DUNCAN DOWNS IT 
by janus znaiu

Pop pressed a ten-dollar bill in my hand. "Here. Go over to
Meyer's and pick me up a half-kilo of paprika-- Spanish, not
Hungarian."

"And don't forget to get a receipt," we said in unison.

I knew it was a make-work errand. He didn't need paprika;
there was a big metal tin of it in the dry storage closet.
Pop just needed to see everyone gainfully busy. That applied
to me especially because he didn't want it said among the
staff that he treated family differently than any other
employee-- that ensured that he'd treat me differently.
But there just wasn't anything pressing to be done.  The
lunch crowd had thinned out and the two women who looked
after the steam table were nearly finished cleaning up. There
wasn't much catering to prep for. Only a scattering of
customers browsed the aisles. My mistake had been letting Pop
see me in the office with my feet on his desk, reading a
food-service trade publication. Even that, to my father, was
a wholesale waste of time. In his typical,
two-birds-with-one-stone approach, he read his trades on the
toilet in the morning, though I never did understand how one
could contemplate descriptions of new and exciting uses for
gorgonzola cheese while seated on the throne like that. Pop
not only could, he occasionally forgot himself and carried
his mug of coffee in there with him.

"Taste it to see if it's fresh," he added, "The last paprika
they sold me was like brickyard dust."

I didn't see any reason to take a vehicle. I'd been walking
to Meyer's Wholesale Spices for my parents since I was a
little kid. It was a short couple blocks to the park, a shady
five minutes' stroll along a gravel path and at the end of
it, you came within a few yards of the customer entrance next
to Meyers' loading dock. It looked like it might rain, but it
had looked like that all morning and afternoon; the
late-summer air was still and thick with the promise of it. A
few rumbles of thunder could be heard from the yellow-grey
clouds in the distance, but I figured I'd be back in plenty
of time to prevent a soaking. Just in case, I grabbed my jean
jacket on my way out the door.

By the time I got to the edge of the park, it had begun to
sprinkle a little, but I reckoned that if I stayed to the
path and under the trees, I'd still make it to Meyer's before it
got serious. I was wrong. As I followed the curve of the path
where it wound around the little bandshell, the gravel
suddenly turned several shades darker before my eyes, as a
genuine August cloudburst unloaded. The only shelter, other
than the bandshell itself, was a covered picnic area adjacent
to the the building that housed the snack bar and the public
restrooms. I made a run for it. There wasn't anyone around,
so I just wandered about under the enclosure, wishing I'd
taken my car or the panel truck after all.

Since the downpour had sent the Park's Board ladies who ran
the snack bar packing, I wasn't really expecting the
washrooms to be open, but I was grateful to see that they
were.  I stepped up to one of the two urinals and had a long,
leisurely piss while reading the various bits of graffiti
scrawled at eye level above the pissers: "Clapton is God",
and "What are you looking up here for? The joke's in your
hand". The hissing torrents of rain didn't show any sign of
letting up soon. Crackles of lightning caught ground and
boomed in great reverberating echoes off the buildings
downtown.  For lack of anything better to do, I poked around
to see if there was any more funny graffitti in the toilet
stall.

I was astonished to see so much scribbling and so many lewd
drawings. Literally every flat surface, save for the tiled
back wall, was covered with scribbled epithets and crude,
stick-man pictures executed in every conceivable pen and
marker. Most of the images were as primitive as they were
unrealistic, but there was one, incongruous among the
child-like renderings of spurting penises and clitless
pussies. It was a felt-penned eye that looked like for all
the world like the CBS logo. At the center of it was a small
spot of light. I sat down on the can and discovered that the
little hole was not only located conveniently at eye level,
it gave one a perfect side view of anyone using the urinal. I
felt myself start to get hard.

Two male voices emerged from the sizzle of rain. They came
ever closer, hooting and laughing, running towards the open
door with wet footslaps on the pavement outside. I leaned
forward, closed the door to the stall and was just finished
sliding the lock bolt home when they burst into the
restroom."God DAMN, I hope there's some paper towels or
something in here, I'm fuckin' soaked!" said one of the
voices. He sure was. He stood close enough to my cubicle for
me to make out a puddle forming at his sneakered feet.  His
sodden jeans, what I could see of them, shone in the glare of
the caged lightbulb above us.

"Oh great! It's one of those cloth towel things," the other
one said. There was a loud, wrenching sound. Seconds later,
the curved cover of the towel dispenser bounced off the
terrazzo and rattled to a halt against the wall near my
cubicle door. The guys were obviously toughs, and drenched
enough to forego the nicities of pulling the continuous towel
along a foot or so at a time as the manufacturer intended.
Through the crack of the cubicle door I could see flashes of
the long white roll as they unfurled it to dry themselves.
Reams of it fell to the floor, barely used, where it sopped
up the drips they'd made.

"Any idea what time it is?" one voice asked the other,
stepping to the urinal closest the stall.

"No idea. Must be after three." said the other,
younger-sounding voice.

I heard the zip of the kid's fly and couldn't help shifting a
bit so I was lined up with the lttle hole in the partition. I
didn't press my eye to it, fearing that would be visible to
anyone on the other side, but I could see well enough from a
few inches back. The kid extracted an undistinguished,
worm-like dick with a slim, tapered glans. Above it, a brillo
pad of tawny pubes escaped the fly of his underpants. He made
small-talk with his friend as he emptied his bladder into the
porcelin bowl. When he was finished, as if reluctant to give
it up, now that he had it out, he pinched the spongy dickhead
and elongated his flaccid shaft by tugging on it a few times.
A final drop of piss appeared at the tip and he daubed it
with a fingertip, which disappeared from view (to his lips?)
Then he put himself away, zipped up and returned to where
the younger guy stood, still drying himself off.

