Date: Thu, 4 Jun 2009 02:18:37 +0000
From: Neil N. Blow <neilnblow@hotmail.com>
Subject: TRUE BLOWJOB STORIES:  College Sleepover (Beginnings)

Hemmingway may have had his Nick Adams stories about life in rural
Michigan, fucking Ojibway Indians and learning to fish and hunt. I have my
own rural Michigan stories. Only in mine, I'm Nick Adams, and I'm blowing
the Ojibway Indians.

Seriously, though, this is another one of my stories about life in rural
Michigan. The last one (NEW SHOES) was told to me by a Michigan Native.
This next one, was a personal experience. I have at least one more, "as
told to me" by another. Enjoy.

* * * *

A lot of men live in the closet their whole lives, and some by choice. They
enjoy the sexual aspects of having sex with another man, particularly the
"lay back and get sucked off" aspect of it. But they have no desire to live
a "gay lifestyle".

It probably is unfair of us cocksuckers, actually. Once a guy gets a really
good blowjob, he'll come back for more. Men just can't help it, they are
biologically programmed to seek the ultimate pleasure of an orgasm. And for
many men, the blowjob is the best sex you can get.

As I noted, even after I learned to suck in the restroom and locker room, I
was still in the "closet" for many months. I had a lot of straight friends,
actually, as far as I knew, they were all straight. Some of them, I
fantasized about sucking off. Others were just non-sexual to me. It
depended on the guy. I guess I could sense which ones wanted it.

Paul and I had know each other for a couple of semesters in school. He was
a total partier and would end up dropping out the next year. He liked to
drink and he liked to smoke pot, and he liked loud rock music, often
attempting to accompany AC/DC playing on his cassette deck with his Ibenez
Fender Bass knock-off, much to the displeasure of most of the dorm
residents.

He was a passionate guy, though, and threw himself into things that were
interesting to him, and ignoring those that seemed trivial or boring. Like
I said, he dropped out the next year.

He kept telling me about his parent's place out in the country, and how
great it was to visit. They had acres of pine forest, and there was always
something to do there. One weekend, we loaded up my van and drove out.

We stopped at his parent's house first. It was a one story ranch house,
stained redwood color, with a particle board "mudroom" off the front. They
were quite proud of the mudroom, as it had a carpeted floor, a milk house
heater, and a rack Paul's Dad made to dry wet boots in the winter.

Out front, a mangy and flea-bitten German Shepard was chained to an engine
block. The heavy chain had stripped the lawn of all grass in a neat circle,
and we came in the driveway, the dog barked furiously, pulling on his
chain, which ran over several desiccated dog poops in the process.

Paul called out to the dog, "King! Shut the Fuck Up!" but of course the dog
never did. "King's a great dog! Yes he is!" Paul said, going over and
grabbing a hunk of the dog's smelly neck fur and shaking it heartily. As
soon as we walked away, King kept up a steady barking.

It was Saturday night, and Paul's mother made meatloaf. It was good, hearty
simple fare, well made and tasty. We wolfed down our large portions. Paul's
mother said "Paul, are you going to church tonight?" I suppressed a laugh.
Paul was a party animal! Church? No way!

"Yea, Ma" he said, "We'll catch the eight o'clock mass after supper." I
presumed he was lying to her, but I presumed wrong. After some more small
talk, we left the house and drove out over the washboard dirt roads into
town. My van was getting a filthy coat of brown dust all over it.

Paul rolled a joint in the car, popped open a couple of beers from the
cooler, and cranked up the radio (this was before it got stolen). Before we
got into town, Paul said, between tokes, "Pull in here". "Huh?" I said,
"That's the Catholic Church!"

Our Lady of Ascension (or whatever) was one of these modern monstrosities,
designed to look expensive and modern, but to the trained eye had all the
hallmarks of cheap construction. It was a working class community, and the
church needed to enclose the maximum number of people for the minimal
cost. Modern architecture fit the bill nicely. Red brick and a soaring
cantilevered roof gave the place a feeling of awe - on a budget.

"You can't be serious" I said, "We're going to church?".

"Well, yea, I promised Ma" Paul said. He was nothing if not loyal and
honest.

