Date: Sat, 22 Feb 2003 05:29:38 -0500 (EST) From: Clark Gaybull Subject: Mess-Around Buddies #5 The viewing of this work constitutes acceptance of disclaimer and copyright verbage which benefits the author and Nifty Archives. -----------------------------DINGER--------------------------------- Four summers ago - in the middle of which I celebrated my fourteenth birthday - my record "camp out" season occurred. I forget, now, but used to know, the exact count. I know that it exceeded 120 nights. This'll probably turn out to be the shortest chapter; but, it's about my most-frequent - by far - companion that summer. He must have "slept over" 70 times. Our new house is now three years old and he is the only one of my buddies to have been in our current home who was also in our old place. I'm talkin' 'bout Dinger (or Ding). I know...either way it's a stupid name. But also either way, it's better than his real name - Homer. (Who would name their kid "Homer"?) Although we just finished ninth grade, I've known him as "Dinger" since he started school. You see... a "dinger" is another word for a "home run" (a "homer") in baseball. Now it's cool, right? (This name I DIDN'T make up. Even if this DOES get back to him, though, he won't mind. It's just too rad of a story to tamper with.) Anyhow, my friend, Geoff told Ding about my growing collection of sex magazines and Ding asked if he could see them. I described my plan to pitch my tent that weekend and hide them in there 'cause my parents wouldn't snoop in my tent. Guess who helped me set up the tent on Saturday? (And it wasn't even a big job.) I didn't have any stuff moved in yet and already he wants to know, "Where ya gonna put the collection?" "Fuck if I know. Gotta get some other things in here first." Such as a couple of old blankets on the floor and a couple of old pillows. "There. That should do it." (Enough to hide the collection under.) Zipped in the red blanket bag, it looked natural that I was going into the tent with it. Perfect. After we were inside, Dinger grabbed the case from me, sprawled face-down onto the ground with a pillow under his pits, and said, "Finally...the reading material I've been waiting for." (From then on, he referred to the collection as "reading material" or "the library.") I assumed a similar, comfortable position and commanded, "Hand me one." (I've since thought that students'd like books more if - every so often - the book'd be spiced up a bit by slipping in a raunchy picture or two.) It probably would have been humorous to have seen us from above, pushing our butts down, fucking the ground with each subsequent picture. (Would this have been better on our water beds? Nah...more resistance from the ground. It hurt. But it hurt good. There IS such a thing as a good hurt.) Maybe this was hurting Dinger, now, too much. He rolled over onto his back and read "uphill" - holding the magazines so that he looked up at them. Then he untucked his sweatshirt. Next, he reached into his jeans as if to reposition himself, side-tracking on the way out to unfasten the pants-button around his waist and unzip his fly partway, eventually asking, "Okay if I relieve myself?" I wasn't certain about the scope of this question, but I had a painful boner going myself and said, "MY tent is YOUR tent." "Thanks." And with that, down around his ankles he bunches his pants and his "uphill reading" begins again, with his conspicuous tent inside my tent. Okay. If THAT'S what HE'S gonna do, then so am I (except that I pulled my trousers all the way off). But I was more modest in that I flopped onto my stomach to resume staring, 'cause I feel better if my rod's not so obvious and if I can press it between my gut and the ground. I thought that he'd stop, now that he's shed his jeans. But I was mistaken. A few more pages and down go his undies, letting his teen-meat spring up along his belly (like mine does) when he goes back to reading. And he pulls his shirt up to above his tits. Probably in response to my open-mouthed gaze of disbelief, he smiles mischievously and says, "Don't wanna get it all messy." Where was this gonna lead? I had my thoughts. Now I'm half looking at the magazines and half peeking at him. And I could hardly believe what I saw next. Four years later and I've still never heard of this. I know about pre-cum, and all. At first, that's what I thought that it was. But as my peeks became more fixed, I watched the spunk just ooze intermittently out of the piss-hole of his dick. Not piss, though. I know it wasn't. It was too syrupy and white for that. Not pre-cum, either. Isn't that clear and runny? I'm sure that this was sperm. And he never even touched himself. I was impressed. "Awesome. How'd you DO that?" "Can't you?" as he looked around for something to wipe off with. (Finding nothing, he smeared the goop around like it was Coppertone.) "Huh uh. I always gotta jerk mine." He must have thought that it was no big deal because he non-chalantly changed the subject when he pulled up his briefs and jeans. "Sleepin' out tonight?" And thus concluded the first of dozens of sessions of gratification in my tent. I'm doing Dinger a dis-service by not describing ALL of our sleepouts 'cause each one was very intense. But, as I said before, there were so many. And