by Blake Dawson* <blake@menetor.com>
From the Preface to Chapter 1:
If you like to read this kind of story but are concerned about possible legal implications, work to change the law! If you don’t, why are you here?
*Blake Dawson is the person the otherwise anonymous author would be if “trading places” became magically possible.
The third grade is a large chunk of a young boy’s life. That year changes many things, but one favourite suburban ritual quickly erases the intervening fifty weeks when you head down the coast for your regular fortnight under canvas at, in our case, Bermagui. From before I can remember, mum and I have hooked up our little caravan and gone south for the holidays, joining a bunch of people who we have no real contact with in the rest of our lives. Every year we resume exactly where we left off fifty weeks earlier and, especially when you are young, your life goes onto fast forward at about twenty-five times normal speed. This summer was to be just a little different—mum had been able to organise a three week break, and we had been able to run our site booking on the extra week.
On the first day away, it takes until well into the afternoon for most of us kids to get down to the beach and into the water. Never being one to wait for a group to gather around me, in case it doesn’t, I got there after most had begun their ritual frolicking in the shore break. By that time, it had already started to look like all the tackers onto William Matthews. Willy was a very big, very fat and immature 13 year old with blonde hair cut short all over. He was already bright red from the exertion and maybe a little sun, although he was wearing what in an earlier era might have passed for a poor boy’s neck to knees. The five through nine year olds did not care how ugly Willy might have looked to a television programmer, or even to almost anybody except his own mother. All they wanted to do was jump all over him and get him down into the water or onto the sand—a torture which he almost seemed to be enjoying. Sometimes a bigger wave would help them topple him over, but he would quickly get to his feet again with three or four of them draped over him and proceed to throw the last one hanging on head first into the next wave. I shrugged off the sophistication of Blake Dawson, improving cricketer, and plunged in determined to bring that monster down to size.
Willy had got his own three man tent that summer because he had trouble getting into his family caravan, or so the camp wits said. His tent was set up at the back of his family’s fairly large and out of the way site, but I managed to find a track past it on what I had told my mother might be a long trip to the toilet block just before lights out. I strummed on a couple of his tent ropes walking past, then on the way back a couple of minutes later passed close enough to the half zippered entrance to let a fat hand grab my ankle and provide the impetus for me to dive inside. Before I could get on with my planned seduction, I had to find a way to break down the ritual horseplay and induce a very different reaction to physical closeness which was easier said than done and, in the final analysis, depended on him seeing a risk in me getting sprung. He was always gentle with all the kids but it took ages before he stopped habitually pushing me away whenever I tried to hold onto him. While rather unattractive to even my eye, the feeling of his huge soft body in the darkness was much more interesting and I was finally able to persuade him to let me have a good feel of his flesh.
I had to make him feel good enough and comfortable enough to want to hold me to him. Eventually I was able to progress from taste testing his rolls of fat to pressing lips to cheeks while at the other end getting my hand inside the front of his pyjama pants. Squeezing his tiny dick between my thumb and forefinger I whispered: “Have I found Willy’s willy?” Hardening a little at my touch, he replied: “No that’s not it. Willy willies go round and round and suck you right off the ground.” I told him I might do just that and dived head first to follow my hand, rubbing myself to a climax in the deep groove between his breasts, despite two intervening layers of clothing, at the same time as getting him there with my lips and tongue. At best he had only noticed half of what I was doing as when we had both recovered a bit and I was suggesting leaving, he asked whether I wanted him to do the same thing for me. I settled for getting him to pull me off which he managed while I showed him a little of the pleasure of cuddling and kissing, before agreeing that it really was past my other bed time.
Again among the later arrivals at the beach next morning, I noticed quite a change in how the games were played. Instead of the tackers jumping all over Willy, most tried to keep their distance while he chased after them and, if he caught one, would grab the kid and try to get him under the water while a few of the other tackers would get brave enough to try to rescue the one that had been caught. I didn’t like what I saw, but decided the best approach was to start off playing by the previous day’s rules. Just when Willy had cornered another tacker, I hit him with a flying tackle just as a wave dumped us both. He hung onto me and groped my crotch until we both had to come up for air. “I hope you haven’t been trying that with the other kids.” I was faced with explaining in the middle of a crowded beach that lots of kids are nowhere near having their minds around casual sexual explorations, and later, after we got away, about all the hate that is directed to anybody who is found out trying that kind of stuff with kids. Before we even left the water, I made sure there was some evidence that the old rules again applied, as a few even later arrivals and then some of the others joined back in. As it turned out Willy had only managed to lay a hand on the private parts of three or four and even they may well have believed it was a misplaced grab rather than a fondle—the real reason for their changed behaviour was the intimidation they felt at this hulk attacking them rather than the other way around. I said quietly to a couple that I thought he must have had a bad night and then proceeded to have to give him a few more “bad nights” while I got him in some kind of control of his new found feelings. At least one of the kids guessed something of the truth, but Willy and I were fortunate that he too was into it, so I was soon able to take alternate nights off.
The Matthews were only staying the standard fortnight, so it was soon time for a warm goodbye and “see you next year.” I never did, hearing through one of the other campers that they had obtained a site near Port Macquarie and decided to head north for their future holidays. But almost as they were driving out, a family pulled into a vacant site not far from ours with a mature, cool 14 year old son who I instantly hoped might turn our final week into more of a holiday that the first couple had been.
Lucas Coulter was into everything a kid camping at Bermagui could want to be into. He too had his own tent on his family site, and he also had a flash surfboard, short and long wetsuits, snorkelling gear and a fancy guitar. He didn’t piss me off, letting me tag along with whatever he was doing, even showing me how to use all his stuff and often happy to just sit and talk. But the one thing I hadn’t taken into account was girls. While they stared and giggled during the day, come twilight they would close in and be fed by his guitar. He could take his pick and that he did without apology—a different pick on each of the seven nights that we were both in Bermagui, and clear cause for me to seriously rethink the possibility that he would ever be interested that way in me. After a couple of nights of departing discretely when he was ready to get on with his chosen dolly bird, I wanted even more desperately to show him my love and finally settled on a different tack which was also to be a kind of therapy for me. The next day we found an opportunity for a chat around in a little cove on the ocean coast and I related the whole story of my education of Willy Matthews. “I’m sorry, I had to tell someone. I hope I haven’t pissed you off for ever.” Lucas glanced around the cove, then put his arm around me and kissed me on the top of the head. “We’d better go before the tide gets any higher. You’ll always be welcome to sneak into my tent for a kiss and a tug any time after lights out, if you want.” I grabbed his hand and squeezed it as hard as I could, then we headed back round the point from where we agreed to cool it a little with a swim to the beach.
I told mum I wanted to watch the sun rise over the ocean and got into Lucas’s an hour before dawn. It was the first time I had ever handled a grown dick or tasted semen—licked from my fingers. He reciprocated expertly and neither of us felt a need to take it further than that in our few remaining nights. This time it was my turn to have to leave somebody behind, with another warm promise to see him next year. That promise was kept—just—as the Coulters drove in just as we were about to drive out at the end of our back-to-normal fortnight, so all we had time for was to renew the promise, and another year later to renew it again, but the year after that is another story.