Date: Sat, 15 Feb 2003 04:45:45 -0500 (EST) From: Clark Gaybull Subject: Mess-Around Buddies #4 The viewing of this work constitutes acceptance of all disclaimer and copyright verbage which benefits the author and Nifty Archives. ---------------------------------RICH-------------------------------- Ever been too wired to sleep, even though it's time? That's what's happening to me right now. So here comes more in the series. This is preceeded by, possibly, a momentus point: a career choice: a psychology professor (or, a philosophy professor.) (First question: What's the difference?) I'll probably look back on this in five or ten years and laugh. (I've got too much time to think.) This occurs as opening lines for another segment are being considered. How 'bout this: One theory is that there are phases and then there are lifestyles. (Feel free to e-mail your thoughts in this regard to me. After all, isn't everybody, at least partially, a philosopher?) A phase has an end. A lifestyle is endless. A lifestyle becomes a phase if it ends. (Such profoundness, when all I want to say is that...) It was during a phase of appreciating my dad's sexy magazines when Rich and I first messed around. We reached the conclusion that most fathers have 'em. I was lucky (nosy?) enough to find pop's stash. Then I want to show 'em to everybody. So I tell Rich about my discovery and we make arrangements to check this out when the folks are gonna be gone for awhile. He's fourteen - a year older than me. (You do the rest of the math.) And just as curious, if not moreso. A little taller than average. But really, really skinny - almost to the point that you'd wonder if there's something wrong with him. There's no limit to his appetite. But he never seems to put on a pound. ("A bottomless pit," my mom would say.) So we're lookin' at these pictures - him for the first time; me for the zillionth - when he asks, "Mind if I give this some more breathing room?" pointing to his bulging jeans. (I didn't know that penises breathed.) "Nah. Go ahead." So he undoes his pants, and the front of his boxers come into view. Then he puts his left hand in there to rearrange (play with?) himself. "I'd be more comfortable if I'd get ridda these. Okay?" as he tugs on his Dockers. Off come the bottoms, and he flops back down, stomach first, on my parents' bed. I had seen the pictures over and over again. So, I was probably more amused (turned on?) watching Rich. He's turnin' the pages, gawking at the pictures, trying to be inconspicuous about pressing forward intermittently down into the mattress, when he says, "I gotta do something about this, alright?" "Do watcha gotta do." And off comes his underwear, revealing an erect, six-inch (but very curved - just like a banana) organ, protruding from ample dark-brown (you might as well say "Black") hairs. Back down onto the covers, dick being rubbed by bedding and belly (which was concave). "Jesus," I say, "don't shoot on the bedspread." So I hurry to the bathroom and return with a towel, which he puts between his prick and the comforter. Well...that's all he needs. Everything's in place. Let the rocking begin. And so it does. Almost with every turn of the page there's a butt-clenching, accompanied by a cushion-jabbing. I didn't think that it was hot in there. But HE musta. Soon, his ass was shiny and glistened. His breathing got louder as the humping continued. Then he let out a big rush of air and the movement stopped. The page-turning progressed. But the motion ceased. A few minutes later, the contented smile was followed by, "That's enough." The roll- over featured the towel sticking to his stomach and a string of goo stretching from his gut as he pulled the cloth away. "Oops." Wipe. Wipe. Boner-producing show without dropping trou. Something new for me to think about while jerking off tonight. Later that summer, Rich came to mind after I had begun my own collection of mags. I had a Sunday- morning paper route and there was a pile of coverless Playboys, etc., next to our newspapers. "What're these for?" "They're for anybody to take. Last month's issues not sold. Brought back when they put out THIS month's. Less recycling for this place." "Don't they get money for recycling?" "You would think. Must be a perk." Now, when we lived in our former house and I was too young to drive, I had this tent in my back yard, where I slept more that in my own room. Pitched in April. Put away in November. Five years ago it became known as quite the place to go. Everybody wanted to see the latest additions to the collection, which I kept zipped in a red blanket case ('cept there was no blanket). One time, Rich was there, gettin' all horned up over the newest photos, when he asked, "Why don't you do me while I look at these?" "If you do me too?" "Me first." "Deal." He whipped it out, tossing his shorts and CKs aside, and let me begin stroking him while he read (ogled?) "This is fine," was his evaluation. "Not too fast. Make it last," he cautioned. The warmth in the closed tent only partially explained the sweat on his smooth chest of fourteen years. Plus, he was very hard at work (play?), lying on his back, staring intently, as he looked up while flipping through the periodical. "Ooh - this feels awesome," as he raised his bare hips to meet my falling fist around his