The following contains scenes of sexual activity between males. If it is illegal for you to read this in your area or if you feel you may be offended by doing so, please do not continue. This story is complete fiction and any similarities between people and places in the story and reality are purely coincidental. Some of the characters may engage in behaviors which could be construed as illegal or unsafe. This is not an endorsement of such behavior. The author does not condone the violation of any law, nor does he encourage unsafe behavior. Please do not copy or post any parts of this story without the knowledge or permission of the author.
This story is a departure from my previous stories, A Canterbury Tale, Moon in Your Eyes, and Centennial Park, in that it is completely unplanned. It is a serial story and, like you, I have no idea where its going. I decided it might be fun to just sit down, create a few characters, and let them decide what the story would be and where it might go. I want to be as surprised as you by what happens. It might be fun! There will be several plots working. Though the first chapter may seem a bit sad, it will be a basically happy story with a few challenges and crises thrown it to make it interesting.
Please send any comments to FreeThinkerCG at yahoo.com.
"Congratulations, Brooks! Another job well done. The FBI and your country owe you a debt of gratitude!"
"Its nothing, Agent Quigley. Just knowing I've unmasked another Soviet spy is enough for me."
He leaned back in his chair and smiled with satisfaction. Mission accomplished. Brooks of Sheffield had solved another mystery and saved America from the evil Red Menace. He closed both the cover of his sketchbook and his eyes and dreamed of the day someone at DC or Marvel would look at his comics and see that they were pure genius- a comic book hero that wasn't endowed with superpowers, but a kid, just like him or just like the millions of other boys who read comics, who could use his head and his heart to solve mysteries and save the world from Russian spies and Chinese saboteurs; from Mafia hit men and corrupt politicians. It was a brilliant idea. All he had to do was convince someone else that it was.
"Get down here! Now!"
Instinctively, he jumped up and almost stood at attention as he answered, "Yes, sir!"
He nearly knocked his chair over in front of his desk as he ran toward the door. It was show time, time for him to perform, to be the dutiful son and make his parents look good. As he hurried down the hall toward the stairs, he could hear the conversation between his parents and the couple joining them in the living room. It was the typical diplomatic, social nonsense business people always spouted off when they gathered for cocktails before dinner. He took a deep breath and descended the stairs with all the dignity and respect his Dad had taught him.
Reaching the foyer, he found his father in the doorway to the living room, standing ramrod straight as his years in the service had taught him. Beyond him was an older man in a very conservative dark suit and a lady with big boofy hair that looked as if a ton of hairspray had turned it solid as a rock. The man had salt-and-pepper hair cut in a serious flat-top. His wife had huge balls hanging from her ears. As he approached, Mother gave him The Look, warning him not to embarrass them in any way.
"Well, who's this fine looking young man?" asked the man with the aircraft carrier for a head.
With less enthusiasm than the boy would have liked, his Dad replied, "This is our youngest, Adam. Son, this is General Sheldon Huffnagle, retired from the Air Force after thirty-five years and now the Vice-President of Multitron Industries."
"Pleased to meet you, sir," he said respectfully as he extended his hand and gave The General a firm and manly handshake.
"And," continued my father, "this is Mrs. Huffnagle."
He nodded his head.
"How do you do, ma'am."
She smiled and gushed, "What a young gentleman! How old are you, Adam? Twelve?"
"Fourteen," Adam's father answered for the boy.
"But, I'll be fifteen in about three weeks," Adam added, suppressing his shame over his youngish looks and his father's indifferent answer.
Mrs. Huffnagle smiled sweetly. Adam's parents were silent.
"Now, your oldest is at West Point, isn't he?" the General asked. Adam's father looked shocked.
"No, sir! Colorado Springs! Chip's Air Force, all the way. Just like his Old Man."
The pride in his father's voice was thick as cement. The General nodded with approval.
"What about Adam, here?"
The boy's father paused for a very noticeable moment and then replied, "He has other interests."
