Maybe it was the first time I realized that having a boy was a comfort thing. You go through the stage of "You mean I can do this with my dick any time I want? For the rest of my life?" Then, if you are the kind of boy I was, with a need that gnawed at your soul... Then, until you find someone, you masturbate about things that would have shocked you a year ago. You yearn to do things, to have them done to you, you sperm about them, about various unlikely boys, about doing impossible things, during long lonely nights in your room, maybe with something in your ass.
When Douggie and I finally reached out and touched each other that first time, it was about getting a thrill. Even the hundred and first time I guess, it was still just about scratching an itch. Whatever itch you would admit to having. That you could let another boy see you having. It was about being driven by this hot sea of new urges threatening, delightfully, to drown you. Driven by these new desires suffusing your thoughts, engorging your flesh, these new emotions boiling inside you.
It wasn't really about him, yet. Maybe the fact that he was a him. That was certainly dawning. That was newly gnawing at my inner self. That would come to be central, in time. Not quite yet, though; I was on the cusp.
But this was a new year, albeit the waning days of it. After the years of using one another to make the thrills happen. A new year when he was there, could be relied on, to allay the crazy need, at least for a little while, 'till it came back. At least you knew he'd be there, that you could come together to... come together. I guess the importance of that "together" part was right on the verge of blossoming, of becoming pre-eminent.
Most of the Christmas shopping was done. In think he and I still needed to get one last thing for our moms. We ended up agreeing to meet my folks downtown for dinner and finish that last bit of shopping in a couple of those grand old department stores that were a relic of the prewar years. We were still too young to get our driver's licenses, though both our dads were already taking us out to practice.
We ended up taking the bus, and I remember it was cold and clear and we knew it would be cold, so we were dressed for it. And you could smell the cold in the air. And there was this contrast between the twilight chill and the warmth inside our coats. I noticed that first.
And I noticed something else. We both actually had the Christmas spirit this year. He was cheerful and smiling and funny and I noticed he had been growing. He was leaner and his features more distinct, and the little quirky facial expressions shown through, without the chubby kid cheeks of even a year ago to obscure them. So familiar and yet somehow new.
I remember the bus and the bouncing and being horny and wanting to... I'm not sure, but it involved moving closer to him and our legs bouncing warm against each other and long silences and sidelong smiles. We arrived downtown earlier than agreed, so we went in someplace and ordered something teenage, like fries and hot chocolate. You know, to get ready for dinner. And I remember, we were in a booth, kind of in the back. The table was painted black, I remember. And I remember that the lights seemed extra bright, sharp, almost... crisp. And his cheerful face. How it had changed since we first met.
He was being hilarious. Witty and animated and glad to be there. I remember him lounging back. He'd pulled off his hat and his hair was tousled. We had already smirked at each other's crotches and all that. He was lounging back and he seemed so... long, all of a sudden. I knew we were the same height: I'm that big, now? Something soft and familiar, seen with new eyes.
It came upon me, that he was maturing, that we were maturing, and that we understood each other in a way nobody else did. Our hearts had grown and his face filled mine with kindness and optimism.
Outside, the chill had deepened. Or else having sat inside just made us feel it more. But the lights were so clear and sharp. Christmas lights. Twinkling through the barren branches, as we walked past the trees and crossed the street to meet my folks. They were glad to see him. There was a hum of familiarity and contentment, and we had a light snack together before my parents went off to do their shopping.
He was happy with what he found, as was I. At the rendezvous, I sent my purchases back in the custody of my dad. Doug and I stayed behind and got picked up by Doug's dad and went to his place to spend the night. We were all going shooting in the morning.
On the ride home, we talked about tomorrow and made small talk with his dad. But underneath, we shared a deep, abiding comfort. We each knew we would have the other tonight. I guess it just seemed a matter of course that we were going to cornhole. Sorry, but that's what it was called. Fucking was something grownups did. That men did to women. To their wives. Cornholing was for boys. It didn't make you gay. It didn't make you anything. I guess it just made us admit we were still just boys. But, sigh, it made us such happy boys.
You didn't "cornhole each other." You cornholed. Together. You didn't cornhole him; he didn't cornhole you. You went first or you went second. This time, it was his turn to go first, which was fine with me. It always seemed so easy for Douggie, when I slid into his soft heat. Maybe because my dick was perfectly straight. His had a curve to the right. In retrospect, that curve made it look all the more cutely urgent, when it stood up all needy. But for me, that curve meant it was always better when he went first, while I was maximally horny. When his big curved penis entering me was a delicious thing, part of my ascending curve of need and pleasure and eventual satiety.
I remember, we were in the den. I was on all fours and Douggie was inside of me, moving, moving, slow and big and tender. We were always tender with each other. I'd been focused on relaxing and accepting him, offering my softness to his big penis, giving sweetness to him. And I noticed for the first time how hard my dick was getting, from having him inside me. He was sliding in me deep. So very rigid and yet so gentle. I was rigid, too. I looked down and, what to my wondering eyes should appear: my fluid making a solid strand from my boner down to the bedsheet. And on that strand, like crystal beads on a garland, were strung the bigger drops I made each time his penis went deep, like little ornaments, little dollops of sweetness, glittering in the nightlight, as they streamed down from me in celebration.
I treasure that evening as I treasured Douggie. I treasure my memory of the joy we shared and the warmth and brightness of that season of our long fled youth.
May your days be merry and bright...