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The contents of this story are fictional. Any resemblance of characters to living or lived persons is strictly coincidental. Certain characters engage in sexual acts which may or may not be legal in the state or country in which a reader may reside. Any reader with objections to graphic descriptions of sexual encounters between males who may not have reached the legal age of consent, or whose local, regional, state or national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions, should not read further.
 

Chapter II

Monday, June 28, 1993

Billy and me got out of the house just after my Dad's car disappeared down the street, and we did a little stretching before hitting the trail.

"So what's bugging you?" Billy grunted as he balanced on his right knee, his left leg straight out behind him.

"Whaddaya mean?" I spat.

"You din' even give me five, and rushed me out of the house before I got a chance to say hi to your Mom, is all," he said between thrusts. "Oh, yeah, your face looks like you ate two green lemons."

"Come on, let's get moving." I parried. "It'll be too hot to run in another hour or so."

We trotted down our street to Hannah Way and turned left, me pointing out who got daily or daily & Sunday on the way. After a half hour, we were already starting to feel the heat off the asphalt from the morning sun, and my A-shirt was pretty drenched. We didn't talk much when running, usually. Just got on with it. I guess because I was talking all the time about who got the papers, Billy figured he had to talk too.

"So why . . . you pissed . . . off?

"Brad's going to the Cabin with us."

"Kewl," Pant. "Why that . . . bad?"

"Gotta share my room."

"Lucky guy."

"Whattaya mean by that?" I looked over at his face, beads of perspiration flying from his chin at each snap of his foot on the road.

"At least you won't . . . be alone all day . . . like last year," he got out. "Your Mom is . . . great, but . . . "

"Yeah, I guess."

"Besides, he's . . . got wheels," he said as we rounded the curve of Mareth on the way back to our street. "You won't have to . . . ask Mommy for . . . ride to the Lake."

I hadn't thought of that aspect of having Brad there. It was true - the summer before, I'd been Mom's hostage. We're not allowed to hitchhike, so I had to ask -- beg, really -- if I wanted to go for a swim at the Lake, or get something at the market. The road is too narrow for bikes, Dad said. It's true, too -- a tourist kid on a bike got squashed like a possum by a logging truck three or four years ago. Harry Turner had to write up the accident report, and he told Dad it wasn't pretty, and our bike never got took up to Reston again. Dumb tourist ruined it for us all, though.

"Yeah," was all I said.

We finished up with a plunge in the pool, then Billy took off for summer school. (He blew away Chemistry, and wanted to take the advanced Lab course to boost his chances in the next year's Physics Honors course.) I had already taken Advanced Lab, because my schedule happened to work just right, and I aced Chem the first semester. I teased him about taking the class with all the guys that failed it during the year, but he said there were only two repeaters, and the rest were trying to get a jump. We still called it Retard School.

"Hey Mom," I shouted from the bedroom as I threw on shorts and one of Brad's latest handoff T-shirts - a heavy 'Niners Championship rip off that looked almost like the real thing, having been washed at least a hundred times. "When we going up this weekend?"

The fourth was Sunday, and it would be best to get there early on Saturday to make sure we got everything done in time for the fireworks at the Marina.

"Dad and I can't get away until Friday night or maybe Saturday morning," called Mom from the laundry room.  I shuffled into my sandals and down the hall towards the refrigerator.  Gotta have milk.

"Why don't the two of you go up early?" Mom said as I passed by the laundry. She was loading yet another bunch of stuff into the washer. "You could air the place out before we get there, maybe get some of that old deadwood out of the front."

I groaned. "We'll need to get a chipper from Parker's, then." I said, leaning up against the doorjamb. "And I don't know if Brad'll be free."

"He's free," said Mom, straightening up. "In fact it was his idea."

Oh, great. Mr. Perfect has once again volunteered my slave labor.

"Whatever," I said. "He probably has something lined up, up there."

Mom gave me a funny look. "Now, Tim, you have to get over the fact that Brad's not going to be here for you after this Summer," she said. "It's not his fault he's going away to school, and he's not going away just to get away from you,"

"I never said that."

"He really does love you, you know," said Mom, pushing her gold hair back from her eyes. "He just doesn't show it all the time, like you want."

"I don't want nothing from him!" I barked. "I just want him to go and get it over with, that's all!"

"You'll miss him more than even I will," said Mom. "And you know it."

"Bull," I said, and turned back to the trek to the refrigerator. "He never leaves any milk in the 'fridge."

"So you do?" she countered. Had me there. I decided against milk, and turned towards the breezeway.

"I'm going over to the Courts for a few games," I called over my shoulder. "Back for dinner."

"What about lunch?"

"I'll grab it there!" I half-shouted, already getting my racquet and duds down from the shelf in the garageway area where we kept the sports gear. "Okay if I sign for some Club grub?"

"Of course," Mom called out. "But no soft drinks - just water and juice, okay?"