I got up, arranged my turgid dick so that it wouldn't be
quite so obvious and unlatched the cubicle door, holding my
jacket in front of me. They both looked up at the creaking of
the door. I only glanced at them, but they seemed to be about
my age or so. The taller of the two, obvious owner of the
tuft of pubes I'd seen, looked me up and down as I exited the
stall.

"Hi," I said, nodding briefly and marching purposefully
towards the rust-stained sink, refusing to acknowledge the
snowdrift of unrolled institutional toweling on the floor.

"Hi," they both said back, without any great enthusiasm.

I finished washing my hands, wiped them on my jacket and
quickly stepped outside.

"Faggot," I heard one them observe as I stood outside the
open outer door, fumbling around for a cigarette. It was the
one I'd seen pissing.

"How do you know that, man?" asked the other one.

"Check it out; there's nothing in the shitter. Did you hear
the guy flush? Shit, homos come here all the time," said the
kid, assuming the streetwise renegade role for his younger
counterpart, clearly relishing it. "Didn't you even know
that? What a fuckin' Gomer! Why do you think they call it
'Pecker Park'?"

I sat down at one of the picnic benches in the enclosure,
smoking my cigarette, wishing the rain would stop. I was
tense. It was something I'd read on the wall of the crapper.
That, and what I'd overheard of the other guys' conversation,
got me thinking. My cock wouldn't soften.

The boys came out of the restroom a few minutes after I did,
laughing and shoving one another against the door jamb. The
taller one spotted me having a butt and trotted over. "Got a
spare smoke on ya'?" he asked, as if it was a foregone
conclusion that I'd be giving him one. At least he didn't ask
for a 'fag'.

The peachfuzz on his upper lip and his bubble-gum breath made
me suddenly less sure about his being a tough. Despite the
swagger and the vandalism, he was obviously still a mere
cadet. What I had mistaken for a real tattoo on his forearm
was, in fact, a smeared fake one of Spiderman. I decided to
set the record straight, at least as far as he was concerned.
His wanting one of my cigarettes gave me the leverage. I drew
my pack out of my jacket pocket, made as if to pass it to him
and stopped short, drawing the pack to my chest. "Take back
what you told your buddy about me being a faggot. I just
couldn't shit, smart guy."

"Sorry," he said, momentarily contrite. I offered him my
cigarette pack. "Can I take one for my friend?" he ventured
brightly, half-drawing a second butt from the flip-top box.

I chuckled at his chutzpah. "Yeah, I guess," I told him.
Having safely re-established my claim on heterosexuality with
counterfeit constipation, I decided to do some investigating.
I put on a more steel-town, less counterculture tone than I
usually spoke with, "No fuckin' queer better ever come on to
me!" I boasted. "I'd be scrubbin' the toilet with his
fairy head before he even got his dick out!" The kid lit one
of the cigarettes off mine and shot me a quizzical look.
"They come here, do they?" I asked, adding it like it had
been an afterthought.

A real tough would have already fucked off with my smokes; he
handed the pack back to me. "Mostly at night. The washrooms are
locked up then, but it's really dark over there in the bushes
behind the building; none of the lights from the path reach
back that far. That's where they do it. Over behind the
bandshell too. This place is hummin' after dark, man!"

"What about the cops? Don't they check it out?" I asked.

"What cops?" he chortled. "Once in a while they drive
through, or they park over there on the corner to drink their
coffee, but they don't really give a shit. There's nothin'
here to steal or wreck." he told me, as if he hadn't just
set the Parks Board budget back by one towel dispenser.

"Is there, like, a LOT of them? Fags, I mean."

"Not most of the... " he stopped himself. "How the fuck
should I know?" he asked with a guarded, suddenly suspicious,
expression. "I gotta go. Thanks for the smokes." The world
was truly changing; I got a peace sign flashed at me by a
would-be street punk.

The kid strutted over to where his buddy stood. I was glad to
be alone with my thoughts again when, a minute later, they
decided to make a run for it through the sheets of rain. I
chainsmoked and stewed. By the time the rain began to let up
a little, I'd made up my mind. I snuck into the toilet stall
once more to make sure I had the information right. I threw
my jean jacket on and jogged the few hundred meters to
Meyer's back door. All the way there, I repeated the message
to myself, over and over: "Thursday, 10pm. East side of the
bandshell" the single, penciled line had read, "Show hard for
suck. Steve."




I parked in the alley behind the deli and made my way the
park on foot. My destination was the bandshell, but I made a
point of passing by the snack bar first. I had little trouble
seeing my way around, even far away from the lights of the
path.  The moon was almost full and the ambient light was
substantial; hundreds of streetlights and thousands of signs
relected off glass-fronted office towers. Everything appeared
as though viewed through dark, grey-blue sunglasses--
distinct, but in monochrome.

I saw several shapes moving about in the shadows, but none
were alone. Without staring or scanning the passing scene in
any methodical way I counted at least a dozen men in twos and
threes. The unmistakable silhouettes of men on their knees in
front of other men and those of standing, jacking men emerged
from the shadows like desert mirages-- too seductive to be
real, but there they were. Flashes of white cotton encircled
ankles in the gloom like the ripples of a moonlit pool. A
grunt, or a moan and occasionally a quiet laugh, would
punctuate the neon buzzing and traffic-rumble of the muggy
summer night. I became aware of someone about thirty meters
behind me. I headed across the open field towards the
bandshell to see if he'd continue to follow. He didn't.

