Date: Wed, 9 Apr 2003 02:42:00 -0400 (EDT) From: Clark Gaybull Subject: Mess-Around Buddies #8 The viewing of this work constitutes acceptance of all disclaimer and copyright verbage which benefits the author and Nifty Archives. This is a real bite: I said everything that I wanted to say about Zach. After the "Matt" chronicles, I intended to throw out THAT batch of papers and to keep the sixteen "Zach" pages for submission to Nifty a week later. Wouldn'tcha know...I discarded the WRONG chapter: I KEPT what I had JUST SENT about Matt, and the garbageman was the only one who could read about Zach...until now...after I've tried to rewrite all of those words. Am I a dope, or what? Maybe there's some substance to what they say about blonds. Here's my best attempt to restate my affinity for Zach... I remember starting by remarking that Zach is one of the most decent human beings whom I've ever met. He moved into the 'hood four Novembers ago. He had just turned sixteen - my age in nine months. He was so glad - not about transferring (although it WAS only a short distance) - but to be leaving one of the few states where the driving age is eighteen. Here it is sixteen, and he quickly got his license. His dad is a preacher, who goes wherever the church directs. So "Zach" is short for "Zachariah," not "Zachary." But don't call him anything but Zach. Only his mother calls him Zachariah, unless we wanted to tease him; or otherwise get his attention. He's the youngest of four kids: two boys and two married sisters, all with Biblical names: Luke; Sarah; and...I forget the name of the oldest daughter. Zach is a real physical-fitness buff. No machines; but push-ups, sit-ups, chin-ups, body-bobs, jogging. Makes me tired just to THINK of all of those things. Therefore, his physical description reflects that compulsion: very athletic-looking. But not out for any sports. Says he doesn't compete 'cause, "What's the use? Dad goes anywhere, anytime. There's been too many mid-season transfers. Like this one. Wouldda had four football games to go." In other words, his appearance is that of a jock; but he's not. Not linemanish-tall or wide. More like an end: with much solidity everywhere: Your true "six-pack" abs; well-defined pecs; slender waist; and well-muscled thighs and calves - like the runner that he is. Oh...the other attributes? Haircut almost as short as a Marine's. (Wouldn't surprise me if his dad had been a chaplain.) Really dark, though...black is accurate. Probably very thick, too. Deep-brown complected. Says that his mother is one of the few Hawaiian baptists. She met her husband, converted, and got married when Zach's dad was a seminary student interning in the islands. Zach has joked about his pop getting a better final grade by tieing the knot with his mom. In spite of giving the impression that he is well-tanned, there's still plenty of contrast where there IS hair: under his arms; above his dick. Like an oriental, there's not much of it - he's mostly smooth - but it's quite profuse where it DOES grow. Also eye-catching are those nearly-midnight nipples, making his skin appear lighter that it is. Is that enough to pick him out of a line-up? Okay... five-feet, eight-inches tall. 120-pounds. No scars. No glasses. I won't identify him further. Zach and I did nothing sexual for seven months; possibly because of a couple of stigmas: (1) preacher's son, and (2) uncertainty 'bout the new kid on the block. Certainly, I helped him around school. We shared all but two classes. Too bad that we didn't have gym together. And HE learned French while I forgot Spanish. (I'll have to write about the French teacher sometime.) Must be Hell changing schools in November. (Hey - can a pastor's child deal with Hell better than a non-clergyman's offspring?) Anyway - Zach had a beat-up old pick-up, which led to his joining a four-wheel-drive club during the winter. They were going on an overnight ride in mid-June, after the school-year ended: known about far enough in advance so that Zach could work on his dad for a few weeks and get permission to be absent from church, which almost never happens. But he had to take his Bible with him. Fortunately, it was the weekend AFTER Father's Day. (Zach's dad, however, was probably glad about any time when the junky truck was not parked in front of their house. When it WAS there, the ol' man'd complain that it "Hugely reduces the property value.") The outing started on the fifth consecutive rainless day - dry for camping but dusty for the drive, which we had been doing for several hours. Hot, too; so downed windows were our paupers' source of air-conditioning, which Zach's wheels had, but it was broke. Finally, we arrived at the place where we'd be pitching our tents: a beautiful spot, at the bottom