Date: Mon, 19 Feb 2018 18:28:03 -0600
From: Joseph
Subject: Love Line Said It Doesn't Mean That You're Gay

*Love Line Said It Doesn't Mean That You're Gay*

*The following story is true, and details my first sexual experience with
another guy when we were both sophomores in high school. *

Like most of Adam and I's sleepovers, we were staying up way past the time
that people normally go to sleep, cracking jokes and trying to keep from
waking up my parents.

We eventually started talking about jerking off: about when we did it, how
often we did it, who we thought about. The lights were off and I was laying
in my single bed. Adam was on the pull out trundle bed next to me, six
inches lower. The different heights of the beds created the sense that we
were further apart than the two feet or so that separated us.

Both of us were under our covers. I had my hands down my boxers the entire
time, absent-mindedly rubbing my teenage dick and playing with the tufts of
soft, pubescent crotch hair that had only started to fully come in during
the last year or so. I'm sure that Adam's hands were down his underwear,
too.

We were both spazzy teenagers, neither one of us getting into the cool
cliques of jocks or skaters or any other stereotypical high school group;
we met in marching band, but whereas most of the other band kids were nerds
or goodie two-shoes, we were rambunctious smart asses, entertaining
ourselves on the bus rides to away games by quoting raunchy movies and
listening to gangster rap on a shared pair of headphones. I was a snare
drummer and he was a saxophonist. We'd go to each other's houses after
school, making recipes for tennis ball bombs out of the Anarchist Cookbook
or skateboarding instead of doing our homework or practicing our
instruments, overall trying to rebel as much as we could given that we were
in an all-boys catholic school and didn't have any ways to actually get in
any serious trouble yet.

We were both pretty physically fit, if for no other reason than we were
teenagers whose metabolisms still outpaced all the fast food we devoured.
It was summer, and we got plenty of exercise by skating homemade ramps on
skateboards or rollerblades, or hanging out all day tanning and swimming in
the pool at my apartment complex. It was 1998, and it was trendy at the
time in Southern California to have long, highlighted bangs swept across
your forehead, and we both rocked that look like a pair of hyperactive,
Jonathan Taylor Thomas wannabes. Everyone wanted to be a surfer in the
1990s, especially in SoCal, but I was the only one out of our friend group
who had actually grown up close to the beach and had spent time learning to
surf, albeit poorly. Still, I had enough surfing experience to make me feel
mildly badass, and in general, I was probably a bit more confident than I
had the right to be.

Adam had grown up without his dad around, and he had a bad attitude that
would come out whenever he got pissed off. He wasn't the handsomest of
dudes, but he was scrappy and tough for his size. He also had escaped the
acne that plagues a lot of teenagers and he started to grow facial hair
earlier than all of us, making him look older than he was in the face. The
body was a different story: Adam had a lean, smooth body that looked
entirely appropriate for his sixteen years, albeit a bit more cut than
other kids as skinny as we were. He had an honest-to-goodness six pack, and
he could do that thing where he rolled his stomach muscles from top to
bottom to make it look like a wave in the ocean. He had tight pecs and
biceps, nothing too big, but lean and sinewy the way you'd expect a teenage
skateboarder's body to be when they have the metabolism of a race car. He
was white as hell, though, which made the fact that he sometimes acted like
a stereotypical "wigger" even funnier. His bedroom was covered in posters
of rappers, which I thought was funny because between the two of us, my
olive skin made me dark enough to pass for latino, while he stayed lily
white. He even slipped ebonics into his speech every once in a while,
acting like a little Eminem, but before Eminem was on the mainstream radar.

