Date: Fri, 28 Feb 2003 22:41:32 -0500 (EST) From: Clark Gaybull Subject: Mess-Around Buddies #6 The viewing of this work constitutes acceptance of disclaimer and copyright verbage which benefits the author and Nifty Archives. -------------------------------VARIOUS------------------------------ The more I write, the more promiscuous I appear. And this installment isn't gonna help. But I'm really not that way. Just a matter of timing, I guess. Ya gotta remember, we're talkin' 'bout the last ELEVEN YEARS - back to when I was seven, involving lots of very social, hormone-driven teenaged boys, using any excuse to exercise their newfound abilities. What we have here is kind of a hodge-podge of characters who were way far in the background. "I wish" kinda blokes, who, for whatever reason, never seemed to appear that second time. Longest ago and least remarkable was a large part of our Little League team - seven or eight of us, I bet. Eight to almost thirteen years old. I don't remember where we were waitin' for my mom and dad to return from, but we got tired of the old black-and-white science-fiction movie that we were watchin'. We were all in our uniforms. They were gonna take us to our game. Too many of us to do video games. So we got the bright idea that somebody needed to be de-pantsed. It didn't matter WHO it was. Whoever was nearest. Whoever we felt like ganging-up on at the time. Whoever hadn't been the "victim" yet. Whoever was easiest. We each knew that we were gonna hafta endure this humiliation. It was just a matter of who was gonna get picked-on next. It was interesting to witness the many variations displayed, which ran the gamut of physical as well as behavioral differences shown by "the chosen one." >From significant to meek resistance, to downright co-operation (by the oldest guy, who thought that his was biggest and had the most pubes). The youngest kid out-and-out cried. Turns out that he didn't want us to see that he had a hard-on. But the most fun was getting our catcher. Eleven, I think, and not the largest. But when we stripped him down to his jock, things looked pretty impressive - until we ripped it away and out popped his cup. Also when I was eleven and Little League had ended, my cousins' family (who we hardly ever talk to any more) and mine went on a three-night stay near a big amusement park. The first day was "travel day" and when we got there at dusk, we simply unpacked and used the motel's pool. Donnie, the twelve-year-old, is named after his father. So, to avoid confusion, evryone calls him Skip. To make his little brother, Phillip, happy, they came up with a nickname for him, too - Flip - which was just kind of a mispronounciation or slurrling of his real name. At first, the two rooms were gonna be occupied according to family. But we kids convinced our parents that it'd be more like a vacation if there was an "adults" room and a "kids" room. Strictly against motel policy (one adult in every room), but how woud they know? We were far enough away from the office. Plus, we could trade our more-expensive two-rooms-with-double-beds for the less-expensive twin-beds in one of the two rooms. When just the three of us remained in the pool, Skip playfully did the "moon dive," showing us his bare butt as it disappeared beneath the surface, then daringly held up his suit. "I'll top that," yelled Flip, quickly streaking up the ladder and diving back into the pool, suit in hand. "Come on, Clark. Yours too." And, as they both approached me, to satisfy them, I hoisted my removed suit above the water, too. If this is what they were gonna be like in the openness of the pool area (even though it was now dark), I imagined TOTAL inhibition behind the closed doors of the room. And that was correct. "Two little beds?" questioned Skip. "I don't wanna hafta sleep with my baby brother." (At ten, Flip was only two years younger than Skip.) "I'll sleep on the floor. Nobody'll want to bunk with me, anyway. I don't wear anything to bed." "All right! I don't have pajamas, either." "No. I mean, I sleep barenaked." "Yeah. Like, in the raw. Me too. Could be interesting sharing a nest with you." "Hey - maybe I want him to sleep with me." "First time there was ever a fight over me. Let's just push the two beds together and make one big one. And I'll take the middle. Maybe I can fuck the crack. Nobody snores, do they?" And that's how the sleeping arrangements were determined. There isn't too much more to tell. Whatever you can imagine - it happened. Although Skip usually wore his underpants to bed, he didn't those three nights. It was like, get naked and jump in a pile. At ten, eleven and twelve, we giggled a lot, did the inevitable comparing and