Date: Wed, 22 Jun 2005 18:36:05 -0700 (PDT) From: thunder boy Subject: Jockboy Mike: Chapter 1 Disclaimer: If you are under 18 or it is illegal to read this material in your area, please leave now. This story contains material describing sexual activity between teenage boys. Material may not be reproduced without author's permission. Responses/suggestions/feedback to: thunder151@yahoo.com. JOCKBOY MIKE: CHAPTER 01 Back in high school, I was a golden-boy. Small. Just five-foot-four in 10th grade, and I think about 118 lbs. Dirty blonde hair, hazel eyes, lean, lithe and supple. I had a tight, defined, muscular build even before puberty. I was good-looking, strikingly good-looking, and yeah, the consensus was that I was cute and all that. Okay, I was still a boy, a late-bloomer, just a few grateful months into enjoying a fledgling bush of pubic hair. I was 15 but looked about twelve. Absolutely no facial hair. Picture a 12-year-old teen idol Or maybe a pre-teen idol. With a fresh growth of pubic hair. Name of Mike. I grew up in a regular middle-class suburban neighborhood. Genteel, staid, conservative. Baseball and barbecues. Lots of church. Everyone with their roles all steamed, pressed, and laid out to wear. I was a regular guy. I hung out with all the other regular guys through the long hot summer: riding bikes, hiking trips, long swims, baseball, basketball, skateboarding, B.B. gun battles in the woods and treks through the dark, cool concrete drainage sewers under our housing development. I was a masculine dude a tough, bright-eyed, cute little guy grounded in my black scuffed converse sneakers, with the first blush of curly dark hairs sprouting around my ankles. My staid little suburban world was starting to show signs of anxious singularity from way deep down. Have you read that story by Dr. Seuss? The one about McGillicutty's pond? It's a story about a small pond nestled in the country, with an overhanging bank where you could lean back on an old tree- trunk and hold your fishing pole out over the still water and listen to the dragonflies buzzing .... and dream about the fantastic world under the shining surface. Your own private happy place. I wondered at the realization that my own pond was fed by a deep spring, a spring that bubbled up through ancient caves. Caves that interconnected deep in the earth, caves that ran to the sea. I was not a TOTAL innocent. In my fantasies, I had fished this pond off and on since grade school, so I knew it was deep. I had pulled out fish that were never stocked for this pond, wild fantastic fish that came from the deepest ocean trenches. Fish from alien seas, with long, sharp teeth and bold geometric designs, strange fins and hairy tethers. Some even glowed like neon in the dark. When I fished this pond, I did not dream of the common catfish or trout. The fish on my line were deeper, more spectacular. They had an intensity that gripped my fertile teenage imagination. These fish had a barely perceptible aura, glowing purple. And they were all male. Fish stories.... Heh.... I won't start with the earliest stories. Not yet. I don't even know when it all began, my interest in guys. I just remember watching them from an early age, feeling an animal attraction and yet always aware that it was taboo. I suspected this attraction was more than just awkward. It was a matter of deep-down jungle taboo, a subject of tribal shame. And so I spent a lot of time hanging out with guys .... attractive guys .... quietly drinking in their animal presence .... with wide-open senses .... and craving them ... all in secret. I would find myself in a certain type of situation. I would notice a cute, masculine guy with just the right qualities to inspire hero-worship, hang out with him and discreetly watch him, feasting on his unassuming masculine charm. Then I would swell with lust, working myself into a fever of sexual urges. Often enough, my heroes were either oblivious or indifferent to my self-imposed torture. It became a matter of my straight-boy self-image holding the line against deep, hidden gay-boy secrets. The secrets thrived in the dark, longed for recognition, prayed for ownership. It became a waiting game. Kind of like fishing. I would linger, straightboy-like, grooving on my boy-hero, waiting for him to claim ownership of my dark gay secret. And the passion would build. Just as an example, I remember hanging out one day with my friend Cooper. Coop was my bosom-buddy, dating back to the third grade. When there was time to kill, he was my accomplice. Cooper was built like me a little taller, lean and toned, with blonde curly hair, cute, and cheeky. He had a talent for hatching adventures just on the edge of mischief. The BB