rigid meat. The perspiration helped lubricate the hand-job he was getting. I knew things were nearing an end when he hiked his shirt to beneath his chin and he showed more difficulty concentrating on the material. When he closed his eyes, he had reached the point of no return. That was followed by the customary leg- straightening, breath-holding and midsection-lifting (as if his sperm would need any help. It didn't.) The fact that his shirt was bunched up to his neck didn't matter. His first two blasts went all the way up to the fabric. And three more spurts landed just above - then just below - his navel. "Just right," he panted. "My turn," I ordered. I was sweating almost as much as him, which surprised me 'cause it shouldn't have been so intense for me. But strangely, my penis was already stiff when I shed my pants and underpants. "I'm not gonna make the same mistake," and I flung my removed shirt to the corner atop my other clothes. "Let's go," as I made my middle easily accessible. "I don't s'pose I'll dry off. But I'm gonna leave my clothes off for this. Maybe I won't be so wet when this is done." (Not true. But at least his clothes stayed dry.) He grabbed my cock before I could start lookng at the pictures. That, in itself, distracted me from he pages. It felt soooo good. To Hell with the glossies. I just closed my eyes and concentrated on the sensation at my prick. Hey - that was a nice touch: pinching my pointy nipples with his other hand. Then a squeeze of my balls. I'm gonna hafta remember that when I do myself. After doing Rich and now Rich's extra touches on me, I couldn't hold back very long. Fortunately, I had discarded my shirt because my first squirt came down on my left shoulder, followed by a tit-high deposit; then globs around my "innie." Rich was all sweaty again. So, I suggested that he towel off before dressing, 'cause he wouldn't wanna use it after I did. (I can see that I'm gonna hafta start keeping more than one towel in my tent, which he visited several more times that summer.) NEXT summer, Rich's family did its annual one-week rental of a bungalow next to the river, thirty minutes away. In previous years, Rich's older sister had gone there with her mother, dad and brother. But, she told her folks that, by staying at the cottage, she didn't trust herself to get to work on time - or at all. She didn't want to jeopardize her new job, where she sought good marks. The job didn't provide her with any vacation time yet. She said that she'd be less likely to be late or absent all day if she went to work each morning from their home; that it'd be easier for her that way. (But actually, home was more of a vacation for her: it increased her time away from the family, although she DID visit each evening.) (She was the one, by the way, who, with her girlfriend, would throw stinky onion grass into the tent before or when Rich and I were in there.) After writing all that, bottom line is: Guess who Rich invited to occupy the bunk next to his? (It didn't hurt that Rich and I were on the same Teener League team.) We fished 'most every night with Rich's dad. That was fun. But when he fished all day, too, we didn't go. We liked fishing. But not THAT much. Then, there were other days when he was away for several hours bottling home-made beer. So Rich and I slept late and entertained ourselves each afternoon while his mom was pretty much in the background. Our favorite activity was to row upstream about a mile, where there was one of many islands in the river. This particular island had been developed into many holes of a golf course. On the island, across one fairway, was a big pond, which many golfers hit balls into, although they were supposed to land beyond. At night, we'd go there carrying one bag for balls and another bag for worms, 'cause it was also a good place to replentish night crawlers for fishing. We thought that the river belonged to everyone. So, even in the daylight, we would dive for golf balls where the golfers were supposed to hit balls across the river but failed. We would both wear baggy-type swimsuits 'cause, when we'd get there, we'd jump out of the anchored boat, take off our pants, dive for and stuff the balls into our drawers, swim to the surface, and dump the balls into the rowboat, like some people dive for pearls. (It was twelve feet deep in some places.) Most times we took dozens of golfballs home, many of them like new. In addition, there were other likable features to this. The unconfined feeling of swimming nude was incredible. And another positive factor was that you couldn't tell if the other swimmer had a hard-on, or just a big bobbing pecker. All was going well on our third day of diving until I lost grip while dumping balls from my baggies. And, as bad luck would have it, the baggies fell outside of the boat rather than in. The water here was deep. The current was swift. The cloth was dull- colored. The baggies had been swept away. "Shit!" "What's wrong?" "I lost my trunks." "What?" "I can't find my trunks." "How'd that happen?" I explained, and Rich thought that that was hilarious. "What am I gonna do now?" "Not my problem, dude," he roared. "Shit," I repeated. "Help me find 'em." "Not now, dude. There's still plenty of balls down here," was his unsympathetic reply. An hour later he's raggin' me: "We