of a gorge, known to probably only a very few people; especially how to get VEHICLES down there. Through the middle of the ravine is a wide body of water: on the map, it's labelled a creek; but here, it's river-like: slow flowing; almost seven feet deep in many areas. We put our tent at the periphery of the group - one of, I estimate, a dozen shelters. Close to the water, however, so that - after our nylon home was made - we explored the bank. Too much of a temptation for two boys to avoid. What's that they say about little guys and puddles? Its cool mountain origin notwithstanding, Zach and I were soon splashing each other, pushing ourselves into deeper and deeper territoty until, ultimately, were were swimming where it was over our heads. Couldn't continue that for very long, however, so we sloshed back to the tent, shivering as we rummaged for our towels. Zach's coldness was such that his nipples had shrunk to the size of peas. They were likely the smallest that I had seen on anybody. I know that my own nuts had bunched together, seeking the warmth of my belly. "G-gotta g-get outta th-these w-wet sh-shorts," he stammered. I thought that he was gonna strip right there - in full view - after he dried off. Sure...it was almost dark - later than 9:30 - but flashlights and lanterns shone aplenty. Instead, he modestly stepped into the tent before throwing his wet cut-offs out at me, allowing me a quick glimpse of his midsection. For the life of me, though, his willie wasn't visible. It must have shrivelled into - and been mostly covered by - his concentrated - but bushy - pubes. Now what? MY only choice was to undress inside, too. Zach was teeth-chattering beneath his sleeping bag, so, I quicky shed my dripping attire and sought warmth under MY covers as well. "We COULD use each other to warm up." "But I don't have anything on." "Neither do I. That's the idea." Holy shit! Am I to believe this kid's words? "You mean face-to-face?" "That'd be more effective than back-to-back. Or front-to-back, at least." I gotta say it again: Holy shit! It had been a very short discussion. But the shortness of my dick was a thing of the past. I might have been numb from the chill, but the prospect of curling up against Zach's nakedness was quickly restoring my sense of feeling. As much as I liked Zach's idea, I HAD to level with him: "But now I've got a hard-on." "So do I," he confessed. Well...I can't pass up this opportunity, so, I fling open my unzipped sack; realize that HIS is unzipped too; and slide under his covering, contacting his nude, fully-aroused front. It became an eventual bear hug, with my head to the right of - and atop - his. But the unforgettable poking of my member against his / his member against mine, provided all the warmth of an electric heater. He was right: this really WAS making us warm. Hot, even! Hell...somebody was sweating! Or could something else expain the wetness on our bellies? Oh, shit! Better roll over pronto and assume that back-to-front posture. Elsewise, I'm gonna add a great big jizz explosion to whatever's between us. That was before my days of anal intercourse. But we were in the perfect position for that to have happened next. Instead, we just fell asleep like that: his left arm atop and around me; his erection parallel to - and resting from the top to the bottom of - my butt crack. Must be why it's slit THAT way, instead of side-to-side. (Ever hear that, if it were slit from side-to-side, it'd go "bbbbbbbbbb" down a sliding board?) In the middle of that night, I - and obviously Zach - still maintained our horniness, so, I became so bold as to do something about that: Reaching in back of me, I grasped onto his still-stiff penis and began to massage it gently. To my disappointment, I was allowed to do this for only a couple of minutes; Then, my focus was withdrawn to who knows where? Oh...I see where! Looking over my shoulder, I notice Zach - sprawled carelessly on his back, apparently asleep, elbows beside his ears, stiff little woody barely peeking its circumsized head upward toward his navel; it's bottom three inches covered by the upper extent of his sleeping bag. Should I move to enable continued stroking? Why not?!?! Mid-month moonlessness; but enough light to see that there's already some humidity oozing from the tip of Zach's cock. He wants it. Let's give him a doozy of a wet dream! Brushing aside the blanket causes Zach's joystick to cease lying against his belly and to spring more perpindicular, such that a strand of moisture flicks from it. If that wasn't a shudder when his boymeat jumped free, then I DEFINITELY heard a gasp when my palm encircled it firmly. And another, as I began a slow finger-squeeze down to its base. Next came an equally time-consuming journey