Mrs. Huffnagle had been admiring a framed picture on the mantle and diplomatically entered the uncomfortable moment.
"What a beautiful piece of art, Dorothy! It looks just like you and Charles! Is this pen and ink on parchment?"
"Yes," Adam's mother replied without enthusiasm. "Adam drew this for us for Christmas."
"Well, Adam has a gift! He's very talented. You must be very proud of him."
There was another uncomfortable pause, into which Adam's father now stepped. Picking up a small silver tray from a side table and holding it out for the others to deposit their empty cocktail glasses, he announced, "Well, shall we?"
"Yes," the General replied. "Our table is booked for seven-thirty."
Adam stepped back, not knowing whether he was dismissed yet, or not. The men helped the wives into their fur coats and as they made their way to the foyer, Adam's father turned to him and said, "Behave. We are trusting you to be alone. I know its New Year's Eve, but I want you in bed before midnight. There's a list of phone numbers on the kitchen cabinet if you have any problems. There had better not be any problems."
"No, sir. Um, yes, sir. I mean, I'll be fine, sir."
His father looked at him skeptically and then turned to the others as they made their way out the front door into the snowy New Year's Eve air.
As the latch on the door clicked, Adam sighed with relief and slowly turned toward the foyer. He walked into the kitchen, found the list of phone numbers beside the refrigerator, and made a glass of Nestlé's Quik before returning to his room upstairs.
Setting the glass of chocolate milk on his desk, Adam picked up his Sony transistor radio and turned it on. It was still set to AM 1580, the station he listened to back in DC. Adam sighed. He was so homesick for Washington, well, for Arlington. No more WPGC. He turned on the radio, flipped it to FM, and worked the dial until he found something tolerable.
"... only on Z-93! Its New Year's Eve and you've got Randy Andy with the New Year's Eve countdown of Greenfield's Top Forty Hits of 1975! Coming up, number Twenty-nine! But, first babies, before you head out tonight on that special date, before you give that special someone the kiss at midnight, you can't have no zits grossin' 'em out! Clearasil's got what it takes..."
Adam set the radio down on the desk and looked out the window of his bedroom. Across the trees of his new neighborhood, he could see the towers, such as they were, of downtown Greenfield. And, to the right of them, the barely visible dome of the State Capitol. He stared for a moment and then looked to the right at the framed pen and ink drawings hanging to the side of the window, his creations, one showing the view from his bedroom window in Arlington of the tip of the Washington Monument rising from above the trees, another showing a scene from the west side of the Tidal Basin, the Jefferson Memorial on the right, the Washington Monument beyond, and the dome of The Capitol. He remembered the night he had drawn the second sketch. He and Chip had just been driving around, killing time. They had stopped along the Potomac to watch the full moon rising from behind The Capitol. Adam had suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, wow." Chip understood. Chip was the only one who ever understood. They parked and got out of the car. Chip knelt quietly in the grass as Adam sat cross-legged with the charcoal and sketchbook which he carried everywhere with him. When he was finished with his preliminary sketch, Chip had put his arm around him and hugged him.
"You gotta gift, Little Brother! Its beautiful."
As Adam looked at the pen and ink he had created from that sketch, his heart ached for his big brother. He had so hoped Chip would be home for the holidays to help Adam through the trauma of the move from Arlington to this hell-hole armpit of boredom in the middle of nowhere. It was not to be.
"And, now, Greenfield, your number Twenty-nine choice on the Greenfield Request-o-matic for nineteen hundred and seventy-five! Oh, babies, tell me it ain't so!!!!!! Tell me no! This is SUCH a buzzkill! Janis Ian and the number one suicide song of 1975, "Only Seventeen."
Was it really going to be 1976 in a few hours? Adam sat down and marveled that he really was growing up. And, now, in just over three weeks he would be fifteen. In a few years, he would be dating, driving, graduating and going to college. Getting married.
He looked at the sketch book in front of him.