self-manipulating. But nothing more serious than little-boy stuff. The amusement park was great. But the accomodations were even more memorable. Next, I can attest to some of the strange behaviors of a few of the infrequent companions in my tent. I had spent the day with John's family at the river and I had developed an appreciation of just how attractive John was - especially when he didn't hafta keep adjusting those glasses. It was arranged that we'd later share the tent experience. And THAT prospect was exciting. We did the usual, pre-bedtime "reading" (you know, the standard porn-picture critiquing). And I got more comfortable; i. e., out of my clothes. Disappointing, though, that John didn't follow suit, continuing to flip pages and push into the floor, but remaining in those tight jeans. "Wouldn'tcha be more comfortable outta them things?" (I tried pulling his pants down over his bubble-butt.) "I'm gonna leave 'em on." "Soochurself." A few moments later, though, he says, "But you can rub me while I wear 'em." "Weird," I thought. "How's this gonna work?" He rolled over to show a slight bulge in his pants. He reached under the waist, stuck his hand inside - next to his fly - and, instead of at least displaying his undies to me to let me fondle him through them, he simply repositioned his stiffie flat against his belly so that I could squeeze the sides of his tool OUTSIDE of the denim. I wondered, "How could I be doing a very good job at this?" when suddenly he began shaking and holding his breath and moving his head from side-to-side. Then, a dark-blue wet spot expanded in front of the fabric and I knew that the attempt had succeed. There was nothing sexual between Bily and me. There was gonna be. But the indigestion gods had different ideas about that. We were ogling the collection in our BVDs when the sensation of upset stomach must have been more intense for Billy than whatever was produced by what we were looking at. How many people can truthfully say that they saw somebody puke who also had an erection? Needless to say, my tent was inactive for several days after that. No matter how much I scrubbed, the smell seemed so slow to go away. If we're pickin' a favorite who, for some reason, just didn't seem to fully evolve, it would hafta be Mikey. Perhaps you've noticed, my strongest point certainly ain't in writing physical descriptions. But Mikey is worth tryin'. Just a perfect specimen. The way, I think, all of us want to be. And he didn't even realize what he had. Probably one of the youngest set of eyes to gaze at "the collection." I didn't even think of him as appreciating sex yet. I regarded his interest in "the library" as "cute." Let's see...four summers ago I turned fourteen. So, he was still eleven. Seemed older than that. Must have been his Italian heritage. I kinda downplayed any "adult" actions because, to me, he was so little. Second thoughts, though, and I guess he was really advancing well for his age. Ample beginnings of a bush just above his cock. But then it ended right there. No trail up to his navel. No peripheral growth over toward his hips, to his asshole or even his balls. Strictly pre-pubescent everywhere else. Here's another sign of that sort of "in-between" stage: he no longer had that "scrawny little kid" (or the other extreme: "roly-poly baby fat") physique. But neither did he have that musclebound, hunky appearance yet. Just the right amount of flesh on his bones. Then there's the subject of dimples. Facial characteristics don't usually impress me. But Mikey smiles and produces the most noticeable dimple in each cheek. And he has matching dimples at eleven and one o'clock up from his hiney crack. His dark-brown mop appears never combed but exactly in place, if you know what I mean. His almond eyes blend precisely with his locks and his skin is unblemished and dark - like he was browned by the sun, but he wasn't - no tan lines. Such fixation on these features is atypical, I assure you. But HIS were attention-getting. "So what went wrong?" you ask. "Why didn't you try to bag him?" Well...he WAS so much younger...and, I didn't wanna make the first move. I knew that the photos were very much arousing him. But I pretended to be asleep beneath my unzipped sleeping bag, making it more like a blanket. I was on my left side, facing him, with my right arm raised, resting on my cheek, so that I could peek at him with my left eye. He was shirtless when I announced my retirement. "Here...you can have the light." What a treat as I proceeded to spy. He might have been only eleven years old but he knew how to make himself feel good. First, let's get outta these jeans. There's already a bulge and a dark spot in front of the light-blue