Marshall and Me
by Jackson James
© 8 November 2000 by Jackson James [email@example.com]
I dedicate this story to some online friends who've helped me learn more about what love is in nine months than I'd learned in all my life before. They also helped me learn more about myself, who I am and what I want, than I ever imagined was possible. Thanks, guys, to all of you, for the good and the bad, the easy and the hard. I am a better person, a better man, for your friendships
"Do not trade future promise for present happiness!" -- JGS
NOTE: If male-male sex, gay relationships, or teen sex offends you, or if you disapprove of this, or if you are not of the right age to read about it, please -- to protect your rights and the rights of others, stop reading now, and go elsewhere.
A true story of Marshall and me. The names are changed and a story-teller's license has been used to fill in the memory gaps.
I sat and stared at the program I held in my hands. It was a program that fell to the floor when I open a hymnal as I sat squirming on the last pew waiting for the service to begin. I reached down to get it off the floor and casually glanced at it. My name, "Sam Jacobson," caught my eye. I looked it over and realized it had to be an old program, since I'd not been allowed to sing at a worship service for several months. Suddenly my mouth got dry, my anger flared up and I had to get out of the sanctuary to get some fresh air. I didn't look at anyone as I quietly got up and left the building before he could start to preach his sermon for the night
I just couldn't stand it anymore, listening to Pastor preach. I knew something about him that the congregation didn't know, and I hoped never would. I knew that he, their Shepherd before God, was a sham as a Pastor, he was a fraud -- that he'd as soon I dropped off the face of the planet than help me because of one little thing, the worst kind of hypocrite. He was a bastard and he knew that I knew. No one else knew though. I could not tell them, cause then they'd find out about me, and that would definitely not have been a good thing.
You see, I was everything a guy was supposed to be in their world: I was a leader in my church youth group, I sang in the choir, I sang specials for the worship services (solos, duets, trios, and quartets), I occasionally directed the congregational singing, I went on trips with the youth group.
I never "messed" with a girl. I kept the proper distance. I was surprised to learn one night from a "helpful" woman that I was perceived as "standoffish" and "conceited" and not, as I'd been so carefully taught, proper and respectful. What a laugh that was! If she'd only known the truth!!
I was intelligent, cheerful, personable, gregarious, happy, and I had many friends, and a few close friends. I wasn't bad looking either, though I wasn't at the top of the looks hierarchy at either church or Bradley County High School, where I was going to be a 17 year old senior starting that fall. I worked summers in the hay fields and I learned to cuss while sweating in hot barns stacking hay or digging fence post holes. Except for one thing, I was practically the model teenager, the kind of guy that Mom's wished their sons to be (well, you know what I mean).
I learned that this one bad thing can overwhelm many good things, can outweigh a lifetime of good, can even change and destroy all of the good. You see, I harbored a secret so terrible that its public knowledge would irrevocably alter my universe.
I was sexually attracted to guys.
Only guys. I never, ever, got hard thinking about girls. In fact, just the thought of a girl's private parts made me nauseous. Boobs? What was the deal? I much preferred a guy's hard chest, muscular and firm. And asses! Oh God, there was absolutely nothing in the world more beautiful than a guy's ass sitting atop a set of lean, muscular, thighs, the dimples curved just so, the cleft of the ass running from just beneath the base of the spine, curving out and down and in.
This was the problem. This was the thing that would change everything if they knew,
When Pastor found out, the changes started.
"Brother Holland," I'd said, "I have a problem I can't solve on my own and I need help." He looked at me expectantly, waiting.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly parched, my tongue inoperative.
"Uh." 'Damn, this is a lot harder than I though it'd be,' I sighed to myself.
"I, uh, have a problem, ah, with, uh ..." And I nearly chickened out right then and said it was something to do with my parent's divorce when I was younger. He'd have believed it without question. Why not, it was true anyway.
"I have a problem with homosexuality."
There is was, I spit it out, finally. We didn't know what gay was then and there was nothing else to call it but a problem, as if I could somehow distance myself from its centrality to my existence with that kind of clinical talk.