He took a gulp of Quik and put his Brooks of Sheffield creation in its place between the bookends that held his Webster's New World Dictionary, his Roget's Thesaurus, and his 1975Information Please almanac.
Who was he kidding? No one was ever going to buy Brooks of Sheffield. Heck, he was constantly having to explain the name to people he told about it. No one understood. No one had ever read David Copperfield. He was the only person he knew who liked Charles Dickens.
In the box on the floor beside his chair were three brand new, perfectly clean sketch books. He picked one up and set it on his desk. He felt a thrill. There was something about a brand new sketchbook, seventy perfectly clean sheets waiting for his creations, that stirred his heart.
He opened the cover and picked up a pencil. He stared at the beautiful white page and waited for inspiration.
"Number Twenty-nine on the Greenfield Top Forty for 1975 on Z-93! If any of you are still alive after THAT cheerful little ditty, call me for Boogie-Check at 555-ZZ93!!!!Coming up, Number Twenty-eight on the Request-o-Matic! But, first, join us later tonight out at Spaceport for the best dance music in Zenith! I'll be out there at eleven giving away cash and the latest from The Bee Gees! Spaceport! The best dance tracks in town. Remember, no alcohol and you MUST be at least sixteen AND have a valid drivers license to enter. Behind the I-241 overpass on 8th St! Celebrate the New Year at Spaceport!"
Adam sighed. Why did radio stations have to play a commercial after every darn song? Why couldn't they just play four or five and then have a few commercials?
He wondered what Spaceport was like. Sixteen? One more year and he could go. Yeah, right. Like Colonel Foster would ever let a son of his go to place like Spaceport. He thought about all the kids dancing and sitting in booths and making out in cars and....
He continued to stare at the page. Sometimes, if he just cleared his mind, something would just pop up on the page and his pencil would start moving to draw the image before him. But, with Randy Andy extolling the virtues of Continental Airlines- The Proud Bird with the Golden Tail, he was having trouble finding inspiration. Then...
"OK, babies! Its time for Greenfield's number Twenty-eight! Get those funky shoes on the floor and move those hot little butts for some Hot Chocolate! Aaaah BeLIEVE in Miracles!"
Adam grinned. He loved this song. He jumped up and started dancing to the infectious beat. He closed his eyes worked his
"I believe in miracles.... (daaa daaaa)
Where you from? (pata pom)
You sexy thing, you sexy thing, you..."
When it faded away and Randy Andy started talking over the ending again, he sighed and flicked off the radio. He couldn't take any more of this dip. He sat back down and stared at the paper, thinking of the wonderful song. How cool it would be if he had a friend who liked Hot Chocolate as much as he, who wouldn't make fun of him for liking it, for listening to it, for dancing to it. Maybe his friend would dance to it, too. Well, his friend would have to be pretty cool.
What would such a friend look like? Well, he probably wouldn't have the regulation haircut his Dad required Adam to wear, short over the ears, parted on the side and combed over to the right, with the requisite up-flip in the front. No, it would be daringly longer, thick, probably over his ears and long over his forehead.
Adam started drawing. A rounding face, the outline of hair hanging down over the ears, sweeping across the forehead from a part in the hair where Adam had his. Big blue eyes. Well, it was a graphite pencil, so he couldn't make the eyes blue, but he knew they were. Big and round and blue. He'd smile a lot and be happy. He really would be laughing with Adam and not at him, unlike all the times when his parents lied to him, when he knew they really were laughing at him and not with him. Maybe he would have cute, thick lips and maybe a pug nose. He had seen a boy once with a pug nose and he was really good looking. Yeah.
His pencil flew over the thick paper, creating his friend, his best friend, the boy who would understand him, would laugh with him, joke with him, go to movies with him, read with him, play Monopoly and Life and Risk with him... dance with him.
That was pretty weird. Boys weren't supposed to dance with each other. But, his friend would understand and no one would know. They could dance together and enjoy their favorite songs and he would understand.
His life was fucked.