upward, smearing his leakage around his hyper-sensitive glans. Additional shuddering, fulfilling my need for control, which I had unquestionably attained. How awake IS he? Awake enough to moan and groan in response to my touches. Awake enough to undulate in harmony with my ministrations. Awake enough to cum. And cum. And cum. Ribbons upon ribbons of thick, goey white sauce now dampening Zach's middle, which he made no move to mop up. So finally I found his still-wet towel and wiped him clean. Next morning, I cautioned him about using the soiled rag and he asked, "Why?" Is it possible that he doesn't remember getting the hand-job the night before? I thought that he was a willing - okay, maybe groggy - participant. Perhaps he was totally out of it. I SHOULD be honest with my friend, even though the deed may not now be approvingly regarded. My temporary misgivings were without basis, however. After hearing the story, all he said was, "Oh...then I WASN'T dreaming." On the holiday weekend in July, Zach and I went hikng in the woods behind his house. We had been walking for less than two miles, when we came upon an ample pond. "I KNEW there was water back here. I hear the knee-deeps every night. Too bad we don't have a float for in there." "I can BUILD one," I bragged. "There's a big pile of old lumber I can use next to the contractor's house." (Actually, the family of the builder's son-in-law lives there.) "All we need is the barrels. I'll find out if they have four at dad's job." (That's a common item where he works.) I was gonna try to duplicate the raft which I'd seen at a lake which I go to. "Let's see...I think there's a road over there somewhere." Sure enough...trekking in a southerly direction, we soon stumbled onto little more than a cartpath - a grassy hump between left and right tire trails. "How'd you know this was here?" Zach asked in amazement. "Leads back to a parkin' place," I gloated. "And a dump. Where they target practice." "That explains the shots I hear," deduced Zach. "After the raft's built, we can load it onto your truck to get it back here. It's only a short distance of off-roadin' down to the water." "Sounds like a plan to me." Dad arranged to get the four drums. I was told that we could help ourselves to any of the second-hand lumber. In fact, I could plug a one-hundred-foot extension cord into an outdoor socket of the sister's house and thereby have electricity where I wanted to cut the boards. Okay if the barrels were there a couple of days, too. Therefore, THAT became our raft-making spot. We were lucky in that there were exactly four barrels which didn't yet have the tops cut off of them at the warehouse, where they're used as trash containers. As it was, we couldn't find the threaded breather plug for one of the ends. (Zach was amused when I referred to it as a bung-hole.) But this absence'd be alright - we'd just be certain to put that little opening up out of the water. No problem. At the local hardware store, we bought some strapping, enroute to transporting the barrels. Otherwise, we had everything necessary. Construction Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning was suspended by considerable rain. But Thursday morning was christening-time. Man...was that water cold, as we positioned our creation. The pond was less than five feet deep in most places, so, the rope to the cinderblock anchor was not ten feet long. "I'll decide where this thing goes," announced Zach. "Right here." Just making conversation, I questioned, "Why do you say, 'right here'?" "I'll show you." And with that, Zach hoisted himself up onto the raft, peeled off his shorts, and sat down bare-assed-naked with his legs stretched out. "More outta sight behind that tree. C'm' on, Clark. Get some sun." Well...Zach is so dark all over that no tan lines were evident. Either that, or, he basks in the nude all the time. Never the leader - but not the modest type either - I became the second teenager reclining in the altogether on the newly-built raft. "Clark, your middle is so white," laughed Zach. "Well, it's not Hawaiian like yours." "And I bet it's never seen sunshine. Better be careful not to get red in the wrong places." "Yeah...maybe I better not stay out here too long. I'll be more prepared next time." Our tanning was shortened also by incoming clouds. However, Sunday - after church - was a different story: "Let's check on our float," proposed Zach. "Okay. But I'll take the Coppertone today." And what fun it was, putting it on. I thought that Zach didn't need any, but he wanted me to spread it on his backside. Not too erotic above his waist. But peter-stiffening as I worked my way up his lightly-haired legs to his smooth buns. I was anxious to allow the favor to be returned but I feared that my erection'd