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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 that
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
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There was a new salesperson in Sweeney's the morning I went to buy my swim trunks for the trip. I was a little nervous, because I wanted a pair of those nylon trunks that sort of show your stuff without showing your stuff too much.
It was a man, for a change. Everybody else who worked in the store was a woman, and I was relieved that at least I could ask a guy to help me.
All the same, I wandered around the store, not quite ready to take the plunge and go to the glass counter where the swim trunks were kept. I tried to look inconspicuous, not attract any attention, but it's kinda hard when you're already 6' 8" and only in the tenth grade. I was so tired of the jokes at school, the "how's the weather up there" and the problems of getting a date.
I was the tallest guy in my class, the second tallest in school. The tallest girl in my class was only a tad over five five. I took her to the dance once, but her neck got sore from looking up at me when we danced. I don't like her anyway -- she let Murphy and Tretman, who were already Seniors, screw her after the county fair, one right after the other, twice. Tretman said it was awesome watching Murphy's thing going inside her. He's a turd -- he's the guy that set the Clark's field on fire to get back at Terry Clark for beating him in some game or other. Murphy got arrested the next year for carrying drugs, and Dad said he'd probably never get out of jail.
The tallest girl in the whole school was five ten, but she was a senior, and her and her boyfriend was planning to get married, so that was way off limits.
I was a freak of nature, a white guy over six and a half foot who could play pretty good hoops, but preferred baseball. My dad is six one, my mom barely five foot, so we couldn't figure where I got the skyscraper genes. My kid brother Terry looked like he was going to have the same curse. At ten, he was already almost five six. We commiserate each other a lot. He ended up six-nine, about an inch and a half shorter than me.
Sweeney's was the departmental store in town, the only place to go for stuff that they didn't carry in the Food Market. There was a Wal-Mart over in Clear Lake, but that's forty mile from town, a lot too far for me and my bike. Besides, I saw what I wanted at Sweeney's at least a year ago, and it was twelve dollar ninety-nine, and I'd made enough money pitchin' and haulin' over the harvests that I didn't have to worry about it. I had more than two thousand dollars in my savings book at First National Bank of Perkins.
Perkins is a little farm town out here in West Kansas. We got more'n nine hundred people, includin' the ones who live on the farms. Perkins used to have more'n two thousand people at one time, when the mine was open, but when it petered out, so did the town. We had a lot of houses boarded up waiting for someone to turn them into homes again. There's fewer now, but there must be at least a hundred good houses goin' to waste for want of two people to love in them.
So anyway, I gradually get closer to the counter with the men's underwear and swim wear, and I see the man helping a woman with some T-shirts for her husband or son, I guess, and he looked at me over the top of her head head and smiled at me. I kinda blushed, I guess, cause I felt my face get hot. I don't know why.
I sorta jus' looked down at the stuff under the glass, and there were my trunks, all neat and folded, black as moonless midnight, shimmering.
"Can I help?" came this voice from behind me, and I about jumped, I'll tell you. I mean, I didn't hear a thing as he came up, and I got good ears.
"I . . . I . . . w-w-w-want t-t-t-to b-b-b-buy a p-p-p-p pair of th-th-th-them, I said, pointing down at the black nylon trunks with the red hashmark. Yeah -- I also stutterred. Bad. I just had nothing going for me, you see?
"What size are you?" he asked. I looked down at him and sort of shrugged. When you stutter real bad, you learn how to say stuff without speaking. He was nice-looking, like Will Carlton, the guy from over the other side of the Carson Hills. Dark brown hair, shimmery under the store lights, with gray-blue eyes and a pug nose. His teeth were white as February snow in sunlight. He was maybe almost six feet, and had a sweater on. It made his shoulders look real wide compared to his narrow hips. I liked him. His nametag said he was "Ian." That's a perfect name for a friend when you stutter. I figured him for twenty-five or so.
"Do you know your waist size?" he asked. His voice was real friendly, and he spoke soft, so nobody else could hear if he asked me a question that might give me away.
"N-n-n-n-no," I managed to sputter out. Then one of those moments of clarity I get once in a while out of nowheres: "I'm going to California!"
"Of course," he said. "And you want to look your best for the beach, right?"
I just beamed that he knew what I wanted. A woman wouldn't have understood.
