Date: Mon, 21 Mar 2005 15:56:42 -0500
From: Jon Kent <jonkent@post.com>
Subject: SWEETS TO THE SWEET   GAY YOUNG FRIENDS

DISCLAIMER

If reading erotic material is illegal where you live, read no further.
If you are under-age for this type of erotic material, read no further.
If you are determined to read more anyway, remember that in real life
you've always got a choice. Never put yourself in dangerous or risky
situations. Remember you always have the right to say 'No thank you'.


SWEETS TO THE SWEET

Fuck it!

Late again.

That was the second time that week and it was only Tuesday.

I'd almost made it. Sprinted out of the house. Down Muirton Street.
Into the High Street. Just in time.

Just in time to see the red double decker pull away from the bus stop.
I shouted. I waved. I bet the bastard conductor saw me.
Bet he grinned. Probably waved two fingers.

Couldn't really blame him. We were notorious. You could hardly blame us.
We were an all boys' school. His was the school bus. Fuck it.
We were meant to wreck it every day, twice a day in fact. Going to
school. Coming home. Wreck the bus. That was the natural order,
the way it was supposed to be.

I stopped for breath at the top of Carnegie Avenue. Why hurry now?
No matter how fast I ran, bag bouncing against shoulder, I'd be late.

In fact being very late was much safer than being just a bit late.
A bit late meant I was certain to get caught. I'd been caught the day before.
But very late meant I'd a sporting chance of sneaking in without
being caught.

After all, it was Tuesday. Whole school Assembly. Entire school
packed into the old Oak Hall. With its painted portraits of Headmasters
of yore. Wasn't quite sure what 'yore' was but if it meant a long long
time ago that would do. The lists of gold, names in gold-lettering,
listing those old boys, prefects, war heroes, cricket captains, rugger
buggers, all of those boys of yore who'd serve God, King, Queen, Country,
and school so well.

Ah, the old Oak Hall with its serried ranks of boys... boys, boys and
more boys. Flanneled boys. Boys in blazers. The noble burgundy with the
piping of even more gold round the edge of the blazers. Badge affixed
to each left breast. A dead sheep and a stack of corn, representing
what I hadn't the faintest idea. The school motto: per arduam...

Fuck it. I was only yards from the grey squatting hulk of the school.
It lay there lay some malevolent Loch Ness Monster or some beached
and rotting battleship. I'd been day dreaming again. Focus now, you
fucker. Do the Houdini. Slip and slide straight in, as the Bishop
said to the choirboy. You won't feel a thing.

I tiptoed across the granite drawbridge. It wasn't a drawbridge that
could be raised, but it was known as the drawbridge anyway.
Pupils weren't allowed to use it, strictly forbidden, which on a
Tuesday at this time of day made it the safest entry of all.
The Headmaster would be in Oak Hall, bleating on about whatever
occupied his pea brain that fine day.

That's not fair. Saying the Doc. had a pea brain. Very few of us had
intimate knowledge about our glorious leader's brain or much else
about him for that matter. Very few of us has seen Doctor Humphreys
outside of Oak Hall, beyond a Tuesday whole-school Assembly.
In fact, there was a rumour that the good doctor didn't actually
exist, at least not at assemblies. Science nerds suggested he was
a hologram projected from his office but they were all Trekkies,
Star Trek freaks, so no one paid them much attention.

Across the drawbridge. Through the swing doors. Fuck it. Somebody
should take an oil can to those swing doors, but who the hell
had an oil can in an all boys' Scottish grammar school.
It was all: amo, amas, amat. We left the dirty-hands' stuff to the
local technical schools. Places for plebs and proles. Not for us,
not for the intellectual creme de la creme, not for the boys of
Bruce Academy for the Sons of Gentlefolk. Whoever dreamt up that
name had a sense of humour - or was a complete moron.
Take your pick.

Sharp right. Tiptoe through the tulips, metaphorically speaking,
past the double doors of the Oak Hall itself - Fuck it. They were
only into the first hymn: Who would true valour see... humm dee
dum... down the Classics corrider and into the Junior Boys' Toilet.

Strictly legit. After all, I was only 13, so technically I was
still a junior. At least until the Summer Holidays rolled in,
and then away. In late August I'd be in Middle School - hurrah! -
then I could have my wicked way with the fresh-faced juniors,
but for the moment safety was best. To be caught in the Middle
Toilets meant you'd get a chance to see the brown goldfish -
close-up, to be caught in the Seniors
with your pants down... well, if they weren't, they soon would be.

The Junior toilets it was. Swing door open. Step inside. Let
door swing closed. Fuck it - what a pong. Piss, crap and
disinfectant. The smell of hundreds of boys, even this early
in the week, even at this unearthly hour of... let's see: 5 past 9.
To be honest, I didn't mind the smell. It was pure school.
It was pure boy. And to be honest, I liked school and I loved boys.

Wow - what a weird statement: I loved boys. Pretty strong for
a 13-year-old, don't you think? Thing is, I did. I loved their
open faces, and their unruly hair, and legs going every which way,
and the chests, broad and thin, topped with chewable currants.
And the way their bodies narrowed into their school trousers,
or cricket flannels, or gym shorts. I liked their big feet, and their
long toes. I liked their scabby knee-caps. I loved their bums, the fat ones,
the thin ones, the round ones, the flat ones, the sticky out ones,
the sticky up ones. I didn't discriminate. I loved them all.

And I loved their cocks, their dicks, their penises, their stiffies,
their hard-ons. I loved them even when they had dumb names like 'members'.
That's what our idiot tutor called them as we trudged through dog-eared manuals
on Sex Education without ever really learning what we were desperate
to know. Could you get pregnant if you swallowed another boy's...
ejaculate. I swear that's what they called it. We called it stuff,
or semen, or sperm, or the newly-fashionable word: cum.
Though I wasn't sure if that was spelled 'come' or 'cum'.

At this point I should admit I'm homosexual, or is that homo-sexshual?
To tell the truth, the word was too embarrassing to use. It was hinted
at in our Sex Ed. manual but only to rule whatever those homosexshuals
did as unmentionable, beyond the pale, the guaranteed route to Hell.
And even then it didn't seem as bad as the big 'M'.

Masturbation!

I still shudder when I say that word, or even write it. They managed
to turn one of the most beautiful activities on the planet,
a gift as God-given as snooker, into something only fit for the fallen,
only fit for their Satanic majesties and
their Satanic minions.

Sucking cock - yes!

But Masturbation - no! That will get you to Hell faster than you
can say "Beam me up, Scotty!"

And I can't admit I was a 13-year-old gay because the word hadn't been
used in that way yet. And I can't use the word homsexual because
at 13 I wasn't sure what I was yet.

But I can admit I was queer.

Fuck it - I AM queer.

I can't say I was proud of being queer. That's just the way things
were. Might as well be proud of being left-handed, or ginger-haired,
or having a big dick (well, I'm proud of that) because that's just
luck, just the way the cookie crumbles, the way the genes combine,
the way the cards fall - all a matter of chance.

God or Whoever had decreed that I was Queer! And I intended
to make the best of it. Scatter ye rosebuds while ye may.

Fuck it!

The door swung open, and in stepped Raymond.

Raymond, ah, Raymond, how can a boy, so well-built, so good-looking,
be such a nonentity. Raymond was 13, he was in my Year, in some of
my classes. I'd even sat beside him in class a few times, and Raymond,
with those big sheep's eyes, those freckles, that tidily-combed
fringe, was utterly fucking boring.

And so passive!

I always felt, when I could be bothered, like giving Raymond a sharp
kiss up his fat arse - not fair, it was big and round and firm,
definitely not fat - telling him to lighten up, unload, have fun.

Raymond was an over-looked boy. Last to be picked for the rugby team,
not because he couldn't play, he could, not because he wasn't strong,
he was, but because he was hardly there. At cricket Raymond always
fielded in the deep, as far away from the action as possible, and he
always batted number 8 though he could belt a a cricket ball into
the stratosphere with those arms, those shoulders of his.

Pointless trying to have a lively dialogue, conversation, or debate
with Raymond to pass the time. All you could get was a 'Yes', 'No',
'I don't know'.

Sample:

"Fuck it, I missed the bus this morning."
"Mmmm..."
"Did you miss the bus?"
(I knew Raymond didn't take the bus, but might as well try for conversation.)
"No."
(I swear Raymond blushed when he said the one word.)
"That's the second time this week."
(Reponse there was none.)
"How the fuck do you get to school, Raymond."
(Pause for thought.)
"Car."
"You're too young to drive."
(That was me being facetious. No effect.)
"I know."
"Well, who the fuck drives you?"
"My mother."

The entire exercise was pointless.

"How long till the bell?"
(Raymond looks studiously at watch.)
"13 minutes."
"That'll do."

I ran my hand across my flies suggestively.

'Suggestively' is the wrong word. I was suggesting nothing.
This was an open direct, invitation.

Did I tell you that Raymond was queer, too? Well, he was.
Fucking raving queer. Though I doubt whether he'd have done anything
about it until I sat beside him and stroked his flannels through an
R.E. (Religious Education). (Well, how did 'you' pass the time during
R.E. lessons?)

Raymond responded! And I mean 'responded'. His face lit up like a
Halloween lantern. He shuffled that sweet arse of his, but made no
attempt to move away. Bingo! And when I let my sweet little fingers
slide across his fly, he had a stiffy like a milk bottle.

Big, too. Big and fat and hard.

Big balls, too. When I slid those cute little fingers beneath his balls,
he opened his legs wider and let me explore. Meanwhile he gazed straight
ahead, listened raptly about 'all things bright and beautiful' while
I tried naughtily to bring him to orgasm.

You'll notice that those Sex Ed. lessons weren't totally a waste of time.
They gave us the language. We learned the terms, and I sat there trying
to squeeze and stroke Raymond to orgasm. The devil in me, and there's
a lot of Him, was trying to make sweet Rayond 'cum' in his Y-fronts.
He'd go around the rest of the day with dry cum sticking his skin to his
Y-fronts and I would be the author of the achievement.
Bravo for me!

So I gazed at Raymond and ran my fingers across my fly. I already had
half a hard-on anyway. One of the reasons I'd been delayed was I'd been
playing with my dick too long over breakfast. Not that I was intending to cum,
because I was aroused. And why was I aroused? I hear you ask... because
I was going after Eric. I was going after Eric that morning. Going after
the first prize, the big one, the school idol, at least the sports idol
of the Junior school. So I was playing with myself that morning, giving
myself an edge, making sure I didn't turn back... with the result I'd missed
the bus and had to stroll-cum-sprint all the way to school.

Raymond stepped forward. I stepped back. Into a cubicle. Raymond followed.
I turned on tiptoe, probably looking like a fucking ballerina, so Raymond was
facing me, knees against the toilet seat. I gave him my best 'yes please'
smile and stepped forward. He reached tentatively forward and let his
fingers brush across the front of my flannels. Knowing Rayomnd,
I suspected he might take his time, time we didn't have, so I reached down
and slowly unzipped my flies. Then I pushed him gently backwards.
His legs bent at the keen and he was sitting on the loo.