offend, so, I flopped quckly onto my belly. I needn't have worried: Zach was as hard as a rock. How pleasant it was while he rubbed that stuff in - especially on my butt and high on my legs. Good thing that my cock was pointed upwards. It might have reached my knees if I was laying on it the other way. Zach, however, finished applying the lotion and stetched out on the boards, flat on his back, arms extended straight up on either side of his head, so that his pits and blood-engorged willie - surrounded by a thick, compact growth of jet-black foilage, comprising probably 85% of the hair below his neck - poked directly toward the sky. I wouldn't say that Zach is an exhibitionist. But he certainly doesn't hide that which he is proud of. After awhile, I considered exposing my other side. But I realized that I still had a throbbing rod. Oh well, so did he. So what the fuck. Over I turned and let it all show. Neither of us has much, but my five-and-a-half inches are at least an inch more than the boner he's been parading. So shouldn't I take heart in that? Things didn't get any smaller, either, as I put the goop on my chest, mid-section and front of my legs. "Any place I can get?" queried Zach. "I can manage," I truthfully but foolishly replied. "Are YOU okay?" "Are you kidding? Ain't nowhere I can't get. Watch this." And with that, the agile Zach lifted his toes upward, then above and beyond his face, resting his hips on his hands, so that his dork pointed down toward his mouth. A little effort followed - to raise his head - and...shazam...there go his lips right around his member. Now...I had seen some pictures on the internet of guys referred to as self-suckers. But this was the only time when I was in the presence of a real live person who could actually accomplish that feat. Not that others of us hadn't tried. But heretofore, nobody could do it. I was impressed. But I must admit - it looks not only funny but very uncomfortable. "Betcha can't do that sittin' down," I challenged. "Betcha I CAN." Whereupon Zach assumed a more conventional posture, except that he placed his hands beneath his legs - below his ass - pulled up, bent his neck down 'til I thought that it would break, and his boymeat was engulfed again. "No shit! You could give yourself a blow-job." "Wouldn't be the first time." "Get out!" "Should I?" My silence was correctly interpreted. "You wouldn't dare." Zach accepts all wagers. Therefore, the auto-fellatio began. There was an occasional "pop" when his boner slipped out and he lost suction. A few grunts were testament to the intensity of the effort and preceeded the fountain with which Zach soon had to contend: Sperm splashed down Zach's throat, on his face, and then along his shaft and balls if it didn't annoint his head. A couple of coughs were followed by a cum-eating grin and a "so there." Quite a show. Couldn't top that. Didn't even try. Had a hard-on the rest of the day and jerked off that night, thinking about Zach giving himself head. >From mid-July to mid-August, Zach counselled at a church camp, which was gonna overlap his dad's solitary Sunday off. Hard to accept that the family planned a week's tour to the west and Zach wouldn't be able to go. At least he got out of the post-camp, weekend clean-up. But he came home to an empty house - on the very day when his family was most on vacation. I had never been in Zach's pool before. But soon after he arrived home, he called me. "I'm back." "A little early, aren'tcha?" "They didn't need everybody, so, I vounteered to leave," he chuckled. "Wanna come over?" I had celebrated my sixteenth birthday while he was away and was just about to utilize my recently-acquired driver's license. But Zach was choosing to experience the rare serenity at "the estate." "We've got the pool all to ourselves." How could I refuse? "Be right over." "Okay. But don't bother to knock. I won't hear ya. Just come around back 'cause I'll already be in the pool." Sure enough, he was: On a raft; sunning his bare buns. "Gotta get rid of these tan lines. See what a month in that suit at camp did?" "Yeah, right. Instead of being black all over, your butt stayed olive brown. It really looks pale," I cried facetiously. Even though I'm blond, ol' sol gets me pretty dark. But not like Zach. And MY colors presented much more of a contrast, which he laughingly disparaged when I immodestly duplicated his nudity. I stayed obviously relaxed, perhaps because of the novel environment; or, maybe as an after-effect of my Sunday morning masturbation just a few hours before. But even with the application of my trusty Coppertone, Mr. Happy achieved no more than 50% solidity. Therefore, face-up was first. "Sorry I wasn't around for your birthday." "Well, they're not such a big deal any