"Well, I guess I ought to take your measure," he said. He pulled a cloth tape from around his neck, and made like he was going to reach around me.
I stepped back, embarrassed as heck. I know what happens when people touch me. I didn't want one of the women to see . . . how . . . well, you know.
"I c-c-c-can't," I said, "Not in p-p-p-ublic."
He looked at my eyes with a real friendly look, and said, "Of course. I understand."
I knew he would.
He looked around the store for something, then picked up the telephone behind the counter.
"Marge, I'm with a customer in the fitting rooms, would you cover for me if anybody comes in?" he said. His voice was nice, very masculine and professional, just right. I wondered if he'd ever stuttered like me. "Thanks. I know. Slow days happen, I guess."
He was looking at me, but not at my eyes, you know, so's not to embarrass me. He looked at my face, though, and at my hands. I didn't know what to do with my hands -- I never do -- so I just left them on the counter. I hate my hands. They're just too darned big, and the veins stick up on them like ropes. My fingernails are two times as big as anybody else's, even though I keep them cut real short and clean all the time to keep people from looking at them. He didn't look at them long though, just a glance, something to do with his eyes while he talked.
"Will you come with me, then?" he said as he put the phone down.
I followed him to the back of the store, only a few feet from the counter, down a little hall to an old door marked with a brass lettered "fitments" or something like that. He opened the door for me, and I went into this sort of big closet, with three mirrors behind a little raised platform with carpeting on it. I had to duck my head to get in there, of course.
He closed the door behind us, and told me to stand on the platform, but to take off my boots first, so's I wouldn't get the carpet dirty. I lifted each leg up to pull off my boot, relieved that I'd worn socks with no holes in the toes. It's hard to find the right size socks, so I have a lot that are too small, and they get holes in the toes real fast. But I'd put on a pair of white socks my dad got for me in KC last year, size sixteen plus, and they were almost new.
While I was doing that, he was talking to me, nothing heavy or anything, just things like "you have a good sense of balance," and "size eighteen boots, they must be hard to find around here," and "we'll find you a pair of trunks that make your trip even better." I didn't have to say anything back, and that helped a lot.
I got up on the carpeted platform, and it felt nice under my feet. We don't have carpet at home, just a few rugs my Gran made from the rag box.
"Now, turn a little towards me," he said, and I did.
He went to put his tape around me, and I almost pulled back, but the door was closed, and he was a guy, so it was all right. He put it around my waist, a couple of inches above the belt, and pulled the tape snug, then read out "30" and wrote it on a little pad he had in his shirt pocket. Then he lifted the tape up to my chest, and slipped it under my arms. His hands felt nice.
"Just to make sure we get the proportions right," he said. "I don't want you to leave with trunks that are too long for your body. It's too nice to mess up with a bad fitting."
It was nice of him to say that. I mean, my body is kind of thin, most places. Mom says I'm lanky, not skinny. I try to get lots of exercise to build up my muscles, but they keep getting stretched, and even though they're bigger, they don't look it, because I'm always getting longer faster than they can get bigger.
"43" he said, and wrote some more on the paper of his pad. He kept his pencil behind his ear, real handy.
"That doesn't seem right," he said. "Would you take off your shirt so I can get a better measure?"
That seemed reasonable, so I undid the top button of my jeans and pulled my shirt up, then opened the buttons and took it off. I wasn't wearing a T-shirt, 'cause it was warm. He took it from my hand, and when he did his hand brushed mine on the back. It felt good to be touched like that. I hoped he didn't think I did it on purpose.
"Very nice," he said. "You have good definition. That will look wonderful on the beach." He put his tape around me again, and the tape went right over the top of my nipples. They felt kind of tingly, and I felt Mr. Roberts tingling down there too. Oh-oh.
"Don't worry if you get a little aroused," he said. "It won't make any difference in the measurements, and we can always take care of it if it gets in the way."
I wasn't sure what he meant by that, but it was reassuring. He wouldn't let me get embarrassed.
"Forty-two and a half," he said. "Just like I thought. We're going to have to be careful with these measures."
"Sh-should I p-p-p-put it b-b-b-back on?" I said, looking at my shirt, hanging over the back of the chair.
"No, I don't think yet," he said. "I need to take all the measures first." He looked at me in the eyes. "You feel comfortable? Not too hot?"