Is there anything more erotic than the sound of a boy's fly being unzipped?
I knew a few things, so I'll leave you to answer that.

My shirt tail stuck out of my flies - hardly erotic, but it least it served
as flag and guide to the treasure, to the family jewels, as it were.

Raymond, like a good boy, reached in with his fingers, fished around like
a blind man, got his fingers through my Y-fronts, and pulled out my hot,
hard and sticky shaft. Yes, I'd gone from half-hard to tent-pole hard in
a matter of seconds. Hell, I was only human, only 13.

I looked down at Raymond. His nose was up against my dick. I wondered just
what he could see. He was enraptured, I could see that. He was worshipping
my dick, my 6, well, nearly six inches of hot hard boy flesh. I could feel
his breath against my skin. I knew what he wanted to do, and I knew he
couldn't do it without my help.

God knows, I was a helpful boy.

"In your mouth, Ray," I whispered. "Go on, suck it. You know you want to.
And I want you to. Go on."

And on he went.

I felt the shaft of my penis slip between Raymond's thick lips, felt his
tongue caress the unsheathed head, felt him release my penis for a moment
and slide little kisses down its length. Felt him take me deep again till
the head of cock touch the back of his throat, tickling his tonsils as it
were. I opened my legs to let his fingers slide inside my underpants, dig
deeper until they unearthed by sweaty little sac and manipulate the testes
within.

I sighed and ran my fingers through his thick rather coarse dark hair and
thought about... thought about myself actually.

Thirteen years old. Not that short, not that tall. Maybe about 5 4. Slim but
not thin. Dark brown hair in a sort of bowl cut, the fringe parted at the middle
and swept away on either side. Lovely skin. I've always had lovely skin.
It sort of glowed, even in the winter, now it was sun-kissed. Yes, the sun does
shine in Scotland. Brown eyes set fairly wide apart with curving eyebrows,
and thick up-turned eyelashes that made me seem permanently cheerful and inquisitive
and cheeky. No little upturned nose, but nicely shaped, and framed on either side
by round cheeks that dimpled when I smiled, and I smiled a lot. Nice, white,
shiny teeth. Thanks, mum. I'd served my time in braces, and here I was now with
a lovely set of nice white shiny even teeth. Little ears. Legend had it that mum
had sellotaped my big brother's dumbo ears every night when he was little.
No need of that for my small pointed elfin ears.

What else?

Oh, yes, I had a big penis. For my age anyway. Actually I'd had it since I was
about 11 years old and since it was much the same at 16, I guess it was big for
my age. About six inches and quite thick with it. Not like Eric's, not that
jumbo-sized beauty, but big compared with boys my age, my Year, and in the couple
of Years above.

I knew that because those were the days when we all bundled into the showers after
sports. No curtains. No cubicles. No separation of the ages. All for one, and
one for all. Bundled into a big marbled shower room where the pipes rocked and
rolled and the shower heads spat either scalding or freezing water with no
Mister In-Between. And we all compared. What boys don't? And, wow, I was big for my
age, noticeably big, pleasingly big. I saw other boys eyeing me up and staying to
linger. And hair. I even had hair at 11. Not lots and lots, but it was there, the dark
little tuft on the pubis. No waiting till Third Year for me - I had it in First Year.
No embarrassment of naked skin for me. Dark hair - the rest of me satin smooth.
And a dick many a Fifth Year could envy. Surrounded by naked boys, all sizes and
shapes. But none as big and shapely as Eric, my Eric. Not my Eric yet, but if he
was human, if he was seducable, I'd have a real go at it.

My sac had tightened, my balls risen in my scrotum. I felt the pulsation that leads
to the shudder, the uncontrollable shaking, the heavenly squirting and spurting.

No, no, not yet. Keep the edge. Keep the hunger. We had German second period. German,
where I sat beside Eric, the seats so small, his thighs so big, where contact was
guaranteed.

Fuck it!

Gently I eased Raymond's head off my penis. He looked up at me, glassy-eyed.
My pre-cum glistening on his lips. Shit, he had beautiful eyes. I'd never really
noticed them before. He lowered his head to graze again. I eased him away.

"The bell," Raymond. "Listen. That's the fuckin' bell."

Raymond shook his head like a shaggy dog waving water away.

"Oh, yes," he mumbled. "Thank you," he mumbled.

"No... thank YOU," I whispered, pressing my erection against my belly,
stuffing my shirt tail back in, zipping myself up.

"Raymond. Raymond."

"Mmmm... yes?"

"Get off your fuckin' knees, Raymond."

"Oh... yes."

Raymond rose to his feet just as the door burst open and half a dozen juniors came
storming in.

"Hi, Donny."
"Hi, Allan."
"Hi, Donny."
"Hi, Marshall."
"Hi, Donny."
"Hi, Dougal."
"Wanna fag?"
"You know I don't smoke. It's fuckin' disgusting. How was the Assembly?"
"Fuckin' bor-r-ring." That was a chorus.
"What have we got now?"
"Latin."
"Shit, let's get going. Corky's a real bastard if you're late."
"Sure is. I know the first chapter of Caesar's Gallic Wars off by heart.
 I've written the fuckin' thing out often enough."
"Hey, who was that in here with you?"
"Just Raymond."
"Oh, Raymond. Come on let's go."

An hour later we are sitting in German. I feel the heat of Eric's thigh
against my own.

We are reading, or rather translating, 'Emil and the Detectives' word
by word, line by line, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph,
from German in English. If I Eric wasn't beside me, I'd screamed from
boredom.

I like the book. I've read it twice. I think that Emil is cute, and,
after all, he is surrounded by boys as they chase the theif across
Berlin. It's German I can't stand. All this hanging round till you get
to the end of a sentence, find the verb, and work out what the fuck is
going on. If that weren't bad enough, the teacher is 'Jock' Macdonald,
deputy headmaster and vicious bastard, who hates me even more than
I hate him. It may not be personal. Jock Macdonald hates all us boys
from the 'wrong' side of the city, from the working class areas around
the jute mills. He's a snob, and that cuts no ice with boys who didn't
know what snobbery was until they beached up on the shores of the
Bruce Academy for the Sons of Gentlefolk.

Jock Macdonald carries a strap, made of the finest Lochgelly leather,
slung over his shoulder, under his academic gown, and when he gives
you 'six of the best' you can't feel your fingers for an hour after.
My fingers have been so numb, I've even had a friend fish my dick out of
my underpants when I've needed to take a piss.

Well, fuck it and fuck Jock Macdonald. I had Eric Murray by my side for
the next fifty minutes and nothing was going to deny me that pleasure.

I slide my glance to the right as if watching the seagulls making
their way up and down the Estuary. Eric's is in profile. My heart skips
a couple of beats and I hear my indrawn breath. Christ, he is beautiful.
I wonder if Eric is aware of his own beauty. he is by far the best
all-round sportsman in the school but, unlike me, he isn't in the top
sets for every subject. Especially not Maths, and especially not
Algebra. I've been trying to demonstrate to Eric just how logical algebra
is, but he's no Mr Spock, and he just can't get it. In the end, he grunts
and says "Let's do some place-kicking," and off we go. I hate rugby and
I hate place-kicking, but I'm with Eric so it's Nirvana. We learned
about Nirvana in R.E. that morning. I know where my Nirvana is; right
between Eric Murray's legs.

Eric's got the first sentence of Chapter 3 to translate. His German's
worse than his Algebra. It's my favourite chapter and I whisper an
adequate translation. He repeats it for Macdonald, loudly because Macdonald
is a bit deaf. My turn, and I rattle off the next three sentences,
knowing that will annoy Macdonald who likes it sentence by sentence.

The teacher glares at me. "Didn't you hear my instructions, boy?"

I gaze blandly back. "Sorry, sir, what, sir? My ears are waxed up.
Can't hear a thing. Getting syringed this afternoon."

Macdonald grunts and glares. I doubt whether he heard much of my mumble,
but he doesn't seem in the mood to accept a fight, and he goes on to
the next boy. Twenty two more boys to torment. It'll be a while before
he gets back to us.

I return my gaze to that heavenly profile.
The straight nose.
The slightly curved lips.
The cheekbones.
The skin kissed by the Summer Term's sun.
The straight ash brown hair, flopping over the one eye.
Those shoulders.
That chest.
Those thighs - like fucking tree trunks.
That bulge below the grey flannels.

I take a breath and take the plunge.

I run the fingertips of my right hand along Eric's thigh. His school
trousers are so tight I might as well be running them on his bare skin.
I whisper, "Did you have a good weekend?"

I'm not the least interested in Eric's weekends, but I know he's
fascinated by mine. Eric has got it into his head that I spend most
weekends doing 'dirty stuff' with girls on the 'wrong side' of town.
Eric lives on the right side of town. I know that's in his head because
I put it there.

Eric's not far wrong. I don't do much dirty stuff, at least not with
girls, but I see more than my fair share of dirty stuff with girls.
That's because my elder brother, Iain, and his best mates, Dougal and
George, are notorious for doing dirty stuff with the girls in our
neighbourhood. And sometimes, when they're in a very good mood, they
let me watch.

Iain is fucking good-looking, though I've no interest in him 'that' way;
Dougal isn't bad; buy George gives Eric a run for his money in the
body-beautiful stakes. George, with his shock of black hair, his thick
eyebrows, pouty lips, straight white teeth, and ear-to-ear grin, has
been the image that launched a hundred of my orgasms, but he belongs to
Iain's crowd, and I'd get a good kicking if I even mentioned homo stuff
in front of them. Although they're only two years older than me, they
belong to a different world that includes a different kind of school
where they build bird-baths, stools, and better kinds of mousetraps.

I don't know if any of them have fucked a girl yet. I'm pretty sure
they have but I always get sent away when the knickers come off.

So I sit there in German class, casually stroking Eric's thigh with
my fingertips, describing as graphically as I can what 'we' did that
weekened.

Her name was Marie. One of the Irish girls, from the poorest part of
our neighbourhood. She was 14, maybe 15. Saturday afternoon. Hot and sunny.
And Marie was stretched out in the gravel pits. My brother straddled her
belly. Her blouse was open, her bra was down at her stomach. His big
fat thumbs were kneading her big fat nipples. His fly was open, his hard
cock pulled out. He ran it across her lips.

Down below, Dougal was under her flimsky skirt. He was playing 'stinky
finger'. Dougal was ruthlessly finger-jobbing the girl with his middle finger.
He'd pull it out every now and again, wave it at me, and laugh, "Want a
sniff?" Yuk!

Marie's head would have rolled from side to side, but it was trapped between
George's knees as he knelt above her, cock out, tossing himself off over
her eyes, nose and mouth. Every now and again, the head of his cock made
contact with the head of Iain's cock.

"Let's see if we can shoot together," laughed George. "Hey, Marie, keep
your eyes closed and your mouth wide open. Wider. Wider. Good girl, that's it."