they were all pretty much the same. There WAS this one time when four of us classmates - Dinger, Geoff, Sean and I - intended to spend the night in the tent and we dropped the flaps prior to playing strip poker. We were smart enough to assure that we were each gonna claim the same number of things - no jewelry, and everybody but Geoff started without shoes 'cause Geoff wasn't wearing socks. Hats didn't count either. Dinger and Sean wore hats but Geoff and I didn't. They kept 'em on, though, 'cause they were "lucky hats." (Whatever.) We didn't stipulate that "winner-gets-to-experience- such-and-such" 'cause Sean wouldn't play if THAT was a rule. But we DID agree to play 'til everybody was naked. Then we were gonna look at magazines. Bottom line was: after not winning five hands, it was picture-time for you. It was almost as if winner loses 'cause, although he'd be last to be nude, he'd also be last to see the photos; and THAT was actually the MAIN attraction. Sean must be a bad poker player. Either that or he's dumb like a fox. (Maybe he's got this "REAL winner" thing figured out.) He NEVER wins a hand and he's always the first one naked. I think he pops a bone at the mere mention of what we're gonna do. Couldn't be that any of the players are queer, could it? A fact is, however, that everyone's packin' wood as soon as they strip to their underwear. It probably doesn't help, either, that every time we play, the inevitable comparisons occur - moustaches, chin whiskers, pit fuzz, chest and leg hairs, pubes. Poor Geoff and me. Losers in this respect. Geoff because he's a slow grower. Me because I'm blondest. And Sean - still wearing his backwards baseball cap - is a close third. He doesn't display his pubes very long, though, 'cause he's so quick to flop onto his belly and start gawking. But even his ass gives him away, as it's not very developed. Us other three, however, each wins a couple of hands. Eventually, only Dinger has not lost five times. So he's the "winner". Big whoop. And when that's determined, he whips off his drawers anyway and becomes the fourth bare butt behind stiff cocks that are fucking the ground. I'm gonna interrupt here to tell about how we almost got caught and what we learned. My dad must have been checking on us. From our back porch, you could see the tent. As Geoff is stepping out of his pants, from right outside the tent comes pop's voice. "What're you guys doing in there?" "Uh...just getting ready for bed." (I doubt if I sounded very convincing. What did he know? Is it possible that he could have seen?) Shit...the light in the back of the tent was producing shadows up front - toward the porch. He musta just wanted to let us know that HE knew 'cause then he simply went away. Good ol' dad. How cool was that? Thereafter, though, the light was always BETWEEN us and the porch. Also, next morning, Dinger and I awoke to the sound of chirping birds and the morning piss-hard- on that's so common among boys our age. It must have been before 5 AM. Who would be awake this early? Especially on a Saturday. So out trots Ding and I. It's barely light and it's bare Ding and bare Clark, each looking for a tree to victimize. What a releif! Trouble is, we were seen! Would you believe that a neighborhood couple, looking out of their kitchen window, could see into our back yard where the tent was and where the trees were that we peed on? She was helping him to get ready to go to the 18- hour-per-day mini-mart that he owns and they complained to my dad that it would not be a good thing for their seven-year-old daughter to see. Again, dad was low-key when he talked to me about this. It was early in the season and we had already fucked-up twice - in the same night! All of a sudden, I doubted that the tent was such a good idea. But the rest of that year passed without incident. It went so smooth, in fact, that there's not much more to write about - except the sheer volume of Dinger and Clark goo. It was like the headwaters of a river. The value of Kleenex stock must have gone up after THOSE months. Oh yeah - back to that night in late spring. The tent floor is six-feet-by-six-feet. But those on the ends stay away from the dewy tent sides. So, we're quite cozy as we "read". Dinger is first to flip over and asume that "reading uphill" posture. "Watch this y'all. Do that thing. He can cum without even touching himself." "Get out. Nobody can do that." "Sounds bogus to me." "I can't ALWAYS do that," he clarified. "Hafta be REAL horned up...and full." "When was the last time?" "This morning." "Well, then, you oughtta be able. Especially if we all help. But nobody touches his cock, understand?" "How 'bout AROUND it. Like his balls?" "Or his pubes?" "That's okay." So the assault on Ding commenced. (Lucky guy.) The ball-squeezing; nipple-pinching; thigh- and pelvis-rubbing. Anything we could think of (that wasn't too gay) to get him off. Forget about the pictures, though. Ding had forsaken any magazine, concentrating on the many points of stimulation to his body. Six hands doing their thing. Sean even poked Ding with Sean's stiff dick as Sean laid next to Ding, reaching over to tweak Ding's boobs. You could tell that he was really trying now. Grunt after grunt, as if to push the fluid out. Success! There it