I nodded down at him. There was a gleam in his eye. His mouth was a little open, and I could see his bottom teeth, the tip of his tongue. He had a light stubble of beard, dark. Dad calls it "five o'clock shadow," but it was only nine-thirty in the morning.
"You'll need to take off your jeans and things so I can measure for the crotch," he said.
That seemed reasonable, and it was just him and me. I hoped I wouldn't get a stiffer, but even if I did, I figured he would just ignore it, like we always do in school in the showers. I mean, I almost never got a stiffer, I was always careful to beat meat before school days when I had gym, so's I wouldn't be backed up and get one. Even if I did, I just turned the water to cold and faced the wall until it went down.
I undid the rest of my jean buttons, and they dropped to my knees. He helped me get them off, my hand on his shoulder to keep steady. His shoulder felt strong, muscular. Mr. Roberts started to move around a little in my underwear, but nothing serious.
He put my jeans on the seat of the chair, then put the measure tape around my hips. The front of the tape was right at the place where my hair stops.
"Thirty-eight" he said. "But I think you should take your boxers off so we can be sure."
I knew he was going to say that. My boxers are kinda baggy, so they'd mess up any measure. I prayed Mr. Roberts would behave, and put my fingers under the waistband to push them down. As soon as the elastic was under my fanny, they fell to the floor, and I stepped out of them and picked them up with the toes of my right foot and lifted them to my hand. It's a handy trick when you're tall.
Ian took them from me and laid them on top of my jeans, then turned back to me. He didn't look at my eyes, thank god, just at my stomach. "You have really nice muscles building there," he said. "May I touch them?" Then he looked up at me, and I knew it was something he would enjoy, so I nodded my okay.
He put his fingertips on my stomach, above the belly button, and said softly, you've never had any fat, have you?" His fingers felt fine, they sort of made me tingly.
"N-n-n-no," I confessed. It was true, I only had skin and bone and muscle, no fat at all, and it was kind of bad in the winter, when it got cold. I had to wear three and four layers of clothing just to keep warm.
He just said something like "beautiful," and shook his head. When he took his hand away from my skin, it felt kinda . . . empty down there. Strange.
"Okay, now the measures for the trunks," he said. He kneeled down on the edge of the platform, so his head was right in front of my waist. He put his tape around my hips again, with the front of the tape right at the top of my patch of hair. I could feel his breath, he was so close to me. Mr. Roberts moved, I felt him, and I started to get afraid that he would get stiff.
"Just like I thought. He said. "Thirty-seven and a half. A good thing we decided to take accurate measures." He wrote on his pad.
"Now," he said, I need to measure your inseam," he said. "Spread your legs a little."
I spread them like he asked. Mr. Roberts was starting to get longer, I could feel him, but I didn't dare look, because I knew if I did, he'd get stiff right away.
"This is to be sure we don't get them too long," Ian said. His hand went under my balls, and he stretched the tape down to my heel. I liked the feeling of his hand under there, putting only a little pressure under me, letting my balls rest on his hand.
"Forty three," he said. "Let me check the other side to make sure it's the same length." His left hand took the place of his right, and my balls rested on that hand for a second as he took the measure. "Yep," he said. "Perfect! Forty-three, too!"
He left his hand under my balls. Mr. Roberts was getting longer. It was going to get in the way. "Oh shit, how embarrassing!" I thought to myself.
"Does this happen when you're on the beach?" Ian asked. I had to look down, and I saw that Mr. Roberts was -- thank god -- still hanging mostly down, but as long as he gets before he gets stiff. I willed him to go back to sleep, but it was too late.
I blushed, and nodded. Why do dicks betray us?
Looking up at me, Ian had
this sparkle in his eye, like he didn't think I was screwed up or anything.
"I think we better measure it too, so we know what we're up against. Don't
I nodded. What the hell, I had to have trunks that would work, hide me, the freak, from anybody on the beach. Anything to keep Mr. Roberts from . . . getting out.
Ian took his tape and first measured around my balls. "Fifteen." Scribble. Then around Mr. Roberts at the bottom. Mr. Roberts. Was. Getting. Stiff. I looked down, and Ian had to move his head to one side to keep from getting poked in the eye. "Eleven." Scribble.
