Date: Mon, 24 Sep 2018 14:07:48 +0000 (UTC)
From: Nils Huim <nils_huim_redux@yahoo.com>
Subject: Figure Eight

Note: This is a work of fiction and all characters in this story are 18 or
older.

Whether you like this story or not please consider sending a contribution
to Nifty TODAY so that its authors can continue entertaining you.

	My dad left home when I was ten. He didn't leave so much as get
booted out by mom. I never found out why, exactly, but I always assumed it
had something to do with me. Later in life my sister Amber told me our
paternal grandmother had told her that her son, our dad, ended up alcoholic
and living on the streets. Not even his own mother knew where he was
anymore. Occasionally she used to get a postcard from him with no return
address, but not even those arrived in the mail anymore.
	When I was 12 and Amber was 15 we moved out of the house we'd
shared with dad into one that was smaller but near better schools
(supposedly). Our new neighborhood was tucked behind the west end of a
public park so large it contained multiple lakes and even horse stables.
After school I used to take our dog Syfy (mom was a sci-fi nut) for walks
along the park's miles of wide, mowed, interconnected trails. Our
neighborhood (it was a well-manicured trailer park actually) was mostly
populated by retirees; I had no friendsÑno human one, anyway.
	One Thursday I was walking Syfy along our usual concatenation of
trails over by the largest of the park's lakes. A man was up ahead at some
distance. He was tall and lanky and had medium-brown hair. He was dad's
age. He had dad's build and hair color. He was dressed sort of like dad
used to dressÑin tight jeans and a plaid wool shirt. When he glanced
around at Syfy and me I realized he even looked like my dad! I started to
call out to him but stopped. Syfy paused in his endless sniffing when I
muttered, "DadÉ?"
	It was a weekday afternoon and the trails were mostly deserted. We
had the park pretty much to ourselves. Syfy and I rounded a big bend in the
wide green path we were haltingly headed down. We came to a stop. Or rather
Syfy stopped to smell something and I halted as well. Up ahead the man, the
stranger who resembled my dad had turned to face us. I would guess the
distance was about 30 meters. I watched (Syfy was otherwise preoccupied
with something in the bordering brush) as the man unbuckled his jeans and
pulled them and his underpants down.
	His long penis was engorged but not hard. Even his cock looked like
dad's! He began stroking it. I stared. I began to get hard as well, though
I kept my penis in my school pants. Syfy barked. He heard them before I
didÑbefore we did. What sounded like a pair of chatty joggers, the
impact of their trainers knocking breathy words from them, increasingly
stole the silence. I'd looked around. When I turned back the man was gone.
	A male-female pair of 30-something joggers in Spandex steered
around Syfy and meÑoblivious, laughing, yakking. Syfy got out half a
bark before I yanked his leash. Whatever he'd been searching for in the
brush had been scared away.

	That night I lay in bed in the dark masturbating to visions of the
man exposing himself to us. When I cameÑquicklyÑmy sperm shot all the
way up to my chin. It was good to be 12, from that potent point of view. It
was a mess to clean up, however, and I did so guiltily, in a state of
feverish self-disgust.
	I'd only just finished, thankfully, when mom entered my room
unannounced.
	"What?"
	"I thought I heard you cry out. I was afraid you were having
another bad dream."
	"No."
	"OK."
	Thirty seconds earlier, the light on, and mom would have seen, in
streaks up my bare belly to my throat, the cause of my temporary
distress. Mom was not na•ve. She probably knew I masturbated,
regularly. She was the one, after all, who emptied my bedside waist basket
on Saturday mornings.
	"No," I'd replied.
	"OK."
	The door closed and mom went back to watching her goofy science
fiction program in the livingroom.