He didn't flinch or even change his expression. He knew it was important or I'd never have come to him, and I think he really cared for me, too, so he knew not to abuse my trust in coming to him.
"Okay, Sam," he said. "I don't know right now how to help you, but I'll find out what you can do and talk to you soon, okay?" I nodded and thanked him for whatever help he could find and I walked away to the car to drive home (I had Mom's car since she didn't come to church anymore--her back just wouldn't let her sit on the church pews for long enough).
He called me aside a couple of weeks later and said that he hoped I didn't mind, but he'd talked to Pastor and they'd contacted a Christian Counseling Center in Jacksonville. There was a man who traveled up from Tampa one day a week who could see me if I was willing to drive to Jacksonville to see him. I said okay and he gave me the information I needed to get things rolling. I called and made an appointment, telling my Mom that I needed help dealing with the divorce, which she never questioned.
That's when I started to notice the change in Pastor. He began avoiding me. He wouldn't talk to me. He refused eye contact. It didn't help that Brother Holland told me that I was no longer welcome to sing at worship services, either, as if I was suddently dirty and evil. That was a big blow, because I'd been singing since I was in third grade, and I was good, too. People always came up to me after I sang and told me how much God had spoken to them through my singing. Pastor, apparently, did not share their experience.
At one point my counselor suggested that I make an appointment with my pastor to confirm my standing with God. Pastor wouldn't even do that! What a bastard! There he was, the shepherd of his flock, and he was casting one of his sheep out! I actually started to hate him.
It got to where I'd sit for the service until he got up to preach, and then I'd slip out of the sanctuary (sanctuary indeed!) and roam the church grounds until the worship service was over and I could go home.
It was on one of these wanderings that I ran into Marshall, doing just what I was doing.
"Hi Marshall," I said, smiling. Marshall was one of the most beautiful guys I've ever seen. He was slight of build, 15 years old, maybe 5'6" tall, and about 130 pounds, lean and wiry. He had blond, blond hair that was soft and sat above blue, sparkling eyes and a sexy, mischievous grin. He really was gorgeous, and he was a rebel. He ran with the wrong crowd at school, probably did drugs, was a pain in his parent's ass, tinkered with his car, did motocross. All things that I was definitely not. And I desired him, for he made me hard as an Saturn booster rocket.
"What are you doing out of church?" I asked.
"Just like you I suppose, Sam. I have to get out of there every once in a while, so I come out here and walk around waiting for them to get finished." He smiled that sexy smile as he answered.
My heart skipped a beat. No, several beats. I'd never thought I'd have a chance with Marshall. Never in a million years. I'd fooled around with a few cousins, sexy play that meant nothing to them but everything to me, which, by the way, was how I figured out that I was gay. I knew it, for absolute certainty, the day I realized how important it was for me to have that kind of contact with a guy. I had to have it and they did not. I had to have it, and I was suddenly breathless with the possibility that I could have it with Marshall. But how?
I looked at him and made a decision, "You wanna go somewhere and talk?" He looked at me and smiled that damn smile again. I had no idea what he was thinking.
"Sure," he replied, that smile lighting up my night. "Let's get on the church bus. No one will find us there."
'Excellent idea,' I thought and said, "Sure." We made our way out to the parking lot to find the bus. I let him walk in front of me so I could watch his small, tight, bubble butt sway in his jeans. Oh, sweet Jesus, he was so hot. And he knew he was hot, too. He knew about the sexy smile and the blond hair and the blue eyes and his beautiful, small ass. I just didn't know if he knew he was hot to me or what he'd say or do if he found out.
We got on and went to the dark back of the bus, where he sat on one side, and I sat on the other, a row forward of his seat. And we talked. And talked, and the night seemed to stretch on into a future without end (though it couldn't have been that long, because people would be coming out of the church any minute I knew). It was so great just talking with him, his voice had a sweet, musical, raspy quality that made me dizzy. I could see his eyes glittering in the dark and I could tell by that sparkle when he was smiling and when he wasn't. Eventually we run down our talking a bit and let silence settle over us. And I decide that I had to make my move.