Then the embarrassing part. He took the tape and held the end of it at the base of my dick, and stretched the tape out to the end of Mr. Roberts, before he was completely hard, thank goodness. "Eleven and a quarter." Scribble.
"Does it get any longer?" Ian asked, looking up at me. I nodded, blushing like a tomato. I couldn't say anything, I was so embarrassed.
"Okay." He said. "Let me get it hard, and that will be the next to the last measure." I nodded.
He took Mr. Roberts in his hand and squeezed him, from the base all the way up to the end, just like I do when I beat meat, but it felt better, somehow. I was hard. It hurt, I was so hard. I was going to have to go to the toilet and beat meat real quick if he didn't stop, it was so hard.
He took the tape again and measured. "Twelve and an eighth," he said. He scribbled again, but held the pad against my dick to write on. I was getting hot.
"Now I need to measure it soft," he said.
"N-n-n-no w-w-w-way," I said. I have t-t-t-o g-g-g-go b-b-beat it fffurst."
"I can take care of it for you, if you want," Ian said, and he winked at me.
Nobody ever beat my meat before, even Joey when we were kids and he wanted to but I was ashamed of Mr. Roberts, because he was already way too big even then, when I was ten. Guys at camp pointed at him and laughed at me.
I nodded. Maybe he knew a secret way to make it go down without making me spit my seed.
Then the most amazing thing happened. He pulled the skin back all the way, and licked Mr. Roberts like a Popsicle! I got shivers all up my back. Then he put me in his mouth, just like that! I was so amazed, I didn't even think if I should be embarrassed or not, I just watched him take more and more of me right in his mouth.
"Y-y-you won't b-bite?" I said softly. "P-please d-don't b-bite."
He looked up at me with those gray eyes and bit me, but soft like, with his teeth under his lips or something, and it felt awesome to the top. He did something in the back of his mouth, and the head of my dick felt like when I'm in the shower and get my hand all soapy and squeeze and turn my hand all around the head.
Then he go off his knees and stood up, sort of bent over, my dick still in his mouth, and pushed, and I swear to god, I felt my dick go right into his throat! It must have hurt like hell, because it was incredibly tight. Like my hands squeezing all around it when I beat meat with both hands. Then he moved himself back and forth, my dick really inside his throat, and then he grabbed me from the back and started moving me in and out of that unbelievably wonderful channel he made for me, and I couldn't stop, and just took over sort of and held on to his shoulders and moved in and out of his throat until I started to get to the point where I knew I was going to have a orgasm, a really good one, and I told him, but in a whisper:
"I'm gonna cum, Ian. I'm gonna shoot . . . I'm . . . not kidding . . . I . . ."
He didn't even try to stop me, I think he even pulled me into him more, and there was no way I could pull out of him it just felt too good, and I felt the rush up my legs, through my balls, and just got all tingly all over as my dick contracted then exploded into his mouth, right down his throat, I think, and I kept shooting and shooting and shooting. I don't think I ever shot that many times before.
My legs got all rubbery, and I was breathing real hard, even though I hadn't done any exercising or anything. I opened my eyes, and looked down at him. He still had my dick way inside his mouth, more than half of me, at least, and the back of his mouth kept sort of massaging me. It felt wonderful, but it was too much, and I had to pull out.
"I'm too sensitive," I said. God, that was wonderful!"
"I thought that might make you feel better," he said. He kissed Mr. Roberts, even licked away a little more of my sperm when it leaked out.
"Wow!" I said. "I didn't know it could feel like that!"
"You've never done it before?"
"No," I said. "I'm too, I don't know, ugly down there. Everybody laughs at me because I'm too tall and my dick is too big."
Ian got up on the platform and made me twist around so I had to step down on the floor and he was a little taller, and he just took me in his arms and kissed me, right on the lips. His tongue went a little into my mouth, what they call french kissing, and I liked that a lot.
"You are incredibly attractive," he said to me. "You have a beautiful dick, and don't ever let anybody make you think otherwise."
I felt like a king. "You really think so? I'm not . . . a freak?"
"You are a very handsome young man," he said. "You have an incredible body, and a marvelous charm. Anybody who calls you a freak is just jealous."
"Do . . . do you do that a lot with . . . guys?"
"No," he said with a kiss to my nose. I was holding him in my arms like I would hold a girlfriend -- or a boyfriend? -- if I had one.
