Date: Thu, 16 Jan 2003 11:28:48 -0800
From: Elliott Payne <elliottpayne@hotmail.com>
Subject: River Oaks Summer Part 1

This is a true story. Only the names have been changed. I grew up in the
River Oaks section of Houston and attended Memorial High School in the late
70s. River Oaks is a high-end area with large old homes on gigantic lots
and tons of old trees especially oaks adorned with hanging gray moss.
During the summer between my freshman and sophomore year, I stayed at home
and cut grass as my summer job. Most of my close friends attended a summer
camp together in Tennessee. I had been expelled the previous summer for
disciplinary problems.

The only remarkable thing about Houston in the summer is the staggering
heat, a sort of moist heat that permeates, and hangs like damp laundry,
even in the late evenings. There was a fort in an undeveloped area to the
rear of our subdivision where the poison ivy grew thick and wild, with
several disconnected sections of concrete pipe scattered around, tall
enough for a boy to stand in while hunched over. I suppose the fort
initially was built by the older brothers of the area, who had moved on to
a bigger world. Some of the random kids from around, whose faces I
recognized, and many who I knew from school, began to congregate at the
fort, in a matter of spontaneous juvenile generation. Small improvements
were made. Projects were undertaken, tasks assigned. The older stronger
boys assumed a natural authority. The rest of us did our best to fit in.

In essence the place was a junior version of a men's club. By this I mean
the main occupation was sitting around drinking liquor and shooting the
shit. One person or another always managed to supply whiskey, cold beers or
marijuana. Not always, but often, and when these supplies ran low the
overriding objective of our adolescent activity was re-stocking the bar.
Various and sundry schemes and petty larcenies were employed, and more
often than not we did get a buzz going.

There also was a vast library of communal pornographic material, magazines
of all description, but all geared to a straight audience obviously.
Primarily soft core stuff but a few full on hard-core fuck books. Often we
read the "letters" section out loud, recounting dubious tales of unheard of
sexual prowess and deviancy.

So this was my world. I passed all my courses with nearly straight A's for
my freshman year. At the end of the semester I had gone deep sea fishing
with my Dad and my four older brothers, all of whom were now college age,
no longer living at home. I returned to a quiet suburban village. My grass
cutting enterprise occupied about 4 to 6 hours most days, and meanwhile I
was free to smoke pot in the attic, walk to the mini market for red or blue
slush drinks, and play slap and tickle with my very first girlfriend in the
evenings. I was happy for the most part, if a bit bored at times.

Myself? Well I was on the shrimpy side of the masculinity scale. The
nickname "pee-wee" thankfully was reserved for one of the few boys smaller
than me, and I bolstered my stature with a firm authoritative tone and a
measure of fearlessness in facing down bullies, engaging in mindless and
reckless vandalism, and an ability to imbibe impressive amounts of liquor
while maintaining an air of detached sensibility. I was a load and was
accepted as a load by the other loads, able to maintain an incessant banter
of meaningless yet insightful observations of absurd cultural effluvium,
all the while matching toke for toke, beer for beer, the biggest baddest
loads of the bunch, and reducing the tag-along lightweights to cackling
hyena.

The jocks were another matter. Chip was a jock, no doubt about it. But he
got high for sure and hung out mostly with us loads. I didn't know him
well, although he lived on my block. I always got the idea that he didn't
care very much for me, and I suppose the feeling was vaguely mutual, one of
those vestigial masculine conditions. He was a beefy guy but tall,
something of a wrestlers build, but he played several sports, and was spry
and reasonably agile for his size. He was two years ahead of me and drove
his family's VW van, which had a manual transmission. My shtick didn't
particularly amuse him. He had a way of looking at me as if to say, I can
kick your ass up and down, and you know it.

So it surprised me, what happened. Chip was there, at the fort one
afternoon, after I was through cutting grass, hanging out with four or five
other guys who I knew pretty well. We all hung out, got high. After a time
the pot wore off, we were trudging back to the neighborhood, talking about
what we might do later in the evening. Chip drifted to the back of the
pack. He had on blue Nike running shoes with a yellow swoosh. He and I were
separated from the others just slightly. He turned to me and said, "Hey
Duncan, you wanna come over tomorrow? I have some new penthouses..."

I wasn't quite sure about it... "Yeah sure I guess..."

"Cool just come over when you get up. My parents will be out all day. Bring
your trunks if you wanna swim." His family had a pool and small pool house
at the rear of their property.

I was somewhat perplexed, and wondered in passing if he wanted to beat me
up or something. Thinking it over I decided that he was trying to make
friends, and it was time to get over the male-hype stuff. So the next
morning at around 10:30 I walked over to his house, a huge colonial, and
rang the doorbell. There was Chip, wearing dark blue gym shorts, a white
tee shirt, and his track shoes. And a bright smile.