My own cock was so hard it ached. George's cock was thick, brown, wet, slimey,
slippery, beautiful. That should be my face below it, eyes closed, mouth wide
open, but I wouldn't wait for him to cum, I'd slide ip and slide up in, I'd
swallow him to the root, until that thick black hair tickled my lips, until...

"Fuck off, Donny."

That was Iain. He didn't even turn his head. Just hissed, "Fuck off."

I didn't argue. My brother could be violent. I had the childhood scars to show it.
And to be honest, I didn't like watching him. It made me feel weird, uneasy,
a bit ashamed. I'd stay because George was there, but when Iain told me to fuck off,
I felt relieved, turned and scarpered across the gravel pits, through a hole
in the high fence, and off to meet Alan Aitken.

Eric hears nothing of the end of the 'seduction' of Marie. He hears about the
hair and the slit and the 'clit' (I'd only just learned that.), and the big
puffy breasts and the pointy nipples.

My fingers are caressing the buttons of his flies.

Bingo!

But why the fuck hasn't Eric got a hard-on? Is he flesh and blood or what?
I've been working hard for a hard-on. I deserve a hard-on. But Eric is still
soft and squishy.

I'm puzzled but I don't remain puzzled for long.

"Up a bit. It's up a bit," he whispers.

So up a bit I go.

Holy fucking Moses!

It's not his cock. It can't be. It must be his bicycle pump. He must've shoved
it down the front of his trousers. It's thick and hard and it goes on an on,
up and up, forever and ever... A-fucking-men!

Eric's erection is so long and hard that it doesn't seem real. Jesus, if
he shoved that up Marie it would poke out of her mouth!

I fit my thumb and fingers round it. Must be 4 inches in diameter. I should
know, I'm top of the class for Maths. And the length - 10 inches. That's what
we see in the changing rooms, and that's what I have in my hot little grasp,
ten thick inches of a stiff Eric Murray.

"Fucking hell, Eric, it's BIG. Where'd you get it?"

"Well, yours is 6 inches. And you've got more hair than me. And you've got
a curvy shape to the end of yours."

How the fuck did he know...?

Ah, the changing rooms, the showers. He must watch me as much as I watch him.
Yes, that counts for a lot.

As we whisper, I keep stroking.

"You know what I'm doing, don't you?"

"'Course I do. I'm not an idiot."

"Do you do it to yourself?"

"'Course I do."

"How long?"

"About 10 inches, I guess. I measured it. Ten inches."

"No, I mean how long before...?"

"Before... before what?"

"Before you cum, shoot, squirt?"

There's a pause while Eric works it out. Maths isn't his strong point.

"About 10 seconds."

Ten fucking seconds!

"Ten fucking seconds?!"

"That's in the morning. When I'm in a hurry. At night I can make it last and
last."

I know what I want to ask next. And I know I don't dare ask.

"What do you think about when you're wanking?"

That's to myself.

I don't know what my next question would have been. The bell on the wall
behind us explodes. A flurry of books closes around us. We stand up behind
our desks. Everybody up - except Eric Murray. He sits there blushing
furiously, his Dumbo-like ears on fire.

"Murray, that was the bell."

That's Jock Macdonald.

"Yes, sir, I know, sir. But I wanted to... I wanted to... ask your help.
I can't understand this last sentence."

Eyebrows are raised around the room.

Murray doesn't ask for help with German, and Macdonald never stays behind during
the break. Break is fag time, and the only thing Jock Macdonald enjoys more
than paralysing a boy's fingers is his coffee and cigarettes, cheap fucking
Woodbines at that.

"Sweet can help you. He seems to know 'Emil' by heart. Sweet, help
Murray." And with that Macdonald swept out of the classroom in a cloud of chalk
dust and black gown.

Eric stands up. His erection is outlined obscenely in his thin grey flannels.
"We'll have to wait a minute."

I reach out my hand. He slaps it away, but he's grinning.

"Help me in the nets after school?" he asks.

Cricket. I fucking hate cricket. You stand there in the deep for two hours doing
fuck all. Then one catch comes your way. It's the most important catch in the whole
match, and it's coming you way. Bombing down from the sky like an Exocet missile.
You're underneath it. You're meant to catch it. You know you won't. You know
it will bend your fingers, bruise your fingers, maybe even break your fingers,
but you will not catch that mean little red leather ball. So you do what any
sensible tennis player does; you chicken out at the last second; move your hand
away; and watch the ball slam into your fucking big toe!

My face falls.

"Okay, half an hour in the nets, and half an hour on court. Deal?"

"Deal."

That leaves a spare half hour. Maths isn't Eric's strong point, but it's mine.
Two half hours equal one hour. Which leaves a spare half hour before the school
grounds close. Mmmmm..." My erection, wilting a few seonds ago, takes heart and
perks up again. I glance at Eric's crotch. He's wilted, too. Now it's only like
a small elephant trunk. And just sooooo kissable. You want to kneel down and...

Oh, for fuck's sake, Sweet, is that ALL you ever think of?

It wasn't 'all' I ever thought of. That would be ridiculous. But I'd thought
of a lot since I was 11 years old. Exactly 11 years old come to think of it.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. After school I hadn't gone home. I'd forgotten
my key and there was no chance that a window had been left open. Mum was fed
up of my scrambling through the kitchen window because "Sorry, mum, I forgot
my key." I used to wear the bloody thing on a string around my neck, but
these were my last few weeks of junior school. I was bound for Bruce Academy
for the Sons of Gentle Folk, and I was damned if I was going to wear my
doorkey on a string round my neck. That was kids' stuff.

I took myself to Steve's. Steve was a friend of my brother's, not a mate
like George or Dougal, but a friend who'd give me house room till my brother
got home around half past four. I guessed Steve would be home because Steve
didn't go to school much. His mum was dead and his father was a drunk who
didn't give a shit where Steve was most of the time. So it was to Steve's
I headed, and I was right - Steve was home. He was smoking as usual, the
ciggy between his lips bouncing as he spoke, the smoke making his left eye
squint.

Steve was a rocker, a greaser, his thick black hair piled high on his head
and sleeked back with Brylcream. Steve was 13, maybe 14. He looked like a
younger version of Elvis Presley, younger and rougher. He wore a lot of denim
and a battered black leather jacket that ended about four inches above his arse.

We sat and rabbited on about nothing much in particular, Steve's 45s dropping
onto the turntable with 3 and a half minute regularity, and Elvis launching
forth with equal predictability. I was no Elvis fan. I admit he was good, but
he just wasn't me. To be honest, I wasn't really into music though some of the
young guys appearing on TV were really cute. Hey, where did that come from?
Goys, not much more than boys, cute! I caught myself blushing.

It's strange how you often can't remember how something started. You remember
what happened, but not how it started. How the hell did I end up dancing with
Steve to Elvis on that threadbare carpet in his darkened living room.
I remember the smell, Brylcream and whisky. Steve often stole his father's
whisky. More than once he'd been battered for it, but I suppose if you live in
a smelly hole like that with no mum and a drunk for a dad, you've got to find
something to get you through the days, and the nights.

When it happened, it wasn't Elvis. It was Procul Harum. It was 'Whiter Shade of
Pale'. The song was like nits racing through my junior school. Everybody got
a dose. The fuckin' song had been 'Top of the Pops' for weeks. It was never off
the radio. I thought it was a bit of a dirge, and the lyrics didn't make any
sense whatsoever, but the whole thing had a hypnotic effect. You sort of went
into a trance and hummed or whispered the words along with the melody as if they
were full of meaning, full of significance, when you knew in your heart they
didn't mean jack-shit.

'Whiter Shade of Pale' was the last 45 in the bunch, so the needle would reach
the end of the track, lift, move back, drop, and start from the beginning.

I don't know when it happened. I just realised that my head was leaning into
Steve's shoulder, my eyes closed, my nose full of the heady smell of whisky and
Brylcream, and that his hand was in the pocket of my school shorts. Yes, it
was Summer Term, and we were in the obligatory corduroy shorts. I fuckin' hated
them and was seceretly thrilled to know I'd be in grey flannel trousers by the
end of August. For one thing, I've got a round little bum, a bit like split peach,
and those shorts didn't half show it off. I suppose I should've got a new pair
at the start of the year, but mum was convinced I "could get another year out
of them" even though they were a bit tight last August, let alone this June!

So, the melody wound round us, my head on Steve's shoulder, my eyes closed, my
nose full of his smells, and his hand deep in right hand pocket of my corduroy
short. Fuck it! He'd have to choose that pocket, the one with the big hole in it,
a very big hole, and bigger now that his fingers were through the hole, up the side
of my y-fronts, playing with my very stiff, very hard, birthday penis.

I was paralysed as much by my own lust as by terror. And I was scared, not because
I was afraid of what Steven might do, but because I didn't want to admit how much
I was enjoying it. Enjoying 'it', but what the fuck was the 'it' that I was
enjoying? I'd never experienced feelings like this, pleasure like this in my life.

You'll have to take my word for it, but I hadn't the faintest idea what was happening
to me, especially what was happening 'down there', down there in the Forbidden Lands.
For Christ's sake, I had a mother who made her boys sleep with their hands ABOVE the
blankets, so I knew playing with myself was wrong, but she'd never given any
instruction about another person playing with my 'down there'. And I'd heard my brother
and his mates pass comments, remarks I knew were 'dirty', but I couldn't quite figure
out what was dirty about them.

I knew I wasn't going to pee. Believe me, I knew when I was going to pee, and this
just wasn't that about-to-piss feeling. This was in a different league altogether.
For a start, peeing didn't make my tummy flutter like this. Peeing didn't make my legs
tremble. Peeing didn't make my little scrotum tighten. Peeing didn't make my limbs
tighten and my bum-hole clench then loosen like this. Whatever this was, it wasn't
peeing.

I wanted to push Steve away. I wanted to pull him even tighter. I wanted to raise my
face and bury into the hollow of his neck. I wanted to pull his buttocks so that he
pushed right into me. And I did. I wanted to feel that hot thing of his burn even
hotter against my groin. I wanted to slip my hand round and feel its length, its
hardness, its sheer alive-ness. I wanted to... I wanted to...

But suddenly I was beyond need, beyond wanting. I was shuddering and shaking.

"Ohhhh... Ohhhh... Ohhhh..."

My penis was convulsing, leaping between Steve's fingers, spitting fire and flames,
squirting liquid gold, spurting beyond my control. This was me, the essence of me,
and I was squirting myself into another boy's hand. I shuddered, shook, staggered,
and held onto Steve's shoulders.

And we danced on, a kind of staggering dance, into his father's bedroom, where
the curtains were always drawn, where I was backed against the double bed, where
I fell backwards onto the bed with Steve full length on top of me. I kept my
eyes tightly shut, keep out the truth, keep out the reality, keep out the shame
of my pleasure. And I felt Steve naked against me, or at least naked from the
waist down. How the fuck had he managed that? And he was clambering up my skinny
body, knees on either side, and I felt him and tasted him against my lips.

"You don't have to," he whispered. "Not if you don't want to."

