Notice: The following account depicts homosexual acts between consenting persons and is intended for mature readers only. Exercise your own judgment, in consultation with the appropriate laws and moral standards of your community, in deciding whether or not to read this work. While this story depicts significant events in the lives of certain individuals, readers are cautioned not to assume that their experiences are in any way representative of those of most homosexuals. Any connection between persons named herein and real persons, living or dead, is vigorously denied. Comments may be sent to email@example.com. This story may not be copied or distributed without the express written consent of the author. Copyright 2001 All Rights Reserved.
A Service Out of the Ordinary
Part One: Coming to Terms
Memory is a difficult thing. Sometimes events that happened in your life seem real as the keyboard under your fingers, yet at other times, try as hard as you might, your mind is as blank as the white screen on the monitor, as though your past is, like the shining void before you, an abstract representation of typing paper waiting to be lined in with arbitrary strings of black letters.
Meaning is a difficult thing. Sometimes you can talk about the things you've done and seen, and everything is clear and true and right, and sometimes good even, and you know who you are and what you're doing as though it all happened according to some great purposeful plan of which you are an integral part, perhaps even an essential part. Other times, it's not what you did, but what happened to you, and your life has no meaning other than its meaninglessness. You awake to yourself like an amnesiac rising from a decade-long coma, whatever lingering remnants of who you are and how you got here long faded from your mind.
Memory and meaning. Existence ricochets back and forth between these two, and it's often hard to tell the difference between them, if there is one.
This is a story that relies on memory and searches for meaning. It is partly the story of two teenage boys and their growing up, but mostly it is just the story of one boy, me, a fag, and how I ended up where I am now. The other boy is Paul, who became a regular part of my life during the summer after my junior year in high school. Since that time, he has been everything to me, even though I often find it difficult to deal with all that has happened. I guess what I seek the most is to know why.
Despite what Paul may have done that hurt me, I loved him, almost more than life itself, and I still do. I always will. To me he has been all at once teacher, brother, soul mate, best friend, and lover. You're going to think our relationship strange, and I guess that's a good word for it. You might not even want to call it a "relationship," but that's how I think of it, and I have no better word for it. Some might call it a master/servant thing, and I suppose, if seen in a certain way, that's true. Paul, after all, "mastered" me in the sense that I was willing to go anywhere and do anything he wanted. But our bond became much more than that of dominant and submissive, or at least it seemed so to me. It's true that at first, I was just a convenient way for Paul to get off, but after awhile, he began to love me in a giving way. I always served him in any way he wanted, of course, and though I didn't always think so, I believe now that my welfare was mostly foremost in his mind. Thinking back, everything he did or asked me to do was, in some way, intended for my own good.
Paul brought so much to my life, gave me so much that I needed, just by being him, that truth be told, I still want him more than anything in the world. There aren't many nights that go by that I don't drift to sleep thinking about how it all started, and how it might have been different.
Chapter One. Dream Boy
A bit about boyhood, baseball, and binoculars.
If there's one thing about myself that most disappoints me it's that I cry a lot. I wish I could change it, but I can't help it. It's something that's plagued me since I was a small boy. I realize now that it comes from fear, and it took me a long time to understand that because, having grown up in nearly constant fear, I learned to feel that being afraid was normal. Even so, the smallest thing can set me off sometimes, so if you're around me for only a short time, you're going to think I'm a faggot if for no other reason than I can be so emotional.
