From: janus@greynet.net (janus znaiu)
Subject: ~~NEW CHAPTER~~ "Jackin' at Jay's House" m/m, teen, some bi content, underwear.
Date: Sun, 06 Apr 1997 20:04:00 GMT


JACKIN' AT JAY'S HOUSE 
by janus znaiu

Jay Katz simply would not be told. I knew it wasn't really
his idea to badger me this way; his girlfriend Shelly was
always trying to set me up with 'just the right girl'. Over
the past year or so, I'd gone out with no less than a dozen
of them.

"But Julie's PERFECT for you, Jens!" he pleaded. "She's
pretty, she's smart, she plays the guitar-- AND she's got
titties like a pair of Cadillac bumper-bullets." Jay dropped
his hands from his chest where they'd been approximating
Julie's supposed endowment. He pulled his jockstrap on over
his jockeys, snapped it tight and stepped into his gym
shorts.

I slammed my locker closed and shot him my best supercillious
scowl. "Perfect? You must think I have amnesia. You always
say they're perfect. You even said it about that tall one who
looked like Fred MacMurray in a dress. Man, that chick had a
face like a boot!"

"I know, I know, but I've SEEN this one, Jens. I'm tellin'
you-- she's hot shit. God strike me dead!" I side-stepped a
good few feet away and looked upwards expectantly. Jay rolled
his eyes and grabbed my forearm with both hands. "Please...
don't make me beg you." I shook him off and led the way to
the gym, but he clung to me like a fart. "Come on man,
Shelly's been up my ass about this since last weekend. Julie
really liked your yearbook picture," Jay said with a sudden,
hopeful expression, "says you're 'a FOX'!" He ruffled my hair
playfully as we walked along the corridor towards the
cavernous echo of squeaking sneakers and two dozen thumping
basketballs.

I felt myself getting sucked in again. I resolved to be firm.
"Jay, look at me. For the last time-- no." I told him
plainly. "I'm going to be doing stuff for my pop at the deli
Friday night." That was true, in a way. I'd begun to apply
myself to the catering side of the family business, was even
rewarded for it with a Chevy station wagon of my own for my
seventeenth birthday. But what I told Jay was also a lie. I
knew full well that I'd be finished work in plenty of time to
go home and clean up for a date.

A piercing whistle silenced the basketballs and presently
fifty identically-clad seniors shuffled, drone-like, to stand
under their assigned numbers on the wall for the taking of
attendance. Even there I wasn't exempt from Jay's pestering.
Owing to the alphabetical proximity of our surnames, his wall
number was the one after mine. He leaned towards me and
nudged my shoulder with his, but he remained facing forward
as the coach walked by noting absentees on his clipboard. At
the least opportune moment imaginable, when our gym teacher
stood mere meters away, Jay half-shouted, half-whispered,
"C'mon, Jens, do it for an old jackoff buddy."

My first panicked reaction was to look around frantically to
see if anyone, especially our teacher, had heard him.
Apparently not, but I was breaking out in a cold sweat just
the same. I jabbed Jay hard with my elbow. "Okay, okay! I'll
go! Now just shut UP!" I whispered urgently, through clenched
teeth.

I could see the relief unfurl across his face. I knew Shelly
Margolis. The nascent yente in her labored away at
matchmaking like she was pursuing a merit badge in it. Jay
always managed to get caught in the crossfire. I knew she'd
be much kinder to him now that he'd secured me as a date for
yet another one of her between-boyfriends pals. He was
thanking me with a fusillade of appreciative murmurings,
shaking my hand even. I didn't hear a word of it, but I sure
felt his hand.

I was helplessly transported back to the one and only time
we'd jacked off together. It had been Jay, his cousin Kevin,
and Barry and me, celebrating the end of the school year out
at Watson's Pit. It was a scene I'd relived often in the
privacy of my room, but anytime Jay and I were actually
together, it was as if it had never happened, as if I
couldn't or wouldn't make the connection with the Jay I saw
at school every day and the Jay I'd masturbated with nearly
two years before. Though my cock tingled happily inside my
jock from the recollection, Jay's bringing it up there, in
the all-male bastion of the school gym, struck me as an
unnecessarily perverse way to call my attention to it. For
the most part, I'd managed to put the homosexual side of my
nature on a bit of a back-burner.

Truth to tell, I put it on a portable hotplate that I kept
under my bed. I'd haul it out and reheat a stew of my
favorite memories whenever I lay down to go to sleep, without
fail. Predictably, my one-handed reveries consisted of Barry;
mostly Barry, and little else besides. Hardly surprising.
We'd been intimate for nearly a year before he had to move
away and I had limited experience with other guys-- certainly
nothing to the degree of intimacy that Barry and I had
progressed to-- and none at all since he'd left. The months
that followed his departure were hell, but gradually, day by
day, I grew to miss him less, just as he'd predicted.
Eventually I learned to be able to relive our randier times
together in my mind without having to stop wanking because it
was all too sad. I was even able to look at the three sexy
pictures I'd taken of him, but very quickly they proved
themselves inconsequential. I had no interest in them as
objects and lost track of them soon after the images they
contained etched themselves into memory.

Barry proved unable or disinclined to keep up our
correspondence. Before long my letters to him consisted of
little more than multi-page exhortations to write more often.
I knew it was stupid even while I was doing it; he never did
respond very well to guilt trips. We spoke briefly on the
telephone three or four times, but there were always other
people in the room, huddled around extension phones, awaiting
their turn to speak, to say Merry Christmas or Happy Birthday
or whatever occasioned the call. When the phone was passed to
us, Barry and I acted shy with each other, like distant
cousins who knew something embarrassing about the other. I
recall wracking my brain, desperately trying to remember all
the stuff I'd rehearsed. But in the end, there was no way to
say anything that would mean something special, something
only we'd understand. All our codes had become obsolete. He
never called me Slim anymore.