"You got it!" I said, as I headed for the door. I don't like soft drinks anyway. They give me farts and the runs, but I wouldn't tell Mom something like that. I had to throw out a pair of Fruit of the Looms once because of the . . . well. you know what I mean.

"Be careful," was the final instruction. It's like a common currency. Every Mom I ever met says the same thing to her kids when they go out of the house, even if it's just to play in the back yard. It must be a hormonal thing.

The rest of the day evaporated. I got in a full match, losing -- barely -- to a Junior who had had a coach for a whole year.  6-4, 4-6, 6-2. It built me an extra hole in my stomach to fill with a Giant Burger and jumbo fries that made the McDo imitations look like White Castles and freeze-dried carrot sticks. I cheated on the juice bar and drank a gallon of iced tea and lemon. Swam fifty laps in the pool, and did a few reps of my one-meter dives before the afternoon crowd arrived.

The lifeguard on duty was Geoff. He's built like a model for a muscle mag, spends most of his spare time in the weight room. He's not very bright, though. I think he flunked out of college in his Freshman year. Good swimmer. He wanted to teach me a few techniques for speeding up my flip turn last summer, but I didn't like the way he held my waist. Too . . . I don't know. Maybe too tender or something, like he wanted to hold me more than show me what to do. His hands went almost all the way around my waist, too. Made me feel kinda funny, sorta small and vulnerable.

Anyway, he didn't take his eyes off me while I was doing my compulsories, and stood right by the board while I was doing my frees. I usually like somebody watching a little, it makes me do better. But he made me nervous for some reason, and I blew my two best, the one and a half pike gainer and the one and a half inward pike. He just said 'nice,' no matter that they were no good - sixes at most. Like I said, thick as two planks, didn't know a good dive from a bad one.

I kept getting the feeling that he maybe might be hitting on me a little, but I didn't know how to know, you know? I mean, maybe he was just looking at my puny build and thinking how glad he was that he didn't look so thin. I gotta eat more.

Billy got off school after lunch, and he and I and Sherry and Bonnie played bridge for a while in between swims. Then it was time to get back for dinner, so we finished a last rubber, and I hopped on my bike, with my gear stowed on the backrack with a couple of bungees.

I was drenched with sweat by the time I got home. Brad's car was in the back lot already. I figured on hitting the pool to cool off, and went into the back, stripping off my shorts as soon as I got off the bike. I was in the pool in three seconds, doing a deep plunge, then swimming underwater all the way around the corner of the pool to the shallow part. I saw two pairs of legs dangling in the water, so came up in front of them. It was Brad and Bud. I don't think they'd heard me dive in.

Bud is like his name. Buzz cut, marine-looking type, all muscle and teeth and suntan. If Geoff is thick as two planks, though, Bud is two more thicker than that. He's not retarded, but don't ask him to add two numbers together without a calculator. He got nothing but "Ds" and "Cs"in school, but still got promoted to the next grade every year. It wasn't really social promotion -- he just isn't a book learner. He applied for the Marine Corps the week before Graduation. I figured he was a shoo-in.

Bud paints really well, and not just the houses he and Brad painted as summer jobs. Bud's a natural artist. He never took a class, couldn't tell you the name of the style he used. But he was good. He's done some oils, and watercolours on paper that make you want to blubber. I remember the first painting he'd sold, the week before Christmas. It was an oil of a little boy standing ankle-deep in a stream, holding a pebble up to the sun, staring a little cross-eyed at the dapple of color the sun made on it. The boy was naked, but you couldn't see anything because he was crouched just enough to hide the fiddly bits. I'll never forget the expression on his face, or the way the sun made his fingers look like they were made of etched leaded glass, the light almost going through them, not around them.

Bud was bitter for a week that the Marines wouldn't take him. They said he didn't have enough mechanical aptitude -- this is the guy who rebuilt Brad's old 427 engine without a blueprint, bored and stroked to the millimeter. I figure he probably didn't quite make the IQ minimum. Bud's IQ was probably in double digits, but not by much. Just as well he didn't get accepted, I figure -- the Marines would have made a man out of him, crushed the artist.

He's one thing the Marines need a lot, though. He's drop-dead handsome. Not just the kind of face you see in the Sears ads all the time. Not one of those fancy Italian clothes designer pretty faces you see in the fashion mags. Bud looked like a Marine poster, the all-American superman, not a blemish on his face, just the right button tip on his nose, eyelashes that women wished they could buy in a store, all that kind of thing. His body was tight, with hair on his chest that looked like it was painted on with a tiny brush, just to outline and emphasize the shape of his chest muscles, the line that ran from his throat down to his navel and down into his swimsuit. No hair on his back, just the right amount on his arms and hands, legs and toes. Sexy.