There wasn't any such friend back in Arlington. There wouldn't be any such friend here in Greenfield. He would still be laughed at for looking so dorky because The Colonel required he look dorky, despite Chips pleas every time he was home from The Academy to let Adam be himself.
His life was fucked.
And, what was even worse, here, in Greenfield. ninth grade was part of high school! It wasn't 7 through 9 in Junior High and 10 through 12 in Senior High. Here, it was 6-8 in Middle School and 9 through 12 in High School! After two years of dreaming of the day when he could be at the top of the food chain, he had been denied his moment of glory and thrown back down into the gutter of contempt. And, what was worse, he would be even lower than the other ninth graders because it would be January and he was coming in almost a semester later than they. He would be the lowest of the low at Ralph Waldo Emerson High School.
His life was fucked.
He turned the radio back on as Barry Manilow finished singing "Could it Be Magic," flipped the page, and began a new drawing. His friend, from a different angle, looking off into space, a thoughtful expression on his face. Adam sighed, gazing at the boy he wanted for a friend, listening to Randy Andy introduce one insipid song after another on the year-end countdown.
He was hard. Looking at those pretty lips, those beautiful eyes, that sweet nose, that glorious hair, so long and thick and enticing, he dreamt of running his fingers through it, of leaning down, bringing his lips to those of... what would his name be? Jeff? Scott? Ben? Matt? No, none of those names were good enough for this boy. He was perfect and he needed the perfect name for a perfect boy. But, yes, as he gazed at the perfect boy, he was hard.
Angrily, he slammed the book shut and dropped it on the table. If his father knew that he had these feelings, that Adam go hard thinking about boys, he would shit a bowling ball; and if his mother knew, she'd have him in therapy before the bowling ball hit the floor!
He remembered that night three years before, when he was finally able to verbalize to himself that he was different from the other boys. He had always known that in some fundamental way he was different. He knew he was smarter than most, quieter than most, more dedicated to his responsibilities than most. But, there was something else that he had never been able to put his finger on.
One night, during the winter of sixth grade, while laying in bed awaiting the elusive sleep that refused to come, he had realized the reason he couldn't sleep was a strange sense of excitement and urgency. His thing was stiff. Long and stiff. It had done that before, once while laying on the living room floor watching television, once while sliding down a playground pole that his crotch had rubbed against. This was different. He felt different. He was short of breath and there was a strange feeling coming over him, a feeling in his chest and his thing and... and even inside him, behind his thing, almost in his butt, deep inside him. The more he thought of the feeling, the stronger it got; the more he tried to analyze and understand it, the greater it grew until he was panting, trembling. His thing had become like steel, pushing upward against his pyjamas, the sheet, and the blanket. He felt he was losing his mind, growing crazy. He was scared. He had never felt this way. He needed something. He didn't know what, but he needed something, something badly.
He squeezed his legs together and suddenly he cried out as the feeling seemed to suddenly explode. He shook and quaked and then... collapsed.
Stunned, he thought of what had just happened. Nothing of this nature had ever occurred in his life before. There was nothing to compare it to, nothing that seemed even remotely close. Who could he ask? His father? No. His father loved him, despite his remoteness and the obvious favor he showed Chip. But, this was not something he could ask his father. Instinctively, he knew he couldn't.
It had been several days later, while at the grocery store with his mother, that he was perusing the shelf of paperback books, ignoring the trashing novels by Jackie Collins and Harold Robbins, looking for another Star Trek book by James Blish when he froze. The title jumped out at him. It begged him to pick it up. He knew he had to have it. But, how? His mother would neverby it for him. He would be far too embarrassed and ashamed to by it himself. There was only one thing to do, something he had never done before, never even thought of doing, something only juvenile delinquents did.
His hands shook and his heart seemed to pound mercilessly as he looked around and, seeing that he was unobserved, reached out, grabbed, and slipped under his shirt and inside his waistband a thin paperback entitled, What to Tell Your Kids About Sex. He slowly looked down to make certain it wasn't visible and then spent a miserable, nervous, shame-filled fifteen minutes waiting for his mother to find everything, pay for it, and head out to the car, praying that the store manager wouldn't seize him and hold him until the Arlington Police could come and take him away.