It was the best possible thing, probably, to have had that
more or less clean break from him. It was the kick in the ass
I needed to get out there and be Jens-- a different one. And
if that new Jens wasn't actually the real one, then at least
it would be one who didn't need to see his reflection in
Barry's eyes to know he was alive. Cliches only get to be
cliches because there's a kernal of truth to them. In my
case, time was healing all wounds.


Jay got kept back in eleventh grade the year Barry moved out
west and we found ourselves in several classes together. We
got to be pretty good friends. Almost immediately after
resumption of classes though, he began trying to get me to go
out with this or that girl. Jay and Shelly had been an item
since ninth grade. They thought everyone should be as
joined-at-the-hip as they were. For most of that year I'd
managed to stave him off. The idea of being alone in the
company of a female my age filled me with mortal dread. I
invented distant, ailing relatives, pretended I had a
girlfriend in another town and generally fibbed my way out of
all their best efforts to pair me up, but towards prom season
I simply ran out of plausable excuses. Jay (via Shelly)
finally just refused to take no for an answer. Thus began my
mercurial association with public heterosexuality.

It was awkward at first, but since the girls with whom I was
being set up, at least initially, were ones whose reputations
were unblemished by the damning epithet 'easy', there was far
less performance anxiety than I'd feared. Gradually, I began
to actually look forward to that obligatory good-night kiss,
if only to be able to hold onto another human being for a
while and feel the comfort of falling into synch with someone
else's breathing. Then, at some point near the middle of my
senior year a kind of situational libido began to make itself
known; I found myself wishing that some of the girls I saw
more than once would go further than simple necking. A few of
them seemed to expect something more out of me too. The
logical next step was petting, though I never did understand
where so-called 'light' petting ended and 'heavy' petting
began. Neither did anyone else I knew-- we just understood it
as a catch-all euphemism for mutual masturbation,
hetero-style. Having a girl tugging away roughly at my prick
of a Saturday night wasn't nearly as liberating for me as
say, a leisurely, starlight sixty-nine with Barry might have
been, but it was preferable to beating off by myself and it
carried with it the added bonus of being more or less
sanctioned societally, if not parentally.

Soon I began to line up dates of my own. To my astonishment,
and without any great effort on my part, it turned out girls
found me attractive. Apparently, I was the kind of guy girls
want to mother. I'd have been a boob not to play along.
Rarely was I interested in the girl's mind, her hopes or her
fears. I always went into these 'romances' hoping for the
payoff of a handjob somewhere down the line. If that meant
that I had to compliment a girl on whatever bizarre,
architechtural tonsure she'd constructed, or hold a door or
two open for her, so be it. In that regard, I was the same as
most of the other guys at my school. Where we differed was my
uneasiness with the female sexual anatomy.

I liked breasts alright, in a prematurely-weaned sort of way.
When I first began dating, daunted by the technical side of
brassieres and not knowing just how rough my groping felt
from the girl's point of view, I must have made a fool of
myself rather a lot. Since then, I'd learned I really enjoyed
fondling tits. I marveled at the seemingly infinite varieties
of them. When we progressed to the point where the next
natural thing to do seemed to be to suck them, I did, and
with genuine gusto, but I was never able to voice my profound
desire to have a bit of that myself. Guys didn't have tits in
those days.

I didn't much like the appearance of pussy, but you rarely
ever got a clean look at your dates' genitalia anyway, given
the darkened places we usually petted. Handling female nether
regions, well, it just didn't feel right somehow. There
wasn't anything substantial there, nothing dick-like that you
could really hold onto. The clitoris, difficult to locate at
first, especially for someone as inexperienced as I was,
when I found it, usually forbidden territory. I didn't
understand why this little nub-- this sad parody of a penis--
could be so tender that the lightest fingering of it would so
often put an abrupt end to our play. It seemed as though God
had played a cruel trick on women. It was as though He'd
originally thought to give them a dick, but then changed his
mind halfway into it and hurredly gave them tits to
compensate.

Girls' scents were different down there too; not bad
necessarily-- not at all fishy like the cliche-- just fecund
and mysterious, and not particularly frightening. It just
didn't turn me on anything like guy-funk did. Indeed, I found
my own scent more appealing, sexually, than that of any girl
I'd known. Lockerroom banter dictated that I ought to be
chasing that female aroma, like a bull seeks out a fresh
heifer in a herd, but the heady concentration of male scents
in the lockerroom easily over-rode that nugget of
conventional wisdom. Still, if diddling an amicable female in
a darkened theatre balcony or the back seat of my car netted
digital release from a hand other than my own, however
unskilled, it seemed a small enough price to pay to return
the favor. However uneasy it might have made me feel at the
time, I honestly gave it a chance. Mutual masturbation was
about as far as I got with any girl I took out, but I took
comfort in the fact that most of my friends weren't actually
getting much more than that, despite all the incessant
lockerroom braggadocio.

