“Andy Coming of Age - Ch 1 - Show and Give” by Andy Rhondstadt

This is a story that contains intergenerational gay sex between boys and men so, if that is  not your thing then it is probably best if you leave. Also if it is illegal for you to read this sort of thing then you must leave now. You’re welcome to email me and chat if you want. If you have ideas you would like me to write about then you can contact me at andrew.rhondstadt@yahoo.com. As always, remember that the story is provided for your entertainment and not intended as a recommendation for a lifestyle. Likewise, my life which has involved some pretty risque sexual encounters from a very young age is not a recommendation to you.

“Andy Coming of Age - Ch 1 - Show and Give” by Andy Rhondstadt

Forward about me and the Series

My name’s Andrew, though most people call me Andy. I have just turned 18 now, so decided that I would have a go publishing a story rather than just read and enjoy other people’s writing. I did start writing as an early teen but, being too young, could not publish them online. Desperate to be read I took to printing my short stories and leaving them in public places, usually toilets, to be found and read by men and other boys. I was a really horny young teen. It all went well until one day …

Awakening Desires

I have always been a bit of a flirt. You know, the boy that the olds talk about saying, “Oh he is just seeking attention.” I used to hate that phrase but it was and still is true about me. Playing up to family and visitors at home was part of my memories as far back as I can remember and then, the onset of puberty took it to a whole new level. Being blonde and blue-eyed, I did get a lot of attention. There were Aunties who openly said I was pretty which I complained about but inwardly liked. Uncles and other older men however, were not forthcoming with complements and often appeared very uncomfortable around me. For a long while I thought there was something wrong with me but I eventually realised they also sneaked admiring glances at me when no-one was watching. Such is the past generations where men didn’t admit or own up to being attracted to men and especially not young boys. It was for me, the admiring attraction of men and older boys that excited me most but it wasn’t until I was thirteen that I began to realise why.

Thursday Morning

It was a warm morning in March that things irreversibly changed for me. It was unseasonably warm and I was feeling very horny, or “flirty” as I used to call it. The flood of puberty was coming on strong and I was frustrated and my sexual urges were suppressing most of those parts of my brain that engaged restraint. I was 13 years and nine-and-a-half and for the last few months had found a new thrilling hobby. Well no, it wasn’t a hobby, it was an uncontrolled sexual drive to publically show-off. Not just a quick flash of my hairless genitals, but to throw both caution and all my clothes aside and expose my pubescent body. You see, what I called “flirting” was a whole lot more than just smiling and acting cute around other men.

It was not just being naked and having others see me but, the thrill of getting caught. What to most would seem uncontrolled and reckless behavior was to me a sense of being “in control.” I knew that when a lot of men looked at me it was with the pounding-heart passion that teenage girls wished they commanded. I knew that, when alone or when their families were not watching, that a lot of men not only wanted to see me naked but wanted me. I thought of them as “my men,” They wanted me and that was a hugely powerful thrill. I knew I at risk of being found out and that my parents would exact all forms of punishment but, I had no idea of what would happen if I was caught by one of “my men”. Any thought of personal sexual danger was washed away in my own hormonal tsunami.  This Thursday was different for a two reasons. It would be the first time I was going to “nakedly flirt” during the day time and, it was the first time I would choose to give myself to a man.

Norfolk Park

Two suburbs away from our family home was the suburb of Norfolk Park. My dad called it “Queerfolk Park” because of its reputation as home of a large portion of our city’s gay population. One night when my father had drunk too much, he started talking about Brian Dawson, a guy who used to work at his workplace who was not only gay, but had once been charged with having sex with an underage boy. My dad had said, “He lives in Queerfolk Park,” and told me I needed to stay away from that “faggotty suburb”. Some years before, when I must have been about 7 or 8 years old I had met Mr Dawson at my father’s workplace. He seemed kind and friendly. I remember when my father had been called to another office, Mr Dawson had told me that I was very pretty and lifted my chin to so he could look at my face. He ran his hands through my blonde hair and let his fingers dwell on my cheek. My dad came back in the office and Mr Dawson slipped away. That was a couple of years before all the underage gay sex charges were laid against him and, subsequently lost his job at my dad’s work. I had wanted to hug and I regretted I had not. I had not seen him since that day but, my father’s drunken comments about him living in Queerfolk Park made the memory of his touch so vivid.