Oh, but I wanted to.

My eyes fluttered open, and there it was, that thick dark sausage with the purple
head, knocking at my lips. And I'll never know how I knew what to do, but I did.
I opened my mouth just enough to let the head slide in, and I sucked on the head,
whirled round the head with my lips, slid a hand down the shaft till I felt the
hair brush against me, worked the shaft, let it slide in deeper until around four
inches were inside, and sucked and suckled the shaft as if I'd done it all my
life. I let my free hand feel his arse, squeeze his buttocks, let it slide into
the hot dangerous unknown territory in the depths of his crack.

Above me, out of sight, on another planet, Steve moaned and groaned, as he gently
fucked my mouth. I worked that one out. I wasn't stupid. I knew that men and women
fucked. I wasn't entirely sure how they did it but it was something like this.
I took my hand away from Steve's cock. He was entirely capable of what he needed
to do without my help, and using both hands, I pulled his buttocks widely apart.
Don't ask me why I did that. I don't know. It just seemed the right thing to do,
pull them apart, loosen, let them come together, then pull them apart again.
Establish the same rhythm as his hot hard-on pushing and pulling into and out of
my mouth. Speed with him, slow with him. That's it: quick, quick, slow - then
quick, quick and quicker - then so quick that he was losing contro.

Fuck it. Take it easy. You'll choke me. Pinch his arse hard, he'll get the message.

Fuck, what's that!

It's hot, and it's salty, and it's slimey, and it's spurting, and it's hitting
the back of my throat, again and again, and over it goes. Hardly a taste because
it's all going over so quickly. Fuck, my mouth's full. It's overflow time.
Taste it now. Salty? Sweet? Both, and so fuckin' much of it. And Steve's cock's
gone now. And his open mouth is against my open mouth. And he's tasting himself,
taking himself back, and his tongue is halfway down my throat. I'll show the fucker.
I can give as good as I get - well, almost. See me, feel me, touch me, heal me.

Steve and I never had sex again. Not because he didn't want it. Not because I didn't
want it. But he was a friend of my brother. He knew Iain would kill him if he ever
found out what he'd done to his little brother. And when I say 'kill', I literally
mean kill. Even at that age I knew, and my brother's friends knew that Iain was
capable of killing someone. Best not to play too close to home. I was certain
Iain would kill Steve if he found out, and I wasn't completely certain he wouldn't
kill me. And the funny thing is Iain would be convinced he was killing me for MY
sake, for my OWN good, to stop me becoming a little homo.

Too late, brother dear, someone had opened Pandora's Box, and I couldn't resist
diving headfirst in.

I'm not sure how true that is. I'm sure I'd've got there eventually but Alan Aitken
certainly helped me speed things up. And this was strange because Alan and I had
been friends since we were four or five years old. In fact, I can't remember a time
when Alan wasn't around.

Alan was cute. It's not a word I like much, but 'cute' is the best word I can think
of to describe Alan. Ever since I can remember women liked to ruffle Alan's curly
gloddy black hair; women were charmed by his impish good looks, the bow mouth, the
sparkling black eyes. I've never met anyone else with genuinely 'black' eyes but
Alan's were. Sometimes you thought they were the deepest of purples, but closer
inspection revealed, yep, genuinely black, set against the purest of white.
upturned nose, the bridge spattered with freckles, the high cheekbones, the dimples
when he smiled, and Alan smiled most of the time. His family was well-off; they lived
on the top floor of a... I'm not sure what to call it. If I write tenement, you'll
get totally the wrong idea. Poor folks lived in tenements; the Aitkens were anything
but poor.

You might find it odd that Alan and I even attended the same junior school, but
that was because... wait for it... Alan's dad was a chimney sweep. Well, he'd started
out as a chimney sweep, but in a few years had built a chimney-sweeping empire that
had a monopoly over the whole city. There were few chimneys in our city, a city
whose skyline was punctuated by chimney stacks, that were not swept regularly by
Aitken & Son. The 'Son' was Alan though he hadn't, as far as I know, had that much
contact with a sooty chimney yet. The Aitkens never forgot their roots, never moved
out of our district, and got on with everybody like a house on fire - maybe that's not
the best image for a chimney-sweeping business - with everybody.
And Alan and I had become instant friends from the moment we pulled on our floral
pinafores at nursery.

I've just noticed I've been writing in the past tense. Fair enough, but Alan is
still very much part of my life though not so much of my sex life nowadays because
Alan has got a man, a real, live, grown-up, with a deep voice, big muscles, and
a cock like.... But I'm not going into Alan's private life here. That wouldn't be
fair. Maybe I will later, but not now, not right at this minute.

Alan Aitken... What happened was this.

After Steve, after the unexpected introduction to the delights that lay beween my
legs, I was hungry for more. My hand was okay, my fingers were even better, but
I wanted more, I wanted someone else's flesh, male flesh, pressed up against my flesh.
I wanted a hot hard penis against my lips, I wanted to feel the tip of a fat cock
bouncing against the back of my throat, I wanted to exchange the taste of semen with
another mouth, I wanted to... but with whom, and when, and where, and how?

The answer came from the most unexpected person - Alan. I spent lots of time at
Alan's. We'd both passed the 11+, both pulled on our new blazers and long flannels,
both caught the bus to Bruce Academy, both ended up in the same Form Class, and
in the same classes for most subjects. Alan is very bright, but I'm brighter; at least
I usually come top of the class while Alan trails in at second or third. It's
a rivalry we both love.

After school we often go to his home. His mum makes tea, and there's iced buns or
scones with real dairy cream. We stay at the table, get our homework done - Alan's
crap at Latin, my Geography is erratic - swap tales of the day, then retire to
Alan's room for half an hour. I was going to write bedroom because there's a bed in it;
a fucking double bed! For one person. Not even a grown-up person: just Alan!
But it's a lot more than just a bedroom. Alan Aitken's bedroom is bigger than our
living room. Fuck it! And he's got great stuff. Like a real hifi set. His own TV.
Toys galore. And a fuckin' full size snooker table! I kid you not. Hiw own full size
snooker table.

We were on the bed. Laughing and joking. I was looking at Alan. His eyes were
sparkling. That curly hair needed cutting. The sun had brought out his freckles.
I was listening to his voice; it hadn't even started to break; it tinkled through
the scales. We were stretched out on our backs, heads on the same double-size pillow,
looking at Alan's collection of model aeroplanes; he was explaining the comparative
merits of the Spitfire and the Hurricane. My head was turned to him. I couldn't
take my eyes away from his face. And then it happened... so slowly that I wasn't
aware of it until it was too late.

A fuckin' erection!

It's a funny thing but at 11 and a half I had more or less the same size of dick
as I do now that I'm 14.  About six inches long and quite thick. Not quite true -
my dick's seven inches now, and it is thick. But at 11 and a half it was embarrassingly
big for my age. I hadn't realised that until we started having showers after P.E.
at the Bruce Academy. I'd got used to the stares and the cheeky comments, and the
furtive long gaze, and, of course, I'd been relieved when Eric Murray revealed his
ten inches of thick ivory flesh. That had silenced all of us.

But there I was, lying on Alan's double bed, with an erection like a milkbottle,
outlined underneath the think grey flannel of my school trousers. I wished it to go
down. I concentrated on the merits of the Spitfire and Hurricane. I tried desperately
not to look down at my tummy and below, nor to look into Alan's eyes. Maybe he
wouldn't notice. Maybe he wouldn't say anything. Maybe Batman could beat Superman in
a fair contest.

Alan's hand slid down my chest, down my belly, down to my belly button, where his
fingers grasped my hard-on and measured out its inches. I lay there paralysed,
stricken into silence.

"Shit, Donny, you've got a big one. Where the fuck did you get that? I've seen it
in the showers, but, fuck me, you and Eric Murray make a right pair." As he spoke,
he continued to tweak and measure, tweak and measure out its length from root to tip
netween his thumb and finger. I tried to speak. My voice box betrayed me, and
whatever I was going to say, escaped as a strangled screech.

Alan laughed.

"Let me see it."

I said nothing. I didn't trust my voice to get anything meaningful out. But I didn't
push his hand away. I lay there on the verge of wishing and hoping...

"Let me see it."

Was that a note of exasperation in Alan's voice?

"Look, fair's fair. You show me yours and I'll..." Alan started to laugh again.
I couldn't see what was funny.

He reached down, unzipped himself with a flourish, fumbled into his underpants, and
fished out his own erection. Fuck it! His own erection. Alas was as hard as me. Not as
long, not as thick, but definely as hard. And it was pretty. Lovely. Beautiful.
A four-inch column of ivory. The foreskin pulled back to reveal the shapely purple
head, wet and slick with what I've learned is called pre-cum.

"Can I?" I mumbled.

"Be my guest," my childhood friend laughed. "But wait a sec."

Alan reached down and pulled his trousers wide upon, wriggled his bum up, and pushed
trousers and underpants down to his knees, then turned to me and did the same.

"What about your mum?" I whispered though my blushes.

"Are you deaf as well as dumb?" he giggled. "Didn't you hear the door close about
10 minutes ago. She's gone round to Auntie May's. Back around 6. That gives us...
mmmm... nearly an hour." Alan pulled my hard-on away from my body. "A little kiss
to start with." He leaned over me and kissed the head of my penis. "Aw, fuck it,
lots of kisses to start with." His pursed lips ran the length of my erection, up
and down, up and down, his lips open to edge the shaft between his lips. He stopped
a moment, looked up at me, eyes glazed, and whispered, "Whatever you want to do,
just do it. I'll like it. Fuck it, I'll love it."

I understand the meaning of '69' now but I didn't then. It took me about five
minutes to discover the position. Was the first? Probably not, in my wilder
moments I like to think so. Only joking.

Two naked 11-year-olds lying side by side on a double bed. Their fingers clasped
round each other's erections. Their heads bobbing on their other's stiffies.
Mouths sliding the down until lips are pressed on each other's naked pubis.
The sweet liquid of precum already in their throats. Fingers of each free hand
manipulating hairless scrotums. Giving and taking in unison, in harmony.
Instinctly matching rhythms. So difficult to concentrate. Is it the pleasure
of fullness in the mouth? Is it the pleasure of the other's mouth seeking to
absorb the other's fullness. The naked limbs are twisted in such beauty as no sculptor
could ever match.

Not only the sights but the smells. Sweet perspiration. Milk and honey.
The untainted smell of immature semen.

It was hard to focus on sucking Alan when my own senses were so overwhelmed.
The touch of his naked skin was overwhelming in itself. The sight of every vein,
every curve of his scrotum, the pink of his shaft, the curve of the head,
the little eye that demanded to be probed with a tongue tip. So much. So much.
And always so much more.