Despite his bad-boy attitude, I had always felt like the more dominant one
in our friendship, which came out when we went to go hit on girls. My house
was across the street from Disneyland, and like a lot of Anaheim teenagers,
me, Adam, and our other band-geek-turned-rebel friend David all had annual
passes and went a couple times a week after school. We didn't spend a lot
of time riding the rides or anything. Instead we did what the other Anaheim
slackers with Disneyland passes did: use the park the way teenagers use a
mall. We smoked clove cigarettes, shoplifted from the gift shops, and
focused on the main thing that occupies the teenage male brain: sex. We
were all girlcrazed, but I was the only one wth any kind of sexual
experience, having made out with some girls and copped some feels. When it
came to hitting on girls, I was always the leader of our little group, and
I had the most confidence when it came to talking to girls and getting them
to go on dark rides with us, like the Haunted Mansion, where we would see
how far we could get with whatever girls we had just met, coercing them
into gawky, exhilarating teenage make-out sessions. At the end of the ride,
we'd exchange numbers and promise to meet up again. Sometimes we actually
did. I even had a little Disneyland girlfriend for a couple months, who I
never saw outside of the Magic Kingdom.

That's likely what we were talking about when the conversation segued to
our jerk-off habits, me bragging about how our Haunted Mansion hook ups had
given me plenty of material for my mental spank-bank, as Adam lay on my
pull-out trundle bed, two feet away from me, our dicks in our respective
hands, looking up at the ceiling, bullshitting.

Adam had an incredibly hot older sister, a senior who l remember looking
like Sloan from Ferris Bueller's Day Off, whose room we would sneak into to
giggle at her underwear drawer with its red g-string thongs. It was pretty
transparent that Adam was completely down to fuck his sister if ever given
the chance, but he never said so. Instead, he told stories about
conversations with his "sister's friends" as a way to show that he had
access to the thoughts and interest of Older Hot Girls. At some point in
our midnight giggling, our talk turned to dick size.

"I asked my sister's friends how big of a dick counts as a "big dick". They
said eight inches. I'm eight and a half", he bragged.

I hadn't ever measured my dick, and to be honest I couldn't really bring to
mind exactly how long eight and a half inches was, but I was pretty sure
that my dick was shorter than that. Adam and I were both small for
sophomores--a trait that probably bonded us as our school's two pint-sized
rebels with chihuahua syndrome--and I tried to picture this little guy
laying next to me with a penis bigger than what most Older Hot Girls
considered "big".

"You're full of shit", I said.

"No! I'm dead fucking serious!"

I couldn't see Adam's face in the dark, but I know he was making that
incredulous, smart ass face he made when he was being self-righteous about
something.

"Look!" he said, shifting in bed, positioning his crotch under a ray of
moonlight coming through my window. He gathered his blanket around his
dick, which was fully erect, and arched his back up to show me the size of
the bundle in his hands.

The thought of actually seeing Adam's dick hadn't even crossed my mind up
until that point, but I became vaguely aware of a curiosity to see what was
under the blanket, coupled with a passing sense of disappointment at the
fact that I was only going to see a blanket-wrapped version. I shoved that
thought to the back of my mind: showing me his dick would have been totally
gay, and if there was anything that we knew as high school boys, it was
that the one thing we didn't want to be was `totally gay'.

I mean, I knew I wasn't gay. Right? I wasn't pretending to be someone I
wasn't when I was at Disneyland, playing at being the alpha male of my
friend group, pairing up with ponytailed babes at Disneyland, making out in
the Haunted Mansion. But I also knew that I got insanely turned on by the
thought of sucking a dick. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I
nervously realized that I wanted to suck Adam's. Badly.

A few months before Adam and I's sleepover, I had been riding in the car
after getting picked up from high school. Being the kind of person who had
the bad habit of sucking on pens and such as a sort of nervous habit, I
found myself sucking on the tip of one of my beefy, extra thick snare drum
sticks, capped with a flared nylon head. Drum sticks are way too thin to
pass for a penis, but they're definitely phallic. As I stared out the
passenger window, my tongue traced the contours of that nylon tip, and I
felt a tingle somewhere between my belly button and my butthole as I
momentarily imagined I was licking the head of a rock hard cock. I took the
drum stick out of my mouth, feeling a flash of guilt and internalized
homophobia. I let the stick rest on my lips, though, and after a moment, I
got a little braver, slipping the tip back into my mouth, this time
allowing myself the naughty, secret pleasure of pretending it was a dick.
It was a tiny moment. My mom, who was driving me home, had no idea that in
that instant, I was a million miles away, staring out the window and
flicking my tongue around the tip of an improvised dildo, stumbling upon a
deep-seated desire to feel another guy's dick in my mouth.

