Marshall and Me: The Friendship
by Jackson James
© 8 November 2000 by Jackson James [firstname.lastname@example.org]
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.
The continuing 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.
From Part Two --
He took his T-shirt and wiped us both down. I hadn't been off my back since we started God knows how many minutes earlier. I didn't care, either.
He got up to make sure that the fire was out and crawled back onto the sleeping bag.
"Thanks, again, Sam," he smiled.
"Anytime, bud, anytime," I said.
And we drifted off to sleep, two exhausted but very contented guys.
Part Three: The Friendship
Over the months following that first weekend at his place, our friendship deepened. Getting together became infinitely easier when Marshall's dad helped him buy a used, 2-door Chevy. We had wheels! I didn't even get my driver's license until I was 18, which was also when I got my first car. It was an economic decision for my mom, there was simply no way she could afford to buy me a car, and even if I could have gotten one, we couldn't have afforded the insurance or gas since most of my spare money went to her to help pay the bills.
The only comment I'll make about Marshall's driving is that you took your life into your own hands when you agreed to get in his car. He had about as much common sense as a rock and many was the afternoon when I thought I would die before we got to wherever it was we were going.
Our friendship deepened into a comfortable, easy relationship. Like I said, he was the spitfire, always getting into trouble with everyone. I don't know if that had anything to do with his small stature or not. He was quite unlike his parents, both of whom were fairly quiet people, especially his dad who was really the strong, silent type.
He was willing to do almost anything once and that rubbed off on me I suppose. Which was a good thing, because I am not Mr. Adventure. I am much more the cautious, careful, don't-take-any-chances kind of guy. None of these adjectives applied to Marshall.
He got me to do some of the most outrageous things. Staying up till all hours talking. Listening to hard rock music. He tried to get me to start smoking, but since my Mom smoked and I'd grown up around it, there was no way I was going to smoke. He asked me about marijuana, be since it was a smoking kinda thing, I begged off on that, too.
He taught me how to ride a motorcycle. I helped him fix his. I learned about motocross racing and we followed the racing season, tracking the fortunes of our favorite riders. We spent a lot of time together as summer turned into fall and school started, my senior year. I'd no idea what I was going to do after, but that was months away and who was thinking about that? Things are different now. Students in their junior year are already scoping out colleges and universities, scheduling the SAT/ACT tests they have to take, and visiting campuses on recruiting weekends. Not back then.
The school year passed and soon came my high school graduation day. My dad came for it all the way from Oklahoma where he lived with his second wife. Big deal. I got a job at McDonalds after I graduated planning on working there full-time for the summer and then part-time in the fall when I started classes at a local community college. I would use a small scholarship I'd been given to help with tuition, but I'd need the job to pay for the car I'd need to get me to school. I bought an old Dept. of Agriculture pursuit car, a Chevy Impala, V8, 4-barrel carb model that could fly. I suppose if I have a streak of insanity, it is with fast cars. I so like going fast and that car easily topped 100 mph!
My friendship with Marshall continued. That summer after I graduated proved an interesting one to be sure.
Since I had wheels now and my car was bigger and faster than his, we often used it. The one time I had a big fight with my Mom was about a weekend where I told her I'd be at Marshall's, but was not. We'd decided to drive to his folk's lake place which was on a lake in a small nearby town. I forgot to tell Mom. She was very angry to find that I was not at Marshall's house but at their lake place, and she let me have a piece of her mind when she called me there. I didn't understand the big ruckus, because she'd been able to reach me after all, but nonetheless, she was still angry.
Several important things happened that weekend beside the fight with my Mom.
The first was that Marshall's friend Jim Leeland tagged along with us to the lake place. This is the same friend with whom Marshall had first explored sex. Marshall intentionally asked him to come with us for that reason. He wanted the three of us to do it together.
We horsed around after dinner and once it was dark and we were sure other residents in places around the lake had gone to sleep, we took off all our clothes, grabbed towels, soap, and shampoo, and headed out to the water for a bath.