I felt my legs pushed wider, felt Alan's head burrow between them, felt his
hot tongue lick my scrotum, his lips single out each small testicle to find its
shape, assess its weight. To take one, then both, then the little sac into his
mouth. For a moment I panicked. Could there be any great exposure than this?
With one little clamp of those little white teeth my balls would be gone.
What could I tell my mother? I was an adept little liar but it would be hard to
wriggle my way out of this one. I sighed and copied Alan, my mouth opening wide
to take in his own little sac. Then I knew what it meant. That I could snap off
the sac, his balls, and swallow them in a single gulp. And the possibility felt
wonderful. He trusted me so much. Trusted me with the family jewels. Trusted
me with so much of his future. If my mouth hadn't been so full, I would have
laughed.

Then he was gone. Deeper. Lower. Into the unmentionable. My legs pushed wide
apart by his insistent head. I felt his thick hair brush and tickle the inside
of my thighs.

He couldn't. He wouldn't. Fuck it. He did.

His tongue was deep between my buttocks, circling the dirty place, the place
you had to wipe clean three times, the place no one ever talked about, and
certainly not in relation to what was happening, not in relation to... sex.
How could there be any pleasure in this?

Ah, but there was.

The image, even then, was incredibly erotic. My cock pulsed even harder.
I couldn't keep the imagine out of my mind. It was wrong, it was wicked, it
was wonderful. Alan's tongue circled closer and closer to... What should I
think of it as?

My bum hole. My arse hole. My anus.

Shit, I'd hardly ever seen my own bum hole, and here was Alan getting a close-up
in Cinemascope. I had seen it a couple of times... when I'd lain on my bed
at home, my legs hooked high by my elbows, a mirror strategically placed.
Why had I done that? I've no idea. Just my insatiable curiosity, and an urge
even then to be drawn to wards the taboo, the forbidden.

And the tip of Alan's tongue touched me there. Right on the centre spot.
The tip ran the small length again and again. Tiny pressures, increasing with
each run. My mouth took kis cock in again. My lips swirled around it.
I sucked just the head, released it, and then took in the whole shaft again.
There was no music in the room but I felt a singing in my ears.
"Any day now, any way now, I shall be released."

"Whatever you want to do,just do it. I'll like it. Fuck it, I'll love it."

Had Alan really mean that - WHATEVER I wanted?

Just do it.

Now my head was between his legs. He played them wide, giving me all the
access I desired. It was dark in there. I wanted to see. I heaved his arse,
his legs around, a little rudely, a little uncermenoniously, until he was
facing the bedlamp. The light focused where I wanted it. There it was.
The centre of the known Universe. And I was about to go there, to boldly go
where... o for fuck's sake, not Star Trek.

Valleys, sand dunes of silk skin ran towards the centre. Creamy ivory
darkened to a darker centre. The eye of the Universe. The gateway to all and
everything. Cream gave way to a light flush of brown, to a slight serrated
edge, to a pucker, to a rosebud that asked to be kissed.

Stargate!
A rosebud by any other name.
A rosebud is a rosebud is a rosebud.

I closed my eyes, slid out the tip of my tongue, the serpent about to enter
Eden.

Bang!

"Alan! Donny! I'm home. Tea'll be ready in five minutes."

A light rap at the door.

"Scones and cream. Real cream. Dairy cream."

Shit!

We unhooked ourselves and shot off that bed like bats out of Hell. A scramble
of clothes. When I got home, I found I was in Alan's underpants! We dressed
as if our lives depended on it; they probably did. Alan snagged his dick in
his zip. Hopped around in agony. I knelt and unsnagged it. Gave it a little
kissie to make better. Then neither of us could stop giggling.

"Boys! Boys!"

We made final adjustments to our semi-hard cocks, emerged from the bedroom,
crossed the lounge, and entered nonchalantly into the kitchen. I assume
Alan was nonchalant; he looked nonchalant; I was terrified.

"Come on, boys, it's on the table. Sit down and tuck in. Auntie May wasn't
in, so I got us a treat for tea...

"Donny, you look a little pale. Alan, you look a little flushed. I hope you boys
aren't coming down with something. You don't want to be in bed for the rest of
the week, do you?"

Alan fell from his chair, laughing, his mouth crammed with scone and dairy cram.

"Oh, Alan, you are a silly. Thank goodness Donny has a lot more sense. You're
lucky to have a friend like Donny. You could learn a lot from him."

Alan was doubled up in helpless laughter, tears streaming from his eyes. I tried
but I couldn't help it; I joined in the laughter. Then Mrs Aitken joined in, too.

As she pulled herself together, she smiled.

"I don't know what's made you two so happy, but whatever it is, it's doing you
a power of good."

And it was.

And it did.

Believe me, Mrs Aitken, it did.

Eric and I wander up Carnegie Avenue after school. It's 3.30 but it's still warm,
the sun casting stark shadows. The school sports grounds lie between Carnegie
Avenue and the Balgay Hill. To go home Eric branches off to the right and the right
side of town; I branch off to the left, cross the hill, and go home on the wrong
side of town.

The sports grounds are first class, donated by a wealthy merchant who had three sons
educated at Bruce Academy for the Sons of Gentlefolk. The grounds stretch over a few
acres, the pavilion, tennis courts and cricket square at the Carnegie end, the
rugby and soccer pitches at the Balgay end. There's a full time groudsman but he
never shows up until 15 minutes before closing time; that depends on the time of the
year.

We stroll into the pavilion. There's a handful of boys there already. Mostly senior,
mostly tennis players. We dump our bags and change, Eric into cricket, me into tennis
whites. We must look a little incongruous but nobody pays much attention to a couple
of juniors like us - even though we're already playing for the Under-15's (Eric,
cricket; me, tennis).

We wander out to the nets where Eric becomes brisk and business-like. He's going
to bowl to me in the nets. Like fuck he is! I'm not going stand there while the
fastest bowler in the school aims chucnks of leather at my most delicate parts,
even though I've got a cup on, and pads that reach up to my waist. I sigh in
relief when Eric announces he's going to use a practice bowl and that he'll only
bowl spin. Even I can get bat to ball with spin; well, either that or I can get the
fuck out of the way.

Eric bowls me first ball, and second, and third.

"For fuck's sake, keep the bat straight, Sweet. And stop hopping about."

Keeping a straight bat is indescribably boring, but the sight of Eric running in,
head tilted back, hair caught by the lightest of breezes, crotch bulging (it's his
cup, not mem more's the pity) is compensation enough. I knuckle down it and start
stroking the ball back to him.

"Stroke it for Eric."
"Stroke it for Eric."
"Stroke it for Eric."

I'm in dreamland when a ball hits a crack, rises sharply and whacks me right where
cup meets flesh. Fuck it that hurt! I yelp like a cissy, drop to the floor, and start
rubbing high inside my right leg.

Eric trots up and flops down beside me.

"Okay?"

"What the fuck do you mean 'Okay?'" I howl. "Of course I'm not okay. You might not
have a love life, but I have, and you might have ruined it, you mutha..."

I don't complete the sentence because Eric's mother died when he was five years old.
I don't know the details. I know he lives with his father and elder brother. I know
they are a monied family. But that's about it.

"Oh, come off it, Donny..." (Donny. I like that.) "...it'll sting a bit but it'll pass
in a couple of minutes. See..."

See what?

See Eric's long thick fingers slide down the inside of my thigh.

"There?"

"Down a bit."

"There?"

"Over a bit."

"There."

I sigh, "There, yes, right there."

Those thick fingers begin a gentle massage, a gentle caress, and the pain drifts away
as I take leave of my senses. It's me who strokes Eric, not Eric who strokes me.

I suddenly realise I'm getting a bitch of a hard-on, and it's cramped in the cricket
cup. A pleasure it is not. I try to keep the frown off my face, but Eric catches it
and bursts out laughing.

"You're hopless, Sweet."

"Don't you mean incorrigible, Murray."

"Nope, hopeless. Come on. Get off your arse. You still owe me 25 minutes."

And the 25 minutes are the most pleasurable I will ever have in relation to cricket.
Manfully, if ineptly, I knuckle down and give Eric full value. He gets me out around
2 balls every over no matter how well I defend. That pleases him and causes me no pain.
My turn comes soon.

It's strange. Eric is definitely the best cricketer our school ever had. He is, maybe,
the best rugby player we've ever had. But on the tennis court he's crap. Make that
capital letters: CRAP. He tries his best. In sports Eric always tries his best. But
even though I set the ball up for him, even though I keep it mostly on his forehand,
even though I set up dolly smashes at the net for him, he manages to look clumsy and
inept. But he does try. My God, how he tries.

So I begin to drive the ball from side to side, hitting his baseline more often
than not, pulling him into the net and then lobbing the ball casually over him so
that he has to turn and scamper back to the baseline. He never gets it back, of course,
a little topspin makes sure of that. Am I being cruel? No, just cunning. If he runs
enough, if he's sweaty enough (and Eric sweats easily), Eric will need a shower, and
me (we!) might just have a shower before we head home. Cunning or what?

But I'm foiled... because those senior bastards have used up the last of the hot water
amd left us nothing but lukewarm dribbles. I go back and check the water, just in case,
but no luck. Nope, the seniors have gone and the last of the hot water with them.

BUT (and it's a capital letters 'but') when I come out of the shower area, Eric is
stretched full length along one of the benches. Eyes closed. Face redly flushed. Shirt
inbuttoned to the waist. Crotch bulging. And that's no cup.

I squeeze down on the bench just behind his head. I'm not quite sure what to do.
If I get this wrong, I could end up with a black eye, a bleeding nose, and worse.
That's easily explained at home, but I don't want to go into school tomorrow and find
that I'm a... a what? ... "a fucking queer". I AM a fucking queer. My bum chums know
I'm a fucking queer. But that doesn't mean I want it broadcast around the school.

Better play safe. Better safe than sorry. Fuck it. I've never played safe in my life,
and at 13 years of age it's a little late to start.

I run my finger tips over Eric's forehead. I flick back the thick damp hair. He sighs.
He murmurs "Yeah". What I really want to do is lean over and kiss him on the forehead,
but that would be pushing things too far, too quickly.

I run my fingers across his cheeks. Down his throat. Across the top part of his chest.

He murmurs "Yeah". Not the most articulate of reponses but it will do for me.

I shift my position so I'm squeezed alongside him. Actually I'm perched on my left
buttock, and if Eric shifts suddenly I'll fall on my arse. Ah well, what's life for
if it's not for taking risks?

My fingers slide across his stomach. Wow, he's got one of those six-packs. I'm not
that sure what a six-pack is, but if it means a strong, flat, muscly stomach, Eric's
got one, and I'm fingering it. His belly button's an innie. I wonder what it would
feel like to kiss it. Eric willing, I may get my chance today.

Fucking hell, the bulge at his crotch is... bulgier. In class, Eric would reach down
and straighten it out. That duty seems to be in my hands today.

I say a silent prayer and face the moment of truth. "It's now or never." Elvis is
absolutely fucking spot on: it IS now or never, and I decide on the now.

I finger the clasp on Eric's cricket flannels. I flick the clasp open. I wait for
the punch in the face. Nothing. I find the little zip and slowly, agonisingly slowly,
edge it down. Down, down, down, until there can be no more down. Using both hands,
thumbs and indez fingers, I spread his pants open, tug his shirt flaps away, and
there it is. No, there IT is, curled like sleeping python under the 100% pure cotton
Y-front.