The ersatz Don Juan in me was, like the rest of me, a
Scandanavian capricorn and therefore, a helpless
perfectionist. As such, I was bewildered by the vagaries of
the female orgasm. It challanged everything I thought I knew
about the nature of 'getting off'. My over-riding concern for
the quality of my partner's pleasure, an easy enough thing to
measure with another guy, came smack up against the results
of millennia of patriarchy. A lot of the girls I went out
with in highschool didn't even know they were *supposed* to
get off. I doubt if they even discussed it among themselves
very much back then. I figured out, early on, that it had to
have something to do with the clit, but I got scant specific
direction from the girls I knew. It was as if their
motivation for petting was primarily one of reluctantly
seeing to it that the guy spermed as quickly (and as neatly)
as possible, so they could return to the party or the movie
or whatever activity it was that got interrupted by the male
partner's unremitting adolescent need. I really wanted the
girl to like what I was doing with her; but it was hard to
improve my technique when the girl seemed programmed to
barely tolerate my advances at the very best. I began to feel
more and more like the fraud that I was. At least that was
the case until Jay and Shelly intoduced me to Julie Findlay.

A rare case of truth in advertising, Julie was every bit as
pretty as Jay had made her out to be. It further turned out
that she not only played the guitar, and very well, but that
she had a wonderful singing voice too. She even had the large
breasts Jay had played up so emphatically. But her most
endearing quality was that she gave a shit about how I felt
about things; that she actually listened to me. And when she
spoke, she said things that made me want to listen to her
too. It goes beyond my perceived scope of this memoir to go
into the details of our sexual doings, but in short, she was
the first woman I ever had real sex with.

We'd been necking, huddled together in a doubled-up sleeping
bag on the pebbly western shore of Lake Ontario, going a good
deal further than I had any reason to expect on a first date
with a stranger. In the middle of a kiss, during the course
of which she'd managed to extract my cock from my pants and
underwear, she simply pulled off my mouth, disappeared into
the sleeping bag and swallowed my boner whole. Having been
the happy recipient of countless blowjobs from Barry, I
realized instantly that she was no novice, despite her 'good
girl' build-up. Before the sun came up the next morning and
we made our way back to where Jay and Shelly had spent the
night similarly occupied, Julie and I had done about
ninety-five percent of what a man and a woman can do in a
sleeping bag on a damp, chilly night.

Julie was the kind of girl/woman I'd always wanted to be with
when I'd been fumbling around with the others. She was the
first girl I'd known who seemed to approach sex, the theory
of it anyway, with the same attitude I did. She had
absolutely no trouble assuming responsibility for her own
pleasure whenever she felt like it or whenever my technique
was lacking.  And, bless her, she never once commented on my
flagrant virginity. Overnight, the female anatomy and the
female sex-drive became a whole lot less mysterious. I knew I
was swimming in the deep end, but woman, as embodied by Julie
at least, was a force of nature I felt well inclined to
experiment with just then. The four of us began to be known
as a regular gang in no time at all.


Aside from that one time in the gym, Jay never mentioned our
mutal wank at the quarry in public and I was glad of it. But
as the four of us began to see more and more of each other,
it followed that Jay and I would hang out together whenever
Shelly and Julie went off to do some girl thing. It was on
those occasions that he started bringing up that night at
Watson's Pit again. At first, it was in a sort of, 'boy,
weren't we young and stupid' context, as though we were a
couple of porch-swing grandpas looking back on the caprices
of our youth. But as time went by, Jay's references to it
came to be tinged with an unmistakable nostalgia. It always
seemed like he was giving me my cue to suggest doing it
again. For that reason, I felt edgy whenever he brought it
up.

It was nuts, really. There was no good reason not to go for
it. Even so, I was more shy and nervous about things
homoerotic then than at any other time in my life. Even
before I met Barry, it had been nothing at all to 'whip it
out, whip it up, wank it and wipe it' with another guy. Half
the kids I knew growing up did as much, more or less at the
drop of a hat, without making a very big deal out of it. Now,
after so long out of the saddle, it seemed like I'd acquired
a kind of retroactive virginity where masturbating with
another guy was concerned. Maybe I feared falling as hard for
the next person I jacked off with as I had for Barry. Maybe I
feared facing, once again, all the complications and
dodgeyness that came with that kind of attachment. I felt as
though I had more to protect now than I had before I met
Barry. With the recently-introduced element of regular
intercourse with Julie, I was as close as I'd ever been to
living the ideal North American teenhood.  Aside from my
idiosyncratic taste in music and my slightly-suspect hatred
for all forms of organized sport, my public life reflected
everything that was safe and straight and normal. Among my
peers, I was regarded as acceptably quirky. I had a decent
'rep' and I meant to keep it off the chopping block.

I'd come so perilously close to being found out and labeled
queer; I used to shudder whenever something new came up that
made me realize how close. My parents, who I'd always
considered pretty much out of it where my personal life was
concerned, and whose reticence to discuss sexual matters
bordered on the pathological-- even they let the odd private
thought escape. When it became obvious I was finally becoming
interested in girls at long last, Pop had said, with
self-conscious mirth, that they'd been 'a little worried
about me for a while there' in direct reference to my
attachment to Barry. Another time, my mom mentioned that she
used to think Barry 'had some kind of hold' over me. Well, of
course he did; it had been the strongest kind of hold there
is. I just hadn't realized how obvious all this had been to
anyone but my brother Nils. 

Now, with all my dubious Barry
linen getting safe, nightly airings, I thought I could keep
an even keel in the real world of school and the deli. In the
lockerroom after phys-ed, the toughest, thrice-weekly test of
my resolve, I trained myself to maneuver as though I were
looking through inverse binoculars-- seeing only what I
needed to see in order to move around, without seeing
anything that was likely to cause me to embarrass myself. But
Jay's repeated, wistful references to that night at Watson's
Pit, and his other veiled appeals to what I considered my
private domain, my queer side, were a constant menace to my
shakey hold on normal.