The recent deluge of boy hormones surging through my brain and loins had brought him to my mind with the realisation that he was the sort of man who I wanted to nakedly flirt for. Would I be attractive to him now? Would he want to caress my cheek and look at my young teenage face? Or, was he only to the very youngest of  boys. I had fruitlessly searched for his address on White Pages directories on the web but, there was no listing for a Brian Dawson or any other Dawson in Norfolk Park. The breakthrough came when I found one of my Dad’s discarded work diaries which had a list of all employee’s contact numbers and addresses. I had already done two quick ride-by runs on my pushbike past Brian Dawson’s house but saw nothing. Today I had left my pushbike home.

Today I just wore a running shoes, a flimsy tee-shirt, very short running shorts that showed off my legs, and underneath, my very special and quite secret pink floral girly panties. At thirteen going on fourteen years of age, panties were quite tight on me and cramped my balls and penis. They were a souvenir from a couple of years ago from when I had a “nudie session” with a sister and brother who lived near my home. The girl, who was in my class at school, thought she’d become my girlfriend and let me keep the panties. In truth, I was more excited at getting naked with her brother who was a year younger than me. It was the first time I had seen or touched another boy’s genitals and anus. I felt sorry for Sally thinking that I was keen on her but, had kept her pink floral panties as part of my secret treasure. I had no idea if I would see Mr Dawson today or, more accurately, if he would see me but, if I did see me then I wanted to be wearing my favourite panties.

By late morning, I had managed to avoid getting seen by police or any school teachers, and arrived at what I hoped was Mr Dawson’s house. I was delighted to see that the house directly opposite his had a For Sale sign and appeared to have no one living there. After about half an hour of checking the house out, I had found myself a good spot to “flirt” from. The old house had a semi-enclosed verandah with a set of wide steps leading up to the front door. The verandah was enclosed in a waist high balustrade fence. If I sat outside the front door, where and old Welcome Mat sat, I could see the entire front of the Dawson house. I was however, unable to be seen from either of the houses beside Dawsons, nor from anywhere in the street except directly in front of the house’s front door. If someone walked along the footpaths on either side of the street, I would be able to see them before they could see anything else but my head appearing above the verandah enclosure.

I sat with my back to the front door looking at the Dawson house. I pulled my feet back towards me so that my legs were spread and my inner thighs and groin visible. I sat there and caressed the inner sides of my legs and enjoyed the feeling of my hardening penis pressing against the inside of my clothes. The overly small panties did however, make my balls ache. I must have sat like that for about half an hour but saw not so much as a flutter of the curtains from across the road. Feeling increasingly horny, I slid my hands down the trunk of my body, lifted my but and eased off my running shorts. If Mr Dawson did see me like this and, if he was at all interested in young teenage boys, he would hopefully show me he was watching. But, after what seemed an age, still nothing. No one had even walked past. With the frustration building and feeling an increasing tension in my loins I pulled my tee over my head and then slipped my pink panties off. I now was completely naked. I enjoyed the cool breeze swirling around the verhandah. It made my balls feel twice the size they were. If only Mr Dawson, only he cared to look, my intentions and desires were clearly visible. But still nothing. Then suddenly a voice called, “Hey there.”

A shock of electricity fired through my body. I ducked down and rolled behind the solid balustrade wall of the verandah.

“What are you doing there?”

I grabbed my running shorts and quickly slipped my legs into them and hauled them over my butt and stiff penis. “Nothing,” I said. I stood up. Naked except for my shorts. A quick look down reassured me that the sudden shock had caused my penis to begin to subside. I did however, look very untidy and wore no shirt.

“I said, what are you doing?” a man’s voice asked.

I finally noticed the elderly man standing on the footpath. I had no idea if he had seen me naked but, if he did, he didn’t say so.

“Well?”

“I’m just resting,” I said to the old man who was sizing me up. “It just seemed a cool place to rest for a while.” I didn’t sound too convincing.

He looked at me with a frown and told me to come over to him.

“I have just been running,” I said. “Need to cool down.”

He took a long time to look me up and down and, spent a long time looking at my dishevelled shorts before speaking again.

“Well okay, but this place is empty. You shouldn’t be here.” He kept frowning at me as I tried to smile. “You’d better get going now.”

“Okay, I’ll just get my tee-shirt, I said, trying to remain calm.

“Well put it on the right way around because your shorts are on backwards.”

I looked down then back up at him. He was right and my balls and penis were crunched and twisted to a very uncomfortable position.

