"Look there! Another piece of the park disappears along with a good piece of the city ecological campaign! Bah! For sure one of those fat cat politicians paid off by someone so they can fuck the law." Jacques mother grumbled, while she finishing off cleaning the windowpanes.
She went to the kitchen with her dirty water basin and her dusters. Jacques heard her busy in there from his room. He took his telescope aiming it at the park towards the point where a crane and the concrete pillars emerged from the trees. He adjusted the focus and finally could clearly see the man in the control cab. Bare chest, a helmet on his head, a little fat, around thirty years old. It seemed he was singing. His mother asked him from the kitchen what did he want for lunch. He answered. He turned his telescope a few degrees focusing on the men working on the scaffoldings. Who knew how high they would build that building? Where they were now must have been the third floor. Almost all were bare chest or in a vest. There seemed to be a nice boy over there! He could have been his own age, about twenty-five. Beautiful torso, muscled and tanned. The helmet hid the hair color, but it had to be light. Jacques wished he had a camera to use with the telescope to take a picture of him, but his mother spent too much money buying the telescope.
In the beginning he really used it to study the few stars that the polluted air of the town allowed to be seen in the clear nights. The darkness of the park, where the back of his house and his room window overlooked, improved the viewing. He also succeeded in seeing some planets, but above all he now knew the moon's topography very well. Then he thought to use it to explore the park. At first he was disappointed as it was impossible to focus the images, for the objects were too near. But he had some notions of optics, so he thought to modify the internal position of the lenses. So he disassembled and reassembled it several times, until he succeeded. He transformed it into a giant telephoto lens, just as powerful as those the paparazzi used to take nude photos of celebrities from the top of a hill two miles away, as if they were just a few feet away.
He found that more amusing than looking at the stars. He could see animals, flowers, people. Children playing, old women gossiping on the benches, young couples quarrelling or cooing, or flirting when the surroundings were deserted. He remembered the emotions he felt, about two years before, when he saw a couple sitting on a bench: the girl had opened her boy's fly, pulled out his big, hard cock, and masturbated him. He leaned backward, his legs spread out with his eyes closed, blissfully enjoying those intimate attentions. Jacques saw him become as tense as a violin bow and throw out, translucent and shining in the air, small falls of liquid pearls. He seemed to be right there, at six feet from him, and Jacques ejaculated soon after the youth, in his handkerchief, ready for the purpose.
During the summer he could see big boys in shorts and bare chests playing football or simply taking in the sun. Desirable. That wasn't the only sexual activity he got out of the park. That happened at night, in the darkness of the park. With his telescope he just managed to pick out faint, indistinct shadows in movement. So indistinct that it was hard to tell who was the male or, at the most, if they were two males. He might faintly see an arriving pair intertwine, moving at the rhythm of coupling, part, leave. Some hurried up in few minutes, others indulged in longer games. What games and how, he could only guess.
After the accident, Jacques had to develop a remarkable fantasy life to compensate for the loss of the use of his legs and of his freedom of movement. God knows why people think that a handicapped person doesn't have a sexual life. He had been a normal and healthy boy until fifteen. He reached puberty at twelve and half and joining with his friends in the usual reciprocal masturbation games, the contests where it was determined who could come first or who could spurt farther. He did that until he was thirteen when he met an older and more cunning companion that taught him to have sex. At first they just sucked each other. He loved that very much, and as soon as his companion invited him, he happily accepted. Then Jacques' friend persuaded him to accept penetration; he loved to feel his friend's member invade him, fill him and then move inside him. He didn't think it was possible to feel so delightful a sensation as to be penetrated. He was fourteen and half when he penetrated another friend for the first time. He also found this to be very enjoyable and he didn't miss a chance to do it, with the enthusiasm of his young age. He clearly understood that, in the erotic field, he was attracted to his own sex. He clearly understood what it was to be gay. He accepted it with serene joy.