And if you're from where I am from, it's "fucking faggot," or more frequently "goddamn faggot." I grew up in a mid-sized town in the West, a rugged, weather-beaten kind of place where the Rockies always sit on the western horizon and the wide, inviting prairie stretches out toward the east. I'm not going to say which town or state because the wrong person might recognize this story, but suffice it to say that fags like me are not tolerated there. They're regularly beaten up and even killed from time to time. I remember one time in high school (I was a freshman at the time) we had an all-school assembly in the auditorium. Afterward, as people were returning to their classes, a senior who had recently been "outed" was attacked in the hall. I can't remember his name, but this one guy, without any warning whatsoever, grabbed the hair on the back of the fag's head and started smashing his face into the metal lockers. The fag wore glasses, and I can still remember his face hitting the metal, but the glasses never fell off. Both lenses shattered and the frame broke in the center, but for some reason they stayed on his face. There was blood everywhere from his broken nose and the cuts from the glass, and when he finally fell to the floor, he spit out the broken remnants of his front teeth. The other guy just kicked him in the ribs until, finally, a few teachers forced their way through the crowd and stopped it. In my limited experience, it's easily one of the most horrible things I've ever seen.
The whole time I was terrified. Nobody tried to stop the attack because then that person would have been a target as well and called a "fag lover." But I was really scared because I knew that could easily have been me who was beaten up, and I half expected that the bully would turn to me next and beat me up as well. I wasn't "out," but I knew I was as much a fag as the poor guy lying unconscious and bleeding on the floor, and I knew that nobody there (including me at the time) saw anything really all that wrong with what just happened. In everyone's minds, fags were sex-obsessed pedophiles. Making their lives intolerable was simply what you were supposed to do. Since they are all going to hell anyway, putting them there a little early is just a way of protecting all the "normal" people from being future victims. So the fag goes to the hospital for three days and the other guy is back in class the next morning.
Well, that's probably more than you wanted to know, but it's a small look at the kind of world I grew up in. It was like any number of places really, I guess, being excessively cruel and sadistic while at the same time having all the appearances of normality. My hometown does provide a fairly decent "small town" atmosphere for a kid to grow up in, and I don't want to make it sound like everything about it was miserable. But in many ways I am lucky to have gotten away from there alive, though as you'll see, I didn't get away unhurt. One thing I learned from growing up where I did is that cruelty and kindness are two sides of the same coin, and one is as likely to turn up as the other.
So how did I know that I, too, was a fag and a prime candidate for persecution? Well, my first sexual experience occurred when I was about five or six. At the time, I lived with my parents in Denver, where we moved about a year after I was born. My cousin Luke, who was a year older, was visiting from out of state with his family for the summer. Now, little kids can swim naked, bathe, and go to the bathroom together, and it is all very innocent. In fact, our moms used to encourage Luke and I to bathe together in order to save water. Besides, two small kids can fit in a tub together and never even touch. For some reason I was extremely shy about it all, but Luke wasn't. Even when I was much older and in grade school, I used to get upset whenever I had to change in public, like in the locker rooms after swimming lessons at the Y. But I can still remember Luke frolicking around in the nude, much more uninhibited than I was.
The zoo and natural history museum, one next to the other, were both free in those days, so my mom took me there a lot. This was long before the now-famous polar bears, the planetarium, the Imax, and the new exhibition halls. My three favorite things were the pink flamingoes at the zoo, this model sabertooth tiger's head at the museum that roared when you dropped coins in its mouth, and the to-and-from drive down Monaco, which I called "tree street" because in places the limbs overhanging each side made a tunnel several blocks long. Anyway, one day while we were both in the bathroom after a very long car ride back home, Luke finished peeing and saw that his dick mesmerized me. I don't remember whose idea it was, but pretty soon there I was on my knees sucking away. His skin was so soft in my mouth, and he tasted so sweet. As I continued, he became very quiet and started to take high, short breaths. Tiny little drops of sweat broke out on his forehead, and he let out a soft whimper with his dry spasms, and then exhaled deeply. I continued to suck away, not having understood what happened, but his dick was suddenly very sensitive, and he grabbed my head and pulled away. He stood there a few minutes, covered in my spit, and just looked at me, very quiet because like me he didn't quite understand what had happened to him. I wanted him to do the same thing to me, which he did, but only for a few minutes, so I didn't come. It's funny, but that was one of only two blow jobs (if you can call it that) I've ever had in my life, even though I have given more than I could ever count. At any rate, I sucked on Luke a lot that summer. I always had to ask him to let me do it, but he never took much convincing, and he always enjoyed it, though he didn't always come.