We laughed too loudly as we ran down the bank, but what the hell, we were taking a bath, who was going to get really bent out of shape over that. I remember thinking that Jim had a really nice cock, much longer and heavier looking than mine or Marshall's when it was soft. And I thought that he had really nice butt dimples. He was taller than both of us, but skinnier, too. He had broad shoulders with a narrow waist that emphasize his hip bones.
We washed our hair and bodies, rinsed off in the warm lake water, towelled off, and walked back up to the house. We picked up sand and leaf debris on our feet which we had to rinse off before we went back inside.
That night I slept in a single bed in one room of the lake house, and Jim and Marshall slept in his parent's double bed. Marshall had told me he was going to try and talk Jim into doing it with me and then he was going to join us.
I remember hearing them talking and giggling in the other room since the doors were open. Marshall's voice was a husky baritone and every so often I could tell that he was being insistent. But to no avail, for Jim steadfastly refused to give in to Marshall's request.
When Marshall finally gave up, he got up, pretending to go to the bathroom, and come to my room to tell me that Jim wasn't going to go along with it.
With him standing beside my bed in nothing but his briefs, I reached out my hand to rub his crotch, making him grow hard.
He brushed my hand aside whispering, "No, not now, he'll hear us."
"I don't care," I said. "I want to do it."
"No," he said. "I've got to get back."
He went into the bathroom and flushed. A little while later, we were all asleep.
I learned how to gig that weekend. No, not 'frog gigging' but gigging off of a boat. Marshall got permission to get the boat out on the lake and we went speeding around for a bit. Gigging is when you get out on the front of the boat, which is going at speed, and you jump into the water off of the side of the boat doing a can-opener dive. Major rush! God was that fun. Told you Marshall got me to do things I'd have never otherwise done.
The funnest thing that happened was that I learned how to jump a bike off of a ramp and land the thing without crashing. Which lead to the worst thing that happened that weekend. Marshall with his motocross and bmx riding had long since learned how to take a bike off of a ramp or mound of dirt and handle the bike so that the rear wheel landed first when it came back to the earth, followed by the front wheel. Control was important, of course, especially since your hands controlled direction and braking, both intimately connected to that roughly landing front wheel.
The lakes in north Florida usually have steeply sloping, sandy banks. For our ramp, Marshall, Jim, and I found some cinderblocks to stack up, and then a piece of heavy plywood. We pointed the ramp towards the water so that, once airborne, the bank was sloping down and away from us. More airtime. Airtime is very important! We must have spent hours jumping our bikes, me on a ten-speed. Using a ten-speed bike wasn't a big problem cause I wasn't trying to get big air. It was a problem for another reason, which became achingly apparent but way too late.
As afternoon burned into evening, we were getting a little worn out, and we were just getting ready to call it quits for the day. I was on what proved to be my final jump. Pumping the pedals for all I was worth I careened down the bank towards the ramp. About five feet from it, the cuff of my jeans--remember that we all wore jeans a lot though we'd all three taken our shirts off hours earlier--caught between the chain and the pedal sprocket, wrenching the whole pedal/sprocket thing immobile. I couldn't get my feet set on the pedals for the jump, and going from rapid pedal pumping to no pedal pumping did cause a bit of a problem. I glanced down to see what was wrong right as the front wheel left the ramp and the bike went airborne.
Looking down was not good. Having my attention somewhere other than on a potential landing spot was not good. Being twisted on the bike was not good. Being too far forward was absolutely not good. All of these not good things caused the most amazing thing to happen: the bike flipped end over end, with me on it, after it left the ramp. Frankly, I don't remember the landing, though I do know, from what I felt after, that I landed on my right shoulder with a great deal of force.