bikini bottoms. Now let's be quick to rub it between our belly and the ground. Don't make a lotta noise. Don't wanna wake up Clark. And wiggle on it 'til you think you're gonna pee. Cocksucker!!! Gotta get rid of these undies, too - even if there ain't much to 'em. Free at last. And what a tool it was. Well proportioned - like everything else. I don't wanna overstate my appreciation for a trivial little three-inch piece of meat, but, it, too, forsook scrawniness, skinniness, under-developedness. It was the healthiest, most solid hunk of little boy bone I'd ever seen. Meanwhile, I'm hopin' Mikey'll grab me. I touch both shoulders to the floor, head still beneath my arm, turned so that I can still squint undetectably at Mikey. Maybe if I stick my leg out a little. Maybe a little more. Hey...this is what I want: whenever I wrootch, the blanket works its way higher up my legs. Good. He sees. Why doesn't he reach for me? At least pull the blanket all the way up. See what's underneath. I can just imagine the confusion in Mikey's mind right now: Holy shit! Look at Clark! How am I gonna look at him AND the magazines? Wonder what that's hiding? Maybe I'll get to see. Wow! Look at that babe! Can't wait for the next page. Bet he'd notice my ass goin' up and down if he was awake. Good thing he ain't. Feels so good. Ah - to Hell with these magazines. Gotta roll over and take matters in hand. Don't care if I DO wake him. Whereupon he spins to stare at the top of the tent from a prone posirtion. I wish I could make him go for it. This is my last straw. One more wrootch and - boing - out from under the blanket springs my painfully swollen phallus. But instead of helping me, he merely makes eye contact with my joystick and quickens jerking his own tool. I guess Dinger's trick will be my only relief. 'cept I can't DO that. The liquid at the end of my schwantz could certainly be more fulfilling. Meanwhile, Mikey's yankin' up a storm and I'm just a spectator. Torturous. His held breaths and flexing resembles someone approaching climax: longer and longer. His rests are getting shorter and his pumping is getting faster. Okay...time to interrupt with a biological question: which does our bodies manufacture first? Pre-cum or semen? We've already seen the wet spot on Mikey's underwear. If this is a dry orgasm, the question'll be answered (unless he pissed himself). No such luck. Although he's not yet twelve, the pud-pounding produces a first, second and third spurt of spunk onto Mikey's tummy. Not wanting to tilt and fetch the tissues, he simply massages the goo as if it were skin cream then licks - do you believe it? - licks his fingers clean. Oh, my achin' cock. He can't fall asleep fast enough to satisfy my masturbatory intentions. I think I know why Mikey was a one-night companion. He's the same age as - and good friends with - another kid who experienced a single sleepover in my tent. Did I ever feel like an antique when that kid told me, "My mom says you're too old for me to hang around with." Another memorable one-timer involved a guy who's last name I don't even know - just somebody who I refer to as "Bob the boat boy." It was in my twelfth summer and my family had gone to a big lake where there's holiday fireworks. All day, Bob's relatives and mine had shared a fire for cooking, so, we felt pretty comfortable after many hours in their company. Nineteen-year-old Bob would begin his sophomore year at university after the weekend. He trod that fine line between boating safely and showing off their craft's considerable speed. My parents, however, didn't see the "showing off" part, and acceeded to his invitation to me to get a better view of the fireworks from their launch. The oldsters said that they'd watch the display from the shore but that I should be sure to wear a lifejacket. Bob chose a spot among all the other boats and put out anchor. Close - but not too close - to the other spectators on the water. While we're waiting for it to get dark enough for the show, Bob and I are bull- shittin' about his experiences during his first year at college. I was fascinated by his tales about dorm life: All of the co-ed situations; the goofy frat-brother antics. It was a "big deal" to me that this college kid would pay attention to someone my age. His description of a "biggest cock" contest that evolved into a circle-jerk had me on the edge of my seat. The disbelief on my face told him that I was skeptical about some of his comments. Like him winning the competition with a ten-incher. "You think I'm not tellin' the truth?" He looked around, decided that nobody could see us from any other boat, and peeled his spandex down to his knees, which was necessary to display