"Uh ... Marshall, do you ... uhm ... jack off?" I stammered out, so nervous I could scarcely breathe, let alone think straight, let alone get a coherent sentence out. Suddenly his cocksureness wavered, and I heard him swallow. But he didn't back down.
"Yeah, I do," he half whispered, as if the whole church were listening.
"Me, too," I croaked out. 'Good god, why I am so suddenly loosing it?' I asked myself. 'Get a grip!'
"What makes you feel good?" I asked him. "I mean, you know, when you're doing it, what makes you hard and stuff?" 'Jesus, that is so lame!' I thought. But there it was, we were getting there, cause I had a plan.
"Uhm ... well, I just think of girls and shit," he said. "I just stroke it and think of girls."
"Yeah," I said, "it's amazing what'll make my dick get hard." I tried not to sound as nervous as I felt.
God I was shaking in my seat, like it was 20 degrees below zero outside and not 80 degrees on a very warm, humid summer night. My senses were so heightened I could hear the buzzing insects swarming around the parking lot lights, and I thought I could hear Marshall's breaths going in and out of his beautiful chest through his cute, lightly freckled nose.
"I mean, think about it, our bodies have so many nerves and all, sometimes just brushing against a chair will get me hard. It's just amazing. What do you think? If you were naked and blindfolded in a dark room with two other naked people, one guy and one girl, and one of them touched you, would you be able to tell which one? If they touched your dick with their tongue could you tell which one?" I said it all in a rush almost without stopping.
By the time I finished I was as hard as concrete and I was shaking like a leaf in a summer afternoon Florida thunderstorm.
"Well," he started, "I guess I'd have to say that I couldn't tell the difference between them."
"Me neither, " I said. "But you know that your body doesn't care if it's a guy or a girl, your body just responds to the stimulation. If it feels good, your body just feels good." I stopped to let that settle in. Then the big one, "You ever done it with a guy?" The moment of truth.
"Uh, yeah," he whispered. "A friend of mine and I have fooled around some."
Then I could hear it--he was shaking, too, just like I was. What is this shaking thing? I've always done it when I was talking with someone about doing it and there was the possibility that I could actually have sex with them.
And right then people started pouring out of the church sanctuary 'Damn, damn, damn,' and we had to quickly scramble out of the bus and make our way around the back of the church so it looked like we were coming back from the men's room. "
"Hey, Marshall," I said, "Thanks for the talk. See you later."
"You're welcome, Sam," he said grinning at me. "Later."
And we went home. And I didn't see him for a week. And then he called.
"Uh, hi," he said. He was so cute when he was nervous. "Listen, I've asked my Mom and Dad, and they say that it's okay, if you want to come over Friday after school and spend the night."
'Shit! Oh shit,' I thought. He was asking me to come spend the night at his place. Shit! I could not believe it. Here I was the older one, but he was taking the initiative and he was making the move. He was always the aggressor, the doer, with not a lick of common sense about stuff. I knew what was going to happen, and he knew, too.
"Thanks for asking, Marshall. I gotta go ask my Mom if it's okay. Be right back." I carefully put the phone down--I did not want anything to happen to that receiver. No hang-ups for Christ's sake!!
I walked back to my Mom's bedroom where she was propped up reading a dime-store romance novel smoking a cigarette.
"Hi Mom. Marshall Scott's on the phone. He's asked me to stay the night Friday. Can I?"
"Sure, Sam," she said, looking up at me. "And it's 'May I?'"
"Yes, ma'am, "May I?'" I replied, smiling. Hell, she had no suspicions that I knew of, why wouldn't she say yes.
"Thanks Mom," I said, and I walked back down the hall. Well, practically floated is more like it. I picked up the receiver, "It's a go!" I was delirious with excitement!
"Cool" he said. I could hear him smiling through the telephone.
"Okay, then, uh, I'll ride the bus with you. Which bus is it?" He told me and I promised to meet him at the bus after Friday classes.