Except for that first time, he never sucked me, never even touched me. But I didn't care. Sucking on him was all I wanted. I remember the feeling like it was yesterday. So many years ago, that day I became a cocksucker. I was to young to understand what it would mean for me, of course, but having his little dick in my mouth was probably the most formative experience of my early childhood. About ten years later (his family lived very far away), I saw Luke again and I was very nervous about it because I didn't know if he remembered what happened, but how could he forget? I was scared that he would hate me, though after I saw what an amazing stud he'd grown up to be, I was really hoping he'd want me to suck him off again. But he never said anything about that summer so many years before, and he treated me just like a regular teenage guy.
After my parents divorced, mom and I moved away from Colorado, back to the town where I was born. She worked all the time, but we lived in a typical middleclass neighborhood, so I had many friends to play with over the years. My best friend since first grade was Matt. He lived directly across the street from me. We did everything together, and I guess since I had no male figures in my life, except for maybe Father John, I tried to model everything I did on Matt. We spent all our time together, and whatever he liked, I liked too, all typical things. We were into cars and airplanes, and we built model rockets for a while. We swam together, we played tee-ball together, we played video games together, we were in Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts together and went to summer camp together, and we were altar boys together. We were confirmed together, and we went to the same Catholic elementary school, and always had the same teacher and sat next to each other. As we got older, we continued to share the rituals of growing up. We learned to hunt and fish together, we both took Driver's Ed together, and we even both kissed a girl for the first time on a middle school double date. There was hardly anything I did that I didn't do with Matt. Piano lessons were the only exception (I am so glad my mom encouraged me to do that), and as we got older, I was such a terrible athlete that Matt played basketball and baseball without me. My town didn't have a Catholic high school, so we entered the public one together in ninth grade. The new environment terrified me, but with Matt I always felt safe. He was always my friend and taught me everything he knew. I don't know why, but he tolerated my crying and always defended me, even when I got picked on a few times by some of the non-Catholic kids in school. I admired him more than anyone else I knew.
But I never had any sexual feelings for him. Like I said before, I knew I was gay, but I never told anyone about it. I ignored it, for the most part, though deep down I always knew it was there. I thought I could live life without ever having to really deal with it, and quite stupidly, I thought things would work out the "right" way, meaning the straight way, for me. So I knew I was different, but openly being a fag was so unacceptable, that mostly I ignored whatever sexual feelings I might have otherwise had. Matt and I never discussed sex. Why I don't know, because we did know what it was, though I didn't know what masturbation was until I was nearly a senior. I guess we were just good Catholic boys. Throughout high school, Matt had many girlfriends, mostly innocent relationships, but I never did, though I did go on a few double dates with Matt a few times. My nearly constant lack of female companionship should have clued everyone I knew into the fact that I wasn't straight, but Father John, who I knew very well, wanted me to someday be a priest, and so I think that's what Matt thought I would do and so he never pressed very deep about my feelings toward girls, though I heard plenty about his.
I had a very good friendship with Father John and spent a lot of time with him. When I was in high school, he tutored me in Latin so I spent a lot of time after school at the priests' house. I know he hoped I would express an interest in the priesthood, but I never did. Imagine a fag like me as a priest! Okay, okay, some of you are thinking that every priest is gay, but for the record, I have met a few gay priests in my life, and they were very devoted to their calling. And as an altar boy, I spent lots of time alone with the priests, but none of them ever did anything remotely inappropriate. Father John was so cool. He had been a marine in Korea and was later a chaplain in Vietnam. I loved to listen to his war stories. Matt's grandpa had driven a tank for Patton in WWII, so Father was kind of like a counterpart figure to me. I know I disappointed him by never becoming a priest, but I'm afraid that if he ever knew the truth of what happened to me, he probably would never have spoken to me again.