A memory of that moment hung in my mind as I lay in the dark next to Adam,
bullshitting my way through this chat about dick size, keeping our laughs
muted to papery whispers so that my dad wouldn't knock on my bedroom door,
telling us to go to sleep.

My own dick was so hard it burned. I gathered the blankets around it,
shifting myself into my own ray of moonlight, offering it up to Adam's
inspection.

"Mine's pretty big, too." "Looks average," Adam said, unimpressed.

Having not measured, I didn't realize at that moment that my dick was, in
fact, slightly above the adult average at 6.5 inches, but it indeed failed
to produce the type of impressive blanket bundle that Adam held up a moment
ago.

A giddily tense silence ensued. We both lay in our beds, having compared
the size of our dicks and still holding onto swollen erections in the dark
as we stared at the ceiling.

"I'm so wired off that Josta, there's no way I'm falling asleep anytime
soon", I said after what felt like five minutes, but was probably only about
thirty seconds. That vague awareness I had earlier, when I noticed I might
like to see Adam's dick, had rolled to the forefront of my mind. As I
connected the memory of my tongue circling the drumstick to the mental
picture of that blanket-wrapped package that Adam had waved in the
moonlight, my heart pounded so hard that I started to wonder how much
contact Adam's trundle bed had with my bed, sure that the thrumming in my
veins was being transmitted through every spring in my mattress.

The character of his whisper-voice subtly shifted from boisterous and
bratty whispers to slightly self-conscious ones (or maybe nervous?!), as he
responded,

"I mean, I can't fall asleep unless I jerk off".

I briefly thought of calling him out: we'd spent the night at each other's
houses probably fifty times, and I had never seen him jerk off to fall
asleep. Saying that he "couldn't fall asleep" without jerking his dick
would be a stretch. Then again, maybe he had waited until I had fallen
asleep, or had ducked into the bathroom? I had no idea! The thought made my
veins pump even harder.

My head was swimming. Was he still just playing at being a macho male,
trying to act like his ballsack was so virile that it had to be emptied
nightly to get some sleep? Or was he hinting at something. I didn't know
what to say, so I did what came naturally to teenage-me: I stretched the
truth.

"Me too."

I mean, I jerked off to fall asleep pretty often, but to say I couldn't
fall asleep without it was a stretch. Whatever.

As I said it, I noticed myself vaguely hoping that the statement might
escalate things. Instead, that tense silence came back. I worried that by
agreeing with Adam, I had somehow ended the conversation. But even in the
dark, I could tell that he was lying next to me, waiting for something more.

We had already shown each other our hard dicks, albeit through blankets. We
had already confessed that we jerked off a lot. Nothing about any of that
had seemed to endanger our fragile, teenage, heterosexuality. I wondered if
it would be gay if we jerked off next to each other in silence. Maybe it
wouldn't. What would we do when we jizzed? Weird.

I knew I had a slightly weird jizz cleanup routine. Normally I slurped my
jizz off the back of my hand, not really thinking anything about that was
particularly gross. To me, it just kinda tasted like the loogies you hock
up from the back of your throat. But with Adam next to me, could I just do
that? Probably not. And I wouldn't be able to keep myself covered up with a
blanket during that whole process. Maybe that was a topic I could use to
keep the conversation going.