	The next day I told mom I was headed to the park.
	"Aren't you taking Syfy?"
	"No. He barks at the horses."
	"Well, he needs to be walked."
	"I'll walk him in the neighborhood when I get back."
	"OK but make sure you get back in time to walk him before dinner.
And don't let him go pooh on people's lawns."
	"Are we ordering pizza tonight?" I asked hopefully.
	"No."
	"Why not?"
	"Because pizzas cost money and I don't have any right now. You and
your sister need new clothes. Besides, Amber has a sleep-over tonight."
	"So?"
	"So, we do things as a family in this house."
	I had another thought. "Does that mean I can sleep with you
tonight?"
	Syfy was moseying aimlessly around the kitchen, his nails clicking
on the linoleum. Mom said, "Don't you think you're getting a little old for
that?"
	I said no but, head down, wondered if mom was referring to the
erection in my briefs when I woke up every morning. It was involuntary, I
didn't mean for it to get that way, but had mom come to notice it when she
woke me up on those increasingly rare Saturday mornings?
	"Time to make the donuts," her standard refrain.
	"OK, just a minute," I'd say in embarrassment, the covers pulled up
to my chin.
	"I think you should sleep in your own bed from now on," mom now
said, gently urging Syfy out of the way with a pretty, flip-flopped right
foot. "Be back by five-thirty."
	"OK," I agreed.

	Out in the vast park I walked the exact same paths, at the exact
same time of day, Syfy and I had walked the previous day. I circled back
and walked them again. I saw people, the park was less uncrowded than the
day before, but I did not see the man who looked like my dad, the man who'd
exposed himself and masturbated in front of meÑusÑon Thursday
afternoon.
	I walked the paths a third time but it was pointless. Too many
people, too many joggers.
	I was crushed. For the third time in a little over an hour my wants
and needs had been denied.
	Back home, at the kitchen table, after walking Syfy (who also felt
confused and slighted) I barely touched my Hamburger Helper.

	Saturday was housework (no Amber), laundry (the dreaded laundromat)
and shopping with mom first at the grocery and then at the mall. Sunday was
church; and then church again in the evening. I hated it worse than the
laundromat. The only saving grace being that my bratty older sister had to
go as well. I don't think I'd ever looked forward to a school day rolling
around so much as on that endless Sunday.
	As soon as the school bus dropped me off, but after letting Syfy
out for a brief pee, I headed straight to the park. I walked the usual
trails. I walked them rapidly. They were deserted. A park ranger passed me
on a green four-wheeler and my heart sank. This would scare the stranger
off big time, I feared.
	But further up I rounded the big curve, just as Syfy and I had done
on Thursday, and there he was. The man was facing to his left, at the edge
of the brush. At first I thought he was taking a leak. He was not. His
jeans were zipped up as he turned to face me. I continued forward,
tentatively, as he looked on. He rubbed the front of his jeans, the bulge,
in gesture with one hand while beckoning me forward with the other. A dual
invitation.
	The closer I got to him the more I realized, aside from stature and
build and maybe hair color, he did not look much like my father. He pointed
into the brush and said, "Down here."
	I followed him. It was a very narrow trail, barely more of one than
a habitual possum or raccoon might make. Brush closed in from both sides.
About ten meters in we came to a slightly wider area, a small clearing, and
through the branches beyond I could see the edge of the park's largest
lake. There was a boat launch way on the other side, east of us, and people
went fishing on the lake. There was a constant quick rhythm in my ears but
it was not the black lake water lapping the edge, it was my heart.
	This time when the man lowered his jeans and briefs his penis
popped straight out. It was pointing at me. The man stroked it a few times
then stopped, and held it by its base. It was an offering. He said nothing.
	Almost instinctively I sank to my knees (my mother was going to
kill meÑa brand-new pair of soiled school pants). My small hand replaced
his around the base of his cock, against his brown pubic hair. I took his
swollen head in my mouth. It tastedÑsmelledÑfaintly of urine but not
objectionably so. I didn't gag. The man's penis was way too long for me to
take more than half its length in my mouth. But I sucked it eagerly between
the top of my fist and his head's swell.
	The man didn't quite seem to know what to do with his own
hands. FinallyÑlooselyÑhe held the back of my head with them, my
thick mop of hair the same brown as his. The only thing he said over the
course of these several long minutes was, in whisper: "Watch your teeth."
	Then, later: "Fondle my balls while you suck me."
	Like his cock, his balls were bigger than dad's, though not by
much. They were smooth, hairless, however. He complimented me, saying: "You
do that so wellÉSuch a good boy."
	Encouraged, I sucked on, despite the fatigue, the oral fatigue I
was beginning to feel. He told me to let go of his cock, the base, and
caress his ass.
	As his hand replaced mine I did so. Alternately circling his right
buttock in caress and kneading its firmness. I was now simultaneously
caressing him, fondling him and sucking his cock. The man had just taught
me a lesson that would come in handy later in life, both before and after
two abortive marriages when I explored my core desires, my bisexuality. My
other, true self.
	"You do that so wellÉ," the man repeated. In school that day my
English teacher had upbraided me for not paying attention in class, when we
were taking turns reading aloud some Jack London story about a man freezing
to death. Eating his dog or something. Now I felt somewhat vindicated. A
sense of revenge, even. Look at me now, teacher!
	Nevertheless my mouth eventually gave out. I came up for airÑas
if I'd fallen out of one of the lake's fishing boats and had just
resurfaced.
	The man said hold your mouth open, close, while his left hand took
over. I too was a lefty, though somewhat ambidextrous like my dad had
been. My jaw cracked as he told me to open wider, as if this patch of sand
in the brush were a dentist's office.
	He blurted, though still in whisper, "I'm gonna cum!"
	I waited.
	It took longer than expected. My jaw ached. Finally his load
streaked out. Spurted rather, as I moved my mouth even closer. Immediately
the fragrance of his sperm filled my nostrils while I tasted its
sweetness. A salty sweetness. I swallowed. Some got on my upper lip. I
tried to lick it off. This was a mistake. More spurted on my chin, up my
nose. I reopened my mouth trying to catch the rest of it. His hand began to
slow. My lips were circling his head by now. His hand stopped as I
swallowed. And swallowed. Audible breathing was the only sound he'd made.
	He told me to suck his head, clean him off. I obeyed. I liked it
that he gave me orders. I wondered if, like my dad, he was ex-military.
	Sperm ringed my mouth. It was dripping. I licked off what I could,
but finally resorted to wiping my lower face on the long sleeve of my
shirt. Would mom see the stain? Feel its crustiness? Would she be able to
smell it and know just what it was? What improbable blanks would she be
able to fill in?
	The man was zipping up. I got to my feet. I looked up at him
eagerly. His face was blank, unreadable. I wanted to hear more praise but
none would be forthcoming. He turned to his right and headed up the
trail. He stopped, looked back. His voice sounded strained, hoarse:
	"Don't follow me."
	"No," I assured him.