Like I said before, Matt played baseball and I didn't. We were both on the same tee-ball team at the Y when we were kids, but I was so bad at it that I always got stuck way out in the outfield (only an occasional grounder rolled out there), and I never once crossed home plate. So when we got old enough to play in little league and then in the city teams, Matt continued and I didn't. Over the years, Matt got better and better, and eventually he was on one of the top-sponsored teams, just short of the VFW-sponsored league, which was statewide and attracted scouts from the minors. Anyway, when we were fifteen, Matt played baseball during the summer, and I got a job at one of the city ballparks as an announcer (this was back when I thought I was lucky to be getting $3.15 an hour). In a way, we did share baseball together, though I never got to participate in the team camaraderie. But as Matt's friend, I could hang around after a game when they played on the field where I worked, and the guys didn't mind. Generally, there was only one guy, though sometimes two, up in the announcer's box. If two, then one would record the stats, all of it done with pencil and paper, and the other would do the announcing between the plays. I liked doing the announcing because it made me feel important, though games could easily have gone on without an announcer because everyone could see what was going on and everyone generally knew who the players were. I used to listen to major league games on the radio so I could learn how to do it well, and people said I did a good job. I loved it when Matt was at bat because he played well and made me so proud to be his friend.
I also had a great pair of binoculars up in the box, so before and after games or during seventh inning breaks, if I was alone, I'd secretly check the guys out. It's so exhilarating to focus in on the male body in motion, or to watch a crowd of jocks joking around with each other in the dugout. I'd always get a hard-on, and if I'd have known what to do with it, I could have jacked off up there in the box and no one would have suspected a thing. I also loved watching the players warm up in their uniforms because the socks always accentuated their calves and the pants clung tightly to their thighs. (I hate the uniforms they're wearing in the majors now, because the long pants just aren't as hot.) The cups made their packages seem huge, and most of them had broad shoulders and powerful arms. Watching them at bat, I fell completely in love with the twisting motion of the male torso. Even if some of them are ugly in the face, the body of a good baseball player is really quite beautiful in action. Up in that box, I finally began to experience the awakening of every teenager, but also the painful sexual longing of a lonely fag. Whenever an exceptionally beautiful stud got up to bat, and there were many, I'd go into a sort of daze, my mouth hanging slightly open and the tip of my tongue caressing the back of my teeth. My body would suddenly feel weak and helpless, and I'd break out into a mild sweat.
Because in my mind, I was there at home plate and nobody else was there but me and this gorgeous stud, and he'd be in his uniform and I'd be kneeling in front of him, slowly sucking him and serving him. I'd wrap my arms around his powerful thighs and feel the muscles strain as he drove himself into my mouth. He'd moan his approval as he grabbed my head with both hands and pushed himself fully down my throat, clear up to his bush. I'd maybe gag or choke a bit at the swiftness of his invasion, but given no other alternative, my throat would open to accommodate his massive girth, the ridge of his cockhead scraping across the roof of my mouth, then down my soft palette, then into my esophagus. And after fucking my mouth for awhile, ramming himself in and out with determined, piercing thrusts, he'd begin to pant those high, short breaths as the sweat broke out on his forehead, and he'd let out a soft whimper, then exhale deeply as he filled my throat with his cum. He'd shoot in powerful spurts, leaving me with great mouthfuls to swallow. Now I'd really gag, because the sheer copiousness of his load would be too much for me to handle, and some of his cum would pour up into my nose, or spill out past my lips and down my chin. Watching me struggle to do my best, he'd look me directly in the eyes and give me a wide smile of satisfaction and approval. And when he was done, his spent, softening cock still jerking in my mouth from occasional aftershocks, he'd cup my face in his hands and lean over to kiss me on the top of my head and whisper in my ear, "I love you." After withdrawing his cum- and spit-soaked cock from my still eager mouth, lifting me up, and kissing me one more time, he'd promise me that he'd never shoot another load that didn't go down my throat. I was the object of his desire, and by making me the receptacle of his sperm, he completed me the way no one else could. Then I'd wake up to realize that this stud had struck out or made a base hit and a new batter was up and people were beginning to look up to the box to see why I'd suddenly stopped announcing.