Marshall and Lee both said later that it was incredibly spectacular. They were laughing like all hell, until they realized that I wasn't moving, but just lying there, moaning. They stopped laughing and ran over to me. I was really hurting. Really. Hurting. I don't know if I did any damage because I did not go to the doctor--no way in hell was I going to call my Mom about this after our fight! I suppose that if you're hurting as much as I hurt you have to have done some damage, but I was young and stupid enough, and filled with pride, that I decided to weather it out.
Jesus it hurt!! I could not move my right arm at all. They helped me get up, brushed off the dirt and leaves, and we walked back up the bank to the house. They helped me look myself over. Beside a few scrapes due to roots, the only problem was the shoulder. I knew that there was no way in hell I could go to work, so I called MickeyD's and told them I'd had a bike accident and that I would be unable to work that night.
I took a shit load of aspirin and we lounged that night watching the fire flies dance around the lake, listening to the radio, talking. I don't remember doing much laughing.
When we woke up the next morning, I couldn't even put a shirt on cause I couldn't move my right arm. So much for a fun-filled day! We mostly played in the water. Luckily I didn't have to call in to work since I wasn't scheduled. But the injury did lead to my decision to quit working at McDonalds when I did go back to work. One of our managers was such a bastard to me my first day back. He told me to go stack bread trays!! Knowing that I had a hurt shoulder, he wanted me to stack bread trays. I tried, but it was too painful. I got so mad that I didn't even finish my shift and quit.
This little escapade didn't dampen my friendship with Marshall, though. His place was the place to go for me. I'm the oldest of five kids and I shared a bedroom with my brother the entire time I was growing up. In fact, I didn't have my own bedroom until I was nearly nineteen. Having Marshall's house to go to, so peaceful and quiet, with the shop out back to get even more away from it all if we wanted, was an added bonus. I spent a lot of time there.
I'm not sure of the psychology of straight guys when it comes to sex with other guys. I know that all of my early sexual experiences were with straight guys. It seems that they're quite willing to receive stimulation and will be sucked or hump or fuck with no problems. But they often are reluctant to reciprocate. Marshall was that way. He was often the instigator of sex play at his house, but he never sucked me once, and only allowed me to attempt to fuck him once, and that on the only night he ever spent the night at my house, as if, for some reason, that since we were at my place, I got to do TO him.
I'm not complaining, mind you. Any chance to see Marshall naked was an opportunity I eagerly accepted.
His mischievious nature translated into a willingness to try anything, anytime, and the element of danger only added to his excitement.
We'd been out in the shop one Friday night talking about motorcycles--what else?--when he first broached the subject of sucking. Up till then it'd been jacking and humping.
"Sam ... uh ... you remember the first night when we ... ah ... did it?" he stammered out.
I had no idea where this was going, but I was amused at his uneasiness, because it was so out of character.
"Of course I do," I said. "Hell of a cum that was."
He smiled and a sigh of relief escaped him. Why was he so nervous? We'd been fooling around for months.
"Well, you remember that I said that Jim and I had tried sucking?"
I looked at him, and when he saw me looking, he got that sexy smile on his face, and I knew where this was going. I'd never pushed him, well except for the going slow part, because I didn't want to jeapardize either the friendship I'd so come to enjoy, or the sex that was an added benefit.
"Ah," I smiled at him.
He turned beet red in about two seconds and I burst out laughingl.
"Well, uhm, you wanna try it tonight?" he asked me, kind of shyly, again completely out of character.
I suppose he felt that doing this was going to move our friendship in a new direction, and he just wasn't sure how I was going to react.
I, of course, was delighted! I was also ignorant as hell, which fact I learn to my dismay later.
"You lead, Marshall," I said. "I won't go anywhere you don't want to go or do anything you don't want to do."
He visibly relaxed. I decided to be a bastard for the hell of it.
I got up off of the stool I'd been sitting on. He looked at me get up with a question on his face, and I just smiled at him.
I walked over to where he was standing next to the shop bench and put my hands on his T-shirt clad shoulders and turned him around so his back was to me. I reached around him and started to rub my hands across his chest, and he leaned back into me with a sigh. I rubbed his nipples and his tummy. Then he remembered his Dad, right next door in the other side of the shop, and he stiffened in my arms.
