Date: Fri, 12 Aug 2022 18:44:48 -0700 From: Spike Meyers Subject: My Buddy, Nicky Preamble Date: 08/11/2022 Author: Spike Meyers E-Mail: SpikeMeyers@gmail.com Donate: Please consider donating to this website. Without your donations, Nifty may not be able to keep this site up and running for your reading pleasure. Whatever you can afford would be appreciated. Notice: This story is a mixed combination of fact and fiction. If you are offended by homosexual material, don't read it. This story contains no explicit sex. My Buddy, Nicky 01 of 01 Every once in a while, I look back to the year 1977. I was seventeen years old and living on the East Coast with my family; I'll not mention the name of the state we were living in at the time. I had a big family; three brothers, three sisters, my mother and my grandmother. I adored my grandmother. My grandfather died in WWII; I never knew him. I was the eldest child. My father left the family in 1969 for a sixteen-year-old girl after he got her pregnant. My mother had just given birth to my sister, Wendy, her last child. At the time, my father was a long-haul truck driver. When the old man left, my grandmother moved in to help my mother with the kids. My grandmother worked most of her life in an umbrella factory. Mother had no schooling to speak of; she never graduated high school. With six kids to take care of, she had no choice but to file for public assistance; at the time, commonly referred to as welfare. For years, the only income we had was my grandmother's social security other than the few bucks my mom got from welfare. Both incomes combined didn't come close to meeting the needs of the family. As the eldest male in the family, I felt a tremendous responsibility to support my family. That feeling of responsibility was completely self-inflicted. Often-times, we had nothing but a tea cup saucer of rice to eat all day. If we were lucky, we had a little margarine left over to flavor the rice. I felt that I had to help some way. I started working when I was thirteen-years-old. Of course, at thirteen, it was jobs like sweeping out the local hardware store or dusting off the appliances at the local appliance store and things of that nature. I would take whatever I could get. I'd get paid a dollar at each place. It would at least buy a loaf of bread or a carton of milk. One day I would work at the hardware store, the next day, I would work at the appliance store, the next day, I'd be at the market breaking down boxes in the back room. I did whatever I could do to help out the family. A buck was a buck after all. When I got old enough and out of necessity, I dropped out of school; I was sixteen. If I didn't have to go to school (a complete waste of time I thought) I could find more work. That was my thinking anyway. I had to find jobs that required no special skills because I didn't have any. My only skill at the time was sucking cock; that, I was very good at thanks to my father. Up until the time he left the family, I had been sucking his cock from the age of six. Of course, when it first started, I was not a willing participant; it was forced upon me. Once I accepted the fact that this was something that I had to do, I learned that I actually enjoyed doing it. I was terrified of my father; he was an angry, mean, and often-times, violent man. I saw him on more than one occasion beat my mother to the ground. I remember the day he broke her nose. With his kids, he would hit, or sometimes, kick first and ask questions later. Honestly, I disliked the man immensely, that was, until I started sucking him off. Honestly, I never really liked him; even when I was sucking his cock, not as a person and most certainly, not as a father. What I did like, very much in fact, was sucking his cock. Once I started sucking his dick regularly, I got hit much less frequently. It took a little while, but eventually, I started looking forward to sucking him off. Fast forward to 1977. I am seventeen-years-old, we have relocated to a different part of the state, and I needed to find full-time work. I was dating an attorney at the time. He was 36 and worked for the state himself as an attorney. He suggested to me that I apply for a job with the state. Anxious to find a full-time job, and a little desperate to be honest, I marched myself into the employment office and applied for a job. I did not care what job it was; I just needed a job. I wound up applying for a janitorial position with a state-run psychiatric facility in the next town over. I had a car by this time so transportation was not a problem. As a standard part of applying for a job with the state, one was required to take a type of assessment or aptitude test. Personally, I found it ridiculous. I certainly knew how to sweep and mop floors, take out the trash, move shit from pile "A" to pile "B", and clean toilets. For that type of work, I had a PhD. Why would I have to be assessed academically for a job like that? The next week, I got a call to come in for an interview. When I was interviewing for the job, the guy asked me for which job I was applying. I told him it was the janitorial position. He looked down at the papers on his desk, paused, and looked back up at me. "Would you be interested in anything else?" he asked me. "Like what?" I asked him in return "Your scored high enough on your assessment to qualify for the Ward Assistant position" he answered me. "Ward Assistant, what's that?" I asked him. "You would be working with our resident