more, 'cept, after this one, I'm legal behind the wheel." Some additional banter followed. But eventually, the heat of the day; the comfort of the situation; causes us to doze off. Almost an hour goes by, then Zach's voice awakens me. "Time to turn over. Want me to do your back?" Do I ever. "Be my guest," as I splash into the water to cool off then re-emerge onto my float on my stomach. With Zach standing beside me, it was unclear if his little dick was floating perpindicularly, buoyed up by the water or as a result of excitement. "Hard to believe it's back to school in just over a week." I grumbled my agreement, and noticed that - when he climbed face-up back onto his raft - there was arousal going on here. However, the laziness of our surroundings took over once again, such that we returned rapidly to dreamland. I actually heard Zach snore a few times about 45 minutes later, so, I quietly slipped off of my raft, into the pool, and toward him. As I approached, my initial intention was to violently stop the noise by knocking him off of his float. But instead, I opted for a calmer plan. I figured that he'd flinch when he felt my touch. But he was really zonked. At first, I fondled his flaccid pecker, which was almost buried in his plentiful bush. That didn't awaken him, although his boyhood began to hurriedly harden. Okay...I'll give it a few up and down strokes. Still no other signs of life. Dare I do what I was thinkin' of next? What the fuck - it's all in fun. Here goes... I pushed Zach's raft to the shallowest part of the pool so that I coud plunge my mouth over his upward-pointing phallus. THAT had the desired effect. He raised his hands above his head and grabbed onto the wall of the pool. "Thought that'd quiet the racket." "What'd ya stop for?" "Really? Okay. You asked for it." Returning to where I was, I could now reach for Zach's hard little nipples and could almost feel them contract and protrude, as I pinched one, then the other, between my thumb and index finger. The water is warm. The bright summer day is hot. So why does he show such goosebumps? They seem to form wherever my fingers wander: first around his tiny tits; then on his shrinking scrotum. Could it be a sign of sexual stimulation? I heard him moan when my fingers grasped the base of his small cock, while my lips stopped just below its head so that my tongue could dart about the glans. "Awww. Awww." A sound that signalled forthcoming ejaculation. So slow down, Clark. Lengthen this procedure. Prolong this pleasure for the appreciative young Zach. He lay before me, writhingly seeking all of the extasy that I could provide. And I was all-too-willing to show off my ability. To put this in terms that might hit home with Zach, when I was little and at church, my mom used to tell me to "Be quiet and sit still." Zach certainly wasn't acting like there were any pews around. His gasps alone would have drowned out the loudest of sermons, not to mention his grunts and groans. And wiggling? Fuggetaboutit! I don't know how he didn't squirm off of that raft. It bopped my chin when it rose in response to Zach's legs spreading around the sides of it to hold on. "Oh Jesus," he wailed, which I took as quite a compliment, coming from a preacher's son. Up, down. Up, down. In, out. In, out. Then his flailng stopped. His legs went straight atop the surface of the water. He held his breath until declaring, "Here it comes." With my right hand around the base of his firery member, I could feel the expansion prior to his pending climax. I continued my jerking but removed my mouth just in time to see three or four squirts shoot almost two feet - straight up - and then back down onto his belly to join the other droplets of sweat and pool water. I do not question that Zach encourages and enjoys these experiences. But he has NEVER reciprocated, which I attribute not to his selfishness, but to some sort of religious notion that it would be wrong to GIVE this sort of carnal gratification. No problem, though, with his GETTING. I didn't know it at the time, but I should have suspected it: When Zach's dad's year was up with his local congregation, that affiliation was not renewed, and the family was once again on the move. This time, though, Zach was assured that it'd be the FINAL transfer. So far, that's been the case. I've gotten e-mails from Zach's same place for more than sixteen monhs, now - Hawaii - where Zach's mom has relatives; Zach and his older brother go to college; and Zach's dad is a faculty member at a religious school, mostly retired from his pastoring. And that's where I'm gonna go, too, in about a month: to live with them, establish residency there, and enroll in the philosophy/psychology department of the university which Zach attends. Aloha, y'all...