all of his monster. He had vacated the driver's bucket seat and spun to his right to stand against the port side of the boat. (I was already aft starboard to watch the fireworks.) My jaw dropped and Bob said, "It ain't even hard yet." Not only was I in awe of its size, but it was my first view of pubic hair. "So that's what I'm gonna get." "Nothin' says you're gonna get ten inches," he boasted. "I wasn't talkin' about size. I'm talkin' 'bout hair." "You mean you don't have hair yet? I've had it for so long, I forgot that you don't start out that way." "So, should I show you mine?" I asked, anxious to contribute whatever I could to the conversation. "That's up to you," Bob said, equivocally. I imagined that Bob's enthusiasm was more than it was and I bared my loins. I don't know if Bob's chuckle was because of my lack of size or my lack of bush (or both). But I regarded it as a compassionate chuckle rather than derisive. "Do you cum yet?" "I've never seen cum." "No shit? Want me to do somethin' 'bout that?" "That'd be neat." So Bob starts to handle his long dong and it starts to firm up. I knew about the gratification which I had experienced while doing this, so, I was glad to see that I was doing it like the big guys. Bob was now fully erect and I tried to equate it to a ten-inch snowfall. Eh - could be. The maturity difference might have been extremely great, but I was old enough to know how to give myself pleasure. Sure...Bob's gonna show me somethin'. But why shouldn't I experience that pleasure while I learn? So I rubbed my little willie 'til it was straight. As Bob pumped, I deduced that Bob believed - based on his antics - that animation and noise helped. All boats were distant. But surely the calm water must have "carried" the sound of Bob's grunts and groans and "oh yes"es. Lord knows, the ripples would travel far. Oh well...nobody'd know from which boat the noise and waves emanated. Let me tell you this...the rush leaning there against the rail was no less violent than at home on the bed. I hoped that I didn't miss anything, but I involuntarily closed my eyes and trembled down into a squat as my knees buckled. Then I collapsed into a kneeling heap on the deck. Wouldn't you know - at that time, Bob-the-boat-boy began blasting, such that his first two or three volleys landed smack on my face. After several more progressively smaller spurts gave evidence that the draining had ended, Bob's laugh was accidental when he giggled, "Sorry. Didn't mean to hit you. But you DID want to see cum, didn't you?" "Yeah. But not THAT close." We resumed our wait for fireworks of the standard kind, but I don't remember THEM. The following summer - which was five-and-a-half years ago - I celebrated my thirteenth birthday while on vacation. (That's what I like about summertime birthdays - so often they coincide with vacations.) Like everything else, there are pros and cons to having no siblings. A vacationtime "pro" that I really appreciate is that my parents let me ask a friend to vacation with us...my sort of two-week brother. I strongly approve of this 'cause, whoever I select, is always somebody that I get along with. I was disappointed when the first person who I asked - my friend, Rich - couldn't go 'cause his family's annual rental of a bungalow next to the river was gonna occur during the same two weeks as our vacation. (I went with HIM the next year, which I wrote about in installment #4.) My pal, Ding, could go, however. So, it was all set: Ding would accompany us this year. (He's the same kid who's in chapter 5.) A friend of my parents - Ed - is a very wealthy retired businessman and has TWO houses next to each other amongst an apple orchard about halfway around the Canadian side of Lake Ontario. One of the houses is so close to the lake that its basement is a garage for Ed's 27-foot inboard-dual-motor boat. For most summer weeks, Ed's daughter and her kids are there. But we timed our visit for when they'd be gone and that could serve as our getaway spot. Ed'd be there and he'd take us out in his boat (oh, I forgot, it's Canada: oot in his boot) almost any time. If the weatherman co-operates, we should return home with sturdy sea legs, plenty of pike and muskellunge, and an expert badge for water-skiing. Plus, there was a prime beach not far from Ed's houses, which were both two-bedroom affairs. So one bedroom was for my parents. And one bedroom was for Dinger and me. The curiousity and experimentation done by us two thirteen-year-olds during those nights could be the subject of many more paragraphs. But they won't appear here. It's really not all that different from the other stuff that I've already written about. The remarkable character was