A tall man of about thirty with a barrel chest and the
beginnings of a beer belly stood leaning against the back
wall of the band shell.  He wore the uniform of the
industrial serf: flannel shirt, baggy, low-crotched jeans and
workboots, laced only part of the way up so that their red
flanneled tongues flopped forward, trapping the rolled cuffs
of his pants. His belt hung undone and his top pants and
shirt buttons were open, but he was otherwise fully dressed.
I watched him for a couple of minutes, posing and smoking his
cigarette like some Marlboro Man gone to seed. I knew he
could see me, but he made no acknowledgement of my being
there. I gulped hard and strode the few meters between us.
"Are you Steve?" I asked.

He looked me up and down several times with a condescending,
slightly amused expression. "Does it matter?" I could tell
he'd been very good looking once. Hard time in the coke ovens
had prematurely robbed him, but he'd apparently held on to
the arrogance.  "I asked you-- does it matter?"

"I guess not." I shuffled anxiously. My palms were sweaty, my
temples throbbed and I suddenly felt like I'd piss myself if
I relaxed, even for a second, the conscious grip I had on my
bladder. I'd expected the other guy, who ever he turned out
to be, to make a move on me. Instead, this guy seemed to be
waiting for something.

"Well then?" he didn't move. His eyes locked with mine.

I remembered the scrawled message: "Show hard for suck." I
stepped closer to the steelworker and unbuckled my pants. I
let them drop to mid-thigh and began working my half-hard
cock behind the pouch of my jockeys with a tembling hand. His
face lit up as took a drag from his cigarette. I pulled my
dick out the fly of my briefs, stroking it in the gloom.
Letting it go, I tried to imagine it from my companion's
point of view: starkly boinked against a field of white. That
would have appealed to me in that light.

"Was I supposed to do something with 'that'?" the man asked
incredulously in a gruff, mocking tone. He flicked my glans
from below with a knuckle.

I was too crushed to answer him. I began hiking up my pants,
my zipper scraping the underside of my dick. "I thought... "
I started to say.

"Get over here and suck me, bitch. Quit wastin' my fuckin'
time." he barked, reaching down into the front of his jeans.

I was unprepared enough for his taunting manner, but I
recoiled at being called 'bitch'. I turned and left,
buttoning up as I walked, sweat rolling down my back. The man
remained standing against the wall, but his coarse, derisive
chuckle seemed to follow me all the way back to my car.




There was a there was a cigar shop near our delicatessen that
had a pool hall connected to it. Often, if I had a spare hour
in the afternoon, I go there to shoot a couple solo racks of
snooker. Entering the place was like stepping into the past.
The old-folks radio station spilled from a fridge-sized
radio. Multiple layers of chipped paint curled from the
pressed tin ceiling tiles. Out-of-town hustlers in shiny
suits and white shoes drank rye whiskey out of silver pocket
flasks.

The owner was old Mr. Bujack, a brusque, cigar-chewing Pole,
who dispensed billiard balls through one wicket of his
raised, oak-paneled cage and sold cigarettes and Racing Forms
from another one facing the shop. One day I summoned the
nerve to buy a Playboy magazine from him. Soon I was buying
them monthly. I liked the tittie pictures well enough but I
actually DID enjoy the articles and interviews. Journals of
pop culture were fewer then than today. Mr. Bujack never
challanged the fact that I was only seventeen and looked even
younger. I could have been a gorilla in a ballet costume for
all he knew-- he rarely looked up from his portable TV set
unless a fight broke out in the pool hall.

I'd bought a half dozen or so girlie magazines from him
before I finally got up the nerve to buy a Muscleboy. The
name conjures up oiled, buff, Joe Weider-type models, but
most of the seminude guys depicted weren't that much older
than me and they turned me on immensely, despite all the
airbrushing and lycra-covered genitalia. Bujack's also sold a
more expensive little mag called Model Quarterly, a
collection of horny pictures masquerading as life studies for
serious artists. It featured chunkier, older men-- guys in
their thirties with frightening, ambiguous bulges in mesh
posing straps and rear shots of beefy cats wearing cowboy
hats and chaps and nothing else. I still bought my Playboys
and Downbeats, but about every third or fourth visit, I'd
pick up something with guys in it. Masturbating nightly with
my memories of Barry became offset somewhat by regular
daytime wanking to my magazines which I hid in a secret place
in the barn. I'd always lay off on date nights, though, to be
ready for Julie.

Julie and I were getting along splendidly, but we weren't
seeing nearly as much of each other as I'd have liked. We
both had summer jobs with conflicting schedules, but we
connected every weekend and spoke on the phone a few times
during the week. My parents, intially overwhelmed by her
boistrous manner and her outspokeness, warmed up to her as
the weeks went by. She joined us for many a Sunday dinner and
soon wormed her way into my pop's heart when it became known
that she could sing pretty much the whole Sarah Vaughn
songbook by heart. Predictably, Nils and ratfaced Sheila
hated her. They would have anyway, but she'd made no bones at
all, on several occasions, that she thought organized
religion to be state-sanctioned, emotional blackmail. "Tax
the buggers!" she pronounced one night at dinner, horrifying
Nils and causing Pop, a socialist and closet agnostic, to
blow tea out his nose in a fit of self-conscious laughter.
She had her own way about her, no doubt.