"Besides, he said, if we go tonight, we can get a clean slate, and we can
start out sinning all night - and we don't have to wake up early for church
the next morning!"

I have to hand it to the Catholics, they are a practical people.

I pointed out to him that I was not Catholic. "No problem" he said, "we'll
just sit in the back". I also pointed out that neither of us was properly
dressed for church. "Huh?" he said, "You look great!". When we entered the
church, I understood what he meant. Most folks were wearing down parkas,
bluejeans and flannel shirts, or whatever, it appears, they were wearing on
a regular Saturday night.

Like I said, I have to hand it to the Catholics, they are a practical
people.

The service was interesting, from a Protestant point of view. More the same
than different. When the Priest called for people to come up and receive
the host, I said to Paul, "are you going to go?". "Heck no" he said, "I saw
someone drop the host once, and everyone freaked out for nearly an hour. No
way am I going to risk that."

So an hour later, host-less and a few bucks lighter from the collection
plate, we headed into town.

The town was a bit primitive, to say the least. The town had one paved
road, about a quarter-mile long, faced on both sides by false-front
buildings. A feed store, a hardware store, a drug store, and a beauty
salon. At the end of town, one lonely gas station.

We drove down the street slowly, checking out the goings on, Paul waving to
everyone and calling out to them by name. This guy could have been the next
Bill Clinton with his charisma. But of course, at that time, Bill Clinton
was just a young unknown governor in Arkansas.

We reached the end of the paved part of the street, and the van dropped off
the pavement with a thud onto the washboard dirt road. "What now?" I
said. "Oh, turn around," he replied.

"And do what?"

"Drive down the street again!" he said.

We did this for nearly an hour, slowly cruising down the quarter mile
pavement, falling off at the end, and then turning around under some trees,
then repeating the process.

Along the way, Paul would wave and say "Hi" to all his local friends -
young and old. "Hey Mrs. Burke, howya doing? How's Mr. Burke?" He'd say,
turning to me to explain that Mrs. Burke was his 3rd grade teacher and that
her husband was recently put into a rest home.

This went on and on, the sight of each person eliciting from Paul a story
or vignette, often filled with pathos, of life in a small town. No one
seemed to mind or notice that we kept driving up and down the
street. Everybody he waved to, waved back, even after the fourth or fifth
circuit.

As dusk approached, a few other cars appeared. A flat black primered '68
Camaro with dual glasspacks, a rusty '73 Pontiac Catalina, the obligatory
'65 Ford Pickup, stepside long bed, with three on the column.

We made up a parade for a few laps, and then Paul motioned me to stop the
van and pull over. He called out to the Camaro owner over the rumble of the
glasspacks. "Hey, Tom, where's the party tonight?" I heard a muffled reply
and some more conversation. Frankly, it was all a bit boring to me. While
the lives of these small-town folk mesmerized Paul, I was nonplussed. I
mean I'm sure they are all interesting people, but when you don't know
them. . .

After what seemed like an eternity of small talk, Paul said "Let's go,
there's a party out of town". I was happy to be away from "cruising" this
rinky-dink main street. We accelerated out of town in a cloud of dust,
throwing our empty beer cans out of the van at the edge of town. Paul
rolled yet another joint and put in a Pink Floyd tape - Meddle. We were
pretty buzzed.

"So, where are we going?" I said. "A buddy of mine just got married and
they are having the reception out at the VFW hall. Just keep driving."

"A wedding reception? We're going to crash it?" I said. "No, not crash it,
he's a friend of mine, we're invited!" We drove out of town at a high speed
to the VFW. The place was packed with cars. We went inside. There were a
lot of old folks who looked like they had lived hard, working lives.

Young people, in their late teens and early 20's, chubby and milk fed, were
wearing parkas, just as in church. The groom was no more than 19, and the
bride probably much younger than that. A round bowling ball bulge protruded
from the belly of her wedding dress. They would be a family, rather soon.

I immediately went over to find a drink. Behind a folding card table
covered with plastic cups was a warming keg of Miller High Life. They had
sprung for the good stuff. I poured a tall one and gulped it down, refilled
it and then poured one for Paul.

