Date: Thu, 14 Sep 2017 14:11:21 +0000 (UTC) From: Peter Brown Subject: Lion-King Chapter 23 Lion-King by badboi666 =============================================================================== If sex with boys isn't your thing, go away. If, as is much more likely, you've come to this site precisely to get your rocks off reading about sex with fresh young lads then make yourself comfortable - you're in the right place. Don't leave, however, without doing this: Donate to Nifty - these buggers may do it for love but they still have to eat. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html =============================================================================== Chapter 23 By the summer of 1963 I badly needed a break. I spent several weeks in the USA. I was 34. Harold Macmillan's 'winds of change' were blowing and the USA, with a young energetic President (how energetic we didn't know at the time) was the source of all things new and exciting. That's how it seemed then anyway. Vietnam was still only a name in the atlas. I travelled across the country by train, meeting people, exchanging ideas, wondering at the way that ordinary Americans seemed genuinely interested in me as an exotic creature from another planet. Talk about an innocent abroad. Mind you, the queer scene wasn't all that different from ours. No, that's not strictly true. It was far more open and unconcerned with society's views that it was at home, but once you got down to it the action was pretty much the same. I went to gay bars (the word 'gay' was new to me then) in Los Angeles and bath-houses in San Francisco. In a steam room one cock is much like another. I discovered that my accent - nothing to write home about, being ordinary working-class Essex - was regarded as being charming, or if not charming then sufficiently quaint to be a reliable ice-breaker. The natives, never slow to introduce themselves, were keen to learn about queer goings-on in England. I tried to oblige them. Sometimes it was easier to show than to tell. I liked California. What Englishman of 34 (or 24) doesn't? The trouble only arises when you're 44 and you still like it. You mustn't think that fucking Americans was all I did. I soaked up the culture - jazz clubs in New Orleans, blues in a splendid bar in Memphis - and the breath-taking scenery. The only snag with the scenery was that there was an awful lot of non-scenery in between the breath-taking bits. Still, there's boring bits of England too. Just not several hundred miles of them. I'd left the East Coast till last. I was due to fly home out of Idlewild at the beginning of September, and by 27 August I was in Washington, or as they call it there, 'The Nation's Capital'. Just in case anyone forgets, I suppose. I went to the Y for the night - always a fertile place for my kind of specialist entertainment - and heard that there was to be a massive civil liberties rally the next day. I was made aware by my informant - a really nice black kid of about 19 with a cock as big as Ace's and fucking skills to match - that civil rights in this context was a black issue. It wasn't for me to argue (I was a tourist and anyway he was fucking me at the time), but it seemed to me as a queer whose behaviour was illegal that my civil rights could do with being rallied about as well. Darryl (my endowed friend) said we should go together, and since I fancied Darryl and wanted more of his cock I happily agreed. Next morning we were two of about fifty million people gathered round the Reflecting Pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial. We were about 300 feet away from the stage thing that had been erected on the steps. There were a load of speakers and folkies. Peter, Paul and Mary (whom I hadn't come across before, but who remained very high on my list of played LPs for donkey's years thereafter) sang 'Blowing' in the Wind' by this Bob Dylan guy (who was also new to me: Essex must have been a cultural desert back then). (Three months later I, and maybe you as well, began a period of several years when it became impossible to hear that song and its awful prophesy without weeping.) Anyway, the crowd was buzzing and there was a great atmosphere of young people scenting change. And then this black guy came on with his 'I have a dream'. Darryl and I were pressed really close together, a situation we both found very pleasing. I knew this because I could feel his erection pressing against my arse. He was behind me and I reached behind and took his hands, pressing one to my own erection. I held the other tightly. The black guy's voice rose and fell like a great church organ, repeating his mantra about his dream. Never in my life had I heard a speaker with such a command of his audience. Darryl told me he was a preacher, but even so. When he finished there was a roar from the crowd - they - we - knew that something magical had just happened. He stepped down and disappeared in a crowd of guys up on the steps. I've never given any thought to what they call the colour bar here, but what I've seen in the last few weeks has opened my eyes. They don't let black people eat in the same part of a restaurant, or ride where they like on a bus. We don't have many black people in England, but the ones we do have are just the same as the rest