"Hey, how do you clean up after you jizz?", I asked, implying `what do you
do with the jizz when you jerk off during our sleep overs,' hoping he
understood that's what I meant, and realizing that my whisper voice had
also gotten more subdued and timid sounding. "I always just use the pair of
socks I wore that day. If it's a really horny day and I have to go for two,
I end up using both!" His tone shifted back into teenage brag mode with
that last bit.

"You just use the sock like a rag afterwards?" "No, I have the sock on my
dick while I jerk off, like a condom. It's kinda rough at first, but it
feels good. More friction! I just bust into the sock" That actually sounded
totally sensible to me, and like a pretty good idea. I wanted to keep this
conversation going, though, so I pretended like I needed more info.

"But what about the extra part of the sock? Does that just flop around on
top like a flag while you're jacking it, or what?" I couldn't see him
smiling in the dark, but I knew he had that smart assed, shit eating grin
on his face as he came back with, "You're forgetting that I'm working with
eight and a half inches!"

With that he sat up in bed, and my heart just about leaped out of my chest
when I thought that I was gonna get a full demonstration. I wasn't that
lucky, though: he reached down to pull a sock off, keeping the covers on
top of himself. He shuffled around as he rolled a gym sock down around his
(allegedly) big cock.

"Yup," he said in a whispered smirk-voice, letting the silence hang for a
second before whisper-blurting, "Tailor made!"

--seemingly to no one.

It was a dorky thing to say, and I feel like he knew it on some level, but
at this point all social norms were temporarily suspended: we had gone past
the normal realm of things that are cool to talk about with your friends,
edging our way towards some slippery, gay, conversational territory. So I
didn't call him out for being a dork, I just let the nerdiness hang in the
dark room for a few moments.

My chest pounded in a combination of teenage giddiness, overwhelming
horniness, and social terror. I was sensing that this might be the night to
do something about the kinds of feelings I had when that drumstick was in
my mouth, but I was scared of what he might think of me. At any moment,
Adam could jolt out of horny slumber party mode and realize that we were
talking like fags, and that I was a faggot, and that he would tell everyone
we knew, and I'd be ostracized.

I knew that I wasn't completely alone in what I was feeling, though. After
all, Adam was the one with his dick stuffed into a gym sock, which I now
noticed was slowly moving around under his blankets. He was the one who had
sheepishly blurted out "tailor made!", as if that was an actual thing that
people said when they had socks on their dicks. I hesitantly took the upper
hand, fabricating a believable lie that could move the action along. Before
I knew it, I was listening to myself start a conversation that I wasn't
sure I wanted to finish.

"Dude, I want to tell you something, but I'm worried what you'll think of
me"

Silence.

More silence.

This was taking too long. I glanced over and saw his arm still moving
slowly under the blanket. I caught a glint of his eyes, wide open, staring
at the ceiling. He finally responded.

"Like what? Think of you how?"

"Well," I started, in an increasingly nervous whisper. I had started this
shit. No turning back now.

"I don't want you to think I'm weird."

"You're pretty fucking weird," he shot back, perhaps a little too quickly.
Maybe he knew where I was going with this and he judged me. Or maybe he was
into it, and he was just as nervous as I was? I was gonna take my chances.
No turning back.

"Not weird like spazzy, blow up the cafeteria weird". I let that hang in
the air for a few beats, summoning all the courage I had. "I mean, like,
the don't-think-I'm-gay kind of weird".

Silence. Then after a beat, he offered, "Dude, you're not gay. We pick up
chicks at Disneyland, like, every week."

He was going along with this so far. I suddenly realized that Adam's wasn't
the only blanket that was moving. I didn't know if he noticed, and realized
that I suddenly didn't care.