gotta get goin'. Mom'll be worried. We're gonna be late for supper." "Great. What'll I do now?" I bitched again. Rich put on his bottoms, hoisted the anchor, and pushed the boat to shallower water where he could climb in. "You're in luck. Look here," as he held up a big beach towel, albeit very tattered. "Better 'n nothin'," I muttered. "Row over here and HAND it to me." It's not easy to wrap a towel around you in deep water. But I did a good enough job to follow the boat back to shallow water and climb in. I didn't have a woodie but the soaked towel clung to my body in such a way that my privates created a very obvious bulge in spite of the fact that there was double thickness of towel there where it was tied. (Good thing, too, as ragged as it was.) "I can't go in front of your mom like this. You'll hafta bring something down to me." "Don't have a cow, man. Where should I look?" "Just get something of yours. We're about the same size." "Okay. Okay." (Accompanied by more laughter.) Fifteen minutes later, we're approaching the dock and Rich's mom is there, tapping her foot, waiting for us, really pissed. "Don't sit like that," Rich instructed. "You can see right up to your nuts." So I put my knees together. This definitely wasn't my forte. Rich's mom is ranting well before the boat stops. I remember, "...worried sick...didn't know WHAT happened...thought you drowned..." Thank goodness she was focusing on Rich. I had to walk funny to hide my package. Then she said, "I don't care if your supper IS cold. Sit your asses down and eat RIGHT NOW. Wait 'til I tell your father." Well...I didn't give anything away yet. And I sure didn't want to delay this lady any longer. So, I sat my ass down and began eating right away - just like she said. Rich and I said nothing to one another while we ate, but I could tell that, in spite of catching hell, he was stifling busting a gut. I think that the avoidance of eye-contact saved us. "You might as well go to your room right now 'cause you're NOT going fishing with your father when he gets here tonight." Finally, I get to the room where my shorts are but first we flop onto our bunks, trying to be quiet with our hysteria. "You know," Rich says,"I think I'll get my toga on, too," after which he disrobes and wraps only a towel around him. "Well, if you're gonna wear one, I'll wear one too. But I gotta get ridda this wet one." "Besides," says Rich, "there's a big hole which shows your ass crack," he hooted. "Fuck," I griped. "Didn't SEE that." After my "toga" was in place, we settled in for an evening of cards. (The bungalow was kinda primitive. Electricity, but no TV, let alone a computer or video games.) Our only interruption was when Rich's dad popped his head in and said, "Your mother told me what happened." We continued to play cards, changing our postures, flashing each other, or sitting just plain carelessly, letting it all hang out. We figure it's time to go to bed, so, I ask, "Are we gonna sleep with these on?" "Why not? Mine's kinda comfy." So, we turn out the lights and both lay on our bunks, on our backs, heads atop clasped fingers. Rich's mom can't hear us. She's in the kitchen, knitting, waiting for her husband to return from fishing. "I hope he's back in time," I whispered, trying not to laugh. A few minutes later, Rich speaks. "Clark?" "Huh?" "I'm horny." "Whadya want ME to do about it?" "Just understand if you see me playing with myself." I look over and his pecker is poking up under his "toga". There goes his right hand and there goes the covering, unfastened, and allowing Rich's schwantz to spring free. It's dark, but light enough to see that same technique: nipple tweaks; ball cups; bush rubs. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. I want to ease my own erection. But I don't want to satisfy myself with Rich's mom around. Rich, however, doesn't seem to care. His random playing appears to have become methodical stroking and hip-bucking. I see legs tensing. And there's that tell-tale breathing. And...spew...spew... spew...spew. At least four splashes onto his chest, followed by a deep exhale and a slight giggle. "Oh...got a towel right here," with which he cleans himself before tying that same towel around him. "You're gross," I chastized. I guess my stiffie showed 'cause he says, "You should do the same." "No thanks. With my luck, your mother'd catch me." So, hard-on be damned, we dozed off. Boy, did I embarrass myself that night. Rich could hardly tell the story the next day. During the night, I must have had a dream. Rich told me that my talking woke him up, although I wasn't speaking any words that he knew. He looked over to see me standing and jumping on my bunk, screaming something unintelligible. Rich's parents' room was right next door and he remembers his dad yelling to me a couple of times, "Clark. Shut up." He said that I coutinued to carry on and finally his mom came into our room. Once again, his story- telling is interrupted as Rich uncontrollably laughs. Then he says, "And you had the biggest hard-on." "UNDER my 'toga', I hope?" "Some of the time." (More guffaws.) "Oh, shit." "She came in to calm you down. She adjusted your 'toga'. And you said, 'Oh yeah? Wanna SEE it?' And you ripped it off and stuck it at her. I thought I'd shit." "Oh shit. I'm not comin' out for lunch