We were sitting around Jay's rec room one Saturday afternoon
with a few hours to kill before we had to pick the girls up
from a fashion show or somesuch. I'd already rejected
watching televised golf and a shooting a few games of pool as
potential time-wasters. The weather was too foul for any
activity outdoors to be very appealing.

"I know! Let's jam!" Jay suggested, reaching for the battered
acoustic guitar hanging on the wall.

I didn't need to answer him; rolling my eyes back into my
head said it all. There was a piano in the corner, but it
hadn't been tuned since the Truman administration and Jay
knew perfectly well that thrashing and rethrashing the
kindergarten changes of "Hang On Sloopy" and "Louie, Louie",
the only tunes he knew how to play, was not my idea of
jamming.  

"Christ, you're a tough man to please today," Jay griped.

"It's not your fault, Jay. I'm just a little bored, I guess."

His face suddenly lit up, "Hey! I know!" but he quickly
resumed his normal expression, "Naw, you wouldn't wanna..."

I was slipping further into ennui by the minute. I just knew
we were going to wind up just driving around aimlessly, as
usual, listening to Detroit R&B radio and talking trash until
it was time to pick the girls up. "I wouldn't wanna what?" I
asked him, caring little what it was.

He grinned, like someone trying hard to be casual about
something he's bursting to tell. Unable to contain himself,
he blurted, "Wanna watch a some stag films?"

"Some what?"

"Stag films-- you know, real fuck movies,"

"Right," I snorted, "Where would you get anything like that?"

"They're my dad's. Well, actually he borrowed them from some
guy at the office for my cousin's batchelor party, but he
hasn't given them back yet. I hope he NEVER does. Wanna see
'em? They're really horny shit! I've watched them six times
already." Jay was babbling like an idiot, a horny idiot. As
if the chair he was in had suddenly become too hot to sit in,
he shot up and stood at the edge of the sofa I was sprawled
on. "It'll only take a second or two set it up and we'll be
out of here before anybody comes home. The folks are at the
community center watching my kid sister pretend to be a
dancing daffodil or something."

"I dunno, Jay..." What I did know was that I was looking
squarely at the baited hook of yet another ploy on Jay's part
to orchestrate a two-man wank with me, just as I'd known it
every single time he suggested showing me his collection of
Playboy magazines; just as I'd known it when he took more
than a minute to put his semi-hard dick away that time we
stopped for a piss in the woods. He just kept fingering his
dickhead until I finished pissing and, in vain, he'd flashed
me a hopeful, lost puppy look. He nearly had me that time.

Jay was already pawing at the front of his jeans. "There's
even a part where this girl takes on four guys on at once!
Fuckin' wild, man!"

I'd never seen anything truly pornographic in my life and the
scene, as Jay described it, pandered directly to some dreams
I'd been having lately. I heard myself capitulating, "You
can't mention this to anybody Jay; not even in fun."

"Mention what? That we watched a coupla' stag movies?
Shit, every guy we know would, if they ever got a chance."
Jay was clearly as amused by my reluctance as he was proud to
have custody of such a treasure, however temporarily. Now
that he was fairly certain I meant to play along, he didn't
give me a second to recant. "C'mon, Jens. Time's a-wastin',"
he said, leading the way to the third-floor attic where the
projector was stored. I followed him, but he had to be made
to see that he was missing my point.

"Not that we watched one," I told him, when we stopped on the
second floor landing and he'd ducked into his parents'
bedroom for the films."You can't tell anyone that we watched
one together-- just the two of us. I mean it-- you keep that
under your hat, Jay. And about Watson's Pit too, okay? I
don't want anybody getting any funny ideas about you and me."
Mostly, I didn't want HIM to get any funny ideas about him
and me. That might have caused me to have some funny ideas
about him too.

He shot me a fairly convincing 'who me?' look. "Put it outa'
your mind, Jens. I won't even tell Shelly." he said. I
cringed at that. I knew from previous experience that there
was precious little those two didn't share.

Jay suspended a white sheet from some nails at one end of the
long, narrow attic. While I closed the shutters on the
windows at the other end of the room, he set the projector on
an old end table next to a sagging, 1940s sofa that faced the
improvised screen. I sat at the sofa's opposite end, reading
the spines of the two plain white super-8 film cartons. The
hand-lettered labels proclaimed: "Tinsletown Floozie" and
"Millie on the Midway". I was disappointed to note that the
running time for each was a little less than ten minutes. I
wasn't expecting Ben Hur in terms of length, but ten minutes
seemed like a very hasty piece of ass, even to a
recently-deflowered seventeen yearold. I reckoned they must
get down to business a lot faster than Julie and I did.

I watched as Jay threaded the first of the films through the
cogged wheels and capstans of the projector. I couldn't help
it-- as much as I tried to direct my mind's eye to
speculation on the lewd scenes to come, my real eye kept
interrupting with optic information. I was powerless to stop
sneaking glances at Jay's crotch. His boner was about as
obvious as boners got.

Our jeans brand of choice was T-Kays, a variously-hued Levis
knock-off that were cut real tight at the crotch, even
tighter than was the fashion of the day. But unlike the
fashion of the day, they were cut straight-leg. Jay and I,
and few others in our loose muster of musical outcasts and
self-posessed eggheads, spurned the very concept of flared
leg pants to the point of being ridiculed over our rejection
of them.  In retaliation, we made jokes among ourselves about
how 'flares' were called that because the were meant to be
set on fire. We awarded ourselves the No-Bell Prize through
all the years between the British Invasion and the Summer Of
Love.