patients on the West Wing," he replied. "Gosh, I don't know," I told him hesitantly. "Just the thought of working with mental patients makes me uncomfortable." "It pays more," he immediately announced. "It's $2.80 an hour. As a janitor, you'd would be making $2.30 an hour." "Really?" I asked as he nodded his head. "When would I start?" I asked him. "Tomorrow, 8:00 AM sharp. We run three shifts per day around the clock," he answered. Convinced by the extra money, I started the next day as a Ward Assistant, which basically meant that I was one of three baby-sitters to thirty-seven extremely mentally unstable and physically violent men. The fact that these people were violent was a fact that I was not aware of when I accepted the job. I found out when I stepped foot on the ward. I was there less than ten minutes when I saw one of the patients suddenly snap-out and attack a female psychiatrist visiting the ward. It took two guys to get him off her. He was biting, scratching, punching, pulling her hair. She couldn't get away from him. Fortunately, she had other medical staff with her who came to her aid immediately. I started asking questions and that's when I was informed that the West Wing housed the most violent, male residents under the facilities care; a total of 43 men. I then found out that we had six guys that literally had to be confined to a rubber-room. Their cells were foam-padded from floor to ceiling, wall-to-wall. These poor souls were completely out of their minds, violent and often-times, uncontrollable requiring the application of a straight-jacket so they would not hurt themselves or someone else. By law, these patients had to be allowed out of their rooms at least one hour each day. Since we had six of these patients, we only had staff (that would be me) to handle them one at a time. Policy required a minimum of two "handlers", AKA, Ward Assistants, to each patient when extracting them from their rooms. I use the word extract because several of these patients did not want to come out of their room, requiring us to forcefully remove them to be compliant with the law. I found out very quickly, two handlers were insufficient. When these guys freaked-out, they were incredibly strong. I was literally kicked across the room on my second day of employment. It was like something that you would see in a Kung Fu movie. On the third day of my employment, I was in the "day room" with 27 of the patients on the wing. It was lunch time. The cafeteria staff would place the trays on the tables in the room and leave before we let the patients in the room. Just to get into the day room required going through two separate and locked foyers. The handler would unlock the door, herd, for the lack of a better term, the patients into the foyer, and then lock the door behind him. Once the door was secured and locked, the handler would work his way through the patients to the other side of the foyer and unlock that door which led into the day room. Once all the patients were in the day room, the door would be locked again. It was not exactly easy to do this with two handlers, it was especially difficult to do all this solo. I was working by myself. There was a second handler on duty that day who should have been helping me but he disappeared somewhere. It had been quite some time since I had seen him. When I got the call on the radio that lunch was ready, I followed the proper protocols. I had a few patients that had to be guided and shown everything repeatedly. Once I got most of the patients seated, I looked across the room to see some of them get up away from the table and wander off. The day room was huge; it was 20 feet wide by 40 feet long. As I started across the room to collect my wayward patients to return them to the lunch table, I heard something from behind me and then blood-curdling scream. I turned around suddenly only to see this guy screaming at the top of his lungs covered in whatever they had served for lunch. Apparently, a patient had thrown his food at this guy and he was freaking out. Suddenly, I had several patients tossing food at each other and screaming bloody-murder. In mere seconds, all hell broke loose. Food was flying through the air everywhere; it looked like a scene from Animal House. Then it got worse, patients were freaking out and started beating the crap out of each other. I grabbed my radio and started to call for assistance as I attempted to break up a fight closest to me. As I approached them, I got kicked in the gut by one of the patients. I went down hard and fast. I couldn't catch my breath. I don't remember exactly how long I was on the floor. When I got up, I was a little light-headed and my vision was slightly fuzzy. The sheer amount of screaming and yelling was deafening. My adrenalin kicked in and I managed to get a few of the patients separated. I turned around and noticed three other staff members in the room. One of whom, was the other handler that was supposed to be working with me. Apparently, the sheer volume in the room could be heard on the other side of the building; thankfully, it got the staff's attention. Several of the patients were bleeding from their wounds. As you can imagine, I was a little freaked-out and royally pissed off. Not necessarily because I almost literally got the shit kicked out of me, that was bad enough. What really pissed me off, was the fact that this other handler should have been with me. If he were with me, perhaps it would not have gotten so