The bus ride was uneventful and the evening was relaxed, easy. His Mom fixed dinner. We had to have macaroni and cheese for him, his favorite food. We ate round the kitchen table with his folks. They knew me from church, so I was not some total stranger to them.
We'd no plans for anything except I had to be home sometime Saturday. Later, he and I sat out by his motorcycle workshop while he tinkered inside and the mosquitos buzzed around our heads. He was easy to be with, despite all the bad things I'd heard about him.
Being that close to him when he was not on his guard, when he was just being Marshall, was intoxicating. He was a hell of a lot of fun. He had a wicked sense of humor, completely irreverent (again, totally unlike me). I just soaked him up. And he smiled a lot, too, when he was not on his guard. It was really a beautiful smile, so sweet and simple, not a split your face kind of smile, but an open, easy, gentle, eyes sparkling kind of smile.
Eventually it was time for bed.
His room was one of three in their house, across the hall from his parents room, but we were lucky cause their master suite bedroom was separated from his room by their bathroom, so nothing got to them through the wall. The main bathroom was on their side of the house, but one door up the hall. His room was really large, larger than any bedroom in our house. He had two twin beds in it with a workout bench between them and two little, low end tables between each bed and the workout bench. He had a chest of drawers and a dresser. The room was mostly red, white, and blue, with posters of motocross racers covering the walls.
He turned his stereo on, a cassette/radio jobbie, which was tuned to Y103 out of Jacksonville, the same rock station that I listened to. We heard Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band's "Fire Lake" and Al Stewart's "Year of the Cat" playing.
We got ready for bed after brushing our teeth. He turned the light on in his closet sliding the door shut but for five inches or so, telling me, a little embarrassed, that he slept with the light on. He took the bed on the inner wall next to the door and I got the one on the outside wall. We undressed down to our briefs and we settled in under the covers.
For some reason, I was not nervous, the easy evening having smoothed nervousness away. I didn't even think about sex with Marshall.
And then he wanted to talk.
"Sam, you asleep?" he softly asked.
"Nah," I replied.
"Wanna talk?" he whispered.
"Sure," I said.
There was silence for a moment, so I took the initiative for once.
"What did you do when you fooled around?" I shifted onto my side to look across the room at his bed. I couldn't see him clearly, but the light from the partly open closet door was enough to let me see his shape under his covers. I could see that he was lying on his back with his hands behind his head looking up at the ceiling. I could see his chest fall and rise with his breaths.
"Well, we've gotten so far as sucking," he said after a bit, "and once I let him fuck me, but I made him pull out cause it hurt me too bad. I don't like sucking, it's too slimy, makes me want to throw up, but he does me. Have you done it?"
"Yeah," I said, "but only sucking." And by then I was doing that goddam shaking thing again and I could hear it in his voice, too.
Then, so quiet I wasn't sure that I'd heard right, "Sam, you want to jack off?"
"If you want to" I said, still shaking, but smiling myself now.
"Okay then," he said, "I'll take my underwear off if you will."
"Okay," I said and I watched him across the room. I could see his shape rising up off of the bed, and I could tell when he pulled his briefs down his slim, beautiful, muscular legs beneath his covers. He held them up in the dim light from the closet so I could see them. He dropped them on the floor next to his bed and he turned his head my way. I could see that sexy, sexy, sexy smile. I did the same and I knew that he was watching me just like I had watched him, and it thrilled me right to the core of my body knowing that he watched. I squirmed to get my briefs off and then like him I dropped them next to the bed.
I was so hard I thought that if I moved too fast my dick would literally snap off. My breaths were shallow and fast and I was getting a bit of a sweat started. That was Marshall over there and he was naked!!!!!
'Let me die and go to heaven feeling like this,' I thought. What I heard next nearly undid me.
"You want to come over?"
'Oh God! Do I want to come over to his bed? Do I want to?' Surely he had to know that I wanted that more than anything I'd ever wanted in my life!
