Date: Fri, 8 Sep 2017 16:49:52 -0500 From: Jeff Moses Subject: Wrestling Alan A-Dale A paean to the star of the show, "based on true fragments"... Just a little mutual masturbation and cock- sucking. Similarity to any other persons, living or dead, or place is unintentional. As always, play hard and safe! (And, as always, comments are welcome!) I'm "holding" all the rights to this, of course: the usual legal stuff applies (see the Submission guidelines for details). And for Pete(r)'s sake, DONATE! Wrestling Alan A-Dale When I was little, it was my "pee-pee," which was also the name of what came out of it and the act of using it. In second grade, I learned some other words from friends, but to the best of my recollection, "penis" wasn't among them. Sometime in my ninth or tenth year, two things happened: I learned that girls didn't have "wieners;" and I learned that, in addition to urination, "dicks" had something to do with (say it softly) sex. Oh yeah. I also learned, finally, that it was a "penis," but that was another word that I wasn't supposed to say in public. In the fall of my eleventh year, "it" started acting funny: all of a sudden, for no reason that I could discover, it got stiff. And when it got stiff, my pants poked out. (I know it was the fall because I remember having to find ways to hide it on the school bus. I had no idea that many of my friends were having the same problem.) Jeans were prohibited in schools, back then, and ordinary trousers were absolutely useless when it came to concealing the problem. More important, I discovered, in trying to get the damn thing soft so I could sleep at night, what "playing" with it was. I'd been told, of course--we all had, at least all the boys I knew--that playing with it, or even touching it for any reason other than pissing or bathing was forbidden. Absolutely forbidden. For a long time, that didn't make any sense: why would you play with it, whatever that meant? Except in the winter, when we could piss in the snow. The challenge was to write your name with the stream of piss, which was just about impossible--you couldn't interrupt the stream to separate the letters, for one thing. But I did make five-pointed stars, and once I made a circle around myself. I stood there admiring my achievement for a couple of minutes, because I was going to have to step on it to get out of the circle. But back to my bedroom discovery. In trying to make it soft, I discovered how much I liked keeping it hard. I used my hands, I used my pillow, I used wadded-up bedding. Eventually, it went soft, of course, and I fell asleep. This went on for months, until the Night of Alan A-Dale. Alan A-Dale was one of the Merry Men of Sherwood Forest, but he only appeared in four episodes of the "Robin Hood" show on TV. In one of them, Alan A-Dale wrestled with one of the other characters, and I went to bed imagining that other character, whose name I don't even remember, was me. I so wanted to wrestle Alan A-Dale. And every night, when I went to bed, I got hard thinking about it. On the Night of Alan A-Dale, the inevitable happened: I wet the bed. Or at least I thought I did, but when I turned on the lamp, I didn't see any piss, or blood, or anything, so I turned off the lamp and got back under the covers, and there it was, cold and sticky on the sheet. I turned on the lamp again, and there was a pretty big wet spot, but it didn't smell like piss. It didn't really smell like anything. I touched it, and it was sticky, and I took a deep breath and licked my finger, and it tasted like my finger. For about a week, I didn't touch my penis, except to pee. I was afraid I'd broken it, somehow. But then, there was Alan A-Dale once more, and we wrestled and it happened again! What the? So, being a kid, I decided to do an experiment: I played with my penis again--with the lamp on. I tried to be scientific, but to get hard I had to think of wrestling and I got distracted until my dick sort of took over, and I made sperm! It was frustrating, though: ejaculation was like the end of a really good movie: it meant the fun was over. So I did my best to make it last, to hold off cumming until I just couldn't, any more. And I was fickle: some nights I didn't need Alan, at all. Fast forward to seventh grade, and my first experience with "Gym class." And locker rooms. And other naked boys, all of us trying very hard not to look at each other's crotches, especially when you were washing "down there" in the shower and it was all slippery. I was the first kid in my gym class to develop crotch hair. I know this because for a while, I shaved it off so I'd look like the rest of the guys. I was really relieved when theirs started to appear and I could stop shaving. As soon as I did, of course, it burst out gloriously, and my crotch hair became an object of envy. This was especially good since I was pretty much a failure at sports. Sometime after that, I discovered pornography. I don't remember exactly how, or when, but there it was in its full glory: a hard-on. Two conflicting thoughts popped into my head: it was beautiful, and I was the only person in the entire world who felt that way. I had to be! I tracked down pictures of erect cocks forever, until it dawned on me that nobody would have printed all those pictures, just for me. There had to be somebody else, somewhere, who was enjoying them, as well. Probably a lot of guys. Guys, of course: we