I mentioned I had a girlfriend, a short cute red-head with small perky
tits, and a nice round butt, and honest-to-god bright orange pubic hair
which grew in a fascinating mound, down bushily through her crotch, and
even around her puckered feminine asshole. I was enthralled with all of
this, even if I didn't know what the hell to do with it. We rubbed
ourselves together. I kissed and touched her everywhere. I came multiple
loads in my pants. Yet for all this I was still a virgin, a scared young
virgin.

Despite my attraction to my girlfriend, and many of the other girls at
school, and in the magazines, I had known of my attraction to other boys
for a couple of years, since about seventh grade. First very attracted to
their smooth white butts in the locker room, more or less as a substitute,
a butt is a butt after all, and theirs looked easily as nice as the ones I
admired in my brothers' porno mags. But later their dicks as well,
especially those with long smooth soft penises, those I admired especially.
I wanted a big one of my own, or I wanted to put one in my mouth and suckle
like a calf on a bottle.

I had never been inside Chip's house, although many of my friends had, and
I had heard stories of his basement, a hang out zone where his parents
apparently didn't interfere. It occurred to me that it was not completely
impossible that Chip had such feelings as well, but I was so totally
repressed that I put such thoughts out of mind. I wasn't going to let my
guard down around a jock, who could fuck up my life, and ruin the next
three years of high school for me.

In actuality I didn't need to worry. We went down to the basement. We had
about half a joint and were listening to records, Iggy Pop, the Ramones,
the Jam. He grabbed a stack of mags, put them down on the coffee table and
sat next to me on the couch. Right next to me. We started looking at all
the magazines one by one, together. "Look at those tits ... Look at that
ass ... Look at that pussy ... Sweet."

He would hold the magazine. Turn the pages. I sat near and watched. I moved
in close to get a good view. I could feel our legs touching. The movement
as he adjusted himself. He didn't acknowledge. It didn't bother him. If it
didn't bother him, it didn't bother me.

My dick was hard as anything in my jeans. I touched it to adjust the
position. Chip watched out of the corner of his eye. Turned the page. "Nice
ass." He adjusted his dick in his gym shorts. Facing the magazine, my eyes
drifting to Chip's crotch. His dick was big, straining at the shorts, no
way to hide it. Turn the page. "Nice pussy." I adjust my dick again, this
time grasping the length through the denim, just longer than necessary,
lingering. Chip watching out of the corner of his eye, still with the
magazine.

Turn the page. "Nice ass, man." Back and forth a couple of times. Turn the
page. Tug the dick. "Nice tits." This time Chip reaches down into the leg
of his shorts.

Flop.

The thing is out there, and this is a piece of meat to be proud of. I don't
know but probably about 8 inches and thick and smooth and hard as hell. Its
sticking right out for the world to see. He's still reading the magazine.
"Nice pussy, huh man? Oh check this babe out." His dick is long and hard
sticking straight up to his belly, practically reaching his belly button.
He relaxes back in the couch. "This is cool, huh?"

I had a funny metallic taste in my mouth. I couldn't really hear over the
sound of my heart pounding. Things were moving fast, out of control. This
was it. Wow. "Yeah Chip, this is cool."

We went on like that for quite awhile. Still looking at the pictures in the
magazines. Chip in charge, holding the magazine out in front of us,
deciding when to turn the page. Every once in awhile he would reach down
and adjust, giving his hard dick a good long squeeze while he was at it. He
arranged himself so that his shorts were pulled over to the side, and his
cock and balls were free. I was fascinated.

I tried to continue looking at the ladies in the magazines, but really
couldn't concentrate. He reached down and really started stroking.
Squeezing the foreskin up and over the head, and back down again, slowly. I
gave up on the magazine, and began to openly stare at Chip pumping his dick
slowly up and down. My palms itched. I was trembling.

Eventually he put the magazine down, and lay back on the couch. He let his
strong stiff penis stick straight up in the air, and squeezed with his dick
muscles to make the head expand and contract, putting on a show. I slid
sideways on the couch, staring, mesmerized. I moved to the floor, still
leaning on the couch, to get in closer. I could smell his musk. I couldn't
look up to his face, only kept staring at his dick.

His pumping increased in tempo. I was right there, my face a foot away. His
dick started getting red. He pumped really fast. A low grunt, and he blew
spunk all over his tee shirt. I jerked my face away, afraid of getting the
stuff on me.

He took off his shirt, balled it up. Looked at me, smiled.

"Uh, I gotta go Chip. I've got a yard to do."

"No swim?"

"No I gotta go."

As he walked me out, he stopped me at the door, "Hey Duncan, we're alike,
you and me. This is just between us, right? No one else finds out."

"Yeah Chip. Of course."

"Good because I don't want to have to kick the shit out of you, Duncan. I
like you ... Wanna come over tomorrow?"

"Um hum."

"Okay bring your trunks. Seeya."

Out of the house. Looked down at my watch. Jesus nearly one in the
afternoon. I was in there over two hours. Man it seemed like only 45
minutes or so. Couldn't concentrate on anything doing my yard that
afternoon, fortunately it's a mindless job. That night I stayed in. After
my shower, I jacked off four times, fantasizing about Chip's dick.

copyright 2003 Elliott Payne