He tried to pull away but I held him close. He turned his head sideways and whispered urgently, "Let me go, Dad's right there and he'll hear us."
I laughed softly as I ran my hand down to his crotch and felt his hardening cock.
"Seems your dick is okay with your Dad being right there," I giggled at him.
"Bastard!" he replied, squirming out of my arms. "You just wait," he laughed.
I was nearly doubled over by now I was laughing so hard.
His Dad stuck his head in the door, "What's so funny?"
Marshall had a momentary heart attack wondering if his Dad had really heard anything, and he glared at me causing me to laugh even harder.
He looked at his Dad, then back at me, then started laughing again.
"Sam farted in my face when I bent over to pick up this bolt I'd dropped on the floor. He thought it was too funny."
Marshall's Dad just smiled and walked back to his side of the shop.
I slowly calmed down and wiped the tears off of my face.
"You should have seen the look you got when your Dad stuck his head in the door!" I said pointing at him.
He glared at me again, then giggled a bit.
"I nearly died"
"But I thought you liked living on the edge of danger," I pointed out.
"Well, there's danger and there's certain death!" he said, smiling, and we both started laughig again.
His Dad banged on the wall and hollered, "Mom has just called for dinner, so clean it up and let's head inside."
"Yes, sir," we both replied. We put stuff away, turned off the radio and lights, and went inside to clean up. Dinner was his Mom's typically good food, with, of course, macaroni and cheese for Marshall. I think he could have lived on just mac and cheese, how I don't know, but he could have.
We watched a bit of tv with his folks and then called it a night and went back to his bedroom. We knew that they wouldn't be far behind since both were early risers.
After brushing our teeth, we sat on our beds--yeah, one bed had kinda become my bed--and shot the breeze listening to the radio. I still, to this day, can close my eyes and find myself in his room when I hear "Year of the Cat" or "Crackerjack Palace."
We heard when his folks closed their bedroom door.
I'd moved to his weight bench and was playing around with the barbell not really watching him too much, just pushing the barbell up and down laying with my head towards the wall, my feet dangling off the other end, talking to him. With the radio playing, I didn't hear him moving around the room. He startled me when I noticed that he was standing right next to my head.
I put the barbell on the holders and looked up at him. His crotch was just above my head. He smiled at me, that sexy smile again, and he put his hands in the waistband of his shorts palms in. Still looking me in the eyes, he started to slide his shorts off of his hips and down his legs.
I don't know how long he'd been contemplating doing this, but his dick was already hard. As he pulled down, his dick was pressed down towards his feet by his shorts. It bounced up after the waistband passed the head to slap against his belly. He was still smiling, but this was not a laughing smile.
"You want to?" he asked, looking at me, and then down at his bouncing dick.
"Sure," I smiled.
He swung his right leg over the bench to straddle me and he sat on my chest, his soft ass molding to my ribs. His dick isn't like mine--which arcs up at an angle from my pubes--but kinda stretches straight out. It was lying parallel my chest between my nipples, pointed right at my mouth.
Marshall began to scoot slowly towards my mouth, until his dickhead touched my lips.
I opened my mouth and licked the head with my tongue. It tasted like warm skin. No big deal, I thought.
But, him sitting on my chest and my head craned up so I could tongue his cock was a very uncomfortable position.
"Marshall," I said, "I can't stay like this, it's starting to hurt."
He smiled down at me and got up off of me. He reached down and tugged my shorts off of my hips and down my legs and then said, "Come on, let's go to my bed."
I got up and followed him.
He sat on his bed and I knelt in front of him. I put my fingers on his cock and started to jack him up and down.
"No, Sam, suck it," he said.
"I will, dammit, just give me a bit," I snapped at him. And then regretted the snapping. I smiled at him to let him know that everything was okay.