Jay's skin-tight, wheat-colored jeans and the way he twisted
his torso to adjust the machine caused his dick to be acutely
defined. It was plastered to the inside of his thigh in a
position that couldn't have been anything other than
painful-- it was plainly visible where his knob had poked its
way out of his drawers. The pouch seam gripped his shaft
behind the glans so tightly that it surely must have been
interrupting his blood flow. I was mortified when Jay turned
suddenly and caught my eyes roaming his basket. His grin, the
way he rubbed his dick and his long, lingering look at my own
crotch made me aware of how boned I was, and why. I hadn't
been, not before I started checking him out. Terrified by the
truth of it and by the fact that Jay knew it too, I was on
the very edge of getting up and leaving. But I didn't. I
leaned forward slightly and covered my basket with my
forearms.  

"I think... " I started to say. But before I had time to
summon words to express my misgivings, Jay killed the lights
and started the projector. He quickly set the focus and
settled himself on a scatter rug near my feet, his back
against the sofa nearest my end of it. He stretched his legs
out before him, palming his crotch as the credits sputtered
by. I sighed and settled back, still largely uncertain. I was
unnerved by the fact that he sat so close, enough for his
upper arm to be touching my shin. But I also felt relieved
that I wasn't to be the subject of any gawking. On the
contrary, Jay couldn't possibly have placed himself better,
if he meant for me to watch him play with himself.

The first movie was a grainy black and white vignette about a
girl who auditions for a part in a Hollywood movie. The
'producer' gets her to take her clothes off and dance for
him. Soon she's rubbing up against him and massaging his dick
through his pants. He takes off his jacket and she drops to
her knees. She unzips his fly and pulls out a very long
circumcised cock. After lapping at it for a few seconds she
tosses back her long blond hair and engulfs the man's penis,
all the way down to the root.

I peered down to where Jay lay sprawled out. He'd undone the
top button of his pants and he'd opened the entire front of
his green rayon shirt revealing a trim, solid chest and his
hollow, lightly-furred belly. Still confined by beige denim,
Jay's cock now formed a hefty cylinder across his upper
thigh, which he rubbed absently with the tips of his fingers.
As noiselessly as possible, I adjusted my dick so that it
pointed upwards, the way it wanted to.

"That chick sure can suck a mean cock." Jay proclaimed with
hollow authority, over the insistent clacking of the
projector. Just then, abruptly turning around to check out my
reaction to the actress' yeomanly blowjob, Jay caught me
fingering my tented crotch. I drew my hand back, but too late
to avoid Jay's seeing it there.

"Uh... yeah. She's really good at it..." I blushed. "I guess
I'm getting a little turned on here."

Jay tittered at my embarrassment. "Fuck, who wouldn't? That's
why they make these damn things! I'm wearin' a lighthouse
too, but shit, you can see that for yourself." He looked down
at his bone's outline and palmed it, arching his back
slightly and thrusting his pelvis out to make sure I could
see. I barely looked though, knowing that Jay was staring at
me to gauge my reaction. I kept my eyes peeled on the couple
on the screen and grimaced, as though I were slightly annoyed
that Jay had broken my concentration. He glanced at the
screen for the first time in nearly a minute, "Oh yeah! In
just a second he sticks that big thing right in her cunt!
Check it out."

As if on cue, the man in the movie mounts the woman from
behind, penetrating her gaping pussy with what truly is a
monstrous dick, at least in terms of length. He pulls it all
the way out and then plunges it back into her, very slowly
and sensuously as the camera dollies in for the close-up.
Finally only his swinging, low-slung nuts remain visible in
the shot.

"Oh baby!" cooed Jay.  He shoved his hand down the front of
his pants and continued to massage his bone as before, not
wanking it exactly, just feeling himself up in a variety of
different ways. As soon as I felt certain he'd settled back
into watching the film again, I unzipped my fly as silently
as I could and I snuck both hands inside, into my low-rise
jockeys. One hand clutched my bag and rolled my balls around.
The fingertips of the other smeared precum along the ridge of
my unhooded glans.

Back on the screen things are heating up too. The man has the
woman laid out on his desk with her legs in the air, holding
onto her ankles as he pounds his swollen cock in and out of
her pussy like a locomotive chugging at full bore. There's no
sound of course, but you can just imagine the sounds of her
puffing as she faces the camera, wide-eyed and full-cheeked
with each thrust, as the fully-clothed male lead continues to
pound her.

I found myself wishing the man would at least drop his pants.
A tantalizing flash of white showed at the opening of the actor's
fly, but so ambibiguously that it was impossible to say
whether he wore boxers or briefs. Jay was getting fidgety. I
found myself wishing he would show some drawers too. He
shifted his legs in obvious frustration, apparently
confounded that he couldn't make his hands do what his cock
wanted them to do, not hampered by two layers of clothing.
"Shit! I can't get comfortable like this!" Jay exclaimed. He
leapt up like he'd been spring-loaded.

Stepping into the projector's beam, he yanked off his jeans.
For a moment he had the movie, in distorted miniature,
playing on the front of his very boinked white briefs. He
plunked himself down on the opposite end of the sofa. Jamming
his hand into the front of his jockeys, he began jerky upward
tugs on his cock, which stood proud and thick-- a cotton-clad
log, all lit up by the light shining down on it from the
projector's louvered cooling vents. My throat felt parched
and I had to force myself to look back at the screen again.
"You don't look too comfortable yourself, Jens. Why not let
it all hang out, man? You'll feel better." Whether he was
actually engrossed in the film or whether he was merely
giving me some modicum of privacy, Jay turned his eyes to the
screen again and stared at it with a rapt expression.