“I was a young boy once too,” he said. I realised he was smiling. “Now get your stuff and get out of here. You can wait till I have gone to put your pants on the right way about.”

I felt my face flush.

He started to walk off down the footpath and I realised he was walking a tiny lap-dog. It hadn’t even made a sound.

I decided I might as well take my only chance and make the most of this failed scene. If he got angry then I could probably outrun him anyway. “Excuse me?” I called again.

He paused and turned around. His said nothing but his eyebrows conveyed the unspoken question.

“That house over there,” I said. I pointed to what I thought was Brian Dawson’s house. “Does Mr Dawson live there?”

The old man’s expression dropped and he stared at me for what seemed minutes but probably wasn’t.

“I said, is it Mr Brian Dawson’s house?”

“You aren’t one of those kids that have been picking on him, are you? Just leave him be. He keeps to himself and you should too. Now get out of here before I call the cops.”

I felt the shock of fear. The cops would have a whole lot of questions which I could not answer. Why was I here? Why wasn’t I in school where I should be? Why was I half-naked with running shorts on backwards. And, after they did a cursory search, why did I have pink floral panties with my tee shirt?

“Get out of here!” the old man said.

“It’s not that sir. I don’t want to pick on him,” I said but his expression showed disbelief. “You see, Mr Dawson used to work with my Dad. I know him,” I said. What was I saying. A wiser person inside my brain was shouting at me to shut up but, another hormone-drenched conscience couldn’t stop me from talking. “Our families were friends,” I continued.

He groaned a acknowledgement but did not look convinced.

“Our families are friends,” I corrected.

“Just get out of here. Right now. He has no friends.”

I watched the old man as he turned and walked away with his dog without looking back.

I went back to the verandah and without even bothering to hide under the balustrade, I slipped out of my shorts and let them fall to the ground. My balls and penis ached from no release and having been squashed to a strange position by my running shorts being on backwards. My penis was almost numb. I took a minute to give them a therapeutic massage. And then I looked about and saw my pink floral panties laying against the front door of the house. I bent down carefully so as not to further injure my aching ball-sack and grabbed my panties. Balancing on one leg, I put one leg into the skimpy pink undergarment, then balancing with an arm against the door, threaded the other leg into place. Gingerly, I bent down eased the tight panties up, past my knees, and then stretched them over my thighs. I waited a few breaths as my penis had just started to regain feeling and ached from the blood flow returning. I cupped my balls and penis, and scooped them inside the tight panties and finally reaching behind me eased the back of the panties over my cherubic buttocks. I leaned against the empty house’s front door and rested for a few minutes. The panties were not helping my aching balls and I did not envy pulling on my running shorts. The panties were almost too tight, I slipped them back off.

I turned back to where I had dropped my shorts and scooped them up. I had a sense that something was different about the scene and looked up. A curtain was open in the Dawson house and a slim man stood in the window frame. Mr Dawson had been given a naked public show of me fully naked and struggling to get my 12-year-old girl’s panties back on. I stood straight up to face Mr Dawson and dropped my my clothes to the verandah floor. Brian Dawson remained framed in the window and took in the scene for at least a minute and then the window blind shut. I just stood there totally naked and looked at him. He also had made clear his appreciation and attraction of my show. It was now or never.

Two minutes later I was standing at the back door to Brian Dawson’s house. I was completely naked and felt in no sense that it was wrong. My shorts, panties and tee-shirt were grasped in my left hand as I knocked on the door. My heart was pounding like it had never done before. Even though it was warm, my skin has gone like chicken-skin. I was trembling - more than trembling. I was shaking in apprehension and nerves. The door opened and a slim, well-built man in his mid-thirties stood in front of me. He looked me up and down, taking a long time. His time to savor the moment. When his eyes met mine I recognised the same look that seemed to embrace and warm me.

“I am Andrew, do you remember me?” I asked, stuttering over the words. “I remember you Andy and, I think you still are a very beautiful boy,” he said.

“I need you … I mean I need to talk to you,” I said, feeling my voice shake as I trembled.

“I think you had it right the first time. Come inside.”

I stepped over the threshold of Brian Dawson’s house and knew it was the threshold of much more.

[to be continued]

If you enjoyed the story, would like to say hello, or make any suggestions, then please email me at andrew.rhondstadt@yahoo.com. If you are after photos of me then, I have to apologise, I don’t share personal pictures. There are a couple of personal look-alike gay teen models on the web who resemble me at various ages, so if you’d like me to let you know which ones or send you a photo that way, then I will.