I pulled back my covers, swung my feet to the carpeted floor, and stood up on wobbling, woozy legs. Jesus, I wasn't even sure I could walk around the workout bench to get there. Somehow I managed, and suddenly I was standing naked, my hard dick throbbing at a 30-degree angle from my belly, right next to his bed.
I saw his eyes, smiling but serious, and he pulled his covers back. I slid into his bed, slowly settling into the depression his body had made in the center of his bed all those nights he'd slept there. I felt him with my body, my feet touching his feet, my knees his knees, my legs his legs, my hip his hip, my right shoulder his left shoulder, as we tried to figure out just what to do with our suddenly in-the-way arms. His skin was soft, warm, pulsing, and like absolutely nothing I had ever felt before. We were both shaking like all hell, the covers over our lower bodies, the closet glow highlighting our upper body contours.
I slowly reached out my hand and touched his chest with my fingertips. I sighed when I felt his silky, smooth, incredibly hot skin. I could feel his heartbeat pulsing beneath his ribs. His chest rose and fell with his rapid breaths. I turned my head to look into his eyes. He was looking right at me, steady, unwavering. I kept his eyes locked on mine as I slowly placed my hand flat on his chest, between his nipples, and started to move my hand in a circular motion.
His eyelids fluttered and a small, smile formed on his face, the seriousness melting away into physical pleasure. He liked this! He opened his eyes to look at me, steady again, as he struggled to keep up with the sensations that he felt.
I didn't care than he wasn't reciprocating. All I could think about was his nakedness touching me all up and down my body. I was taller then he was by several inches, so we were not evenly matched lengthwise, but we were touching in all the right places.
He had his left arm resting across my shoulders, and he started to rub the back of my head, his fingers entwined in my hair, gently twisting and twirling. His fingertips caressed my ears.
I thought I'd crawl out of my skin when he touch my ears. Jesus, what the hell was going to happen if he touched me anywhere else!!
I knew he was ticklish from roughhousing we'd done earlier that evening out by the shop, but I couldn't resist caressing his sides. He jumped and hissed at me, suddenly anxious. I smiled at him, giggled into his eyes when he warned me not to go there. I nodded that I understand. Still looking at his eyes, I slid my hand across his flat, lean tummy. Oh, oh, oh, it was so smooth, yet hard, like velvet covering an old-fashioned washboard.
I loved it when he sucked his tummy in to get away from the slight tickle I caused, but I kept my hand flat and didn't use my fingertips. He could be a bastard if he wanted to, and besides, I wasn't after that anyway. I just wanted to touch every part of him, as long as he'd let me do it, and I took my sweet time about it, savoring every silky hair and crease and fold of his body.
I ran my hand slowly across his far hip, pushing the covers down as I went, avoiding his crotch knowing what I'd find there and wanting to save it for last. I caressed his thigh, the muscles of his motocross-racing legs, as I continued down towards his feet.
He was still breathing rapidly, though he was slowly getting it under control. I was still shaking like a cat in a dryer and I knew he had to feel it, too. But he didn't say anything.
I reached his lower leg and felt the hairs there. It was covered by blond, wiry hairs that I ran my fingers through over and over and over. I dawdled, and then I softly moved back up the other leg, letting my hand cross the inside of his upper thigh, brushing against his surprisingly hairy balls with my fingertips. He sharply sucked his tummy in, and a breath in, at the same time, and he whimpered it back out, "oh, oh, oh" almost in my ear since his head was turned my way. I nearly passed out from the sweet sound he made, it was so fucking sexy.
We both had rigid pulsing cocks. I was nearly there just from touching him. I hadn't said a thing and I hadn't touched myself in a hour, just my hand on his incredible, gorgeous, wonderful body.
I wanted him so bad, and I knew, I knew, that he did not share that feeling. I was not for him what he was for me, and I never would be. But I could share this with him now, and try my hardest to etch every sensation in my mind. I wanted to kiss his soft lips so badly I thought my heart would just explode out of my chest, but I knew that would just spoil the whole thing, so I didn't, though I did start to kiss him on his neck and lick his chest.