"Well," I continued, "I was listening to Love Line the other night, and
this guy called in and said that he was in a frat, and as part of the
hazing ritual, they made him blow some dudes. He was calling Love Line
because he realized that it made him horny, and he was conflicted, because
he really loves his girlfriend, but having other guys dicks in his mouth
made him super horny and he couldn't stop thinking about it. He wanted Dr.
Drew to tell him if he was gay or not. "

That was a real call I heard on Love Line, but in the service of my agenda
with Adam, I switched up Dr. Drew's answer. Dr Drew had given the guy
encouragement to accept his sexuality no matter what it was, and that
perhaps he was bi, and that was ok. But that wasn't going to work for my
spiel I was giving to Adam, so I lied.

"Dr. Drew said that it was totally normal to feel aroused during sexual
activity of any kind, and as long as this guy was really in love with his
girlfriend, it didn't mean that he had to start thinking of himself as
anything other than straight; it's more just like a fetish, like, something
that he gets into, but it's just sex".

Adam was buying it.

"Makes sense," he whispered after an uncomfortably long pause, sounding
serious and thoughtful.

A big part of me wanted to quit while I was ahead, but I still hadn't said
anything that incriminated myself, and I had to keep going, seeing as how I
prefaced all this with a disclaimer about not wanting to seem gay.

Before I had fully processing what I was getting myself into, I began
hesitantly telling him the story about the drum stick. I explained that it
was an innocent mistake to realize that the thought of a dick excited me,
and that I wanted to try it someday, but that I was totally straight and
liked women, I was just curious after the Love Line call: if Dr Drew said
it doesn't mean you're gay, and I wanted to see what it felt like, what was
the harm?

It was out there now. I was totally vulnerable. He had enough ammo to make
me the laughing stock of our extremely homophobic, all-boys catholic high
school.

His blanket had stopped moving.

"Well, I mean, you like what you like."

That was scarily non-committal. That could mean anything! Was it a bad
thing? "I don't think you're a fag," he added.

"You don't?"

"No. I mean, if that's what Dr. Drew said, I figure he knows more than us.
Makes sense to me."

Whew. Maybe I was in the clear. But I still had a pounding erection and a
mouth that was salivating wildly at the sudden realization that I
desperately wanted to fill it with Adam's (allegedly) huge cock.

"I was thinking..."

I stopped there. I was safe up to this point. Did I really want to subject
myself to whatever would happen if he flipped out on me? Called me a freak?
Never spoke to me again? I was frozen, waiting for something, anything, to
pull me out of these uncharted waters.

"You were thinking that you want to suck my dick, or what?"

Oh shit. He blurted it out before I could get there! Of course that's
*exactly* what I had been thinking, but I expected to be the one to say it,
not him.

"I mean...", I responded a little too quickly, then hesitated, drawing out
the pause. "Like, what do you think? Do you think it would freak you out?
Like, give you a complex?"

He said nothing. He did nothing. My chest was pounding so hard that with
every heartbeat, I could hear my pounding temple rubbing the pillow under
my head with every `THUMP-thump'. My hands were soaked with sweat. My feet
were, too, and one of them that wasn't entirely under the blanket had gone
ice cold. My cock was so hard I thought that I was literally about to
damage the cartilage or something as it pulsed hotly against my belly, a
pool of precum soaking the thin cotton of my boxer shorts, sliming my
clammy hand as I squeezed it, hoping that pressure might take the edge off.
It only make things worse as I waited in the dark for Adam to say
something, anything.

Suddenly he seemed to snap back,

"I don't have a complex", he whispered.

My heart sank. Fuck. He's gonna trip out on me.

"No, I didn't say you have a complex. I said give you a complex. Like, if
you let me do it, and then you felt weird afterwards."

After a long pause, his whisper reverted back to a hesitant, almost formal
(or was it nervously excited?) delivery. "I like chicks."

"Well duh!", I shot back, my whispers getting increasingly confident now
that I had gotten this far and hadn't been completely shot down yet. "So do
I."

Back to silence. I glanced at his blanket under the moonlight and it was
moving again. Not quickly, but definitely moving. His hand was obviously on
his cock, still stuffed in that gym sock.

I couldn't take the silence and I started talking again.