Reggie, who was a twelve-year-old neighbor of Ed. Ed had been teaching his grandkids - and Reggie - how to water-ski. "They're not here for a couple of weeks, Reggie," Ed lamented. "But these guys wanna learn. So you can still come around. This is Clark. And this is his friend, Homer, who'd rather be called Dinger, or Ding. And Clark's parents are over there," pointing to my folks and Ed's wife in chairs on a patio next to Ed's house. "This is Reggie." It was day three of our stay. So Ding and I already had the benefit of two nights of hormone- accumulating. Now we were being introduced to Reggie. And, if you'd seen him, you'd have known why we were so pleased to make his acquaintance. This kid should have been a Speedo poster-boy. He wore the tiniest beige briefs and seemed oblivious to the fact that his equipment should have been adjusted to de-emphasize the outward protrusion of his gender evidence. Ding and I just looked at each other in disbelief of such nonchalance. "Show 'em what you can do," Ed urged, as he tossed a life-vest to Reggie. "I'll bring the boat right out. Come on you two." So Ding and I followed Ed to the boat, where we both sat on benches aft: Ding on the port and me on the starboard side. There was a long wooden wharf extending out from the shore between the houses. Reggie had jumped off of the pier, and bobbed in the water, awaiting the tow rope and skis. "Here's everything," Ed said. "Signal when you're ready to go." Ed ever-so-slowly idled the boat away, stretching the rope tight. "You guys tell me when he wants to take off and I'll gun it." "Okay!" And Reggie was skiing atop the water on his first try. Holy shit! His Speedos were even smaller and more transparent when they were wet! For all I knew, he might have been skiing nude! He really should be wearing a jock. If he falls, he might never be able to make babies! It would be a shame to damage that. Luckily for Reggie, there were no spills before fatigue set in and it was time for Ding or me to try. There was a ladder built onto both exterior sides of the boat. As Reggie climbed and swung his first leg up and over to get from outside to inside of the boat, I swear you could see his little nut sac pull out from beneath the fabric. Both legs in. Still no adjustment to the package, even though the cold water was making his shrivelled private shrink so that it poked horizontally under the thin covering. What an unintentional tease! I was glad to be next into the lake 'cause that which I was watching was producing a condition which might be noticed. But that was the only "getting up" which Dinger and I were capable of, 'cause - try as we might - we did no standing on skis that day. Two days later, we had been hangin' out since early morning with Reggie. Mom proposed going to the beach that afternoon and we acted more like teenaged girls when we squealed, "Can Reggie go? Can Reggie go?" "If his mom says okay," which she did. So the three of us went. Within the past year, I had begun producing cum, and, in the past five nights, Ding and I had done our best to make us run dry. Our workouts, however, did nothing to reduce our susceptibility to Reggie's unrestrained cavorting. We liked him a lot. But Ding and I couldn't help sharing a joke with each other about Reggie's carefree exhibitionism. "Before long, he's gonna realize that he can't come on like that." Then, Ding and I decided that Reggie's behavior'd probably change when Reggie became aware of his body. We interpreted Reggie's actions as an indication that he wasn't even playing with himself yet. We finally found somebody who was more naive than we were. Ding and I also decided that we should move things along. After several hours at the beach, mom told us all to ditch our wet, sandy suits and put on something dry to wear home in the car. This became the perfect situation to try out that circle- jerk thing that Bob told me about last summer and, at the same time, make Reggie more aware of his body and tone down his flaunting. We headed for the bathhouses, of which there are two kinds: for individuals; and for families. The buildings for individuals are large, with dozens of partitioned cubicles inside that are big enough for one person to change clothes in with privacy. There are also a few smaller buildings for FAMILIES to change in - where a parent could help little kds re-dress. The first small building that we tried was unlocked, so, we latched the door after we were inside. Ding and I were anxious to see what had been tantalizing us all week, so, we were quick to remove our baggies and spend much time drying our already-dry backs, allowing our dicks to be clearly viewable. "Wow. You guys got hair already. And big