gun fights had been his idea. Anyway, this time we were lying on our backs, side by side on the carpet, watching TV through our feet, heads propped against the couch. We lay there in baggy shorts, sweaty from an afternoon of summer football. I smelled his fresh sweat. I snuck lingering glances at his legs and the profusion of curly blonde hairs on his ankles. I strained my eyeballs looking to the side, my head never moving, to catch a glimpse of his smooth, flat, hard stomach and the fledgling treasure trail entering the dark gap at the waistband of his loose shorts. I scanned the crotch of his pants for the outline of his cock. My heart pounded as I absently brushed my leg against his, feeling the fuzz against my skin. I would discreetly maneuver so I could admire his defined chest, his hands behind his head, a tuft of dark blonde hair displayed in the cradle of his armpit. I would say something, turning my head towards him, and breathe in deep, slow lung-fulls of his scent. He seemed unaware of my quiet, desperate craving. That made it all the worse, leaving me to twist and spin in the wind, hoping he would make some bold move to satisfy my longing. After all, he was cute, strong, attractive, and virile. Surely he could see the unspoken yearning in my eyes. Surely his quiet strength and quick wits would command the situation. But nooooo. Instead, he let me stress out until the straight-boy shell cracked and crumbled. In my mind's eye, I could see myself belly-crawling to him. I imagined myself kissing his bare feet as he laid back and watched. The image gave me a full- blown boy-boner. So I lay there beside my teen-buddy Cooper with a hard-on pulsing uncontrollably in my shorts and my face rushing with blood. My heart pounded in my little chest through long moments as I tried to contain my breathing. It did me no good my teenage pecker steeled against my logic and went even harder. There was no way he could miss my sexual flush, and if there was any doubt, a quick glance at my crotch would confirm my queer- boy excitement. Holy shit. I was at his mercy. And still, no response. Through it all, he let me hang by my fingertips on this cliff-edge, my hard-on aching for him, clearly outlined in my shorts, ready to accept any terms he wanted to offer. The question being: did he notice? Probably so, but maybe not. Sometimes he could be totally oblivious.... And even if he did notice, he may have no gay interest whatsoever.... OR he may be interested but scared.... OR he may be interested but thinking I'm just having a random teenage hormone surge .... The situation left plenty of time for my strong, proud straight-boy ego to wear under the strain. Damn I was stubborn. And scared. Scared of being caught red-handed in forbidden territory. This fish story doesn't end in one day, though. That day passed like many days spent fishing for rare and exotic catch. There was teasing and baiting, but no bight. There was passion for the sport, the sights and sounds and smells burned on my mind for future reference. And there was much time spent in hopeful waiting; fantasizing how that fish story would go when it finally happened.. When I was 15, and looking 12, I had a healthy ego and a growing sex drive. I was in awe of my more developed classmates. I was in puberty while they were in adolescence. ******************************** I really don't want to keep referring to my crush-object as fish. Referring to them simply as 'guys' seems too generic. 'Stud' is overused and overburdened. "Friend" is inadequate, "boyfriend/lover" is too vanilla. I like the term 'dude' in conversation, as in "Dude, I see you're gettin' a little hard-on," but it falls short for describing a heroic crush-interest. "Bud" and "buddy" are too fraternal. "Crush" itself seems too puppy-boy, but starts to come close. The English have their own terms, like "mate" or "bloke," neither of which captures the sexual undercurrent needed here."Avitar" is too spiritual, too obtuse. "Ubermenschen" is too Nietzschean. I am trying to get at a word here that conveys sexual attraction as I know it. Something that gives an image of strength and sultriness, of boyish vitality and virile sexual presence, of toughness and tenderness, of hero- worship, cuteness, animal grace and calm self-assurance all rolled into one. "Fine young cannibal" has real possibility, calling up many of these attractive qualities in a very primal way. "Hero" comes close, but doesn't really convey the shadow qualities required. Just remember, though, we are talking about the kind of guy that makes the synapses in my brain sizzle. Wait! I think the word I may be looking for is "daemon," in its original sense. Someone poised between light