"Dude. I wouldn't tell anyone. AN-Y-ONE", I whisper-enunciated. "Not our
other friends, not my friends at my old school, no one you know. NO ONE."

I was blabbering and sounding obviously defensive at this point, but I just
had to fill the silence. Besides, I felt like if I kept talking, I might be
able to talk him into this. The proposition was on the table: I had
essentially just asked Adam if I could suck his dick. No turning back now.
"I mean, why would I tell someone? That makes me look gay." This was
getting too real; I had to put some spin on that a little bit. "I mean, I
know you're not gay, you know I'm not gay, and we both know that we like
chicks, but other people might not understand. I can't risk that."

"I know I'm not gay," he said in that serious, formal-ish whisper voice,
seemingly trying to talk himself into something.

"Yeah, obviously," I said, trying to be as reassuring as possible. "Dude,
besides: I'm gonna be the one with a dick in my mouth."

This was a sales-pitch, and an ironically self-homophobic one at that: god
forbid someone have a DICK in their mouth! But as I said the words, my
clammy hands squeezed my burning, leaking dick harder into my belly,
imagining my lips wrapped around his teenage shlong. Would he be
circumcised? Would he have more hair on his balls than me? Would his dick
be straight, or have a weird curve in it like I'd seen in porno mags?

It was a humid summer night, and our sweat vapors filled my little bedroom
with the smell of nervous teenage boy. I could hear the buzz of the power
lines in the street outside my window. It was probably 2 am by this point,
and we were probably the only ones awake in my apartment complex.

After a very long pause, his whisper-voice became a little mischievous,
albeit tempered with hesitant nervousness.

"What would we do about cum?"

My immediate thought was `shoot it straight down my throat, and please drip
a little on my lips!!' But I didn't say that. That would sound really gay,
and I needed to keep him feeling like this whole situation was low-stakes.

"A little cum never hurt anyone," was all I could come up with.

That seemed to be enough of an answer.

More silence.

"I mean, would you, like, come lay down on my legs or something? That would
be weird. I'd prefer to be like, sitting up."

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. He was actually considering this.

I had no preference as to how we were positioned. I mean, if I were totally
honest, I would have loved us to suck each other off at the same time, 69
style (I had never imagined any of this before, but these thoughts were
just getting freakier and freakier!), but there was no way I could talk him
into that at this point.

I tried to not respond too eagerly, playing it off like I was totally calm
and collected, simply exploring an idea that had come to me when I was
listening to an educational sex talk show on late night radio, being an
open-minded but straight young man.

"You could sit right here, or you could sit down there and I could kneel on
the floor".

In reality, I could barely contain myself. The thought of having Adam's
dick in my mouth was getting to be too overwhelming--if that was even
possible. I realized that there was a chance I might actually be touching
his cock soon, and that grabbing his dick with clammy hands wasn't a very
mellow way for that whole situation to go down, so I put my icy fingers
under my butt as I lay in bed, trying to warm them up as quickly as
possible. When I moved them from my lap, I felt a tiny string of precum
cling to my hand and streak across my belly.

Adam seemed to reconsider.

"Dude, I don't know. This just doesn't seem like the right thing to do. I
think we'd gonna regret this, dude. A lot."

Fuck. Fuck. He's bailing. Now I'm never going to be able to fall asleep or
live this down --once he tells everyone at school how I propositioned him
for a gay blowjob. I lay there panicking for what felt like five minutes. My
heart was still racing, my dick was still raging hard, and I tried to keep
my breathing calm even though I was practically hyperventilating in nervous
anticipation of what he might say next.

"I mean, you won't tell anyone?", he finally asked. His voice shook just a
tiny bit. He was as nervous as I was. I couldn't have responded any faster.

"No! Of course not. Duh. I mean, like I said, I'd look WAY worse than you
in this situation."

Fuck. Was that the best I had? Maybe I could turn it back on him.