out-of-control. I had twenty-seven mentally-impaired men to handle on my own. In addition, the "Supervisor" on duty was nowhere to be found. That fucker was MIA too; he didn't show up until the riot, and it was a riot, was almost over. After we got the place under control and the patients secured, I stormed into the office of the Manager on Duty (who had helped during the chaos), the guy who hired me. My shirt was literally in shreds and hanging off my body. I threw my keys on his desk and told the guy to go dry-fuck himself and a few other things. I gave him the finger and walked out of his office. I was so furious that I wanted to punch him in the face. I never went back. To this day, decades later, I still harbor some anger about that experience. I started that job with no training, very little guidance, and seemingly from the staff, absolutely no consideration for my safety. I didn't have so much as an orientation before I started the job. I was young, green and clueless. That was a long time ago. I suspect something like that would most-likely not happen today with all of the State and Federal guidelines that now exist. Yet, as I think back to that year, as horrible an experience as that job was, it wasn't all bad. One of the patients on my ward was a young man about 14 or 15 years old. His name is Nicky. In fact, Nicky was the youngest patient on the ward. He had been a resident for about two years when I started. Nicky was a small, thin, beautiful, African American boy who did not speak. From the moment I saw him, I was smitten. Right from the get-go I was very taken with him for some strange reason that I could not explain other than the fact that I was physically attracted to him. I just wanted to take him in my arms and squeeze him tight. I believe today he would be classified as autistic. Whatever the reason, Nicky and I bonded; we were Buddies. Perhaps he could sense how fond of him I was. He generally hated to be touched, but he would hold onto my arm the entire time we were in each other's presence. I was the only staff member he would do this with. My coworkers were quite surprised to see him act like this with me. I learned quickly that Nicky loved cartoons. He would lead me over to the TV which was mounted inside a heavily fortified cabinet that was bolted to the floor. The TV sat in the cabinet behind a thick piece of plexiglass to protect it from damage. I would turn on the TV and flip through the channels until I found a cartoon for him. It didn't matter to Nicky which cartoon it was; as longs as it was a cartoon, Nicky was happy. He used to get so excited he would laugh out loud while jumping up and down, clapping his hands together repeatedly. I loved making Nicky happy. In my eyes, he was very special. I could not understand why he was on that ward. Not one time did I ever see Nicky become violent. He was a good boy; at least with me. The first time I saw Nicky naked, I nearly had a stroke. He was so, so beautiful. His skin was so beautiful: dark, silky-smooth, blemish-free, and incredibly soft. His body was completely void of hair with the exception of his pubic patch, and a little tuft of hair under each arm pit. The short, black, curly hairs of his pubes looked so perfect it appeared as if his pubes were neatly trimmed. He was such a natural, pretty boy. I so longed to take him in my arms and love him; make him feel good all over; make him cum, preferably in my mouth. I was so taken with Nicky that I seriously contemplated how I could make that happen. However, just having that thought would make me feel like such a creep, a predator, the scum of the earth. Would I be taking advantage of an innocent boy who did not have the capability of taking care of himself let alone protect himself? I struggled with my feelings about Nicky. I was generally quite fond of him; I really liked the boy, but; I was also very physically and sexually attracted to him. If by the grace of God, I miraculously found a way to be alone with him and I was able to sexually gratify him, would I be doing him harm? He has probably never before experienced sexual pleasure. If I made him cum, would that freak him out? Would that scare him? He does not have the mental capacity to understand what's happening to him; at least I didn't think he did. Am I wrong about his ability to understand? Perhaps he understands more than I think he does. Ultimately, I decided not to chance it because I cared about Nicky and only wanted the best for him. I could not bear the thought of causing him any harm. I was eventually able to get a grasp on my feelings and attraction towards him and therefore, learned to just enjoy it and him, accept it for what it is, and just let it be. I did, however, jerk off with his image in my head, many, many times. All these decades later, when I think back to my younger years, including my childhood; growing up the way that I did, I look back on it with fondness. People have said to me but, your father sexually abused you, he physically abused you, how can you possibly think back on that and see any good? My answer is always, I believe things happen in life for a reason, we may not always understand the reason, none-the-less, it's there. We may never know it, but it's there; somewhere, it's there. That's my personal belief, you may not agree with it and that's OK. Had I not grown up the way that I did, I may never have had an opportunity to meet Nicky. Now when I think back to 1977, Nicky is who I think of.