And the best of her was mine. We always balled on our weekend
dates, but very soon after we started keeping regular company
she began to drop hints that she might be interested in
seeing one or two other guys we knew, as well as me. I
already knew she'd been hanging out with one mutual friend
through the week and she was quite frank about her interest
in bedding another. I didn't blame her one bit; he was a
knockout. I couldn't seem to summon any of the text-book
reactions, though. I could have been crestfallen and sulked
or wept, begging her not to-- for what sake, I couldn't
imagine. I could have gotten angry, sought out the guys she
liked and threatened them-- with what, I couldn't imagine. I
could have dumped her and looked for another like her. That
was the problem. I knew perfectly well that there wasn't
another like her. She suggested I see other girls, made a
point of stressing it several times. "We're going to end up
as kissy-face as Shelly and Jay if we're not careful," she
said.  "Before we start calling each other 'babykins' and
'pookie' too, let's give ourselves some elbow room." I could
see the wisdom in that; she was no 'babykins'. What I did was
become ever more appreciative that I was the one she went out
with on Saturday nights, the one she lied to her parents
about and stayed overnight with whenever the opportunity
presented itself.



Mutual masturbation with Jay ought to have become a nice,
discreet outlet for my queer side, but it left me unfulfilled
and it happened far less frequently than I'd hoped. I was
partly to blame for that-- I was always so careful never to be
the one to initiate it. If the opportunity arose
without Jay grasping the moment, I would drop hints that I
might be inclined. But even when he picked up on them, I
found myself frustrated by our self-imposed barriers. My
problem with wanking with him lay in the fact that I kept
wanting more of him, wanted to actually make out with him. 

It wasn't at all like the urges I'd felt with Barry. I wasn't
motivated by affection towards a lover nearly so much as by
simple adolescent lust. I didn't want to convey devotion
nearly so much as I wanted to feel that magic twitching and
swelling of a spunking glans in my mouth. It would have been
so easy just to lean over and clamp my lips on it. But I knew
Jay's comfort level only too well. The official rules of
circle jerking seemed to have changed very little since I was
a hairless sprat whacking off in the woods with my grammar
school buddies.

Jay made a special point of verbally acknowledging the
normalness of what we did together every time we jacked off.
It was as if he needed constant reconvincing that we were
still 'real guys'. Often, with our dicks in each others'
fists, both of us flogging away like berserkers, he'd go into
filthy, ultra-heterosexual monologues that I found most
distracting, however hot or reassuring Jay might have
intended them to be. Possibly as a result of the sense of
incompleteness I felt from wanking with him, Jay began to
invade my nightime romps with the ghost of Barry, and we
readily made room for him. Soon others began joining Barry
and me-- faceless men with out-sized genitalia, other guys I
knew from school and the men from the pages of my Muscleboy
and Model Quarterly magazines. Sometimes I imagined just me
and them, with Barry absent from the dream entirely. I knew I
had to find a another guy to be with and soon-- someone to
blow and be blown by, certainly, but also one to caress, to
hold, to blend scents with. I just didn't know how one went
about it. My haughty reception in Pecker Park scared me
enough not to go back there any time soon, but I thought
about it all the time. I'd lay in my bed at night, knowing
that only a few miles away men were meeting and coupling in
the dark, wishing I could summon the courage to roam among
them. Jay's cousin Kevin would have been the logical person
to seek out, since he'd often expressed a certain interest,
but I was terrified of the repercussions if Jay found out.


I stood on the Katz' porch, trying hard not to look like
somebody casing the place for a daytime robbery. I rang the
doorbell one last time and turned to go. There seemed to be
nobody around despite the fact that Jay's car was in the
driveway and his bike was chained to the porch railing. He
had to be home. His summer job at the record store precluded
any vacation for him; his family had gone to the World's Fair
in Montreal and left him to look after the place. Figuring he
must be napping or showering, I decided to grab a sandwich
nearby and come back a little later. Just as I was going to
get into my car, the door clicked behind me and Jay appeared
on the stoop, barefoot and shirtless in a pair of jeans,
their top button undone, revealing the waistband of his
underwear. It looked as though I had indeed awakened him from
a nap; his hair, usually meticulously combed, was dissheveled
and he looked a little out-of-it.

"Hiya Jens, what's shakin'?" he greeted me in mid-stretch,
rubbing his concave, sucked-in belly.

"Oh, I was just in the neighborhood; wanna shoot some pool?"

"Not right this minute I don't, but come on in."

"Whatever," I said, hoping for the best, trying not to sound
too eager. Playing on Jay's dad's snooker table had been a
pretext. More than any pool cue, I wanted Jay's dick in my
hand, wanted his hand around mine-- if nothing else. Being
alone in the house with him, without any fear of interruption
from his family, would leave the door wide open for him to
suggest it. That Jay showed no desire to shoot pool led me to
deduce he'd be well disposed to shooting something messier.

We passed through the kitchen and he got three bottles of
Coke out of the fridge. I looked at him quizzically. "For my
buddy, Duncan," Jay explained. "He's downstairs,"

"Listen, if you've got company, I can come back another
time... "

"Naw, it's okay. You'll like Duncan."