comes! Gradually, the slight, clear juice at the top of Ding's penis became milkier and the hip-bucks forced forth his jism. "Amazing." "Wicked." "No way." "Cool." "Un-fucking-believable." We all heaved words of high praise at Dinger. Some of us more than once. Now, everybody else wanted to attempt this. But nobody could duplicate what we had just seen. We futily helped each other try. (That was fine.) But all the testicle-tickling, tit-pinching, pecker-pokng, hands-on contact produced no tool-touchless orgasms. The boastful Sean bragged about how close he was a couple of times. But ultimately evryone resorted to the more conventional masturbation methods. Oh yes...three more loads were spilled. But only Dinger could "will" his prick to produce. It seemed like Dinger's and my summer was simply a matter of, "When are we gonna get together again and bust a nut?" Maybe it's because I like orgasming so much, but, every night with him was super. Sometimes we'd cum twice before sleeping and again the next morning. I'm told that THAT frequency becomes less as you get older. At eighteen, maybe I can't even do that NOW. If not, it was great while it lasted. And we did this all with no kissing and no suckng. That would be too gay. Here's an example of what we'd do to "justify" what we were doing. We both had "a case" for this girl down the street. We'd get comfortably unclothed, checkin' out "the library," when somebody'd invariably drape a bare leg over the other's bare ass. Then, the guy on top would gradually slide atop the other, so that his erection would go right into (albeit parallel with) the other's hiney crack. At fourteen, we thought that this constituted "fucking" whoever was on the bottom. After all, the outcome was that your wad ended up on the other guy's back or running down his chute. Oh...and I almost forget the variation which featured your boner rubbing between those tightly-clenched legs until your chest flattened down onto his shoulder blades followed by the annointing of his inner thighs. For MUTUAL gratification, we'd hump facing each other, sliding dick on dick until we both erupted. The trick was - and we got pretty good at it - timing things so that we both shot at the same time (or close together). Of course, it wasn't very intimate asking, "Are you close?" Back to those remarks about having "the hots" for the girl down the street. See...this was all made "legitimate" by babbling her name, "Oh, Jennifer," while we were getting pleasure from each other. These mumbles assured that it wasn't "too gay" to be doing what we were doing. We moved to our current home the following March - ten blocks from our previous house; seventeen blocks from Dinger's residence. But that wasn't very far on a bike for somebody who just turned fifteen. (He was six months older than me.) So, over the Memorial Day weekend, I planned to get the tent outta mothballs and investigate the nearby woods with Ding. We also conjured this up far enough in advance that we could gradually pifer some beers from our fridges. "How many'd you get?" "Seven," he gloated, as we trudged deeper into the bush. "How 'bout you?" "Got a backpack full. I think there's eight in there." Then, "How 'bout here?" "Guess this is far enough. Looks good." Fortunately, we'd just had big picnic suppers. As a result, there was plenty of food in my gut to absorb the two beers which I drank while pitching the tent. (I'm not very good at "holding my booze.") Somebody forgot to tell the weatherman that it was a holiday weekend 'cause it's usually rainy then. But all three days were precipitation-free. Ding worked up quite a sweat getting the campsite ready, so, after a whizz, he was into his third beer. "Anything new in the library? You brought that, didn't ya?" "Right here," I triumphed. "Not too early to read, is it?" "NEVER too early. Never too early to get rid of these, either." And he kicked off his clothes. I see he's pickin' up where he left off LAST year, so, I got naked too. "Lotsa new stuff here." "Yeah," I agreed, as I felt that leg wrap familiarly on my butt and a stiff peter poke my left thigh. (Hmmmm...hairier than last year.) "Let's read THIS," he said, and replaced MY magazine with his. Then he crawled completely on top of me, parallel-parked his pecker in my ass- crack, began staring over my shoulder, and started that typical back-and-forth motion between my buns. "Oooh, Jessica." "Who the fuck is Jessica?" "My new girl." Soon after, the breathing that I was used to, signalled that he was about to cum. There's that warm, wet feeling on my lower back. "And I hardly even popped a rod," I complained. "That's all right," he said. "I think you're gonna like what I'm gonna try on you. But first, another beer." (And he's not a BIG kid.) I continued to get horned up from looking at the pictures. (Seems they ALWAYS have that effect on me even though I'd seen them on a million previous occasions.) I figured that he oughtta be done with his fourth beer at just about the time when he staggered back into the tent after another piss. I said, "Okay. Ready for whatever you're gonna try." "Roll over," Ding ordered. I gave him access to my engorged joystick. He lifted it off my belly and began squeezing and pumping it. "How much bigger'n last year?" I forced a reply: "'bout an inch." As his motions continued, he hockered down onto it and my hips joined in the movement. "I see," I moaned. "No. That's not it. This is what Jessica does to me." Suddenly, the sensation around my shaft was warmer than ever before. I'd previously heard about being sucked off. So this must be what it was all about. I agree that it was pree-mo! "Just tell me when you're gonna cum. I don't want a mouth full of THAT." "Well...you'd better stop now 'cause I don't know how much more of this I can take." A few more short slurps, followed by a little jerking, and that's all...I couldn't hold back any more and my powerful gushers testified to that. I think that the first blast landed on my pillow, above my shoulder, beside my head, followed by at least five more spurts that fell on me. And I forgot to bring tissues. Or a towel. Don't want to wipe that stuff on a blanket and maybe sleep in it. Oh well...just hafta do without a pillowcase tonight. "How was that?" was his question that didn't need asking. "Super," was my panted response, which didn't need stating. Ding and I favored each other during one final sleepover before his family moved hundreds of miles away - to Maine, or some ungodly place like that. (Well, at least he took his rebel accent where THEY have an accent, too. Ayup.) I told Ding about empty-house-week when we saw each other in school one day. He and Jessica had become pretty tight as the summer had progressed and during the seventeen months before he moved. So it ws decent that he spent a Friday and a Saturday night two Octobers ago at the current house when my parents got the opportunity to go over to Florida for ten days. Too bad...I think a hurricane struck near where they were. "You can go to your grandparents' if you want," they told me before they left. "Are you kidding?" I thought. "Wish eight of those days weren't school days." Both nights, Dinger and I behaved quite maturely. (Okay...a few beers, maybe, while we watched TV. Dad said that THAT was allowed if I kept in the house.) No fooling around, though. And we each stayed in our separate bedrooms. I figured that he didn't mess around with guys any more 'cause he didn't start anyting and especially since it was known that he and Jessica were inseparable. "Yeah...where is she this weekend?" "Her sister's in a play at college and Jessica's up there for two days." Sunday morning brought footsteps down the hall and a bare ass jiggling past my bedroom door, which had creaked open. (I thought that THAT wan't supposed to happen in NEW houses.) From the looks of things, Ding had a frozen rope that he intended to thaw in the bathroom. The sound of pissing into the toilet was followed by a none-too- quiet flush, then scarsely-audible tip-toeing in front of my door again. Peeking into my room, he saw that my eyes were open and he apologized for waking me. "Guess I wasn't too quiet, huh?" Then, noticing the dimensions of the bed, he says, "You got a BIG one in here." Ding enters, still sporting high-blood-pressure, despite having deposited into the can. "You probably got a big one under here, too," as he yanks the sheet off of me, dives onto the bed, and begins to wrestle with me. "How come I haven't been in here before?" "You're in here now," I said, "if you wanna make up for lost time." "I wasn't too fucked up to remember what we did that Memorial Day," he recalled. "I think I'M the one who'll never forget." "Hey...I got a charge out of it too...seein' I could do that." "Well...I did it too...just this summer." "Think you still know how?" "Do you?" And with that, we lined up with my face to his groin and his lips finding my middle. First, we were side- by-side. Then, I was on top. Then, we were on our other sides. Now, he's on top. Careful we don't fall onto the floor. Who cares? But we don't really want to lose contact. Who can spit more? Oooh that feels good. Oooh that tickles. Oooh, that's a finger in my rectum. Okay...but nothin' else. Maybe I'll do that to him. "Ya know," he stops giving me head long enough to say, "we weren't really fucking." "Yeah. I know. But I don't think I want anything inside." (Just in case he had any ideas.) "This is wild enough," as I returned to his knob. Always it's a competition with me. I don't want to climax before my partner does. But this is becoming increasingly difficult. If only I knew how close he was. I don't care if HE cums in MY mouth. But maybe HE'S adverse to MY spurk in HIS mouth. His breathing is getting more frantic. Shit...so's mine! Involuntarily so. Damn. There I go! Didn't even warn him. Well...he's not backing off. Still tryin' to drain me. I wish I could get him to...ah, here it comes. Now...if I can just stay with him. Pelvic thrusts DO pose a challenge. Must be over the hump. Much more calm now. Swallow. Swallow. (Don't talk with your mouth full. Speaking of full, orifices are less crammed as penises are softening.) "Sorry...I didn't mean to..." "That's okay. I do it to Jessica all the time. 'bout time I get a dose of my own medicine. Or somethin' like it. (Gulp. Gulp.) Hmmm...not bad. No mess to clean up this way." "And that's a good thing. This is my parents' bed." Ain't it amazing how much a person can be such a big part of your life one minute and no part of it soon after?