The first thing he did after helping his mother put away the groceries was to head to the upstairs bathroom, the only place he knew of where he had no possibility of being walked-in on. With trembling hands, he pulled the book from inside his shirt and pants. Instinctively, he pulled his pants down and sat on the toilet, his hard three inches stand up rigidly from his hairless waist.
Scanning the table of contents, he ignored chapters with cryptic titles such as "Puberty," "Masturbation," and "Homosexuality,"terms he was certain had no relevance to him, and went straight for the gold, the Mother Lode: "Sexual Intercourse."
Trembling, he read of how the man's penis became erect, of how it entered the woman's vagina, and then, after moving in and out to create pleasurable sensations for both the man and the woman, the penis would ejaculate semen into the woman.
That was it. That was the secret. He was ready to have sex. He was ready to create babies. That was what his body was telling him as he lay in bed hard and panting.
My God, he thought. Do I have to feel like that every night until I get married? He couldn't imagine going through that every night, of needing it so badly and not being able to do anything about it.
Wait. The book said the penis slid in and out of the vagina, creating pleasurable sensations for both. He looked down at his own erect penis. It was throbbing with his heart beat, the same heart beat that pounding in his head. Could he imitate the penis sliding in and out? Could he possibly create those same "pleasurable sensations?"
Once again, he couldn't breath and his right hand trembled as he reached for his penis and grasped it. He gasped and shook at the contact. Oh, my God, he thought. It feels so good.
Slowly, he formed his fist into a tube and rubbed up and down. He stifled a groan as his penis seemed to suddenly jump in his fist and become twice as hard. He started rubbing faster and faster and the feeling grew and grew, a feeling not just in his penis, but deep within him.. He lost his mind. He lost all control. He lost all rational thought. As his hips churned and his arm flew up and down, frantically rubbing his stiff penis, he knew, this was what he needed. This was that unrequited need he had known and wondered about those frantic nights as he lay in bed overwhelmed with The Feeling. This was glorious. This was heaven. This was the most wonderful feeling imaginable. This was....
He threw his head back and suddenly the feeling skyrocketed and he thought his whole body was going to shoot out his dick. He was going to pee all over himself and he didn't care. He didn't care. The feeling, oh God, the feeling.
When it was over, he sat gasping for breath in utter amazement, gazing at the rigid three inches before him and at the drops of whitish goo on his hand and thighs and at the tip of his penis. And, then, he cried.
Tears of shame. He had just done something which had to be inexpressibly wicked, evil, sinful. And, yet, that night, laying in bed, remembering what he had done that afternoon in the bathroom, his penis once again rigid and hard and stiff, The Feeling grew and, though he struggled to ignore it, fought to deny it, begged God to free him from it, he knew he would do it again. And, he did.
It wasn't long after that spring break of his sixth grade year, 1973, that he began to understand just how different he was from other boys when he heard two boys during lunch talking about "beating off." Somehow, he instinctively knew that beating off was a slang term for masturbating, (yes, he had gone back and read that chapter). The boys spoke of the fantasies they entertained about a certain girl in their class who had grown quite noticeable "boobies," which they both admitted to dreaming of sucking and kissing while they beat off. That was how Adam was different from other boys. Other boys wanted to suck boobies. He wanted to feel the dick of Keith or Danny Partridge, or Donny Osmund, not some girl's booby. In fact, the thought of sucking a girl's booby actually grossed him out.
It was when he read the chapter on "Homosexuality" that he knew the truth about himself, that he knew he was sick, demented, perverted, and that there was no one to tell, no one to ask for help or advice. He could never say anything to his parents. Chip, as cool and understanding as he was, would never deal with it. And, from that moment onward, Adam hated himself and concealed his secrets from the world.