I recognized him instantly as a handsome tenth-grader I'd
occasionally seen Jay speaking with at school. He worked as a
stockboy and box packer at the supermarket we went to. Duncan
looked up from the thumbful of forty-five rpm records he was
flipping through when Jay and I entered the rec room. Dressed
only in jeans, as Jay was, Duncan was a reedy lad with a
rippled ribcage and smooth, narrow hips. His longish hair
hung straight, framing his narrow, freckled face and
Modigliani neck with verticals of flaming amber. His torso
was less defined than mine or Jay's, but, belying his
youthful appearance, he had a scanty dusting of nearly
invisible carrot-colored hair in the valley between his tits.
A slightly heavier trail of it ran downwards from his navel,
growing coarser as it disappeared into the front of his
jeans. His zipper was partially open. Privately, I thrilled
at the flash of wiry, henna-colored pubes it revealed.

The smell of cock was everywhere in the windowless room.
Duncan shook me a manly hand and we all sat down, Jay and
Duncan on the edge of the daybed and me in the basket chair
beside it. Furtively, amid the small-talk, I did a Sherlock
Holmes on the scene. The tally of evidence was damning, even
without the tell-tale scent Duncan left on my hand when he
shook it: a Playboy magazine peeked out from under a pillow
and the floor was littered with their socks and shirts. A
balled-up pair of white boxers lay at my feet-- Duncan's,
judging from the profusion of pubic hair that continued to
poke out of his fly, even after he sat down. But the most
telling testimonial to the fact that a two-man jackoff had
occured there, and recently, was the handful of damp,
crumpled tissues in the over-sized ashtray. They formed
clouds under the cast-aluminum DC-3 that flew over the fake
alabaster. 

There was an obvious tension between Jay and Duncan, as
though Jay were having a joke at Duncan's expense. Jay kept
smiling and looking back and forth at us as we chattered,
shifting rapid glances between my eyes and Duncan's. Jay had
no stealth; you could always tell when he was hatching
something.

"So... you guys up to anything special this afternoon?" I
asked, trying to be general, but hoping they'd be honest with
me and admit they'd been messing around.

"Not much, Jens," Jay piped up, "I was just saying to Duncan
how much I'd like to dink Miss September here," He pulled the
centerfold out of the Playboy and hung it like a banner about
a foot from my face. I couldn't see Jay's expression behind
it, but I could see that Duncan was clearly giving him some
kind of signal. I pushed the picture aside to see Duncan
looking questioningly at Jay and pantomiming the act of
jacking off in the air in front of his pants.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about Jens, Dunc. He's cool."
Jay turned to me, grinning. "You scared us shitless when you
rang the bell, man. We were just getting some wood up for
round two." Duncan blushed, smiled shyly and cast his eyes
floorward when our gaze met. "You wanna?" Jay stared at me,
bobbing his eyebrows, Groucho-style, and rubbing his
out-thrust crotch like a beefcake model.

I nodded eagerly. Did I want to? This was turning out even
better than I'd hoped. I was a tad unnerved that we had a
third partner-- one I didn't know, except to see him around--
but I was nevertheless very turned on by him. At school he
just seemed like just another goofy sophomore, cuter than
most, but there wasn't enough about him to disturb me down
there. I was suddenly very curious to see what Jay's handsome
young friend looked like naked, what his face looked like
when he spunked.

"I don't know about me, Jay," Duncan said, making as if to
go, "I should be getting to work," Maybe I gave off a vibe or
two of the disappointment I was feeling, because he was
looking right at me when he said, "Aw, what the fuck. Why
not?"


Jay placed the open magazine between Duncan and himself and
they started undoing their pants. Jay slid his completely off
and I could see the familiar outline of his semi-hard cock
behind the pouch of his low-rise underwear. Duncan took his
time. I couldn't tell if his hesitation was brought on by
shyness or whether he wanted to check me out first. He was
handling himself through the fly of his jeans, alternating
glances between the magazine and the progress of my
disrobing, but made no move to get naked himself. I stood
between them in my briefs and socks, pretending to be
interested in the magazine as well, knowing both boys were
checking out my pouch to see the lay of my dick. It was just
a little fatter than usual for a softie when I finished
peeling my jockeys off, but by the time it completed its
inevitable ascent to the vertical a few seconds later, both
Duncan and Jay were staring at it, the magazine forgotten. It
wasn't that I was particularly well-hung, but whenever my
dick took it in its head to fill with blood, it did so with
amazing speed and fanfare, usually pumping to full boink in
three or four bobbing pulses. I found out, early on, that by
contracting certain muscles I could make my cock bounce at
will. That day I bounced it at Jay and Duncan.

Jay tossed the Playboy aside and made room for me between
them. As soon as I sat down, Duncan got up and stepped out of
his jeans, his back to us. Jay's cock was still in his
jockeys but it wasn't lonesome; both his hands were keeping
it company. He hooked his briefs behind his bag and worked
himself up to size watching me skin myself. But I was
watching Duncan's downy ass. Asses didn't usually turn me on.
Duncan's did. His butt was so pale against his tanned legs
and back; it was as if he were wearing a translucent
swimsuit. When he turned around, he revealed a slim, cut dick
of modest length that stuck straight out from his rusty pubes
like a fleshy, bobbing popsicle. He resumed his seat next to
me and we all reclined into the bank of cushions and bolsters
behind us. I closed my eyes and four hands explored my
genitals. I dry-jacked them both at once until Jay's precum
began to flow and he took over for himself.

