A year! More than a year since I'd held Douggie for the last time. Held his hips, as I squealed softly and gave him my cream. Plunged deep and melted, mindlessly creaming into the heat and clinging softness between his warm boy buns. Held him those extra moments, riding out my climax, pulsing, sharing the frankness of it.
So, I guess a lot of this will make more sense now: you know I had a boyfriend in 8th and 9th grade, though Doug and I would have made merciless fun of the word "boyfriend." Suffice it to say that, in a time of no Internet, when the word "gay" was a subculture word we'd never even heard, the two of us were forced to invent sucking and fucking and fondling and edging. Nasty work, but somebody had to do it. The burden always falls to the teenagers, it seems. And, of course we never told a soul.
Between 9th and 10th my family moved, and I never saw Douggie again. Never spoke to him, never wrote. Jacked off about him every day -- most days more than once -- for years, but we never again made contact. I ached with need as I remembered the smell of him, his taste, his fucked sense of humor, the soft clinging tender heat of his ass, the curve of his dick and the texture of his soft hairless sack. Fucking each other in my sister's room, in his basement, in my room. His first pubic hair, the first time he came in me, and the first time I came in him. The times we almost got caught! They were the best of cums, they were... the best. Sharp engulfing young teen cums that shook you and left your ears ringing.
After we moved, I had a dry spell of Saharan proportion. At the new place, I lived close enough to the high school to walk, so I passed Fuzzy's house most days. I liked to get my homework done at school, so I didn't walk home with the crowd. That sort of limited our contact, but we did encounter each other just enough for me to know he existed and where he lived, if practically nothing else about him.
Which sort of goes back to Douggie. To the eye, Doug was... a plain boy with those Buddy Holly glasses. Maybe we were both sort of plain, at 14. But it isn't the memory of Doug's face that I cherished. It was his sexuality, his raw carnality, his pranksterism. His smell and his taste. So a boy being plain looking was never an issue for me. Oh, and we never kissed. It wasn't a sentimental relationship. It was all about sex and excitement and the forbidden. And the pleasure and release. And riding out that outrageous pleasure together.
So anyway, Fuzzy wasn't his actual name. And in truth he wasn't all that plain. But he did have a forest of peach fuzz on his face that had to be an eighth of an inch thick. It was so thick, it wasn't even boyish. He needed a shave. Badly. Who ever even heard of a shaggy pelt of uneven peach fuzz? In 10th grade? But the funny thing was that the fuzz was a part of him that I only came to understand when I knew him... better. You'll see.
So, I'm not sure exactly where we were, but we were sitting or lying a couple of feet apart, maybe on his lawn or the school lawn or something. I'm not even sure how we ended up spending alone time together like that. Maybe I just wandered by and we got to talking. I remember I was comfortable in the sunshine, but he had on a grey hooded sweatshirt, maybe with "Wisconsin" on it. And he was saying something, when he suddenly turned introspective. I mean, we didn't know each other very well, but he went quiet and his attention turned inward and he said something quietly. I almost let it go by, or said something flippant or dismissive. But I didn't. I sensed its importance.
His real name was Paul, by the way. I'd mostly thought of him as having sort of a nondescript round face, but at this moment his face looked longer, somehow. More mature. The sun was behind him, grazing his face, lighting his shaggy fuzz ablaze, and he said:
"People say stuff about me. Like they call me a fag and stuff." I'm not sure what made him confide that fact, what made him share his pain with me.
"That must make you feel crappy," I said. He paused and nodded. Then he looked up at me and in his eyes I could read his secret truth.
I had my own sexual history with Doug, my own secret, my own pain and loss and longing. My own lonely nights with my cock in my hand, celebrating and mourning Douggie. My needs had changed and I longed for a warm boy to hold, maybe even to kiss, now. So I saw.
This fuzzy hurting boy was reaching out to me. He was sad and needy and desperate. I was lonely. He was looking to me, had cast me in the role of... confidante? mentor? More experienced in the ways of the heart, maybe he figured, even though we had to be practically the same age.
