Courtesy of www.99Gay-Men.US

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All the usual stuff about you must be old enough in your jurisdiction, etc.  In other words, if you are underage, don't read this unless you have a really cool teacher who assigned it.  Otherwise, come back in a few years, when nobody will yell at you.

This is a true story.  I haven't changed the names, because the truth is the truth until it is altered.  This story is sacred to me, so I couldn't bring myself to alter it in any way.
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Yes, it is true that I took Latin in high school; two years worth!  I know it's a dead language, and it was dead even then.  Our teacher, to my fourteen year old eyes, looked almost as dead as the language she so fervently loved.  

Mrs. Hornung spent most of her class time on two activities:  She would continually correct our pronunciation, something that I couldn't quite understand, since there was no one who could have been alive to tell her the correct pronunciation.  Her second task was to try to keep two of my classmates in line.

Tom and Danny had been friends since kindergarten, and had apparently spent most of their subsequent time learning the most effective means of getting under the skins of any adults with whom they had contact.  They were both shorter than most of us in the class, which meant that they were at the perfect eye level for Mrs. Hornung.  

Both Danny and Tom, like me I say immodestly, were quite bright, so they didn't have to spend a lot of time learning the material, which left them plenty of time for mischief.  I was appalled by their behavior.  I was equally enthralled.

There were two reasons that they captured my attention in class.  They did everything that I was afraid to do.  I didn't really want to behave the way they did, but I did want to have the guts to do so.  Secondly, they were adorable, cuter than anyone else in the school.  All the older girls in the school flirted with them during every class changing break.  The girls my age found them disgusting,  although they changed their views within a couple years.

Danny, whose role in this story will evaporate fairly soon, had beautiful deep red hair.  Since I was also in his gym class, I also knew that he was uncut like only a couple other boys in the whole school.  That fascinated me, since it was such a rare sight for me.  Frankly, he was a frequent bed time fantasy for me, despite my disdain for him--a disdain I would have happily overlooked for a one on one naked romp in my bedroom.

Tom was blond, with an intriguing little curl that swept slightly down his forehead.  He was cute, but he wasn't in my gym class, so I didn't fantasize about him.  You see, I have a curse.  I have to know what a penis looks like before I can conjure any fantasy about its owner.  It's not that I'm a size queen or a foreskin freak or anything like that.  However it looks doesn't matter much to me; I just have to be able to visualize it in order to be able to use it as a mental sex toy.

Late in the school year, in April and May, we always had more assemblies.  Entertainers would come, pretending to be teaching us about something during their magic shows or animal exhibitions or whatever.  I think the assemblies became more frequent to distract us from the oncoming freedom of summer and to use of the time that we had not lost with the "snow days" that are built into any midwestern school's schedule.

Often these gatherings of the whole school had no educational pretense at all.  School groups (of which I was a member of many, eventually the president of most as I padded my college bound resume') could get permission to rent a movie for showing at an assembly, charge admission and have funds for whatever usually meaningless project that particular organization sponsored.  Students who couldn't or wouldn't pay the admission price were sentenced to a strictly enforced quiet study hall for the time.  Consequently, nearly everyone went to these events, if only to sleep.

On this one warmish day in May, we were called to the auditorium/gym to watch a movie.  We were called in one class at a time, with the freshmen invited first.  We were to move to the top rows.  I was at the very top row, a good seat, because the back wall served as a seat back on the hard wooden bench.  I was pleased that I had secured one of these coveted positions.

Just as I was at the peak of my ecstasy over my good fortune, Tom secured the seat right next to me.  He actually had nudged a friend of mine out of the way so that he could move into that place.

Tom and I rarely spoke to each other in Latin class and never elsewhere, so as he got seated, we exchanged nods, and I prepared to watch the film.  The auditorium eventually filled to capacity, and we were repeatedly ask to squeeze together to make room for the late coming seniors.  We were all like anchovies in a can and only slightly less aromatic, I suspect, although the gym/auditorium never smelled that great, so I didn't notice that part. 

What I did notice, though, was that Tom had a very distinct smell, not at all unpleasant but definitely his own scent.  He was pushed so tightly against me that I felt as if he moved every time I took a breath--and my breathing rate did increase a bit as I made that observation.

Prior to the movie, we had not been permitted to go to our lockers, so we all had to hold whatever we had been carrying with us since our lunch time locker visit.  On my lap, I held a couple text books for my afternoon classes and the corresponding notebooks.  I also had whatever novel I happened to be reading at the time.

Once everyone had finally been seated, the auditorium grew very dark.  I could see absolutely nothing until the projectionist finally found the right button in the total void.  However, the screen was so distant, that it still took a long time for my eyes to adjust to be able to even make out the shapes of the people seated on the benches directly in front of me.

As soon as the opening credits had finished, I felt something on my thigh.  At least, I though that I had felt something on my thigh.  I surmised that Tom's hand had slipped.  I made no move, because we were so tightly confined that it took a concentrated effort to keep from touching those on each side and in front any more than necessary.  It wasn't surprising, then, that Tom had accidentally touched my leg with his hand.  After all, there was no space between us, although I was managing to keep my own hands within my own personal space.

Of course, regular readers of Nifty have already deduced that the wandering hand will appear again.  However, for those of you who have found Nifty for the first time through my blatant self-promotion, I shall continue with my description in a fashion more consistent with the time in which all of this occured in real life.