Duncan's hand hadn't left my dick, nor mine his. I
concentrated on milking some preseminal fluid out of him, but
nothing came. Jay settled back into the cushions at the
opposite end of the daybed to watch us.  Surprising me with
his familiarity, Duncan threw a leg over mine and nestled his
cheek against my armpit. He began palming my belly and the
inside of my thigh with his spare hand. Our new position made
his cock difficult to jack, so I let it go and settled back,
letting my new friend have his way with my package. I could
hear the smacking of Jay's assault on his own dick behind me;
my arm felt the regular tightening and relaxing of his thigh
muscles as he built up steam. Jay always seemed to have to
work very hard for his second wad in a row, a quirk Shelly no
doubt appreciated, since his first climax tended to be a
sprint for the finish line.

Duncan's hand on my cock was picking up speed too and his
warm roving palm made me shudder every time it passed over
one of my erect nipples. Duncan took my stickshift another
gear higher and I started to pitch and moan. "Stand back when
he creams, Dunc'-- unless you want a shower," the voice
behind me warned, between excited puffs of breath. Jay's
wisecrack broke my concentration; but thanks to Duncan's
determined, unbroken onslaught, I was just as quick to get it
back. Then a phone rang somewhere upstairs.

"Fuck!" Jay swore, jumping to his feet. His glistening knob
stuck out of his clenched fist.

"Just ignore it," suggested Duncan, slowing down on his
flogging of my dick, but not stopping altogether. He traded
hands to wipe some of my excess precum onto his cockhead,
taking advantage of the interruption to wank himself at the
same easy tempo he was treating me to.

"Aw, I can't. I'm supposed to take messages for my old man.
Besides, it could be Shelly." Jay stuffed himself into his
drawers and ran out the door. "You guys go ahead, I'll catch
up when I get back," he shouted over his shoulder. His
footfalls thundered all the way up the stairs and along the
hall to his dad's office. Then the distant ringing stopped.

Duncan still had my dick in his hand. He was stroking it
slowly and lightly, barely holding it at all. He looked me in
the eye, as if trying to read me. A little uncomfortable with
the constant eye contact, I complimented him, "You sure know
how to stroke a righteous bone, man." I cupped my bag and our
fingers met. I grasped the hand that encircled my shaft to
show him the pressure and speed I liked. "Here. Step up a
little, like before. Like this..." I suggested, in my
friendliest tone.

Duncan let go of my cock, smiled at me beatifically and
dragged a lazy knuckle along my torso from my armpit to the
ridge of my pelvic bone. I suddenly wanted to kiss him in the
worst way. Slipping off the couch, once again skinning my
pole, he knelt on the floor between my knees and started
slow-jacking me underhand. I was a little put out that his
cute, compact dick was out of sight now, as well as out of
reach, but I easily gave myself over to pleasure. His
delicate fingers made my cock look fatter, I was noting, when
he suddenly reached over to the lamp on the table next to us
and clicked it off. By the meager light that came in from the
door, I saw the silhouette of Duncan's head come forward. In
the half-light I watched his lips curl inward, forming a
choirboy O. Presently, half my dick disappeared into his
mouth.

On contact, I felt my cum near the boiling point. I knew I
wouldn't be able to enjoy much of this. I clamped my eyes
shut so that the sight of Duncan's face on my crotch couldn't
set me off, but the image's afterburn persisted. He swirled
his tongue around my glans for a few sloppy swipes before
diving on the length of me. Reeling from the sudden heat
around my whole organ, I rolled my head from side to side in
a vain attempt to release some of the pent-up energy. Humming
his enjoyment into my pubic patch, Duncan repeatedly impaled
himself on my prick, tip to root. I felt the warm, humid
exhalation from his nostrils bathe my crotch on every
plunging downstroke.  Both his hands roamed my chest and
thighs. Finally, he grabbed me by the plums and tugged on
them, hard. That caused me to start losing my wad before he
even got a decent sucking rhythm established. I felt my dick
swell. I grabbed the back of his head and involuntarily
fucked his face, the springs of the daybed creaking with each
lunge. He choked on my first couple blasts, but his hands
grabbed my hips, forcing them down onto the mattress. I eased
off the thrusting. He took the rest of my load purring,
gently toothing the rumpled collar my retracted foreskin made
behind the ridge of my palpitating glans.

When he finally stood up, he came up wanking. Instinctively,
I reached over to turn the lamp back on. Backlit as he was, I
couldn't see him pumping very well. And I HAD to see him
spew. He stepped between my splayed knees, grinning with
cum-swashed lips and jacking like a maniac. For an instant it
looked like he might be offering me his dick, in case I
wanted to return the favor. Of course I did, but the fear of
Jay walking in on that kind of scene made me drop back into
the pillows to remove any ambition Duncan might have had for
sticking it in my mouth. I tried to jack it for him with an
outstretched hand, but he seemed intent on doing it himself.
I kept one hand on my three-quarters bone and played with
Duncan's smallish, but low-slung nuts while he brought
himself off, his eyebrows raised and his eyes closed. Most of
it sailed past me because he tightened himself up, standing
in a half-crouch when the arcing jets started. That sent his
jizz off to one side, onto some cushions and a folded afghan
several feet away. His projectile blasts eventually
diminished and one nice warm squirt, near the end of his
climax, caught me across the wrist and hung there like slim,
wet bracelet. I longed to lick it off. I was just about to,
since Duncan had collapsed, eyes shut, next to me on the
daybed. But just then Jay walked through the door.

"Looks like I just missed the best part!" Jay said stepping
out of his underpants. He was already at full erection. He
gazed down at Duncan's huffing form, then at me. "He cums
just like you, eh Jens? A regular friggin' howitzer! You
should have seen the one Dunc shot off before. I swear, one
day I'm going to start measuring you guys for distance."

