeezed it shut. Cum started leaking out and I was fascinated that I could do that. I kept it up for a few days and started fantasizing Tommy sucking me. I didn't know that I could shoot a load. I just let it collect in the foreskin then I would aim my cock down at the bowl and drain it out. A quick wipe with the old tissue, a wash at the sink, and it was just like coming out of Marty Reeve's class room. That lasted about two weeks.

So there you have it. Is your friction enhanced by my fiction?
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Many often mistake me for one who takes criticism well.
Actually I know the little person that offered the criticism is
dead wrong and not worth the breath to correct him.