Adam awoke from his reverie. Randy Andy was leaving to go to Spaceport and The Ghost was coming in the for the final two hours of the countdown. Adam turned the radio off and gazed out the window again, trying to ignore the urgent stiffness between his legs. He leaned over and turned on the small black and white Panasonic TV on the table beside his desk. It was still on Channel 4. Snow. So there wasn't a Channel 4 in Greenfield. But, there was a Channel 3. The news was coming on. It was ten o'clock, an hour earlier than he was used to the news coming on. Oh, well. He leaned back and watched.
The sports report was just beginning as he realized that he hadn't heard a single word that either the newscaster or the weatherman had just said. He couldn't care less about the sports. Well, at least he wasn't hard anymore. Lethargically, he stood up and wandered out of his room and into the hallway, down the stairs, and around the house, where everything from the old house and been placed almost exactly as it had been arranged back in Arlington. Everything was the same and yet everything was different.
He fixed another glass of chocolate milk and headed back upstairs. He placed the new glass next to the empty old glass and saw that Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve was coming on. KC and the Sunshine Band would be playing. There were others on the show, but it was KC that made him turn the volume up.
"Shake, shake, shake.... shake, shake, shake....
Shake your booooty, shake your booooty "
Without thinking, he stood up and closed his eyes and started moving to the beat. Soon, his head was swaying, his arms were moving, his hips were churning, his feet were going. He was dancing and he suddenly felt free of the melancholy that had plagued him earlier. Free. He was dancing and happy and having fun. He imagined himself at Spaceport, surrounded by other teenagers having fun and dancing and gettin' down. And, of course, his friend, his best friend, his special friend, dancing with him, his beautiful blond hair falling across his face and flowing through the air as his head swayed to the beat, his hips working it to the beat, clad in those oh so tight, oh so hot brown striped polyester bell-bottoms, a grin on his face, a grin so cute that he would have to lean over and kiss it.
Other artists came on. They would periodically switch to Dick Clark in Times Square to show the crowds cheering and waiting for the ball to drop on the Allied Chemical Building. But, still Adam danced with his friend, hard as a rock, knowing his friend was hard as a rock, and finally not caring, not feeling the guilt and shame over his feelings, his desires, his sickness. He didn't care.
As the clock beside his bed neared eleven, and the clock in the ABC studio neared midnight, he was transported from his bedroom in boring, lifeless Greenfield to the excitement and drama of Times Square in New York and he and his friend were arm-in-arm, side-by-side, counting down the remaining seconds as the glowing ball descended oh so slowly until cheers erupted and fireworks went off and people were kissing and a giant sign beneath the glowing ball suddenly exploded into light and declared, "1976."
Adam put his arms around his imaginary friend and leaned forward, bring his lips to the impossibly beautiful lips of his friend, his best friend, his special friend, his boyfriend. His boyfriend.
As the crowds in the studio sang, "Should old acquaintance be forgot and never..." Adam suddenly opened his eyes. His arms were holding... air. His lips were touching... air. His... his boyfriend was... air.
He couldn't bear to watch any more of the New Year's Eve on ABC. He turned the television off and stood in the middle of his bedroom, alone and hard. So alone. So hard.
Slowly, his hand slid across his right hip to the rigid rise in the crotch of his jeans. He rubbed it and gradually the urgency built, the feeling that always superceded any guilt or shame or reticence he might harbor, the feeling that demanded he give in, that he surrender and for a few glorious minutes, allow himself to float and flow and fly through a world of passion and desire and...
He turned and flipped off the desk lamp. In the dark, illuminated only by the faint blue glow of a street light outside, he kicked off his sneakers while quickly unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled it back and dropped it on the floor, a momentary thrill shooting through his chest and down to his boner as he felt the cotton slide across the tips of his stiff nipples. Quickly, he unfastened the wide black belt, unsnapped his pants, forced the zipper down over the tautness of his penis, and, hooking his thumbs inside the waist, pushed down his pants and briefs, his stiff boner popping up from beneath the tight white cloth. As he stepped out his pants and stood naked, wearing only the white socks with their single red and single black stipe near the top, he looked down at his boner and felt the familiar shortness of breath, the tightness in his chest, the need.