and shadow, a figure of strength and godlike beauty, glowing with an inner light. Someone with a purple aura. ******************************** There was one daemon that occupied my thoughts for endless hours. Sean. I had known Sean since grade school a skinny little half-Irish, half-Japanese kid who was in all my grade school classes, just another one of the bright, athletically-inclined kids from a nearby neighborhood. We had the common fate of being the shortest boys in our grade, always in the first row of class pictures. By ninth grade, however, Sean had shot well ahead into puberty, leaving me in his dust. He was still short, still smooth-faced, but he had developed the muscles and deep voice of a tenured teenager. He was kind of preppy. In school, he always wore pressed khaki pants and pressed powder blue oxford shirts that seemed a size too large. He needed the larger shirt to accommodate his muscled neck and shoulders. He wasn't body-builder muscled. He was lean and super-toned. He was probably five-foot-five in 10th grade, 118 pounds, with a 28 or 27 waist. He was cute, had an infectious smile and clear, dark brown eyes. His hair was Japanese jet-black and regulation haircut-length. His skin was naturally bronzed. Damn he was cute. He was like an anime cartoon hero, in the flesh. Seeing him in a bathing suit the summer before 10th grade was almost unbearable. It was a night-time swim-party, in the dog days of summer. I was not a member of his circle, which tended more to a jock-and-prep crowd, but I just had to check him out. I tried to mingle, tried to be discreet, tried to blend in with the little group, but my eyes fairly popped out of my head looking at him. His movements were smooth and sinuous. He had the penetrating gaze of a predator. He had the assured animal grace and relaxed strength of a tiger. Against my better judgement, my eyes caressed his flesh, fastening immediately on his chest. Dime-sized nipples, a little stiff in the night air, poised on a chiseled chest. A six-pack stomach, with a treasure-trail going down from his perfect belly-button. White board-shorts sagged low on his hips. The contour of his hip was hypnotic, a brownish bronze with reflected highlights, seductive shadows, and surprising undertones of blue and purple He had killer hairy legs. Killer. Hairy. Legs. There was a filigree of thick, black, curly hairs that caught the light and shone like a testosterone aura on his legs. It was just amazing. He was barefoot. He nudged a small stone around on the cement with his big toe, casually following the conversation . I watched, savoring the supple agility of his movements, the subtle tensing of muscles in his foot and calf. I was entranced. He pushed the stone toward me, and held it there under his big toe. Finally, he grabbed the stone in his curled toes. My glassy-eyed stare broke free. I looked up at his face. I was mute. He was already looking at me, his head cocked a little to the side, the hint of a smile on his lips. This silent interchange went unnoticed by his friends. He ended it with a deep breath, looking away from me. Then he took one step back into shadow and gestured with both hands, hip-hop-gangsta-style, fingers splayed, making the love-horn sign in front of his crotch for about half a second. He looked straight at me. He could see my infatuation, and the uneasiness at being caught. He had my secret held fast in his teeth. I looked away suddenly, my face burning, my heart pounding. This was not the place to exercise my dragons. But I knew I had just been visited by a daemon. I spent the rest of that evening goofing off with friends, swimming, socializing, even flirting with some of the girls. Remember, I was fairly hot myself, and nominally "straight." But I also spent the rest of the night with one eye on Sean, always aware of where he was.... Hmm. Always aware of what he was doing.... Hmm.. He spent a lot of time hanging with a couple of hot girls. As the party broke up, I tried getting close enough to say something intelligent. I managed to force a "hey, see you later" from my frozen mind. My emotions tripped over each other in embarrassment. I think I blushed. "Later, Mikey," Sean replied casually, his voice a deep whisper. ****************************************** That night I lay between crisp, clean sheets with my hands behind my head, replaying images of Sean. He was so fucking lean, hard, and tight. When he had gotten out of the pool at the party, he looked sleek as an otter, totally fluid, beads of water studding his chest like diamonds. I threw a boner. I shucked my underwear and lay there in an exhilaration of nakedness. I teased my straining hard-on with deliberate slowness, calling