peters." (Little did he know that we were mostly erect in anticipation of what we were about to see.) "A twelve-year-old can't expect to be as big as a thirteen-year-old." "I don't even have hair yet. See." And he quickly stepped out of those bothersome Speedos, stood back up, and unashamedly let us stare at the treasure which had been tempting us since our arrival. We were too hypnotized to say anything. But our cocks completed their erecting. "Mine gets like that sometimes, too." "It'll get like that more 'n' more, too. That's why we'd never wear a suit like yours." "When THAT happens, I just stay face-down. Or in the lake." "Then I'd spend an awful lot of time on my belly. Or in the water," Ding laughed. "Ever play with it?" I asked. The reddened face and sheepish grin replaced words that didn't need speaking. "Everybody does it. Feels good, eh?" And I started fondling mine right then and there. Also, I was proud of myself for having injected that colloquialism into my remarks. That was the cue that Dinger needed. Immediately he was stroking his five inches as well. "Come on, Reggie," he quivered. With that little encouragement, Reggie, too, began batting his child-toy until it was three-and-a-half inches (oh, I forgot, he's from Canada - nine centimeters) straight out. And the water temperature was 25-degrees C. Although it was more like a triangle, I figured that I was participating in my first circle-jerk. (Which gives rise to another stupid question: What's the minimum number of participants in a circle-jerk?) Both Dinger and I had had our usual release the night before. But sixteen hours was lots of time to repentish our supplies and reinstate our desires to relatively-short resistance. Despite starting last, however, Reggie got "there" first. We didn't know this 'cause of any great splash of liquid from his pecker. In fact, it was dry. There's just something about a climax-related shiver; or climax-related breathing. It's so different from anything connected with a cool breeze or a mad dash. So much more intense and intermittent. That was all Ding and I needed to see. His first two spurts landed on my belly, two feet away. And I struck his left thigh with the beginning of my ejaculation. "What's THAT stuff?" Reggie asked. "Cum. Sperm. Jizz. Spunk. Whatever you wanna call it," Ding finally answered, after he had regained his breath. "Sweet! So THAT'S what it looks like. Wonder when I'll have some?" "Any day now. Any day." Which is probably what my mother was saying, waiting for us back at the van. The final tale about infrequent mess-around buddies is mentioned completely for laughs. His real name is Winston, so, it's another instance of boy-boy sex. And I know that he won't ever sue me for disclosing this. I would never consider anything amorous with Winston because of his appearance. I don't want to seem discriminatory for physical reasons. Lord knows, I've had that happen to me recently and I know how that feels. But I think that getting it on with Winston would be gross. So...it must be non-consentual, right? Yeah...I guess you could say that. It always starts when I'm asleep and ends when I wake up. I've remarked many times before that I prefer sleeping nude. And, they say that it's normal for guys my age to get boners while they doze and even have wet dreams. It's embarrassing - although my mom doesn't say anything - that there's an increasing number of cum stains on my sheets, even after they've been washed and dried. And I wrootch a lot while I rest, so, it's not unusual that I kick my covering off during my snoozes. Winston likes all these facts, especially when I'm lying on my back. This results in complete exposure of - and access to - my family jewels. I'm sure he begins by simply looking at them. But the looking soon turns to licking. This has happened to me more than once. I really enjoy this while I'm not more than semi-conscious. A couple of times, I was awakened by my own, involuntary thrusting. But as soon as I see that it's Winston, the thrill is gone. How can this be, you ask, because I've previously stated that I'm an only child. And perhaps I appear so horny that any way of getting my rocks off'd be okay. Winston's not my father's name. Or the name of any of our neighbors, either. Well...Winston's our cat, lapping the ooze from my hard dick. His spit and my juices make for a sticky mess. While my closed door provides privacy from my parents, it was desiged to be no less than three or four inches from the floor to permit entrance to - or exit from - the room at all times for small pets. I'm amused by animals' immunity to the confidentiality thing. That reincarnation theory could really be unsettling if it goes too far.