"Are YOU gonna tell anyone?"

His whispers took that weird, serious tone again.

"No," he said.

We lay there in the silence for what seemed like another eternity, but was
probably all of sixty seconds. His trundle bed creaked as he sat up and
started pulling the covers off himself. He had his dick in the gym sock
still, but his dick was also going through the fly in his boxer shorts. In
the dark of my bedroom, it made it look like he was wearing that novelty
underwear that they sell at Spencer's at the mall, where a pair of boxer
briefs is made to look like an elephant's face, with a cock pouch where the
trunk is.

His dick was huge. Jesus.

He slid the gym sock off, then quickly flipped his boner back into the fly of
his underwear, which made me nervous. If he's going to do this, why the
modesty? Is he just getting up to go pee or something?

But he didn't get up and leave. He moved up to sit on my bed as I lay
there, his back to me, waiting. That was my cue. I felt insanely dizzy all
of a sudden. I pulled my (now slightly warmer) hands out from under my butt
and sat up, moving my blanket off me. After lying under my covers during
that whole conversation and having turned them into a sweaty sauna, taking
the blanket off felt like incredible freedom. I still had my boxers and
socks on, but I felt naked, horny, alive, and rebelous.

I could still hear the power lines buzzing outside, and a warm summer wind
came through my blinds, stirring up the sweaty boy smell in my bedroom. I
felt the breeze turn the wet spot on the front of my boxers cool as it blew
across my waist. My confidence swelled.

I scooted the trundle bed out a bit to make some space on the floor in front
of Adam's groin, and I got down on my knees in front of him. His boxers
were still on and his hands were resting on his thighs.

I wanted to look up at him and hold eye contact as I ran my hands along the
insides of his thighs. I wanted to feel if they were smooth, or if they
were starting to get wiry hairs, like mine. I wanted to pull his boxers off
of him in a frenzy, put one hand underneath his ball sack and one hand
around the shaft of his dick, and look deeply into his eyes as I placed it
in my mouth. But I couldn't. I was a straight dude who had listened to a
radio show that had made me curious, and had to act like I wasn't a
full-fledged cocksucker, just a casually curious guy down to try something
new. I couldn't bring myself to look up at him: that would seem too gay. I
definitely couldn't yank his underwear off in a cock-crazed frenzy like I
wanted to. I let him make the first move.

His hands fell to his crotch and he pulled his underwear to the side a bit,
making room for his dick to shift over and slip out of the fly of his
boxers. I reached a hand out to wrap it around the shaft, but his hand
stayed in the way. I felt awkward when our hands touched, so I let my hand
fall back into my lap. As my eyes adjusted to the dark room at this new
angle, the details of his cock came into view.

Jesus fucking christ. It was massive. As in,
I-hadn't-imagined-a-cock-could-look-like-this massive. I had seen big dicks
in porno mags, but this was real life and it might be the biggest dick I'd
ever seen. He really wasn't exaggerating earlier.

I couldn't believe how wide it was. My dick was uniformly round in the
circumference, like a carrot. Looking straight at the head of his cock,
though, it was like a wide, flattened oval. A firm, fleshy organ, staring
straight at me, a bead of precum seeping from its gaping, generous cock
slit.

My heart pounded harder and my vision practically blurred. I felt
overwhelmed, but I was going through the motions at this point. I felt like
I was watching myself from above, moving on auto-pilot.

I nonetheless felt a vague sense of power. He was above me, and he was
about to stick his cock in my mouth, but this was my idea, and I had
control.

I moved my hand to his crotch, feeling another flash of confidence as I swept
his hand out of the way, taking his heavy, warm meat into my hand. I
brought a second hand up, wrapping it around the shaft, and realized that I
could wrap two hands fully around his dick and there was still space
between my hands and where the head started. His cock was hard. Harder than
mine had ever gotten, and it pulsed as his heart beat. He was as nervous as
I was, from the feel of his pulse.