The python is awake. It is stretching for the sun. I watch it elongate, then extend
my fingertips to help turn it round to face due north. Shit, I knew it was BIG;
I never suspected it was this big. It's long but it's also thick. It is genuinely
ten inches long, and it's as thick as the span of any three of my fingers put together.
try that and you'll see what I mean. Suddenly the head poke out above the elastic.
That's strong elastic; it takes a lot of poking to get past that. There, Mister
Python, you've found the sun at last.

I notice that Eric has raised his bum off the bench. The penny drops. There is a God
after all. I reach over him and gently ease his underpants down to his knees,
revealing... it is beautiful, it's truly beautiful. In size, shape, texture, colour,
and... yes, sniff sniff... smell, it is truly beautiful. A thing of beauty may be
a boy forever, but his erection is a thing of beauty right now. I reach and take hold
of it, my fingers unable to meet around it girth. I begin to gently jack him off.
He'll let me do this, but will he let me kiss it. I'm desperate to kiss it.

"I'll cum if you do that," he whispers.

(I'm proud because I taught him that word - 'cum'.)

So what? I want him to cum. I'm desperate to make him, see him cum.

"It'll make a real mess when I cum."

(Pause)

"I don't want to make a mess of my shirt or my whites."

(Pause - then the penny clunks off the floor.)

Cum - mess - bless you, Eric, bless you.

I lean forward and almost say "Ah". I let three, four inches of Eric's thick shaft
slide into my mouth. I suck him hard. I want to taste him as much as I can.
See me. Feel me. Touch me. Fuck me.

I manipulate the base of his shaft, then gently jack it as I suck. Oh this is going
to be wonderful.

"Oh, oh, oh..."

Eric's bum jerks straight off the bench. His cock is driven to the back of throat.
It's probably tickling my tonsils. And he's cumming! Squirt after squirt splats
against the back of my throat. I'm struggling, gagging, fighting to get it all over,
to get it all down the back of my throat, and not onto Eric's whites, and not into
my eyes. Splurt, squirt, splat! Who would've thought the young man to have so much
semen in him? And now in me?

I gag, I cough, my eyes stream, but little hero that I am, I take it all, or almost
all of it. A little escapes to my lips - a little sweet, a little bland, but it will do.
It contains Eric's babies, or at least his potential babies, or at least 50%, genetically
speaking, of Eric's babies, and millions of them are swimming in my tummy. I wonder
if they've got there yet. I wonder how surprised they feel when they look around and
finding no door marked EGGS-IT, or even ARSE-IT. Actually, I think all this later
that night as I lie in bed and relive Eric's first.

Eric's embarrassed now. He sits up, swings his legs round, pulls up his underpants,
fastens his trousers, and now he sits there looking at me. His eyes are a little
glazed. He's blushing. I know he wants to tell me something. I can't help because
I don't know what it is he wants to tell me.

He is pointing at me, at my face. Now it's me that's blushing. Why doesn't he just come
out with it?

"On your face, your lips."

"What? What?!"

"Me," he laughs.

I raise my finger to my lips. I feel it - a big gob of Eric. I can't help laughing.
I scoop it with my right index finger and slurp it into my mouth.

"There, happy now," I ask.

"Yes, happy now," he replies. "But I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"You know. Then ten-second thing. But I'll do better next time."

Next time!

My heart leaps.

"Hey," says Eric. "It's only ten past five. Want to come to my house for tea?"

"For tea?"

"Yes," he laughs. "Just for tea. My brother'll be there. You'll like him.
Come on."

And off we go. No guilt, no shame, no remorse, no regrets, no recriminations.
Just two boys, hungry, and wanting their tea.

Anyway, there'll be a next time, so don't be greedy.

I suppose my seduction of Eric would have moved faster if I hadn't been so
distracted by sex and by love.

Blame the sex on Alan.

It wasn't that I had sex with Alan. I did but far less often than I might have
anticipated after that first encounter. Two things made sex with Alan
infrequent. First, I didn't fancy him much and he fancied me even less.
Don't get me wrong. We liked each other, and, as far as boys are able, we
probably loved each other. But we'd been together so long it was a bit like
having sex with your brother.

I don't know if nature makes a sort of taboo about that, but Alan and I had
been together for so long, since we were about four years old, nursery,
junior school, now secondary school that it just didn't feel right.
I can't speak for Alan but I couldn't get those images out of my mind;
all those years when we were little kids, down on Broughty Ferry beach,
for example, making sandcastles, squealing and running when the water lapped
over our sandals. I just couldn't match that with the times we lay
head-to-toe sucking each other off. It reminded me too much of myself as
an infant at my mother's breast, and simply wouldn't do.

But Alan was... How can I put it? Alan was a voracious little predator
who enjoyed sex simply because it was there, and, above all, he enjoyed
having sex with boys who were or seemed to be unattainable. And since I'd
spent most of my life going along with Alan, I went right along with that,
too, and loved every inch of it.

Take Liam Marshall. And in the end we took Liam Marshall.

Liam was beautiful, ridiculously, absurdly beautiful. He was in our Year,
the third, he was tall, willowy, thick blond hair, blue blues, with the
face of a China doll that somehow managed to be more boy than girl.
He was sweet and kind, he was gentle and considerate, he was polite and
helpful, he was... just about everything wholesome and good.

And Alan wanted him.
So I wanted him.

It was the card school that did it.

Alan and I had always played cards. We usually played 21, vingt-et-un,
but Alan also knew how to play poker. He taught me and we introduced the
game as a lunch-time entertainment. We played for pennies, and we won a lot
of pennies. On a good day, we'd play for sixpences, and we won a lot
of sixpences. When someone ran out of money, he could play with his lunch
tickets. Lunch tickets were worth were worth 12 pence or 1 shilling each,
no mean sum in those days. Alan would advance the credit, win the lunch
tickets, and then sell them back at half price. He didn't mind waiting a
few days for the payment. Bruce Academy was a grammar school, and there was
honour amongst boys. Better starve than be known as someone who reneged
on their debts.

So Alan was a good player, and he was also a cheat. Probably the most
bare-faced cheat I've ever known. His deck of cards, actually he had three
decks, were marked, professionally marked. Even when Alan showed me the
markings, I coould find them again seconds later. But Alan could whiz
through a deck calling out each card almost as fast as he could deal them;
and he could deal them fast.

Liam lost off his lunch tickets. In fact, he lost two weeks' worth of
lunch tickets at one session. Liam Marshall wasn't perfect; he was a
compulsive gambler. Worse than that, he couldn't afford to gamble.
Liam's dad was dead, or at least gone. It wasn't done to ask personal
questions. We'd met his mum. One look at her and you knew where Liam got
his looks. She was all woman, and he was all boy.

So losing his lunch money was no joke for Liam. In fact, it was a disaster.
No one would ever mention it, but Liam's blazer was second hand, his grey
flannels too short, his tie frayed, and he had two white shirts. You knew
which was which by the ink splats.

"God, you are an idiot, Liam. I told you to stop playing when you lost this
week's dinner tickets. It's only Monday. But you went on and on, and what
happened? You've lost next week's as well."

We were standing in the toilets on the top floor, the third floor, where
no one went unless you had serious business to negotiate. I'd had Raymond
suck me off a couple of times, four times to be exact, up there in the
'Gods' but the place was spooky. None of the classrooms on the third floor
were used, and there were vague stories about a suicide, a murder, Mary Queen
of Scots, and a headless horseman. I could never quite fathom what the
hell a horseman, headless or otherwise, was doing on the top floor of a boys'
grammar school, but History is full of weird stories and even weirder
characters.

"Could you let me have...? I mean, you know I'll..."

Liam's big blue eyes brimmed with tears. I choked and felt like handing
over my lunch tickets for the week. After all, my pocket was stuffed with them.
Alan and I had already divided up the day's spoils.

"Well, I would," said Alan. "Remember I did try to get you to stop playing."

Yeh, Alan, right, Alan. Deal someone a hand with a straight run in it, and
then try to persuade them to fold. I think not.

"And if it was only one week... well, I might... but two weeks. No, Liam,
no can do. Everyone would think I was losing my touch. We've got to play by
the rules, and stick by the rules. After all, we are Bruce boys."

I turned away for a moment, blushing on behalf of Alan.

"I understand that, Alan. Honestly I do. But I can't go home. I can't tell
mum..." He choked, he couldn't go on. A single teardrop hung from those thick
eyelashes. I wanted to stick out my tongue and lick it away.

"Well, we could always trade, I suppose," murmured Alan, making it sound like
a concession dragged from the depths of his soul.

Hope springs eternal, and at that moment it sprang into the heart of Liam
Marshall.

"I've got some Dinky cars," he said brightly. "I collect them, but you can have
the best ones, the best three, no, four, if..."

"Liam, Liam..." Alan cut him off. "Do I look like the kind of man who collects
Dinky cars?"

Man! Fucking man! I felt like kicking Alan Aitken's sweet arse.

"No, I don't think you've got any thing I really want except... naw, naw,
forget it."

You might as well tell a man dying of thirst not to bother about that mirage on
the horizon.

"What? What?" asked Liam, not quite frantically, but not far from it.

"No, no, don't even think about it Just forget it."

"What? What? Anything, Alan. Anything. Just name it."

Alan didn't name it.
He stepped forward and he felt it.

Liam stepped back. His eyes widened. He looked down at his crotch, probably
expecting Alan's hand to be still there.

Liam looked at Alan.

Alan stood there smiling.

"I've heard about you," Liam said.

"Oh, and what have you heard?" asked Alan sweetly.

"I--I--I've heard that you like, that you do..."

"What have you heard? What is it that I do?"

A couple of weeks before I'd seen the film 'The Jungle Book'. There was a bit
in it when the snake was trying to hypnotise the boy. "Trust in me... trust
in me-e-e-e-." For the life of me, I couldn't get that image out of my head.

"Look, Liam, I said to forget it. I'm not going to make you do anything you
don't want to do. I know you'd like it, but if you don't want to, fine, let's
just get downstairs. There's fifteen minutes to the bell. I've got time for
another card school."

Liam stood there. Alan stood there. I stood there. Baby, baby, can't you
hear our hearts beat?

"What would I have to do?" Liam's voice was tiny.

"You wouldn't have to do anything. We do everything. You stand there and enjoy
it." Alan stepped forward and ran his fingers against the thin grey flannel.

"All of them, Liam. You can all of the lunch tickets back. Ten minutes, that's
all."

As he spoke, Alan ran the back of his fingers up and down the front of Liam's
crotch. Liam said nothing. He looked at me. He ran that little pink tongue of his
his across those pink lips. I shrugged my shoulders, gently. He turned and faced Alan.
Alan kept eye-contact as he found Liam's zip and began to edge it downwards.
He stepped forward. Liam stepped backwards into me. I put my arms round his waist.
He smelled like freshly-baked bread. I wanted to kiss the nape of his neck. I touched
my lips to the nape of his neck.