all knew that girls were disgusted with us. Or most of us, anyway. Of course, I compared my cock--it was "my cock," now: that's the word I settled on--with the ones in the photos. "Oh, well," I thought. "Those guys are older. Mine will probably get bigger, too." (Turns out, my cock's pretty close to average: barely six inches.) But obviously, this would only happen if I exercised it. That's what you did with all your other muscles, right? We called erections "boners," but that wasn't accurate: bones don't get soft and sag, or almost completely disappear in cold water. So boners had to be some kind of muscle. So I exercised. I exercised while studying examples of great penises. The pictures actually helped me get hard, so that was great. Until, that is, I found out that Joey, my best friend at the time, was also exercising his penis, but he was looking at pictures of girls--women, really, with big breasts--in copies of Playboy. He found the magazines where his dad stashed them in the basement. (His dad didn't find out about that until Joey came home from college to help him pack up the house when they moved.) Anyhow, Joey suggested that we "exercise" together, in his basement. I brought some of my pictures, which he thought were interesting, but not in the right way. I should be turned on by titties! I wasn't. Joey didn't know that, though, because my cock got really, really hard when we practiced. That was because nothing--no picture I'd ever seen, or ever would see--was as exciting as Joey's hard-on. It was right there! Three-dimensional! In full color! As it happened, our erections were about the same size, so we decided to have a sort of contest to see whose would get bigger fastest. At the end of every practice, we measured them by facing each other and holding them side-by-side for comparison. Then Joey suggested that we compare them as soon as they got hard at the beginning of each practice, as well. Joey's "technique" was different than mine: he pumped really fast; I went slower, because that's what I'd learned those nights with Alan A-Dale. We decided to test out each other's techniques: he worked my cock and I worked his. It was frustrating, though: he'd make me cum before my technique could bring him off. Still, fair's fair: I just kept right on stroking until he grabbed my hand and rammed his crotch against it and shot all over the place. We spent an entire summer "exercising," until one day he suddenly announced that it was "queer," and he wasn't going to do it anymore. "Queer" was everything bad. "Queer" was the worst, the epitome of evil and nasty, the gravest of sins that condemned a guy to Hell forever. Of course, the only "queer" things I'd done were exercising with Joey and enjoying pictures of cocks. Joey put a halt to one, and I just stopped looking at the other. But I kept on exercising. Sometimes, Alan A-Dale showed up again. Wrestling, I decided, was different: some of the biggest jocks in school were wrestlers. So wrestling with Alan A-Dale couldn't be queer. By my sophomore year in college, though, I finally got it figured out. (You guys with older brothers are lucky: you didn't have to learn everything about cocks all on your own.) I loved cocks. I found out there were an infinite number of ways to play with cocks. I loved looking at cocks--live, if possible; touching them; even--if the other guy was drunk enough--licking them, and eventually, sucking them. I was very lucky: word got around, but the "straight" guys who'd gotten drunk wouldn't admit what they'd done, so I had lots of fans and not too many harassers--until the Dean of Students found out: I was called into his office and condemned to three sessions with a psychiatrist. And if I ever did anything like that again, he warned me, I wouldn't be a college student any more. And my parents would be notified. (And, I added to myself, the gates of Hell would yawn wide. Hell has a mouth: how's that, Dr Freud?) The psychiatrist, thank goodness, knew what was going on: a "phase," probably. Only about one male in ten was a "real" homosexual, he explained--chances were, I'd outgrow it. In the meantime, he said, "learn about VD and don't do anything stupid." (VD was "venereal disease," back then, what they call STDs, now. Or is it STIs?) Fortunately, I didn't think to ask him how long a "phase" lasted. I just resolved to enjoy playing with cocks until it ended. It didn't. I talked guys into letting me measure their cocks: I talked guys into letting me watch them jack off; I talked guys into having "shooting contests:" most cum, farthest shot, fastest recovery. I talked guys into jacking off on me while I lay on the floor trying to guess who was going to cum last. (Buck apiece: pot went to the winner, unless I guessed right; then the two of us split it.) Eventually, of course, I met other "homosexuals," some of whom were as cock-obsessed as I am, still. I know some guys are into leather, or lace undies, or tall-dark-and-handsome, or boys or oldsters, butch or femme, muscly or pale-and-winsome, feet, armpits, blondes, brunettes, redheads, shaggies, baldies or buzz-cuts, whatever. For me, it's cocks. Cocks are gorgeous: fat, thin, long, short, very long and very short, mini or massive, straight, curved or even bent; circumcised or not. Cocks are gorgeous. It doesn't even really matter what they're attached to, although it does help if they look a little like Alan A-Dale.