of us. The poor ones are poor, and the better-off ones are better off. Black or white doesn't seem to make much difference. So, as I say, I've not given it much thought. Darryl told me the black guy's name was King. That set me off. This King was saying that one day it wouldn't make any difference if you were black or white. My King - me - hoped that the day would come when it wouldn't make any difference whether a man fucked other men, or fucked women. You've shared this journey back from 2017, and you know that the queer discrimination has pretty well faded. True there are folk that don't like queers, but there are folk who don't like Welshmen or don't like asparagus. You don't have to like us: all you have to do is not hate us. Best of all is that you don't give us a second thought. Darryl and I drifted away, like fifty million other witnesses to a special moment. We found a bar which was willing to pretend that a 19-year-old was really 21 (I ask you - what a weird country. You can drive at 16 but can't buy a beer till you're 21) and we spent a happy hour getting gradually merry. When we left the bar we went to a pizza place to get something to eat. The beer had made us horny and as we'd been feeling each other's cocks at the rally we were anxious to get back to the Y for more serious business. Unfortunately there was nowhere we could get together now, so we had to make do with a quickie in the bogs. The place we'd found to fuck in yesterday was locked. "Never mind," said Darryl, "come up to my home in Jersey City tomorrow. We'll have the place to ourselves. My folks are on vacation until Labor Day." This meant nothing to me, but he explained that Labor Day is their equivalent of a bank holiday at the beginning of September. It turned out that Jersey City is only a couple of hours from Idlewild, so it was all turning out well. I'm writing this, as usual, on 31 August. All that I've just described happened three days ago. We got to Darryl's place late on the 29th after a long hot ride in a Greyhound bus. He chose to sit at the back and I was happy to join him - to hell with what the other white people might have thought. At the back of the bus we could sit close and feel each other. The bus wasn't anything like full, so no-one sat near us. I had my hand inside his jeans and he has his hand inside mine, just like a pair of randy teenagers (which only one of us was). By the time we got to New Jersey we were both awash with precum. Yesterday we spent the day sight-seeing in New York. We went up the Empire State Building and he whispered when we got to the viewing place that we were standing on the biggest erection in America. I grinned. "I want to see it at close quarters," I said. "Later, honey." We walked in Central Park and took the subway downtown to the Battery. I'd like to have gone to Ellis Island but there wasn't time if we had to get back to Jersey City. Last night was wonderful. So was today. Darryl's parents' house was huge to my eyes, although he assured me it was nothing special. His father was a professor at a New York university, so they weren't short of a few bob. The kitchen was stocked with food in a freezer so we didn't have to go out. In fact, apart from going out for a few beers at about 5 o'clock, we never went further from Darryl's bed than the kitchen all today. For a 19-year-old he's a very considerate lover. We're both flexible, so we took turns about of being top and bottom. It's now nearly 11 at night and we've been in bed (or a bar) for about 26 hours. In that time I've fucked him twice and he's fucked me three times. We've 69ed and rimmed each other. When I gave his arse the three-finger prostate treatment he howled with pleasure - no-one had done that to him before. He insisted on doing it to me - "tell me if I'm doing it right, Rex" (he was, oh brother! he was) - to be able to add it to his bag of tricks for the next lucky guy. At about 7 when the beers were becoming insistent I led him into the shower. He was soon able to add that to his bag of tricks too. "Is that an English thing, pissing on guys?" he asked. I told him that I didn't know, but he was welcome to pretend he'd invented it to the next guy he pissed on. "That'll be right soon," he assured me. Another satisfied partner. We must each have cum half a dozen times, most of it lapped up but some allowed to dry where it landed. We're lying happily side by side in his big bed - the scene, he told me, of many conquests but never before occupied almost continuously for over 24 hours. I'm feeling my age. I couldn't manage another orgasm, even if the most angelic 14-year-old threw himself at me. Well, possibly not. "Tomorrow I'll take you to Idlewild," Darryl murmured, "then I'll never see you again." I knew that tomorrow I'd be in 1961, but I just smiled and gave him a kiss. "It's been a great few days, kid," I said, "the biggest cock up me in the biggest country." "Yeah, white boy," he grinned, "you took it like a man." He paused, thinking, as I was, about the day we'd spent together in Washington. "King was pretty special too." I smiled to myself: indeed he had been. Both of us. =============================================================================== badboi666@btinternet.com is where you should send comments and suggestions