Alan kept his eyes on Liam's.

"Get his belt, Donny."

My hands round Liam's waist wandered and found the clip of his snake belt.
I flicked it open.
Alan had lowered his zip and was now edging the flaps of his school trousers apart.
I could hear Liam's breathing. His head tilted back a bit. I knew where Alan's
searching fingers were now.
Then I heard a sigh.
It turned out to be Liam's Y-fronts sliding to his knees.

"Hey, Liam, that's nice."

I looked down Liam's front. He was fully erect. His erection was hot and hard,
and suprisingly brown against the pale ivory of his skin. His stiffy was about
4 inches long. Not in my league. Definitely not in Eric's but he could give Alan
a run for his money. I watched Alan's index finger and thumb make a circle as
he pulled the foreskin back from the head of Liam's penis. I watched as Alan
raised Liam's surprisingly floppy sac.

A little moan escaped from Liam's pink lips. Maybe I was the only one who heard
it. Alan was working his hard-on, and I knew how expert Alan was with hard-ons.
He could make me moan when he set his mind to it. Alan pulled the erection towards
him, let it go, and the three of us watched it boing healthily back into an
upright position. Three or four times Alan did that: boing, boing, boing.

I could feel Liam started to grind against me. The grinding gave me an erection.
I wonder if he felt it pushing against his crack. I know what I wanted to do:
drop my trousers, drop my underpants, and feel my naked skin against his. Fit my
hard up-standing penis into the beautiful crack and feel its warmth all around me.

Wait a minute.

I just read that last bit again. You see, I had to take a break to get my Latin
homework done, and the break lasted two days. So now I've come back. I've read that
last bit again, and it reads like... Porno!

And it's not meant to read like porno. This isn't mean to be pornography.
It's just meant to be a record of what happened. I'm just telling it like it is
and like it was.

It's true that I'd like to be a writer some day, a full time writer, making
my living out of writing. And it's true I'm trying to make sure there's some
literary merit in my wrting, especially in this writing, because it's definitely
not meant to be pornography. I can't help it if other people find it exciting,
or sexy, or erotic, or any of these things. For me it's a record of the way it
was and the way we were, and I feel I've got to write it down before it all
sort of disappears in the sands of time (that's a metaphor).

Anyway, it turned out Liam Marshall really enjoyed the experience in the third
floor toilets. Alan got his sex, Liam got his lunchtickets back, and I got
a real friend. It turned out Liam really liked me, but he was a bit shy, and
he thought I was 'out of his league', so to speak. Dumb ass! LOL

In fact, I think I ended up having more sex with Liam than Alan ever did because
Alan was becoming more and more preoccupied with his MAN-friend, and men as
friends were certainly out of my league. And anyway, I was in pursuit of Eric
Murray, and I'd have got there a lot sooner if I hadn't... even now I get a bit
embarrassed admitting it - if I hadn't... FALLEN IN LOVE.

R. Leslie Morrison.

That was his name. That is his name. R. Leslie Morrison.

The R stands for Robert, but he uses Leslie as his first name. Why? I don't know.
I've never asked him. Life is full of little mysteries. You can go around solving
them, or pretending you've solved them, or just accept them. I just accept them.

R. Leslie Morrison.

A First Year, and I fell head-over-heels. Actually, Leslie was the one who nearly
fell-head-over heels, literally, and I was there to catch him as he fell.

Friday, 3.30, the end of school, and the end of the school week. For some reason,
lost in the mists of time, I had to go down to the City Centre. I guess I was on
an errand for mum, otherwise I'd never dream of going into the City centre during
the week because that meant taking a second bus home. But that day into the City
Centre, diving on for what to me was the 'wrong' school bus, going in the 'wrong'
direction.

As ever the school buses were packed, riotous and uproarious. I usually had no
difficulty scrambling onto the bus and parking on cute backside onto the lap of
whatever 6th Year would have me, and quite a few would. We'd sit there as the bus
trudged it way up Carnegie Avenue, me grinding my bottom into the older boy's lap,
feeling him harden beneath me. God, what a little tart I was. But it was all in
good fun, and, no, I would not get off the bus early and let a Sxith Former walk
me across the Balgay Park. I valued the little that was left of my virginity.

But the City centre bus was alien territory, and I ended up in pack of younger boys
crammed onto the platform. I was just thinking "Fuck this for a month of Sundays",
when I raised my head and found myself looking into a pair of impossibly beautiful
eyes - grey, fringed with heavy lashes. B-ring, b-ring went the strings of my heart.
That was the sound of the departure bell but to me...

I let my gaze scan the face that held those beautiful eyes. It couldn't possibly
live up to them. But it did and more. The clear skin, the cheekbones, the straight
little nose, not too little, the clearly defined but not too full lips, the small
ears, the freckles across the bridge of the nose, the longish neck, the fringe of
ash brown hair cut straight across the clear forehead. I lowered my gaze to take in
the broad shoulders, the slim torso that slid hipless into the school trousers.

The bus jolted along, and I was happily thrown into the bearer of those beautiful
eyes. The platform was packed, dangerously packed, we couldn't have separated if
we'd wanted to. I mumbled a 'sorry', and realised I was apologising to a First
Year - unheard of! I knew it was a First Year because we all wore ties to signify
the Year we were in. This was a First Year - tall, elegant, beautiful, but,
nevertheless, a First Year; and I was a member of the mightily-feared bunch of nutters
in the Third.

"It's okay. It's always like this."

The vision spoke. The vision could speak. And the vision was speaking to me.

"Is it?" I managed to reply. "I usually take the Lochee bus."

There it was: Lochee. The most unsalubrious sector of our fair metropolis, and I'd just
admitted to coming from there.

"I know," he said.

It took a few moments for the reply to sink in. It took a few moments for anything
to sink in. With each jolt, I was thrown into contact with this mysterious First Year
sprog and you know what the 'nearness of you' does to the brain - scrambled eggs.

"How do you know that?"

"I watch you play tennis."

Full alert. Full alert. Note the use of the present tense: watch, not watched.
Not the past tense signalling a single fortuitious occasion, but the present tense
signalling a delightful continuity.

"You 'watch' me."

The boy blushed. Not much. Just enough to make the skin at his colour glow. Just
enough to make me want to reach forward, pop out my tongue, and...

"On Tuesdays. When the Lower school does sports together. I mean, we don't get to
play with you..."  (Play with me! Play with me!) "...but we're all at Eliot Road
together. I love tennis; my mum teaches me." The last was offered as justification
for watching me. Fair enough. "You're very good."

"Thanks..." It was my turn to pink up a little. "Hey, this isn't fair. You know my
name, but I don't know yours." I'd jumped the gun a little because he hadn't said
he knew my name.

"It's Leslie," he said. "It's Leslie Morrison. Actually, it's R. Leslie Morrison."

"Leslie?" I couldn't keep the note of surprise out my voice. I knew the name 'Leslie'
existed, but (a) I thought it was a girl's name, and (b) I'd never in my life met
anyone called 'Leslie', and (c) I knew it was a helluva posh name.

Leslie was akin to Eric; wrong side the tracks for me.

The conversation didn't happen in a vacuum. The bus continued to bounce along the
cobblestones of the Perth Road; boys were hurtled against each other like marbles in
a sardine can; boys jumped off without paying; the conductor hurled abuse at them;
and Leslie and I held onto each other, laughing between exchanges as if we did this
every day.

The bus swung into the City Centre as if the driver was desparate to disgorge each
and every passenger.

"My stop," said Leslie.

"Mine, too," I lied.

Not a huge lie. This was only one-stop early. I wasn't THAT desperate. But I was
curious to see what Leslie did next. He jumped down from the platform; I jumped after
him. He swung his school bag over his shoulder; I had none to swing. If you were still
carrying a bag in Third Year, you were a fucking nonentity. Bags indicated willingness,
and the Third Year were rarely willing about anything other than avoiding work and
having a good time.

We strolled along the High Street. Only about 500 yards. Leslie stopped.

"I live here."

Live where? There was nowhere to live. This was smack in the middle of the City Centre.
Nobody but nobody lived 'here'.

"Here," he said, pointing at the Bank of Royal Scotland.

"The fucking bank of fucking Royal Scotland?"

"Not 'in' it. Above it. Up there."

Leslie pointed to the top storey of the five-storey building.

"We've got a place up there." Pause. "My mum and my little sister and me."

What is it about me? Why do I keep falling in love with people who have no dads,
or only a dad, or an absent dad. Maybe it's because I never had a father myself.
Hold on, I'm not claiming Immaculate Conception; I know who the fuck my dad was;
or at least I take my mother's word for it. I refrained from asking where, if
anywhere, Leslie's father was, but, to tell the truth, I hadn't the slighest
interest. It was Leslie I loved, not his mother, father, or little sister - him!

Loved?

I don't know. Is there such a thing as love-at-first-sight. All I knew right from
the start was I wanted to spend time with Leslie. I enjoyed his company. I loved
his smile, I drowned in his eyes. I...

"I'd better be going."

Was that a note of reluctance in his voice?

I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky.

"Oh, yeh, sure. See you again," I said, and he was gone, skipping up the marble
steps of a door at the side of the bank. He turned, waved and was gone.

I strolled across the High Street towards the bus stance where I'd find the bus
to take me the long way home. The afternoon sky was blue, the sparrows were
twittering, the diesel fumes were Coty L'Aimant, my mother's favourite perfume.
I sat upstairs and watch the world go by in rainbows of many colours. I worked
out the hours and minutes till I'd have the chance to see Leslie again -
a long long wait till Monday but I had his image engraved in my heart and all
I had to do was turn my gaze inwards to see him.

Where was Eric in all this?

I don't know.

On Monday when I got to school - late - Eric squeezed up against me during
Period 2. "Tell me about the weekend. Touch me if you want to."

Funny thing was I didn't want to. Well, I did and I didn't. I certainly didn't
want to use use my imagination to conjure up erotic images. I had no need of
them. I had R. Leslie Morrison. Well, I would have after school when I planned once
again to take the double trip home.

I sat there stroking Eric's thigh in a desultory fashion. I glanced at his crotch.
He had a BIG one, an erection to break a plate, but try as I might, I couldn't
muster much enthusiasm.

"What's wrong?"

"What?" I whispered back.

"What's up? What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. Just thinking, that's all."

"For fuck's sake, you get me all worked up, and then you sit there doing nothing
about it." The note of exasperation in Eric's voice broke into my reverie.

"Well... mmm... well... my cat, it's my cat, it got run over at the weekend.
 We buried it in the backyard."

"Your cat? Your fucking cat!"

"Yes, our cat. Her name is - was Lucky. I'll tell you about her if you want."

Even to myself I sounded idiotic.

"No, forget it. Hey," Eric went on, as if were an afterthought, "what about
coming up to the Sports Ground after school? A bit of cricket, a bit of tennis,
a bit of..." Eric grinned. "You know a bit of..."

"Sorry, no can do. Got to go into town. Doing something for mum. Maybe on
Wednesday."