Billy said once that Bud had dicked every girl in school that put out, because they all liked looking at his face while he dicked them, it was so handsome. Not to mention that his dick was a foot long, according to the school tom-toms. I never actually saw it, so I couldn't tell if the rumors were true, but I tried. Bud never went in the school showers -- even after P.E. He always wore really loose pants -- of course, we all did, but his pants were looser than that. He even peed in the stalls, instead of the urinals.

Like I was saying, I surfaced right in front of them, and I guess I surprised them. Bud's swimsuit was the usual flour bag, but I could see one thing right off. He had a big, long and very definitely huge lap lump -- and Brad was looking at it. I saw him, before he jerked his eyes away. Curious, I reckon. I mean, we all are, aren't we? I never went into a rest room where everyone wasn't either looking or pretending not to look but stealing glances to see if the guy next to them had a dick or just a stream of urine emerging from his hand. It's human nature, like dogs sniffing each others' butts, instinctively checking out the potential rival.

I couldn't really tell how big it was, though. He was sitting, and I sort of saw it head on. Somewhere between a Gallo Salami and a Deli Liverwurst.

"What the hell you doin?" Brad snapped at me as my ears broke water, his head jerking around to look at me.

"Just coolin'," I said as respectfully as ever. "Gotta problem?"

"Yeah," said Brad. "You."

"Hey, Tim," said Bud by way of hello.

"Hey, Bud," I said back. His eyes were all sorta red, from the chlorine in the water, I guess. Still breathtakingly beautiful. Nice to look at. I wondered how many girls he'd dicked, how they felt about getting it from the nicest little kid in town, looking out from inside a man's body, full of wonder and innocence and all.

"Where's Mom?" I asked, standing up in the shallows, looking down on Bud's tent. Her car wasn't in the garage.

"Safeway - getting' stuff for the cabin."

"When you goin' up?" I asked slyly, intimating that he was to go on his own, leave me some quality time at home.

"Whenever," he said, almost nice, but that had to be a ruse for something else.

I kept looking at Bud's yoke as I talked to Brad. The tent was going down.

I was then treated to the ultimate indignity -- they ignored me like I wasn't there. Just plunged into the water and swam to the other end of the pool, got out, grabbed their towels and went into the house. Not another word. I felt like a little shit. I mean, it wasn't like I wanted to butt in or anything, it just would have been nice to be around them a little.

I wondered why Bud had a hard. There was only Brad there with him, so it wasn't like he had some girl to turn his motor over. Then I wondered if they beat off together when there were no girls around to do it for them. I got my own hard just thinking along those lines, even in the cool water. I resolved to finish a few laps, then go up to my room and have a quick flog on the dog to get the starch out.

I did a couple of half-hearted laps, then got out of the pool and grabbed my towel. I heard Brad's old 427 roar to life, and knew he and Bud were off somewhere, so I'd have the run of the house 'til Dad got back from work and Mom finished her grocery shopping.

I went to my room and closed the door, stripped off my Speedos, and flogged log for a few minutes, sort of half-heartedly at first. Not really thinking anything, just sort of playing around with it. Then I thought of Bud's boner, trying to smash its way through the fabric of his trunks, and imagined it getting through, and growing, pointing right at the sky, and . . . I came all over my belly, hard. I wasn't ready for it, so it was pretty good as orgasms went. My toes were all tingly, and I felt the warmth rise from my hips and my butt-hole as well as from my nipples, just before I cut loose with the first spurt. I grabbed the towel and wiped myself off, almost disappointed that it was over already, that I hadn't gone real slow, teased it more. But, once I come, it takes a couple of hours before I can do it again, so I hopped into the shower and scrubbed off the chlorine and sunblock.

Somehow, my hand and the soap managed to connect again to my dick, and I flogged a little, picturing Bud's giant dick again. I imagined seeing a girl kissing it, and then the girl turned into Brad and I got really hot, and damned if I didn't get the Feeling all over again, only a few minutes after the flog on my bed. I opened my eyes to watch the stuff come out of my dick. I love the way it just sort of slams out of the little hole, impossibly thick compared to my pee. It didn't shoot as far as usual, so I guessed my battery was too low to give it the usual velocity.

I wondered that I had imagined Brad with his lips on Bud's boner. Sick. My brother and Bud? Never! He couldn't! I was totally jealous. How could he do that with Bud? I wanted . . . and I suddenly thought.

I'd imagined for a second that it was me, not Brad, and that the dick being kissed belonged not to Bud but to Brad. Just when I got the Feeling.

"Oh shit, what if I'm . . ."

Then I came back to my senses. Not queer -- I didn't want to put my mouth on just any old dick, like they do. Just maybe Brad. Oh yeah, and maybe Tom Cruise -- if he wasn't married with kids and all. When I was a kid, I had these dreams about kissing a guy's dick, too. It was Luke Skywalker, usually. Sometimes it was Hans Solo, but he was a little too old for me, you know? Not that I would ever really do it, of course. I mean, geez, guys pee through their dicks!

Then Mom came home, and called me to help her with the groceries, so I threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and lost track of my thoughts.