today." "She knows you were just sleep-talking. I think it's off-the-hook, dude," Rich giggled. "How can I face her?" Too late. I hear Rich's mom's voice. "You guys awake? Everything okay in there?" "We're up." "Can I come in?" "No problem." I guess my fake sleep wasn't very convincing. "Rich tell you 'bout last night?" I was too humiliated to speak. "No big deal," she said. "You were just talking in your sleep," she comforted. "Rich's dad's is much bigger." And some of the ice was broken, although most of me still felt very foolish. Nothing quite so eventful with Rich occurred the rest of that year. But four summers ago, we had one last blow-out at that place. Actually, the rental didn't occur. But four of us went there for the day and overnight - in two tents, two to a tent. Rich was now sixteen and had his own rattly-old pick-up truck. We couldn't all fit in the cab, so, the other two rode in the "bed" - classmates of Rich's who I scarsely knew. It's been only three years. But, already, I don't remember their names. It was a nice afternoon, so, we did the dive-for- golfballs thing, using a bungalow-boat, although we weren't entitled to use it. Then, some rain moved in and we were relegated to our tents. I was zonked - not even undressed - before dark, but was awakened by Rich grabbing my groin. "Queer," I yelled, and turned away. A few minutes later, it was MY hand reaching to the right, where Rich's crotch was, which caused him to shout, "Fag," and roll over. Funny how the passage of a year's time necessitated this addition to our behavior. But we needed to get off just as much as in the past two years. I had almost returned to napping when I heard Rich say, "Well, if you're gonna go to sleep, then I'm gonna get comfortable," which was followed by the sounds of zippers and snaps: a sleeping bag being gotten out of the way and clothes coming off. A long time passed - enough that I thought that Rich was stackin' Zs. Now was the time for me to "get comfortable" too. So I stripped down to my usual bedtime attire (my birthday suit), not bothering to rezip my sleeping bag 'cause of the noise that it would make. Plus, it was more comfortable to stick a bent leg out than to be in a more confining, zipped bag. As I later discovered, the unzipped side toward him also gave Rich access to what was inside. Sometimes I wake myself up because I snore so loudly while I sleep on my back. And I was in that position when I noticed fingers - UNDER the sleeping bag - squeezing my penis. My senses returned enough to realize that they weren't MY fingers. Had I been snoring? I wasn't snoring now. But the fingers remained there. And they were moving. So was my prick - upward as it stiffened. If I HAD been snoring, I was glad of it. Whatever started this deserved my thanks. I lay still - except for my expanding cock - enjoying this. But I wasn't gonna be able to lie still for long. Or keep quiet. Already my breathing had changed audibly. Then, Rich flung the top of the sleeping bag from covering me. And the difference of the humid night air (or his touch?) made me shiver. Rich propped himself up on his left elbow, allowing him to better attend to his masturbatory effort. But that wasn't good enough. He emerged from his sleeping bag wearing nothing but a smile and proceeded to put a knee outside each of my thighs. While doing so, he speared me with his erect boyhood. There was no doubt about the condition he was in. Now he could jerk with BOTH hands. But, frankly, THAT wasn't as pleasurable as one. It was back to ectasy when the second hand was removed from my dick and instead pinched from tit to tit. I don't know if that was a moan or a big sigh. More writhing would have occurred. But Rich was sitting on my upper legs, occasionally brushing my organ with his. Each poke was like a jolt of eletricity - a potential climax-producer whenever it happened. I really wonder, therefore, why he didn't get a mouthful of cum when he replaced his hand with his lips. I should have known that this was going to happen when I felt some liquid facilitate his pumping. But, I thought that it might be my own orgasm before I realized that it was his saliva. The suckng was brief but oh so effective. That was followed by him falling forward, grinding his dick against mine. It was a sensation that overtook my attempt to stay in command. The weight off of my legs; the pressure on my hips; the slip-sliding through my pubes. Thar she blows. And Rich, too. I bet there was a gallon of jizz between us. Couldn't shoot very high on either of us. But it ran down BOTH of my sides. Not being into kissing, he merely put his head to the left of mine. He laid on top of me - not moving - for several minutes. I could have gone to sleep that way. Impossible that the night could have gone so well in the other tent. So many other accounts that I've read include the issues of "wrongness" and guilt before, during, and/or after doing it. I can honestly say that THAT seems to have NEVER entered the mentalty of my mess-around buddies. We just figure, "If it feels good, do it." And maybe there'd be one or two who'd add, "Everybody does it. It's normal." Some, now, are trying to impress girls. But they tolerate any males who mess around with guys. After all, THEY probably behaved that way too in the past few years.