Not long after the hand had withdrawn, again it arrived on my thigh.  This time it was a bit more present.  That is, the whole hand had found my thigh and was apparently planning to stay there.  

I was in a quandary.  I still assumed that Tom had his hand on my leg thinking that it was his own.  I didn't want to embarrass him by moving my leg, however slightly I might have moved it, given our tight quarters.  On the other hand, I didn't want to send the signal that I actually liked having his hand there, especially since I did indeed like having his hand there.  

I took the easiest course of action, which was...well, inaction.  I just sat there pretending to watch the movie, while all I was thinking of was Tom's hand on my leg. 

Now, I'm trying not to describe what was in Tom's mind at this point, because I was not privy to the internal working of his mind.  However, I can't keep myself from speculating.  I believe that the neurons firing within his amazingly cute head said, "No reaction from Greg.  So far, so good."

He moved his hand toward the center of my lap, closer to where the good stuff happens.  Now it was finally clear to me that Tom was not benignly thinking that he was exploring his own leg.  

Now, I had done a bit of playing around with guys, but as far as I knew, my secret was still safe.  A couple of the guys went to school long distances from me.  They were just summer vacation flings, I guess.  The one local guy with whom I was engaged in mutual explorations was even more secretive than I.  He would later go on to become the star quarterback at our high school.  No one ever suspected him, except me, of course, and (my guess is) that back-up quarterback with whom seemed to have a very special friendship during the second half of high school.

Still, I thought, Tom is laying a trap for me.  I was immediately and completely convinced that Tom would begin spreading rumors about me, if I didn't indicate that I was displeased by the path of his wayward hand.  Of course, my penis had long before started to think of entirely different possibilities.  My penis thought, "Cute guy just touched leg; grow!"

I reached under my stack of books, grabbed Tom's hand and moved it back to his side of the imaginary dividing line between us.  Count to about three.  Tom snaked his hand along it original path, then took an immediate turn to the south, where he found the outline of my hard cock.  

He squeezed, then whispered, "Is that you?"

My brain was able to process several things simultaneously.  I thought that the squeeze felt pretty wonderful; I thought, this is definitely a trap and my cock has fallen right into it; I sent a frightened signal to my own hand to grab Tom's hand and remove it immediately; and I thought, "My god, that's a naive question.  Who else could it be?  Of course 'that's me.'"

I had no sooner removed Tom's hand than it reappeared, this time with very clear intentions.  I was beginning to doubt my theory that this was a trap.  I figured out that he was going far enough that if he told anyone the truth, it would implicate him more than me.  I sat back and enjoyed his explorations of my now throbbing member.

After a few moments--I think it may really have been longer than it seemed (the length of time, not the length of my penis)--Tom began to move his hand northward.  I admitted my disappointment but only to myself.  I fought my urge to move it back down.

I wondered if I was supposed to return the favor.  Perhaps he was bored, since I hadn't really given him any attention.  Had I been more secure, I would have placed my hand directly on his own hard (I presume) dick.  But, alas...

Indeed, Tom, it turned out, had not grown bored.  He had simply become more adventurous.  He loosened my belt.  I quickly re-secured it, moving as little as possible so as not to alert the person on my left.  For added cover, I pretended to stretch my back a bit against the wall.  I believed that would explain any movement that my neighbor would have detected.

As soon as I had fastened by belt again, Tom attacked it again.  We had something of a hand duel until he finally had to admit defeat.  But defeat for Tom only meant that he needed to try a different approach.

This time, he went for the zipper.  He pulled it down, and he tried to slide his hand it.  I moved his hand away and re-zipped.  We repeated that ritual for several attempts.  My perseverance paid off, although I later wondered if I should have just given in.  I know my cock voted in favor of letting Tom do whatever he wanted.

He contented himself with rubbing me firmly through the denim of my jeans for the rest of the movie.

Eventually, the film ended, the lights came on painfully, and the reality of the whole experience came to me.  Before the traffic ahead of me had even begun to clear, I raced down the benches as fast as I could and headed for my locker.

You see, I needed to put my books away as quickly as possible, get whatever I was taking home for the weekend and get out.  You see, Tom's locker was right next to mine.

He must have sprinted almost as fast as I.  He arrived at his locker.  I couldn't bring myself to look at him, but I could tell that he was looking at me.  I waited for the roof to fall, or for him to call me a queer or any other derogatory term.

Since it finally became obvious to him that I wasn't going to meet his stare, he finally gave up and started talking to me.

"You know, we're both interested in the same thing," he said confidently.

"I don't know what you mean," I lied.

"We're both interested in the same thing," he was persistent.

I didn't say anything.  He did.

"Next weekend the youth group at my church is going to Indian Mounds," he stated, referring to a state park about an hour or so away.  "Do you want to go with me?" he added.

"Yeah," I said, relieved that our mutual interest was no longer the topic and extremely excited that he had asked.  "I'll ask my parents."

"Okay," Tom said in parting, "We'll talk about it in school next week."

"Okay, see ya," I waved as he made his way toward the door and I tried to regain control of the hard-on that I was hiding behind a notebook that I didn't really need to take home except for its role as camouflage.

Thus began what would become a cherished friendship and an odd two year affair.  I already had no recollection of any part of the movie that was the soundtrack to what I guess was our first of many dates, although we never called any of our outings by that designation.  It took me a while before even I thought of them in retrospect that way.

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