Duncan and I glanced at each other, a little shyly. He licked
his lips and I smiled at him, in spite of myself. Then I gave
him a wink Jay couldn't see. God, I was being flirty with a
guy three years younger than me-- and with my best friend
sitting not two feet away!

"That was Kevin on the phone. He's just back from
California," 

"Kevin?" Duncan sat upright, looking past me at Jay. "Is he
coming here?" He left no doubt he fervently wished that to be
so.

"Not till tomorrow night," Jay told him. Duncan's hopeful
expression fell. "But he says hi--" he looked at me, "to both
of you wankers."

I tended not to be around very often when Kevin was. It
wasn't that I avoided him, but I worked and dated and went to
school. Kevin didn't seem to do any of those things. He went
away for on trips for long periods of time, but when he was
around he was, via Jay, my main connection for pot and hash.
It made me a little nervous to be in his company though,
especially because Jay or others were always present. I knew
he could see past my facade of heterosexuality and he made
insinuating remarks that always forced me to take on a pose
that was too butch by half, forced me to spout heterosexist
trash that made me cringe even as I spoke. What I
couldn't retaliate with in kind were the looks he gave me
when nobody was paying attention to us.  I suppose he aimed
those looks at Duncan too.

Duncan wasn't to be put off with a simple 'hi'. "Kevin is SO
fuckin' cool! Did he say when he was coming? I'd kind of like
to be here..."

"I'll bet you would," Jay said, almost to himself. "Did you
get off?" he asked, poking me in the ribs with his jacking
elbow.  

"Did I? Oh yeah! Dun--" I certainly wasn't going to
mention the blowjob, but I felt Duncan's hand touch my thigh,
felt his anxious look without seeing it. I said no more.

"Well you must have been neat about it, for once" Jay said,
applying fresh spit to his bone. "Didn't I tell ya' Jens
pumps a wild load, Dunc'?"

"He sure does, Jay." Duncan looked at his watch and got up to
reach for his pants. "I REALLY gotta go," he said, treating
us to another look at his trim, soft butt as he stepped into
them. Socks and sneakers followed, then his white shirt with
the fake bow-tie and name tag clamped to the pocket. He
seemed to have forgotten his boxers. I was going to ask about
them when he stepped over to where Jay was energetically
pounding his meat. "You want me to take care of that for you
before I go?" he asked.

Jay gazed up at Duncan, a little edgy by the look of it, but
didn't let up on his dick. "NO! I mean, it's-- okay," he
gasped, "I'm-- almost--"

Duncan spread Jay's outstretched legs and knelt between them.
Jay went white, but he was too close to heaven to stop.
Duncan calmly pulled Jay's blurring fist off his cock and
replaced it with his own. "No, Dunc'! You don't have to--" he
glanced over at me, obviously distressed at my being there at
that moment. He tried to push him away, but Duncan kept right
on smiling and pumping, his face ever closer to the tip of
Jay's bone. All at once Jay's head flew backwards and he
gasped. Weak, but ample spurts ejected from his dick, none of
them powerful enough to make it to Duncan's face.

Duncan grinned a private grin in my direction and I grinned
it back while Jay lay whimpering. He worked the slime of
Jay's final drops along his deflating shaft and mouthed some
words at me I didn't understand. Abruptly, he stood up,
chuckling to himself and grinning at Jay. Now it seemed, it
was he who was having a joke at Jay's expense. He patted Jay
on the outer thigh a couple times and grabbed a few kleenex
for his sticky fingers. He exchanged one more winking glance
with Jay. "Real nice meeting you Jens. Catch you guys later!"
he said brightly and was gone.

"Again?" I asked Jay, sliding next to him and tugging on our
cocks is unison.

"I better not, Jens. Shelly's staying over tonight." he said.
Much sooner than was his usual habit on these occasions, Jay
seemed bent on getting mobile. He went to take a quick
shower, time I used to drink Duncan's scent out of his
boxers. I'd have gladly squeezed off another load, lying on
the floor like that, with Duncan's drawers on my face. Too
soon, Jay turned the shower spray off and rejoined me in the
rec room.



Jay still seemed a bit distracted later on, when we went for
a burger. We sat at the drive-in, finished with our meal but
still swilling the remains of our Cokes. The name Duncan came
up. "So, Jay," I teased him, "that makes it one down and two
to go, I guess."

"Wha?"

"You told me there were three other guys you wanked with.
Duncan's one. That leaves two I don't know about, right?" I
wondered who they could be. All the time.

Jay chuckled. "You still don't know who the three are.
Duncan's sorta new." he chuckled again.

"Horny bastard!" I had to give him credit.

"So, Jens, when you guys were beatin' off? When I was on the
phone back there?" Jay asked without asking anything.

"Yeah?"

"Well, did Dunc' try to-- like-- " d-d-did he-- "

"Spit it out, for chrissakes. You sound like Porky Pig."

"Did he-- Aw, forget it."

"Take a drink of your soda Jay," I told him. I'd rarely seen
him at a loss for words. The problem was usually one of
getting him to shut up.

"Did he try to suck your dick while I was upstairs?" Jay
asked, in a hushed, skittish tone.

"No!" I lied, not missing a beat. "Would he DO that?"

"Well, yeah... Like, he did it to me the first time we ever
beat off together and now he wants to do it all the time."
Jay looked out the window, the one he'd just rolled up
despite the heat, just in case the people in the next car
could overhear us.