	I walked the same park trails the next day, Tuesday, as well as
Wednesday and ThursdayÉOn Friday Amber had a sleepover at our
doublewide. Her and a girlfriend. These girls would lounge around in their
skimpy PJ's while watching some made-for-TV (made for morons) sci-fi flick
with mom, and I didn't want to miss that. The next-to-naked girls that
is. Besides, there was pizza.
	I went back to the park every day the following week, at the usual
time. There was no man. I never saw him again.
	On the following Monday I took Syfy with me to the park. His
feelings were hurt, he'd been moping around the house for weeks, and it
seemed only fair. Besides, my mom was on my ass about it. That and the
ruined knees of a pair of school pants she'd never been able to wash the
stains out of. (Laundromat washers SUCK!)
	That Christmas a large box arrived in the mail addressed to me care
of my mom. Sender unknown. Since it was not wrapped in Christmas paper she
let me go ahead and open it.
	"Who's it from?" I asked excitedly.
	Mom, arms folded defensively below modest breasts, shrugged.
	Inside was one of those Scalextric race car sets with a figure 8
track. I was thrilled! Despite my sister's objections I set it up in the
middle of the livingroom in front of the TV and spent much of Christmas
vacation sitting on the carpet racing those colorful, finned slot cars and
watching them fly off the track or crash into one another. Then one day my
doofus sister accidentally-on-purpose stepped on a portion of the track
breaking three segments of the figure 8 in two.
	I tried to glue them back together with model airplane cement but
it was no good. The male-female pieces no longer fit together.
	I got my small revenge, however. As consolation, feeling bad for me
I assume, mom allowed me to resume sleeping with her.