"So," I asked gently, looking into his face, "you prefer boys? You know, to mess around with?"
He looked at me for a few heartbeats and visibly came to some decision. Maybe he was so desperate he just took a wild chance. Open and vulnerable. Open to me, in this moment.
"Have you mentioned this to anybody else, yet?"
"No. I mean except they keep calling me a f-fag."
"Who, the jocks?"
"Fuck them. They call each other fags all the time. It's the only insult they know. So nobody else actually knows for sure?"
"I understand. I'm glad you decided to trust me."
He changed somehow, right then. I can't say whether he sat up straighter, or relaxed, or what, but he changed. Looking back at it, more than his face was fuzzy. His whole appearance, his whole way of coming across was colorless and unremarkable, almost hard to notice. Fuzzy. Almost blurry. Easy to miss. Like his colors were faded, his clothes, his posture, his movements were lumpy and nondescript. His contacts with other kids were colorless, minimal, unremarkable. Faded. Fuzzy. 'Under the radar,' as we say now.
Something changed, though, when he told me he liked boys. I saw him change in the moment. It struck me: I saw how thoroughly this boy had minimized himself to avoid detection. Saw it happen, as the veil lifted that first tiny bit. I felt -- not pity -- a painful sympathy, to see what he had been doing to himself over this. I mean, sex with boys is perfectly normal, as long as nobody else finds out, right? I reached out and put my hand on his arm, feeling the reality of him. Which started to give me a boner.
"You wanna come over to my house for awhile?"
"Well, yeah, it's Saturday and my folks are away. Unless you've got something else going on."
"No. I mean, yes. I mean, let me go tell my mom I'm going."
"You need to give her my address?"
"No, I know which one's your house. I can tell her."
That was interesting. So, he'd been... paying attention to me. Another boy was curious enough about me to figure out which house I went home to. Two blocks away and around a corner? It was vaguely flattering. More than vaguely: it was plain out flattering. My emotions were stirring with a little spark of hope.
So, we head over to my place. My folks were away, until late. My mom knew how to bribe me: they had left me a big T-bone to cook for dinner. I unlocked the front door and we headed up to my room. I stopped on the stairs.
"You want a coke or something?
"Not this moment, but maybe in a few minutes." We went into my room and I closed the door.
"Okay. Uhh... C'mere. Please." He stepped closer. I stepped forward to close the gap and took his hand. Here goes...
"Stop me if you feel uncomfortable," I said, pulling his warm self to me. I let go of his soft warm hand and reached up to touch his face, brush his fuzz, reached to guide his head, and kissed him lightly on the lips. It was my first kiss. It seemed like the thing to do. I liked the softness of it and it gave me a boner. He hesitated and then melted. His lips softened, opened a little. The kiss became moist. He was kissing me back. I could feel his enthusiasm growing. I could feel him getting a boner, too.
"Do you like kissing a boy?" I asked, kissing him again, not completely breaking contact.
"Um hum..." a faint tender sound. He let out a little sigh and moved to bring our lips back together. His parted more. I felt the tip of his tongue against mine and slid tickly to feel it. I liked this kissing stuff: my dick was already starting to ooze. I pulled our bodies together, pressed myself to him full length.
I sighed and broke the kiss, tilted my head the other way, brushing his lips. He followed suit and re-initiated the kiss, tender, making a little sound: some tender place being touched.
"Kissing you gives me a boner," I said, putting my hands on his butt, pulling him against me. He fit delightfully in my hands, round and boyish and firm. A boner from the kiss and the subtle smell of him. From the intimacy, the tickly tender sharing of space, of breath, of the moisture of his mouth. I pressed my boner into his. He let out a little trembly groan, a sweet, tender thing that spoke his need, his tenderness, his trepidation. He reached up to touch my cheek with trembling fingers, soft and tentative, exploratory. His lips trembled on mine, as his fingers came to... investigate, to confirm the reality of our kiss, then slid behind my neck to pull me to him, to keep me from getting away, and his tongue made a bold foray between my lips, invading me. Mine entered him, withdrew, teased him to follow, so I could suck it. He moaned and sucked my tongue too, whimpering his need. We broke for air.