Maybe on Wednesday. That was to Eric Murray, the No. 1 pin-up, heart-throb,
dick-throb in the entire school, and there I was saying I'd help him out on
Wednesday - maybe.

I felt his cock deflate beneath my finger-tips. I gave it a couple of strokes
for luck, but my heart wasn't in it, and I think Eric knew it.

Funny thing was, he put his arm round my shoulder, in open class, and gave
me a squeeze. Then he whispered, "Your cat really was Lucky - to have you."

For a moment I wondered what I'd call Lucky if Eric ever got round to visiting
out house. I decided on Blackie, but I knew Lucky would have ignored the name
with disdain. I sighed and dreamed on. Emil and His Detectives were on the bus,
and the bus metamorphosed into our school bus, and Emil was Leslie,
and I was the naughty man, and Emil/Leslie was in hot pursuit oh him/me.

I should be so lucky - lucky, lucky, lucky.

The day wandered aimlessly on as if 3.30 was an ever-receding mirage, but at last
the bell went and we were all charging up the ramp and out of school. I headed
for the wrong bus again and leapt on at a single bound. My eyes swept the seats
and the aisle - no Leslie, no fucking Leslie! Maybe upstairs! I bounded upstairs:
no luck. No luck and no Leslie - shit and damnation. And the bus was moving off.
I bounded downstairs.

The bus was moving off - and there was Leslie, running helter-skelter for the
bus. Shit, the bus was gathering speed. I stood on the packed platform.
I tried to reach the bell, impossible through the wedge of bodies, and still
Leslie was running, tie askew, blazer open and flapping, leather bag bouncing
off his back. He'd never make it.

But he tried.
And he did - almost.

His left hand grabbed the upright rail and held on. But the bus was moving fast
now, so fast that Leslie was lifted right off his feet, and his legs went up into
the air. He couldn't hold on for long, but if he let go, he'd go crashing into
the road where other buses were barreling along behind us.

I grabbed his wrist with both hands, jammed my right foot against the bottom
of the rail, and held on. I'd hold on forever if I had to. I didn't have to hold on
forever, it only felt like it. I held on for around 1000 yards until the bus reached
its first stop. It slowed down. Leslie found his feet, ran along behind the bus,
and jumped aboard just before it stopped.

He was grinning at me.
The fucking idiot was grinning at me.

"What the fuck are you grinning for, you idiot?" I shouted at him.

He didn't reply.
He couldn't.
He hung on to me, gasping for breath.

"You could have caught the second bus," I stormed.

He held on to me and grinned. Finally I got some kind of explanation.

"I know," he said. "I know."

"Well why the fuck didn't you?"

"Because... because..." He got enough air in his lungs to get it out.

"Because YOU weren't on the second bus. You were on THIS bus."

The funny thing was - Have you noticed there's a lot of funny things in my life?
It's probably much the same in your life, in everybody's life - The funny thing
was that all of this was said at the top of my voice and with what was left of
his while we were surrounded by other boys on the platform of the city-bound bus,
and it didn't seem to matter at all. The only thing that mattered was that he'd
made it, I'd made it, we'd made it together.

By the time we'd got to Leslie's stop arrangements were finalised. Tennis,
together, next Saturday morning. We could've managed Wednesday but I wouldn't do
that to Eric.

We stopped outside Leslie's door, that weird entrance into the flat above the Bank.

"I'd say come up but..."

"It's okay," I interrupted not sure I could face any kind of rejection. Did Leslie
read my face.

"But I've got to go and collect my little sister from nursery. Mum works in the bank
till half past four. Come in and say 'hello'. She'll like you... I do," he added with
a grin.

It was my turn to decline the invitation, but in my case it was fear - fear that
Mrs Morrison would take one look at my face and know instantly that I was in love with
her son.

"Thanks, but I've got to..." My pause gave Leslie his chance.

"You've got to come and collect my sister with me. Only if you've got time. Only if you
want to."

We strolled down Union Street towards the harbour. We didn't say much. We didn't need to.
At one point we caught each other's eye and burst into laughter.

Leslie's little sister was as sweet as him, and as daft as my own little sister.
It was difficult to leave them, but I'd be an hour late home at least, and questions might
be asked. Not that my mum didn't trust me; she just liked to know where her kids were.
Good parents do, don't they?

On Wednesday afternoon, after school, after cricket, after tennis, in the showers
Eric sucks my cock.

Put that way it sounds brief, perfunctory, a matter of routine, but it's anything but
that. I make no move towards Eric though I have to admire that hose swinging between
his legs. But in the showers he puts those strong arms round me, pulls me into him,
chest to chest, groin to groin, trembling knees to trembling knees. Then he drops to
those trembling knees and takes me in his mouth.

I know this isn't easy for Eric. I know what a commitment this is. Eric, the man-boy
of our Year, is on his knees sucking on my erection, sliding the skin all the way
back from the head, running the head against his lips, his cheeks, then taking me
deep again. I can't help it. I'm pumping my hips against his face, my hands are
pulling his face into me, I see him squatting on those muscled legs, his cricketer's
arse muscly and solid.

I try to warn him.

"Eric, I'm gonna, I gonna," but he only pulls me in tighter - and I'm gone.

I'm spurting and squirting into him. My hips are bouncing uncontrollably. I feel his
lips flatten my pubic hair. I try to draw back, but he won't let me go. It's over
now, sensitive, too sensitive, but still he holds, still he pulls me in.

"Eric, for fuck's sake. Le'go."

And those big dream eyes are gazing up at me. He looks dazed. His lips are puffy.
He is Adonis, he is the young Alexander, the splendid Achilles, and he is on his knees
before me, me, his little lover.

"It's my turn. Let me."

And we are sitting on the warm wet floor of the shower room, face to face, legs splayed
apart so I can enter his, and his erection is like a small tree trunk, and I'm holding
it with both hands, my fingers and thumbs meeting round it girth. I want to suck it,
but I want to see it more. I want to see Eric cum; I want to see the semen shooting from
this hot column of flesh; I want to look into his eyes; I want him looking into my eyes,
as he spurts and squirts across my chest, my belly, my already-erect-again cock.

And that's how it happens.
Not ten seconds.
But certainly not ten minutes.
And Eric shudders and shakes as I work the shaft.
Then leans back on both hands to watch himself erupt over me.
And I go with my instincts.
I catch some up with my middle finger and bring it to my mouth.
Lick it, suck it, take it all in,
then lean forward so that Eric can share himself with me again.

Then we laugh. He hauls me to my feet. And we shower again in the last of the warm water,
the last of the soap suds, the last moments of another first time.

And we wander across the fields to Eric's home. And I have tea with Eric, and his
brother David, and his Dad who is early home from work. And it's so unusual for me
to be in the company of other boys and men; my own life is full of women. And David
and Dad like me. I'm sparkling. I'm funny but a little serious at the same time.
Exaggeration comes easy to me. I'm not a liar but I'm a story-teller, and that's
highly-prized in Scotland.

As I go, Mr Murray ruffles my hair and says, "You're welcome any time, son,
any time," and I go home to face the music as glowing as the rosy sinking sun.

Life would have been so simple if it'd been Eric and only Eric. But that night
I jerked off to images of Eric, then fell asleep with Leslie's name on my lips.

Saturday morning and Leslie sent another forehand whistling past me.

Cheeky bugger!

This will not stand.

I pepper his backhand. I assault his backhand. No matter what he hits to me,
I get it back on his backhand, his weaker side, his weak side. Bravely he stands
up to the pressure for all of fifteen minutes, and that's a long time, but then
I force him wide on the backhand and then slice wide to his forehand.

"Get that, you little fucker," I whisper to myself.

None of this is personal, but nobody belts forehands past me with impunity - not
if they have a weakness I can exploit they don't. I'm clinical, vicious and
relentless, and when my point has been proved, I call him to the net.

"Hey, you're not bad at all," I grin, "but we've got to do something about that
backhand. Where'd you get it?"

Leslie, still panting a little, confesses he'd inherited it from his mother who'd
taught him for a couple of years. Prepare to be disinherited.

"Right," I said, "for the next half hour, I'm putting every shot into your backhand.
Not away from your backhand, 'on to' your backhand. They'll be easy to get, but it's
pointless to get them unless you get them right. We'll start with sliced returns,
they're the easy ones. Next week we'll get onto topspin returns, they're far more
difficult to learn, but if you haven't got a decent topspin, you're fucked, technically
speaking."

We both laugh and get on with it. Leslie picks things up quickly. I put myself
into a training trance and the kind of rhythm that turns you into a metronome.
Feet in place, racket back early, follow through. Easy - not. At least not until
you've done it a million times and you don't think about it any more.

You may be wondering, or you may not, how a little shit from the wrong side of town
ended up a decent tennis player. It was the wall what done it. The factory wall on
one of the many factories on the Industrial Estate that ran just behind the council
estate where we lived. I found a wall with a long white stripe about 3 feet high,
got my auntie's wooden racket, and stood there, sometimes for three hours at a time,
banging my one and only tennis ball back and forwards off the wall. I don't know
if there's any such thing as a 'natural' at a sport, but hitting the ball against
the wall seemed to be just what I should be doing. The fact that it got me out of
cricket was a bonus I never anticipated.

It was Leslie who gives in first.

"Hey, Donny, can we have a break? I'm knackered."

I tut.

The word 'knackered' was out of bounds in my family. I'm not sure why, but it was
further beyond the pale than 'fucked' or 'fucking'.

"No breaks," I call. "That's it for this morning. You're okay. You can play -
a bit," I tell Leslie who beams.

"What now then?" he asks.

"Let's get changed and wander down the Blackie. What about a milkshake at Delanzo's?"

Delanzo's milkshakes are an extension of his Italian icecream, the best in the world.

In the pavilion we strip off, fold our tennis whites and stick them in our tennis
bags, school bags actually.

Like me, Leslie is naked but for his underwear and tennis socks. I wear baggy Y-fronts;
Leslie wears a tight cotton slip. God, he is slim, not skinny, just slip, and his
chest is fuller and deeper than you might expect, his shoulders are butterfly wings,
his tummy absolutely flat, his skin ivory pale, his nipples are surprisingly brown,
like brown ten pence pieces. His cotton slip shows the outline of his penis, not
erect, surely not erect, but pushed up vertically against his pubic bone, his balls
round like encased ping pong balls beneath.

I can hear his breathing. I see his damp hair strung across his forehead, I step
forward and with my left hand push the hair from his eyes. I know that I can reach
down with my right hand and run my finger tip the length of his penis. I know he
will harden quickly. He is blushing now but he doesn't step back. We stand there
looking at each other. He reaches out to me and runs his fingers through the thick
dark curly hair on my head. He waits. I wait. The world waits breathlessly.

"You're hot," I hear myself say. "The quicker we get those milkshakes the better...
and get your jeans on. Anybody'd think you have a hard-on."

"Well, you do," he smiles back.

I look down and find I have!

Whoops!

"Come on, we both need that milkshake," I laugh.

TO BE CONTINUED