I took the beer over to Paul, who was at the head table, talking with
everyone. He was animated, and everyone seemed to enjoy talking to him. The
groom, looking a little shell-shocked smiled and nodded.

I got the gist of the situation from the conversation. Groom had knocked up
Bride at the high school prom. He now had gotten a job at the tannery and
they had a "really nice new double wide" setup just outside of town,
courtesy of the Bride's father, a mobile home dealer. Who says Dowry's are
dead?

Paul worked his way around the room this way, introducing me as his friend
from college. I could see they were pretty impressed with Paul, being a
college boy and all and not falling into the same trap as the Groom. I, on
the other hand, was a stranger, who merited no more than a nod and hello.

He talked with everyone, young and old, and even the old folks responded to
him with courtesy and enthusiasm. He was in turn courteous and
respectful. He could be a poster boy for the Dale Carnegie course.

After many, many beers, I was starting to warm up to the crowd, and the
crowd was likewise. Some Uncle or long lost relative of Paul's kept talking
to me in a drunken incomprehensible drawl, and I just kept nodding and
saying "You got that right!" unless of course, he took offense, at which
point I would change my answer to "You don't say!" or "I agree with you!".

The band started. Four men in their late 50's took the stage. The bass drum
skin proclaimed them to be the "Rhythm Pals" and for the most part, they
weren't too bad. Or maybe I was just shitfaced at this point. They played
for a couple of hours and then Paul asked to borrow my van keys. "Why?" I
asked.

"Some of my buddies are going to get our instruments. We want to play for
the Bride and Groom". I handed him the keys and saw him take off. I spent
the next hour nodding and uh-huhing to his drunken Uncle, smelling the beer
and cigarettes on his breath. My life was saved only once, when an
overweight bridesmaid in a powder-blue prom dress asked me to dance.

Paul finally returned with his bass, and a few other instruments and some
buddies. After some tense negotiation with the "Rhythm Pals" it was agreed
that they could plug their instruments into the amps and use the drum
set. I think the Father of the bride promised them a good tip. The Rhythm
Pals stood off to one side, suspiciously eyeing their equipment and the new
band members.

Paul took the stage, and he and his mates launched into a long, clanking,
unrehearsed version of "The Great White Buffalo" - a Ted Nugent song I had
never heard of. Everyone was so plastered at that point that it didn't
matter they were all playing in different keys. The old folks marveled that
the Groom's friends would pay tribute to him this way. It was a nice touch.

The rest of the evening was a blur of cake cutting, tossing the bouquet,
the whole degrading garter thing, dancing the hokey-pokey and everything
you may have seen in Tony 'n Tina's Wedding.

At long last, drunk and staggering, we went back to the van and drove
home. On the way home he told me about one of the friends he saw a the
party. I remembered that friend, as he had showed me a picture of the two
of them before, in KISS regalia during a Halloween dance in high school.

(note to youngsters, KISS was the name of a band with Gene Simmons, and no,
he's not the exercise guy with deal-a-meal).

At the time, he said to me "Yea, he and I were really tight. One night he
slept over and we fagged it up a bit." He never elaborated on what that
meant. But maybe that's why I like hanging out with Paul. He wasn't afraid
to "Fag it up" now and again.

But I did notice he was a little cool to his high school friend at the
reception.

We made it back to his parent's house well after midnight, and King
announced our arrival. We stumbled into the mud-room and the sleeper sofa
was already pulled out. That was Paul's idea, to sleep on the sleeper
sofa. "That way," he said, "We don't wake up Ma and Dad when we get in
late". Of course, King woke the dead, so I failed to see the point, at
least initially.

The wood stove was hissing and I could see the red coals through the
isinglass grate when Paul flicked the lights off. It was toasty warm in the
living room. We crawled into the sofa sleeper and said goodnight.

I was awake, of course, lying in bed next to Paul, his comment about
"fagging it up" in high school reverberating through my brain like the
silver ball bearing in pinball machine. I reached down and started playing
with my cock quietly, hoping Paul would not notice. He seemed to be asleep,
as his breath was regular and slow.