Reason said: 'Get out of here now!' But my dick was just as
emphatic: 'Gimme some air, asshole!' it chided. I honestly
didn't know which I'd obey when I first stood up, but at the
critical moment I made the fatal mistake of glancing down at
Jay. He'd pulled his cock out the fly of his jockeys and was
applying a spitty palm to it, his eyes steadfastly glued to
the images on the screen. Jay's broad-headed,
neatly-circumcised dick was much as I'd remembered it the
last time I saw it erect, though it didn't seem as
disproportionately large as it had that night at the quarry.
He appeared to have grown into it, and a handsome package
they made together too. A talent for gymnastics and a love
for competative cycling kept Jay lean and hard. His mod,
Prince Valiant haircut was always perfectly in place. His
hair shone a sexy blue-black where the reflection of the
movie caught it. I began to see a beauty in him that didn't
occur to me even when he dripped, naked and unashamed, only a
few feet away from me in the showers after phys-ed. Indeed,
he suddenly seemed posessed of a beauty I didn't even ascribe
to him when, in masturbatory reverie, I relived our earlier
circle jerk with Barry and Kevin.

The air in the close and humid attic was infused with the
smell of dick. I recognised my own scent in it, but thrilled
at the subtle, unfamiliar blend of guy odors that the
addition of Jay's made for. I realized then, at that moment,
as I hovered between staying and going, that if I could
summon the resolve to remain, I would get to see Jay spunk. I
watched him pulling on his cock and tried to imagine how he
was going to look when he started wanking faster and faster,
how he'd look when great ropes of white shot from it. I'd
gone too long without the sight another guy doing that. Far
too long.

I stepped out of my jeans and resumed my position on the
sofa. I left my underpants on, as Jay had, but I pulled them
down to mid-thigh, brazenly exposing my need. I sat there for
a few seconds, keeping my hands out of the way so Jay could
look at my upstanding drooler if he liked, but I couldn't
bring myself to check whether he did. I fell to pulling my
meat, trying to concentrate on the fuck scene, or at least
make it appear that I was concentrating on it. But the
blurring motions Jay made at the edge of my peripheral vision
kept drawing my eye. When I finally gritted myself
sufficiently for a self-acknowledged look at what he was
doing, I was shocked to discover that Jay wasn't looking
anywhere near the screen, but was eying me, gaping at my own
busy hand.

At that moment the film abruptly ran out. The room instantly
filled with tragic incandescence as the naked projector bulb
reflected off the bedsheet. Our eyes met, a tad
self-consciously, as the film's leader slapped repeatedly
against the take-up reel.

Jay swapped it with the empty one and began threading the
other movie. Again, he stood directly in the glare of the
lens. His dick still poked stiffly out of his jockeys' pee
hole, seemingly weightless before him, swaying freely with
the slightest movement of his lean torso. I was impatient for
him to finish setting the next film up, caring not at all
whether we actually viewed it or not, as if knowing, somehow,
that it had become a mere catalyst for the next step. Jay
pulled himself out of his briefs and lightheartedly tossed
them at me. They bounced off my knee, but I felt his residual
warmth in them in for that millisecond before they slipped to
the floor at my feet. He hit the drive motor and dropped down
on the sofa next to me, much closer than before; not against
me exactly, but sitting so near that when we inhaled in
unison, our shoulders and biceps touched. I imagined I could
feel his heat even when we weren't touching.

The next flick was rendered in a scratchy, sepia monochrome
and had a circus theme. Jay and I watched the fucking and
sucking, pulling on our dicks with indolent tugs, but we
spent almost as much time watching each other, more or less
openly now. I returned to the action on screen only whenever
it seemed to me as though my gaze had lingered a little too
long on Jay, or whenever our eyes happened to meet.

"Oh yeah! Check this out, man!" Jay exclaimed. He settled
into the back cushion of the sofa and began jacking his cock
with both hands, his eyes glued to the screen. "This coming
up is the best part!"

It's the final sequence. Four burly sideshow roustabouts
stand around a naked woman, supposedly some high-wire walker
or trapeze artist, judging from the bits of her glittery
costume strewn about. She's spread-eagled on her back on a
picnic table. The men are all standing on the seats, two to a
side, jacking off really fast and hard. They cover the
spectrum of penile possibilities, to the extent that any four
random men could, but the youngest, a chesty guy with broad
shoulders, built much like my brother Nils, is stroking the
thickest, most uncircumcised cock I've ever seen-- it's
shortish, but fat and mean-looking, with yards of extra skin.

Next to me, Jay was pumping his cock feverishly, in time with
the men on the screen. I too, began pulling on my dick with
increased vigor. "Oh, she's about to get a bath," Jay panted,
"Oh yeah, man, here they go!" He stiffened his legs before
him and flattened himself against the back of the sofa,
redoubling his assault on his dick.

One of the men in the movie leans forward and ejaculates all
over the woman's stomach and breasts, then another man comes,
and then another. The last guy, the young one with the
beercan cock, steps off the seat of the picnic table and
crams his spurting organ right into the woman's eager mouth.
The bounty of his ooze forms a narrow rill that follows the
contour her sunken cheek and disappears off-camera.