He whimpered again, and I knew that he was going to come before long. I lifted my left leg to swing myself over on top of him. I wanted us to come at the same time and I wanted our cocks touching when we did. I slightly settled my weight onto him.
His breath rushed out of his chest in a quick sigh as our cocks touched. It was the first time I'd touched his cock and I could feel it jerking between us, pulsing with his heartbeat. He struggled not to come just yet, to prolong what he was feeling.
I was faint from being near his nakedness for almost an hour and I could scarcely stay coherent. Both of our bodies were covered in a sheen of sweat, me from the exertion of holding myself slightly off of him so as not to settle my weight completely on him, and he from the sheer intensity of the stimulation I've given him. God I wanted this to last forever, to just stay in bed naked with him, and never face the Pastors of the world. But passion will out, and we both wanted and needed it.
His eyes fluttered open and he looked up into my eyes, and he hoarsely whispered, "Do it, please ... please!!" with a desperation I understood.
I lowered myself slightly and started to arch my back enough to slide my hips forward, brushing his cock with my cock, our sweat the lubricant between us. I felt my cock slide along his, his pubes a soft breath along its length and I nearly lost it right then. I moaned now for the first time, a low, long sigh that came all the way from the base of my spine, traveling up and out of me in an exhalation of need I didn't know I had. This was nothing like anything I'd ever done before!
Marshall seemed to feel the same because he started to whimper little "ahs" as he breathed, "ah ... ah ... ah ... ah" in time with each of my up thrusts past his cock and through his pubes. I pushed and pushed, pressing against him with more and more urgency.
I had no idea what he was feeling, but I was on fucking fire. It was as if my entire dick had suddenly come alive and every hair in his pubes was there to touch just one nerve ending each on my dick. I realized I'd not taken a breath in forever and took a shuddering in-breath that startled Marshall who looked at me with wide eyes as if to ask if I was okay.
"I'm fine," I managed to croak out. "I'm fine."
He smiled that fucking smile again and suddenly his brow furrowed and his mouth opened in a small o and I knew that this was it. Suddenly he went absolutely rigid, he sucked in his tummy, and he started to quiver beneath me. I felt his rocklike thighs arch his pelvis up into me, his heels and shoulders supporting us both, he rolled his head from side to side, his breathing stopped, a long, high-pitched "ah" whimpered out of his mouth, and the most intense orgasm he'd ever had erupted out of his hammer-hard cock.
His orgasm triggered mine and I really did loose consciousness I'd been waiting so long. He came down from his orgasm high as I lost it completely, my cock pulsing and pulsing and pulsing, throbbing as it emptied between us.
When I came back to my senses, I was laying on top of him. I quickly slid to his side being careful not to get much cum on his sheets.
He was breathing heavily, but slowly calmed down. He looked at me and smiled.
"Thanks," he whispered in his sexy, raspy, voice, "That was fucking fantastic, Sam."
I smiled at him and said, "My pleasure, Marshall." He got all practical all of a sudden.
"We gotta get cleaned up, come to the bathroom." He kicked the covers out of the way.
I got up and he followed. We tiptoed naked down the hallway to the bathroom. It was a bit of a rush to walk around naked when his parents were less than 20 feet away in their bed just behind their bedroom door past which we had to walk to get to the bathroom. We used a washcloth to clean up, smiling both from ear to ear.
No after-sex embarrassment. I may not have been what he really wanted, a girl, but I was his friend and we'd just shared a wonderful thing. We both wanted it and we both liked what we got.
That was the start of a friendship that lasted for three really wonderful years. We had sex, but not every weekend. I let him fuck me for a time, but eventually made him stop. He couldn't love me in a way that made the fucking a wonderful thing and I eventually came to resent it. But never did I resent him. He remained, always, despite his flaws, a most wonderful friend. Even as he got older and matured physically (he had wonderfully hairy legs, and his ass got a coat on it as well that was an incredible turn on), I always remembered where we'd started and how it had been. We actually worked together for a time at a local shop. I've not seen him now in 15 years. I hope he likes his life and that he remembers with fondness, on occasion, the time we shared. I know that I do.