In the faint light, he could see the more than five inches standing upward at an angle from its nest of thin chestnut red hair. The shaft was almost perfectly white up to the circumcision, where it turned pinkish until the wide, turgid helmet at the end, from which a tiny drop of precum had formed. He spread his legs wider and slowly pushed his hips outward, imagining his friend in front of him; and as Adam reached down and groaned as his fist enveloped his rigid boner, he imagined his beautiful blond boyfriend, naked as well, his blond hair falling down his neck toward, but not reaching his shoulders, his slim body as trembling and nervous as Adam's, his penis thick and stiff and longer than his, maybe six or seven inches, surrounded by silky, silver blond hair. Slowly, his boyfriend would smile and reach out to Adam's dick, caressing it, loving it, making it feel good. Thrusting his hips out toward Adam, inviting Adam to feel his dick, his boyfriend would whisper, "Touch it, feel me," and Adam would. He would gently hold the boy's cock, feeling its heat and the beat of the boy's heart as his dick pulsed with the boy's life. His hand would fondle his boyfriend's fat balls and he would watch as the boner bobbed and pulsed with his desire as Adam felt him off.
Adam's eyes were closed as he wildly, frantically beat -off, dreaming of his boyfriend's dick, his body, his lips. Oh, how he wanted to lay naked with him, running his hands all over his body, their lips touching, their tongues plunging into each other's mouths.
Adam was groaning now, his head thrown back, his eyes tightly shut, his face frozen in a rictus of ecstacy as his right hand fiercely beat his cock. He was breathing from his mouth and groaning with each breath out. He could feel his adolescent sweat building under his arms as he pumped faster and faster.
The feeling was building, but Adam wasn't ready to return to the ugliness and loneliness of real life. Looking down wildly as his rigid cock, he let go, his hips thrust outward, his penis angrily standing up, demanding he grab it and bring it the relief it required.
He turned to the bed and pulled down the covers, replacing the pillow and climbing in. Laying atop the sheet, he watched his dick throbbing above his stomach, his balls churning around slowly in their tight sac, a thin stream of precum oozing from the tip and flowing over the turgid head. He reached to pull a Kleenex from the box on his night stand and wipe the stickiness away. And, then, he closed his eyes again.
He was laying with his boyfriend, naked, front to front, their hard teenage cocks pressed firmly against each other, their arms wrapped tightly around each other, gazing lovingly into each others' face. His boyfriend's luxurious hair fell across his face and Adam knew he was in love. He was gazing into the most beautiful face he had ever seen and there would never again be a moment in his life as beautiful or as erotic or as filled with love and joy as this one. Frantically stroking himself, pumping his boyish cock as fast as he could, thrusting his hips upward to meet his pumping fist, groaning, moaning, Adam dreamt of that sweet face, those sweet lips, that sweet hair, and the love reflected in those sweet eyes, and felt his lust and desire explode.
He cried out as his lust and his cock exploded and he lost all touch with reality, pumping and thrusting and shooting and groaning until his face and chest and stomach and arm were covered with long ropes of his semen. And, when it came to an end and his reluctantly came to an end, he lay, covered with sweat and cum, panting and feeling the pain of loss grow in his chest as he knew he had returned to reality, where he was alone and unloved. He wiped the tears from his eyes after wiping away the semen from his face and body. Tossing the tissue into the wastebasket, he felt as if he were tossing away the dream of his love and happiness and with an aching heart, he pulled the covers over him, rolled to his left facing the wall, and cried himself to sleep.
Well, that is the first episode of the saga of the boys of Ralph Waldo Emerson high School. I truly hope you enjoyed it and will write to me with your comments at FreeThinkerCG @ yahoo.com.
Remember: When in doubt, do NOT read the instructions.