Jay yelped and I felt something warm and wet land on my
jacking forearm. I looked over to see cum squirting out of
Jay's pisshole. He'd apparently let his cock go when he
started spunking and it twitched and jerked blindly in front
of him, spraying droplets of thin, nearly clear ejaculate all
over the front of us. Jay raised his ass high, turned my way
and then the white streamers began. He arched his whole body
towards me, as if to propel his spunk at me more accurately,
but still not directing the spray with his hand. The second
and third jets fell across my lap. The third was the one that
landed hot on my bouncing balls and the one that set me off.
I felt like I was being wrenched inside out and was just
about to just give myself over to the weightless feeling, but
I caught myself and concentrated just enough to turn and
direct my ejaculation at Jay. Multiple spurts of my jizz
mixed with the last of Jay's on that fuzzy, spasming flatland
that was his belly.

Seconds later, before we even had a chance to start to get
our breath back, the screen went halide white again. Sperm
glistened on our tummies in the glare. Jay swore, switched
the projector off and presently we were plummeted into
near-total darkness. The sound of the projector's cooling
fan, to which we had grown accustomed as ambient noise along
with the clatter of the machine's drive motor, fell quiet as
well, making the darkness all the more stark. We sat quietly
for a while, a little lost for words-- at least I was.

"Well, was that so bad then?" Jay asked finally, after some
moments-- time I used to fret about how great it had felt to
have another guy's cum splatter me after so long.

"No, that was a horny coupla' movies. Thanks."

"That's not what I meant and you know it." It wasn't like Jay
to push a point without also making some sort of smart-assed
remark that gave you an opening you could use to tell him to
fuck off. That afternoon, it seemed like he meant to call me
on my phoney sense of propriety once and for all. He'd been
patient. He'd earned the right to needle me about it for a
bit. I was grateful for the dark.

"I thought I'd outgrown this sort of thing," was all I could
find to say. How I wished I could be as up front about my
needs as Jay seemed to be, as up front Barry always was.

Jay's sperm was cooling rapidly as it trickled down the front
of me. Safely masked by the profound lack of light, I
gathered some of it up in the crook of my forefinger and
brought it to my nose. It smelled different from mine and
different again from the way I remembered Barry's smelling. I
licked my finger clean as noiselessly as I could and my hand
drifted back downwards, seeking more.

"Aw, you never outgrow it, not if you really dug it the first
time. At least I hope I don't outgrow it. Shelly's a demon in
the sack, but you know Jens, some of my best squoinks have
been with guys like you and Barry and Kevin. I'm proud to say
it too, but not to just anybody. I just like to spunk with a
buddy. You know..." Jay nudged me. I knew.

"I guess I don't really have to tell you this Jens, but I had
you figured out the minute I saw you put your hand around
Barry's dick that time. I've been there. I know how horny
Barry can get. You can't tell me you guys weren't playing
pocket pool with each other long before that night."

"It was that obvious?" I asked him. I suddenly felt the need
to know what else he might have been able to discern.

"I'll say! Like, when he was whackin' you off? He had this
weird thing in his look when you came.  Like he'd seen it
before and everything, but like he'd never seen you spunk so
much or so far or something. It was almost like he was proud
of you for blastin' like that, or of proud of himself for
being able to make you do it-- I don't know which, but you
two came off as regular jackoff buddies to me. Kevin said so
too." 

"Kevin?" Of the two of them, Jay and his cousin, the one most
likely to have been able to read the true nature of my
relationship with Barry was Kevin. There had been sparks
between Barry and him that night at the quarry. A chess game
of lustful glances developed between Kevin and me even before
anyone got naked and continued long after we'd finished
wanking and we'd gotten dressed again. Barry noticed it, and
what had started out as an uneasy mutual respect between them
turned into something of an unuttered Popeye/Bluto rivalry,
with me in the unlikely role of Olive Oyl. However bound to
Barry I might have felt at the time, there was something
about Kevin that had grabbed me by the balls, something
dangerous and magnetic. Naturally, it scared me; almost
everything that dealt with human relations did in those days.
But Kevin's attention left me strangely flattered too,
desirable even. I hadn't talked to him since that night at
Watson's Pit, but I'd see his van around here and there. I
knew he and Jay hung out sometimes. 

"So, what did Kevin have to say about us, Jay?" I was trying
to sound unruffled and only mildly curious, but I really had
to know.

I could hear the gentle smacking of Jay handling his sticky
cock, could feel the lazy, regular movements of his upper arm
against mine. "Well, Kevin's kind of a nut-case about shit
like that, so take this with a grain of salt: he said you
guys were probably balling each other too."

"He said what?" I asked, in thunderstruck falsetto.
Evidently, Kevin was able to read even more into my
relationship with Barry than there had actually been.

"He said Barry and you were probably bungin' each other.
But don't let it worry you, man. He thinks any two guys who
are tight with each other gotta be queer, just because he
is." 

"He's WHAT?" 

"Queer, like I just told ya'. He doesn't much care who knows
either, but keep your mouth shut about it anyways." Jay
warned, "His folks even turfed him out over it."

"No shit! Well, how come he doesn't act like a homo then?" I
asked, playing it a bit naive, trying to keep Jay talking
while I digested this latest bit of news, which wasn't so
much news as it was confirmation.

Jay sniffed derisively in the darkness. "You don't know
anything, man. They don't all prance around like Liberace you
know. Some of 'em act just like us."