I leaned over and licked the head. I've never sucked an uncircumcised cock, so I can't compare Marshall's to one, but I can say that the head was pliable, warm, throbbing, and had a taste that I can only describe as "Marshall."
I slowly put my lips around his head and slid down the shaft, trying to keep my teeth covered by my lips.
I'd like to say that I was a great cocksucker, but probably I was not. Not enough experience. No enough time. Not enough emotional attachment. I think that one would worship the cock of one's lover with passion and abandon. Marshall was not my lover--he wasn't my boyfriend. While I loved our physical experiences, I know now just how hollow they were when compared to the ecstacy one feels when one is joined with one's lover. Unfortunately I say that not from experience. I know from the experiences of friends who've shared with me what it's like to be in love, to willingly give of oneself emotionally and physically, and just how tremendous that gift is--its impact on the act of lovemaking--which, of course, is what sex becomes. I had sex with Marshall, I never had love.
He began to moan, softly, and he put his hands on my head, fingers in my hair.
I kept sucking him, trying to make him feel good, and I guess I succeeded, because his moans increased in urgency.
He started to lift his hips up off of the bed to meet my movement down.
I had one hand on his left leg and the other hand holding his cock as he increased the force of his motion. I gagged a few times when the head of his cock hit the back of my mouth, but I didn't know then about throating--it would be a very long time, in fact, before I did--I just tried to keep from barfing in his lap.
He started pushing my head down with some force and I struggled to keep it up. The coolest thing about it was feeling with my lips how his cock changed, almost like it was some kind of shape shifting alien. It had started out hard, but not rigid, still with an outer softness over an inner hardness that had some pliancy.
As he got closer to his orgasm, his cock changed. It got harder and harder, and it began to thicken a bit, not becoming uncomfortable, but just fuller in my mouth. I don't remember any precum out of him, but perhaps that means nothing, since I don't do it much and I wouldn't have known what it was in any case.
I kept working up and down. I did like the head and the crown around the head, and I loved for my lips to slide past it.
He kept lifting his hips up, pushing my head down, and he started to pant a bit. This was an orgasm unlike his humping orgasms--more quickly arrived at, it didn't have the trappings of sound and fury. He came nonetheless, in a quick thrust up, a holding of my head, and sharp gushes of cum in my mouth.
I swallowed what I could, letting the rest lie in my mouth. Cum is not the best tasting stuff I've ever eaten--a ripe Georgia peace comes to mind there--but it wasn't the worst by a long shot--think beets or liver. I liked it, so I swallowed it.
Marshall lay back on his bed letting his breathing return to normal. He turned his head sideways and smiled.
"Damn, Sam, that was good."
I smiled at him, but actually I had mixed emotions. For the first time since he and I had started fooling around, I had not cum when he had. In fact, I didn't even have a hardon. Frankly, I felt kinda used. He'd gotten off, and I'd been the means. I realized, too, that this part of our relationship had changed. For the first time, I didn't tell him he was welcome.
I'd like to say that I was wrong about this, but I was not. We remained friends for several more years. But, our days of shared sexual play had ended with that blowjob. It wasn't long before he wanted to fuck me, which I let him do, me with my ass hanging off the side of his bed, his cock stabbing me, his mind solely on his need to get off regardless of the pain. We never again shared an orgasm, and he never again got me off.
I can't complain, really. I kinda knew that the time would come when what I needed and wanted would collide with what he needed and wanted. The collision came with that blowjob. I didn't refuse him his sexual need because, frankly, I wanted his friendship too badly. Not good, I know, but I think it was worth it. He really was a fine friend and I do cherish our time together. I think I'm a better person for having known him. I don't know if he is a better person for having known me. I like to think so.
That first year of our friendship was until recently the single best year of my life. I don't know if I've ever been happier with less fear or emotional turmoil, less strife with which to deal, than I had that year. His home was a welcome refuge, his friendship a balm. We were unencumbered of the rigors that adult life puts on one, and we lived each day to it's fullest, with joy and happiness. The sex at night simply added sweetness to the day.