"Oh, my..." His voice trailed off, dreamily. His lips came back for more. I smiled and turned the kiss into a peck.
"Can we take our clothes off?" He kissed me harder for a beat and then broke the kiss.
"God, yes." Then he giggled. Somehow I knew he was giggling at the absurdity of even needing to ask. We both kicked off our sneakers.
"Let me help you with your sweatshirt," I said, peeling it up over his head, liberating his heat and the faint odor of his body, trapped inside his clothing. I liked it. I liked the intimacy of smelling him, but he also did smell good. Clean boy. Warm clean boy. My mouth watered. The sweatshirt came off over his head, tousling his hair. Warm and fuzzy and tender and tousled: I had a sweet willing teen boy in my arms.
We kissed playfully, as the layers came off. We kissed down to tee shirts and undies. We kissed as I put my hand over his cock and balls, on his eager hardness and his soft warmth. We kissed as he nervously returned the favor. I pressed forward, to give myself to him, to fill his need for boy.
I backed him up against the bed and there was this awkward moment as he was forced to sit down facing my dick. Maybe he was wondering if I was going to whip it out in his face and insist that he blow me. Hardly: I stepped to one side and crawled onto the bed, behind him. He was safe and free to get up if he wanted to.
He wanted to. He stood up and turned around, then crawled smiling into my bed with me. My heart leapt and my urgency went up a few notches as I pulled him to me, as I peeled his tee shirt up. I smelled a faint trace from beneath his arms as I slowly kissed each of his soft little nipples. Boy! I helped him off with the shirt. He helped me with mine and we were skin to skin, warm and boy-fragrant. Teen boys touching and kissing trembly. He was not passive. He was right there meeting me in the middle, his need blatant and delightful. Bulges touching, mashing, yelpy groans of delighted intimacy. I needed him bad. I needed more closeness. So did he.
Our hands were inside each other's undies now, having each other, exploring, caressing, delighting, feeling the stiffness of each other, knowing the other boy's arousal. The promise of ecstasy and transcendence. Freedom from want. Sexual freedom: to be boy sexual, to give, to be received, to be taken, to have, to be with him, to lose ourselves in the communion of boy bodies.
"Can we suck each other?" I asked.
"Oh yes. Oh yes. Oh-ohhhh... " as my finger traced the length of him.
Undies gone. His penis is so beautiful. Welcoming. Healing. The first I've been with since Douggie's. It looks like something that belongs in my mouth. Up-curving lovely thing, beckoning me. Generous, tender. Fat bag of delights beneath. My heart races, my body all watery, as I move to have him. Have these unsuspected treasures, now revealed.
Contact. The delight of his hot penis against my face, his lovely boy sack, drapey and wrinkly, soft against my lips. Now getting happy and fat: candy to my eyes, the special skin of his sweet teen bag, the magic scent of him: no real smell, but definitely something heavy, intoxicating. Something to dissolve my self and draw me, to merge, to take him. His tip passing between my lips, his soft sweet shape and the tender wetness of his mouth on mine.
Settling into a joyous, healing 69. So lucky. So lucky: another boy at last. The joy and comfort of him. The shaft of him, the tender head of him. Sliding, celebrating. Between my lips, along my tongue, tender, cherished, against the walls of my mouth. Him. Boy. The glorious head sliding to sit at the gateway of my throat. A tender, holy thing. The taste of him, his shape. Changing, stiffening, swelling, thickening. The ancient authority of dick, commanding me to joy. Big between my lips. Bigger, now. My mouth compelled to self-impale, to devour. Rising joy: ever closer to this male pleasure thing. Like it's fucking my brain: too vast to wrap my mind around. My soul kneeling before it. Melting. My soul renewed.
The moaning, unstoppable ascent -- together -- to a trembling, clenching, squealing release and the intimacy of receiving his celebration, jetting, creamy in my mouth, creamy on my tongue, lips gladly agape, slimy with another boy's joy. The privilege of having this.
His grateful sigh. Turning, warm in my arms, to be held.