That hit a little close to home, smeared as we were with one
anothers' sperm. I tried to make light. "So what did Kevin
do?" I asked Jay, "Did he just come down to breakfast one day
and say, 'Hi mom, I'll have sausages with my eggs this
morning, oh and by the way, I'm a fag'. Like that?"

"Of course not. Well, almost like that, now that you mention
it. He got into a motorcycle accident. He was in Intensive
Care for two days and nights and he just rambled on non-stop.
Guess he didn't have too many secrets left after that. Soon
as he was back in one piece and off the painkillers, my aunt
and uncle-- mostly my uncle-- they told him to find a new
place to hang his hat. He lived out his van for quite a while
there."

My heart sank for Kevin at that moment. He seemed to be
living the life of banishment and vilification that I feared
so desperately when Barry and I were carrying on. And yet, in
spite of the privation I imagined him living under, I envied
him somewhat. He had the great luxury of was being who he
was. That was more than I could say for myself. "Must be
rough," I commiserated.

"Oh, not any more. My uncle split a few months ago and Kev's
back home now, living with my aunt-- on and off, anyway.
They're kinda like oil and water. But if you see him living
out of his van these days, it's 'cause it's nice out, not
'cause he's got no place to go." Jay chuckled, mostly to
himself, by the sound of it.  "No, don't shed any tears for
Kevvie. He's where he wants to be most of the time."

I began to get hints of the homosexual demimonde I knew
existed, but couldn't see. "Did you ever meet any of his..."
I groped for a suitable term.

"Boyfriends? Oh sure. Older guys mostly, guys who look like
they have a few bucks, you know. Kev'll never starve. He
always has gas money."

"He does it for money?" I was incredulous. It never occurred
to me that such a thing as a prostitute for men who liked men
even existed.

"He doesn't do it for money any more, but he used to when his
folks first threw him out. He says it's better than givin' it
away. Some of his friends do it."

I wanted to know how closely Jay tied into this world. If we
were going to be more than just the kind of friends we'd been
up until now, I had to know what his limits were. "I guess
now that you know about Kevin and everything, you don't jack
off with him anymore." I ventured.

I could hear, by the sound of Jay's voice, that he'd turned
to face me. "Are you kidding? We're pals for life, man!" The
direction of his voice changed again and it became softer.
"He checked me out a couple of times, you know, in case it
turned out I was a secret, double-agent homo or something.
But like I said, he thinks that about almost everybody. Soon
as I made it plain I wasn't into most of the stuff he wanted
to do, we just went back to beatin' each other off like we
have since we were baldies down there. Kev's no idiot, Jens.
He knows a good handjob when he's gettin' one. And he gives
as good as he gets too.  Or don't you remember?"

I remembered. Regularly. Check his limits, Jens. "What about
Shelly?" I pried, "I mean, when you wank with some guy,
aren't you pissing away something that's kind of supposed to
be for her?"

"Do you jack off, Jens?" he countered. "By yourself I mean,
when you go to bed at night."

"You know I do. Who doesn't?"

"Exactly. Now, when you're painting the ceiling down there on
the farm, shouldn't you be saving that up for Julie too?
Isn't that supposed to be for her?"

"Not really, that's for me." Too late, I saw the garden path
I was on.

"Uh-huh. And that wank with me just now-- that was for you
too, right?"

"Well, yeah." I chuckled. It might have been for me, but Jay
was wearing the better part of it, without complaint

"Okay then, if I jack off with you or my cousin or Joe Blow,
that's for me. It's got fuck-all to do with Shelly or anybody
else, except maybe the person I'm doin' it with.  Hey Jens,
if you don't want to be doin' this, just put your pants on
and say so.  Don't put your reasons not to on me. That ain't
right."

"Sorry," I said.

"For what? Just roll with it, Jens. You know, we could both
get a lot more fun out of this if you'd just get that pickle
out of your ass and learn to relax a bit." Damned if he
didn't sound just like...

He went on, "Listen, if what's worrying you is me runnin' my
mouth, don't, okay? I really dig doing this shit-- way too
much to fuck it up for myself, or for you. And just to prove
it to ya', I'm NOT gonna tell you the names of the other
three guys I whack off with sometimes." He let that sink in.
"Spunkin' together don't make us homos Jens, it just makes us
tighter buddies, like blood brothers, kinda."

I knew most of Jay's male friends. I wondered which three he
meant. But mostly, I was bowled over by the way Jay was
leveling with me, not so much with his revelations about
Kevin, but with his straightforward approach to getting his
nut on his own terms. It made me feel embarrassed for my
earlier misgivings about him. As if to compensate, I reached
over and grasped Jay's jacking hand by the wrist and pulled
it off his cock, something I very much doubt I would have
done had the lights been on. I drew his hand over to my
crotch and placed it directly onto my nearly-erect cock. He
grasped it gently, measured it with practiced fingers and
skinned it exactly three times-- enough to convince me that
he well understood the mechanics of foreskins. Then he let it
go, allowing it to fall back onto my belly with a soft plop.
I felt his hand draw away. 

"I don't know, Jens." Jay said in a treacly tone that dripped
with barely-disguised mirth, "I wouldn't want you to get
the idea I'm some kind of fag."

Touche, Jay. Touche.


Less than two hours later, we were sitting at the lunch
counter in Woolworth's, sipping Pepsi and sharing fries 'n'
gravy with two of the more attractive girls in our town. It
was never mentioned, but had Julie and Shelly been inclined
to compare notes, they would have concurred that both Jay and
I displayed an uncharacteristic reluctance to be amorous that
evening. Three afternoon wads with a blood brother will have
that effect on a guy.


END

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