up images of Him. I wanted to touch him, taste him, breathe him, and hold him. I wanted to lick him all over and massage his honed muscles one by one, from his head down to his toes. I wanted to feel the smoothness of his chest and the roughness of his hairy legs. The hairy legs really got me. Being a late-bloomer, I was proud of the early showing of man-hair on my own legs, but that was nothing compared to him. He had a dense, curly forest of leg hair, right down to his hairy ankles. It was like a whole new dimension of sexuality, a badge of hormonal accomplishment, an adolescent certificate of merit. Even his toes sprouted a few lively hairs. It contrasted with his totally smooth chest. Half boy, half man, like a young satyr. It put him in a league beyond my paltry pubescent showing, my embarrassing boyishness. The mental comparison made my dick go rigid. Five and a half inches of boy-boner arched up over my belly, over my meager patch of pubes. I pushed my little steel rod downward, towards my feet, right on the edge of aching hardness. I had masturbated before, had made serious attempts at cumming, but my experiments up til now had been bone-dry. So I teased myself mercilessly under the sheets with no specific end in mind. I imagined myself licking him all over, tasting him completely, every inch. Licking his face, my tongue lapping at his cheeks, his chin, his ears. I dared to imagine my lips on his lips, sharing the same breath, the same heat. I began licking his neck, then his shoulders, my tongue following the curve of his collarbone. I slathered his chest with my saliva, and felt his hard little nipples under my tongue. I continued over the complex ridging of muscles and ribs down the side of his torso. I was giving him a tongue-bath, and that meant licking everything, it meant licking his armpits. This was new territory, but I was stoked and hungry for his flavor. I sucked the precious sweat out of his tufted armpit. I savored his rippled abs, down the ridge of his hip-bone, and into the valley beside it. I felt his treasure-trail tickle my lips and licked the coarse hairs with long, broad strokes, right down to the sagging waist of his board-shorts. I continued down his legs, his famous furry legs, kissing and sucking his fuzz all the way down to his feet. I imagined him watching me as I licked his feet. I imagined the sweet, salty, slightly acrid taste of his foot-sweat. It seemed totally right that I should be on my knees at his feet, awash in his scent, and paying homage while he watched. I was a half-pint punk boy and he was bonafide. I sucked each toe with devotion and cleaned between them as I looked up over his chiseled torso into his eyes, a cocky grin on his face. He knew my gay-boy secret. I saved the best for last. In my fantasy, though, it was him giving the orders. He grabbed his hard cock through his shorts with a significant look. He was a daemon of few words. He leaned back in his chair and pointed right at the ridge in his pants. My mouth went to it. I worshiped it hungrily, squeezing it with my lips, biting gingerly, anxious with the humiliation of giving another guy a blow-job. Since I had never seen his actual package, I simply imagined some of the finer packages I had seen in gym class. I pictured a 6-1/2 inch cock, bigger than mine, of course, nestled in a healthy bush of frizz-curled pubes. He had low-hanging balls, like mine, only bigger. His skin was moist with sweat and Sean-hormones. I licked his crotch with the same attention I had just lavished on his feet. My tongue on his hard cock, my tongue on the silky skin of his balls. My lips in direct contact with his sex. I was deep in taboo territory. He had commanded my demon, and I was his. I sucked and slurped his fine hard cock while I tortured my own. It was wicked-hard, with no relief in sight. Finally, I rolled onto my stomach, my relentless boner forced downward like a third leg. As it finally softened to something manageable, I imagined sleeping with him, my head in his lap, my lips on his precious cock all night long. I drifted off to sleep with the heavy smell of boy-sweat and sex in my bed. My erection waxed and waned all night. This fantasy replayed in my mind every night for weeks. The rest of the summer was lifted out of the ordinary. Each new day was fresh with possibilities. I was more aware of the sexual jungle around me. There had been an attraction to hot guys before, but now a slumbering dragon had awakened and was taking notice. He was still hiding, but he was peeking out of his cave. I started getting boners at little or no provocation. Waiting on the street corner for the light to change got me hard. The feel of the wind on my skin got me hard.