At that point in my life I had never felt a firm, rubber dildo, but that's
what his dick was like: heavy and dense and firm. The shaft was smooth, and
as I lifted it up a bit, I saw a ripple of darker skin trace a line from
the frenum down towards his balls.

I leaned my neck forward and felt that wide, hot cock head touch my lips
for the first time. How was his cock this firm and this soft at the same
time? I had never felt anything with that type of softness in my whole
life. It rested on my lips for a moment, firm and plump like a warm
nectarine, but the texture was almost spongey. His dick smelled sweaty, but
also clean, with a faint smell of the soap he had used in my shower. It
smelled similar to the smell of my own crotch, but less tangy. Sweeter. It
tasted delicious--kind of like the smell, but slightly more doughy, almost
like the inside of a warm loaf of fresh bread. To this day, I can still
imagine the way it smelled and tasted.

The thought occurred to me that I was getting what I wanted, and that I
should hold onto this moment forever.

I wanted to rub his dick into my face. I wanted to lick it slowly from the
base to the tip. I wanted to run my fingers through whatever teenage pubes
he was growing. But he was still wearing his boxers, and I was still trying
to act like a straight guy who just happened to be open minded, so those
things were out of the question.

I just started sucking.

It was automatic. I had never sucked on anything more cock-shaped than my
drum stick, but it felt like the most natural thing I had ever done. I kept
my teeth tucked behind my lips and let my throat open up a bit to keep that
enormous, firm width in my mouth. I tried to deep throat him, knowing that
was a thing I had seen in porn, but it was impossible. I got it to the
opening of my throat before I felt my gag reflex take over, and as I pulled
off his dick, a river of saliva poured out of my mouth onto my hands. I
rubbed the spit all around his dick, lubing it up, and startled myself when
my frenzied mouth produced a suction sound in the silence of my otherwise
silent apartment.

The fear of getting caught by my parents only made my cock burn hotter. I
no longer cared what sounds I made, and I sucked harder, trying to make him
moan. I almost succeeded, and he started panting loudly, trying to silence
himself by biting his lip.

One of my hands moved down to my crotch, slipping my dick out of the fly of
my boxers. As I bobbed my mouth on Adam's dick, feeling my lips slide up
and down his massive length, I began to jerk myself off at the same rhythm.
I had to stop: two or three more strokes was all it would take for me to
shoot cum all over the trundle bed. I let my cock fall from my hand and I
felt it strain as it stuck straight out in front of me, gently waving in
time as I bobbed on his gorgeous, hard mass of hot dick flesh.

I couldn't have been sucking Adam's penis for more than thirty seconds
before his hands came shooting down to pull me off of him. I tried to keep
his dick in my mouth, desperately hoping he'd empty his load in my mouth.

"Wait, wait, I'm gonna come," he whispered, his voice cracking as he tried
to keep from panting too loudly. He pulled his crotch back away from my
face and I kneeled on my heels, watching as he jacked his cock into his
other hand, throwing his head back in the moonlight and squinting his eyes
tightly as his muscular, teenage stomach convulsed, quivering with each
spurt of cum into his hand. After a long serious of convulsions, he dropped
his gaze to me. Then, as if stating the obvious, he whisper-shouted,

"Dude, I need some toilet paper or something!"

I picked up the gym sock he had removed and went to wipe his dick and hands
with it, but he pushed me off of him, grabbing the towel and dabbing his
hands and crotch with it.

He slipped his dick back into his boxers and stood up.

We said nothing as he laid back down on the trundle bed and I climbed up
onto my own mattress. He rolled around, pulling the covers about himself,
fidgeting to get comfortable.

My mind was racing as I lay in bed on my back with the covers off, clammy
hands under my head, my cock practically burning a hole into my boxer
shorts.

As soon as I heard him start breathing the slow, full breaths of someone
who has drifted off to sleep, I quietly reached down and took off one of my
gym socks...