Over the next two summers, this same fantasy played itself out practically every Friday and Saturday night, and over that whole time, though I'd soak my underwear in precum, I never came or jacked myself off. That's really hard to believe now, but it's true. At the time, I just didn't know what to do. Sexually, I was lonely, isolated, and wound tight as a spring. But I never let anyone know about the feelings I was having, especially after the attack I witnessed my freshman year. Many of the people I knew would not be disappointed if I had died in some horrible way, like a car accident or something, if they knew I was gay, and a few would have seen it as divine wrath taking care of something they might have to do themselves. So I guess it's not unusual that I eventually began to feel the same way. Naturally, I was nervous and paranoid and cried more than ever, though now I only cried when I was alone, as I had learned to control it when there were people around. It's a wonder I didn't commit suicide, but the fear in me kept me from it. After all, if I died accidentally, there was a slim chance, I hoped, that God would take me anyway, but suicides go straight to hell. The nuns at school made sure we knew that Judas was still there, burning. I was scared as hell, and scared of hell, too.
Fucked up as I was, my attraction toward other guys, especially the ball players, slowly grew to the point that I didn't even try to think about girls anymore. And I began to watch one ball player in particular during the summer after my sophomore year. He was two years younger than me, physically more mature, and very well developed, even though he was a freshman and just starting in the city league. I started watching him constantly from the box with my binoculars. He became the focus of my fantasies, to the point that he quickly became the only guy I ever thought about. And when his team played at my field, I watched him so intently (I'd gotten pretty good at watching what was going on in the rest of the game without much thought) that I could predict things like where he was going to try to hit the ball, or whether or not he would try to steal a base (it all had to do with how he held his jaw and bit his upper lip). It was obvious that he worked out a lot and was in great physical shape. He had a blond crew cut and stunning dark blue eyes. His brow, jaw, and cheekbones were sharply defined. He had tough-looking shoulders and very hard pectorals, and the muscles in his arms jumped when he swung a bat. He had wide, strong hands, narrow hips, solid thighs that you could see fairly well when he ran, and about the best looking calves I've ever seen on a guy. This guy was pure athlete, moving with that unstudied gracefulness of balance and poise, and he was a great ball player. You could tell the way that he read the field that he had a natural instinct for the game. It seemed he always made a base hit, and it was as though he'd be thinking at least two plays ahead, the way chess players do, his concentration was so good. Many of the other guys were great players, too, but no one had the concentration of this young jock. Because he was young and just starting in the league, he played in the outfield. Watching him standing out there reminded me of a stud horse rutting out in a pasture. This guy just exuded raw masculine energy, and I longed to worship him with my mouth, and more than anything, I hungered to eat his cum. He was the sexiest, most striking, most physical being I'd ever known, and he was my best friend Matt's younger brother. His name was Paul.
Since Matt and Paul lived directly across the street, I had seen Paul for years but never spent time with him because Matt and I were always together, and Paul never tagged along. I didn't mind because Paul was always a very physical kid, and I was not. Paul once even boasted when we were in middle school (though two years younger than Matt and I, Paul was only one grade behind) that he could beat me up, which was true. It was an idle threat, mostly, the kind of tough talk a kid starting to get pumped up on testosterone would say, but I thought he might actually try to start something just for the hell of it. Paul enjoyed intimidating his older brother's best friend, but usually Matt would tell Paul to shut up and push him out of the way. At any rate, once we all hit puberty, and Paul did shortly after Matt and me, I avoided him as much as possible. In some primal way, he scared me and thrilled me at the same time. Up in the box, though, safe from the scrutiny of the world, I could observe him intently without his ever knowing, and once I saw what a great athlete and unbelievably hot stud he was, I wanted nothing more than to suck him off. Despite my fear of being caught and outed as a fag, my desire for Paul started to feel so hot as to burn a whole in my heart.
Look for "Chapter Two. Power Beyond
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