"Can we . . . I mean, could we . . ?"
"Do it again?" He kissed me on the eyelids. God, that felt wonderful.
"Yeah!" I looked at him, probably like a puppy.
"When are you going to California?"
"Next week," I said.
"Maybe when you get back," he said. "If you still want me."
My heart felt so much lighter, I couldn't believe it. I was afraid he was going to use me and throw me away.
"I want you now," I said. I was a little startled at myself. I did. I wanted him.
"Me?" he looked at me with his beautiful eyes. "You mean it?"
"Take off your pants," I said. "I'll prove it."
"You aren't stuttering." His pants were gone, His long, thin legs were covered with a fine light brown down, his dick was hard and there was the clear stuff we guys make before we have sex. His sweater and shirt came off as I touched his naked hips, feeling silken smoothness under my callused hands. I glanced over his shoulder into the mirror, and I saw this really beautiful pair of shoulders over a slim, tapered backside and white, rounded butt. My face looked back at me like always, but over the top of his shoulder, it looked better somehow. I looked over to the left, and saw his profile, slim waist and wider chest. Other than that I was taller, my profile looked almost the same, except of course I don't have any body hair at all, and he has this neat fur, but only on his chest.
"My mom said when I met the woman who would be my wife, I'd stop stuttering forever," I said, thinking aloud.
I kneeled down on the floor and took his dick into my mouth, and it felt like everything I had ever learned, ever dreamed, ever wanted, all moved together to make it feel like the one thing in my life I had missed until then.
That was twelve years ago. I have never stuttered since that morning.
I'm waiting on him now, coming back from a day up in Topeka, where his dad is in an old folks' home. We made love last night, me inside him all the way, his legs around my waist, and he came in my mouth before I filled him with my love. We slept all night with me inside him, until the rain started, just before the alarm went off. He left before dawn, leaving me the dishes for a change, and since it rained all day, and the chores got done early, I just lazed around the house, planning the crop rotation for next year, and writin' this down. Never could type, that's why it takes so long. Supper's in the oven.
Yeah, we ended up getting' hitched. We dated for a couple of years, until I graduated from High School, and got my first job on a farm. We bought the farm three years ago. Him and me put everything we could into the bank for five year, him working the store, me on the Spence farm, then the Douglas place, then heading up the Tracy farm until Mrs. Tracy could sell it. Her man fell into the baler. Drunk again. Dad and Mom gave us enough extra to make the offer to Mrs. Tracy, and she accepted it. Dad said it was a fair offer, and wasn't takin' advantage of her.
Dad and Mom think Ian is just my business partner. Or at least, that's the official line. They both know we sleep in the same bed, but we never discuss it. We go to church together Sundays, and sit in the same Family pew we've sat in since my great-grandfather helped build the church. My brother Terry and his June know, though. They make a nice couple, got a bun in the oven, saving up for their own place.
I had a couple of affairs before we got hitched for real, one a girl, the other a guy. I think that was just to get some experience, or something. The sex was no way as good as with Ian. It wasn't the physical part, so much as it was the other stuff. I mean, nobody ever gave me greater pleasure in bed, whether it was me inside him, or him inside me, or either of us taking the other in the mouth. Ian loves me, like nobody ever could, and I love him more than I'm allowed to.
I hope to God I never have to choose between God and my Ian, because I wouldn't have any choice, even if I was to burn in Hell for eternity.
Dear God, please don't be angry with me. And thank you for sending me my Ian.
This was the last .doc found on my brother Will's old 386, dated Friday, April 13th.
Ian was killed on the Interstate that night, when a "Big Rig" hauling motor parts jackknifed in a torrential downpour, trying to avoid a hydroplaning minivan full of kids. The truck went over on its side right in front of Uncle Ian's Volvo. The woman driving the van said he stopped just in time, but another big-rig turned the Volvo into a flat sheet of metal when it plowed full-speed into the wreck. My brother, Will, was at home that night, and some damned soul called him to tell him his partner was roadkill on the interstate, before the cops could get there and prevent . . .
They're buried up the top of the hill, side by side, as they wanted to be for the rest of their lives. My wife and I take flowers up every Friday, and our sons, Will and Ian usually go with us.
God, please don't be angry with my wonderful brothers.
(This story is fiction.)