As I lay there on my back, he suddenly rolled over, and casually, as though
asleep, threw his arm out so it went over my chest. My heart started
pounding a staccato that the Rhythm Pals would have a hard time beating.

Was this "fagging it up?" or was he just sleeping? I lay there, motionless,
and then slowly put one hand up on his arm. As if in response, he moved in
closer. We lay there for minutes, his face right next to mine. Then I felt
a soft kiss on my cheek.

I was paralyzed with fear for a moment, then I turned my head toward him
and he kissed me full on in the mouth. In a matter of seconds we were open
mouth kissing, his tongue pushing into my mouth. I had had girlfriends
before, so I knew all about making out. But this was the first time making
out with a man.

We passionately embraced and he kept the pressure of his mouth on mine. His
arm, around me, reached down and grabbed my crotch. He moaned when he felt
my cock was hard. We tossed in the bed, the couch springs squeaking. I was
sure his parents would hear, but he didn't stop.

I reached over and felt his cock. God, I had wanted to do this for so
long. I had seen him naked in the dorm - he made sure of that on more than
one occasion, casually appeared from the shower in the buff. His cock was
soft, thick, and uncut, and his balls hung down beneath his small beer
gut. I felt it all now, remembering what it had looked like under the
fluorescent lights of the dorm.

His hand came off my cock and went up to my head, and he pushed my head
down to his crotch. So this is what he meant by "fagging it up!"

I willingly scooched down on the mattress until my legs were off the
couch. He pulled up so that he was leaning on the couch back. My head was
right in front of his dick. I looked up at him and saw the reflection of
the glowing coals from the woodstove grate in his pupils. I smiled as I
took in his thick cock, and I saw the twin glowing lights go out in his
face as he slowly shut his eyes, moaning.

His cock got hard slowly in my mouth, and he started up a regular rhythm,
moving his hips up and down on the couch, making a regular squeaking noise
in the springs. If anyone couldn't hear that we were fucking, I would be
surprised. Even King wasn't this loud!

Part of me was still curious as to what "fagging it up" comprised. Did he
want to suck me as well? Or was this just a selfish thing for him? His
friend from high school definitely looked like a cocksucker to me.

Paul answered my question shortly. His thrusting intensified and with a few
final strokes, he unloaded in my mouth, which I gratefully swallowed,
mentally noting the texture, quantity, and taste of his semen for later
reference.

With a groan and sigh, he rolled over, muttered "thanks" and fell fast
asleep. I crawled back up into the bed, and lay there, stroking my cock
silently. When I was certain Paul was asleep (he snored), I jerked off into
my underwear and then I, too, was asleep.

The next morning we were awoken by a commotion. Ma and Dad and his younger
sister were parading through the living room on the way out the door, on
their way to church. I quickly pulled a sheet over Paul's naked body, as
well as my own. I pretended to be asleep or hung over or both. His parents
whispered as they walked by. "The boys had quite a night out" they said,
"better not wake them."

When Ma and Dad and Sis returned from chuch, Ma made a hearty lumberjack
breakfast. Paul and I had both gotten up by then, showered and shaved. Paul
didn't say a word about what happened that night, and from the look in his
eyes, I didn't venture to raise the topic.

After breakfast, we got back in the van and headed back to school. Paul
rolled a joint and cranked up a Led Zepplin tune on the radio. He handed me
the joint and said to me, "Didn't I tell you we'd have a wicked good time
back home?"

"Yea," I replied, "wicked good time". I opened a warm beer from the cooler.

Paul and I hung out some after that, but our relationship had definately
cooled. He was starting to drink more and more, and was stoned most of the
time. It was no surprise, then, early into the fall semester the next year,
he decided to drop all his classes and withdraw from the University.

We talked on the phone a few times after that. Of course, we never talked
about that night "fagging it up" and I never raised the point. After a
while, the phone calls stopped and we both moved on with our lives.

I suppose he's married and has kids now. Who knows? Maybe he's decided he's
'gay' and is reading this right now. In any event, I wish him the best of
luck.

And oh yea, Paul, thanks for "fagging it up" with me!

--Neil N. Blow