"And you let him?" I'd have gladly joined Duncan on his knees
in front of Jay.

"No! Just that one time, honest! I don't think Dunc' takes it
up the ass or anything like a pure-D fag, but he's sure a
bugger to suck dick!"

"No shit. I guess that's not as queer as it would be if you
sucked him back," I said trying to reassure him. "You didn't,
did you?"

"Fuck off! I don't do that!" he said, bristling in
exagerrated offence. Sorry Jay. Had to ask. "You saw how he
perked up when I mentioned Kevin. Before Kev left for the
coast this last time Duncan and him were hanging out a fair
bit. I think maybe Kev's turned him queer or something."

"So, is he any good? Duncan, I mean. Does he give good head?"
I sure didn't know very well. The shock of actually having
another guy's mouth on my cock after wanting it for so long
had given me scant opportunity to be objective.

"Oh fuck, yeah! Shelly only does that for me if it's my
birthday or if she's had too much lemon gin. And frankly
she's pretty shitty at it, compared to Duncan. But it ain't
that, man. It's just real hard to refuse him 'cause he's such
a nice kid otherwise and 'cause he seems to like it so much.
He always looks kinda sad when I tell him no. I tell ya'
Jens, that time he did me? He got me off three times in a row
without pullin' off my cock once. Musta been blowin' me
steady for the better part of an hour!"

"Fuck! I'll say he likes it," I knew exactly why he liked it
too, but I wasn't saying. I envied him just the opportunity
for an hour of Jay's cock in his mouth-- three creamy
Jay-loads seemed almost an extravagant bonus. "You told me
you messed around with Kevin a few times to prove to him that
you weren't queer, right?"

"Well, yeah. Only a couple of times and you gotta understand
I was pretty wrecked both times. You know. We smoked up and
started out just giving each other handjobs, but Kevin kind
of moved in on me.  I guess things just... "

"Got out of hand?" I offered. 

He smiled at that. "I guess they did. I didn't really get off
on him kissing me or pawing my butt and all that, but I
really liked it when he sucked my cock." Jay palmed himself
abstractedly and stared out the window. "I guess a guy can do
it better cause he knows how everything feels." 

"Did you try it on him?  Just to check it out, I mean."

Jay squirmed a bit. I knew he couldn't lie, that he wouldn't.
I also knew that he was acutely uncomfortable with the truth
just then. "For a few minutes, I guess. I didn't really like
the taste of his dick and doin' it made me feel creepy. I was
probably terrible at it. Mostly Kev wanted to fuck me. I put
the kibosh on that without even tryin' it. In the end, both
times, we just went back to jackin' off like we always do. He
understands now."

"So what made you pick Duncan to mess around with? I mean,
when a guy sees some hubba-hubba chick on the street, he says
to himself: 'now there's a filly I'd like to fuck!'. How is
it with jacking off? Do you see some guy at school and say to
yourself: 'now there's a cat I'd like to swap handjobs
with'?" 

Jay laughed. "Shit, I've thought that about almost every guy
we know at one time or another. You got to be so careful who
you come on to though. It can take a long time.  Like it did
with you."

"That's my point, Jay. And once you go to all the lengths of
sussing a person out and finally getting loose with them,
well, I can't see why you'd be surprised or upset if it turns
out they'd be interested in doing more than that. If Shelly
doesn't like to give head and one of your jackoff buddies
does, I don't see where you've got a problem. When Duncan was
sucking you off that time, did he make like he expected you
to do him back?"

"He never mentioned it and I sure didn't offer. He jacked
himself off most of the time he was blowin' me, or I did."

My mind took a hard left onto What-If Street. "See?" I told
him, "And yet he stayed on you long enough to get three loads
out of you. Sounds to me like he was getting what he wanted--
I say let 'im, and be glad." If Jay could get his head around
that, there might be a chance for me to nose-dive him too. Or
at the very least, if fate allowed a repeat of that
afternoon's play, I'd be able to enjoy a blowjob from Duncan
without worrying so much about what Jay would think of me.

It was unusual for Jay and I to go that long in a
conversation without making eye-contact. "You sure he didn't
put any moves on you?" he asked again. I was glad he wasn't
looking at me.

"Nope, just a good ol' handjob," I'd like to think I lied
because I didn't want Duncan to seem like a slut, but I
really didn't know why I couldn't be upfront with Jay. He'd
just admitted to me that he'd sucked his cousin's cock--
twice. He'd been embarrassed about it, but his telling me
that demonstrated enormous trust. Yet I just couldn't bring
myself to tell him I'd done it too. If I did, I'd have to tell
him with whom, and how often, and for how long. And that I'd
liked it. And that I'd been in love with the guy I did it
with. I knew the lack of any evidence of my ejaculation that
afternoon was vexing him. "Duncan's a mean stroker," I told
him, "but I hardly came at all. Guess I put the pickle to
Julie a few too many times last night," A shameless boast,
but I was suddenly eager change the topic and happy to get
mention of our girls to the fore. I draped my napkin over the
hardon snaking along my inner thigh. I'm still hyped from
this afternoon," I told him, "Julie's in for a ragged
dinkin'."

"Fuck, I hope I'm squishy again when Shelly comes over
later," Jay mused. "I read someplace that oysters are
supposed to bone you right up. Maybe I should pick some up on
the way home," I filled him in on just what was required for
the preparation oysters. "Fuck that!" he said. "By the time I
did all that shit I'd have another load or two ready
anyways..."


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