Thanks to an occasional lover, an university student that hooked him at the movies and brought him to his home, that in his small bed made love to him for a very long while, with real skill, making him rejoice very much, he discovered the magazine "Gay Pied". He was too young to buy it at the newspaper stand, and when he met the young man again, he asked him get a copy as gift, one he still had and jealously guarded.
Then, at fifteen, a car accident that took his father's life and reduced him to a wheel chair. Eliminating in that way, in a single stroke, his possibility to have any partner, a sexual life, or a relationship. He could only masturbate and daydream. He became very skilled in daydreaming. So skilled that he began to write erotic gay stories, when he was seventeen. That was exactly when his mother discovered that she had not only a handicapped son but also a gay one. She didn't find that out because of his novels. As thirsty for sex as he was, he tried to do it with the male nurse who came to his house to assist him, a really handsome twenty-six year old man. This one didn't content himself with just leaving that house, he also told Jacques's mother why he left.
The woman, at first, was shocked. She shouted, cried, and was upset. They spent months in tension, and sometimes-ferocious discussions. Little by little, the woman surrendered, accepting. So much that she was easily convinced to go to buy him a copy of the magazine "Gay Pied" (even if she felt really ashamed) and later to make a payment at the post office for a subscription to that magazine.
So Jacques started to send his stories to the magazine that published them under the pseudonym "Marc Jaures", the same initial letters of his real first and last name, but reversed. The magazine sent a reasonable check for each published story. With that money, Jacques had bought a personal computer, where he typed his stories. One of the magazine's editorial staff wrote him one day, asking him to try to write a full-length novel. So he published his first work, entitled "An Old Tree Talks". He imagined he was a tree in the park, watching the love story between two boys start, seeing them coming back during the night to make love under his foliage for many years. Watches their reciprocal love grow until one night they are caught by a gang of thugs and one of them is slaughtered. A sad story, but written with skill and sentiment that had a fair success and brought him some good money.
Jacques ended his studies, which had been at home with his mother carrying him in his wheelchair to school for the exams once a year. He found more work at home, thanks to his personal computer: he had to revise the floppies that a publisher sent him for proof reading. This work did ask of him an average of three, four days per week, and procured him a small but useful salary. And above all it occupied his time.
At twenty one he had a very short love affair with a boy he had met through the ads in "Gay Pied", but the boy, after a few encounters, said to him that he didn't feel like having steady relations with "a very likable person, but one who couldn't even go out for a walk". Jacques had suffered for that, because he was starting to fall in love with him. But he had understood that it was better for him to give up dreaming of having a partner. His mother, even if she never talked about it with Jacques, had known of their relationship (when the boy came, she, with an excuse or another, left the house to leave them alone), and tried to comfort him, even if rather awkwardly. Jacques, after that disillusionment, never again put ads on the magazine to beg a little of sex, if not love.
He was not really sad, just resigned. Then he wrote the story "Chaste for Destiny" where he described a boy who becomes a friar thinking to have the vocation, and then discovers his attraction to boys. He doesn't have any relations, not because he didn't desire them, but because he finds himself prisoner of the situation, that he accepts with resignation. Jacques described the young friar's desires, troubles, fantasies, describing in reality his own self, his own situation. He got another excellent result. "Gay Pied" sent him letters of his readers with their comments on his stories. Marc Jaures's stories always received a remarkable success.
So Jacques had reached his twenty fourth birthday.
He liked the mason up there on the scaffolding, who was now wiping his sweat with a white cloth. He had pulled away his helmet; Jacques guessed right, a fall of soft, very light brown hair shone in the sun, making the spring more luminous. He seemed so near, through the lens, that Jacques felt that he could stretch out an arm and brush the beautiful, wide, muscled chest, lightly dusted with its fine blond coat of hair. Or to caress the curve his fly made at the right point. The boy his helmet back on, put the cloth on his belt and went back to work, at times disappearing from his view.
Jacques imagined a love story between two masons, born up there between the scaffoldings suspended in the emptiness. He left his telescope, moved his wheelchair to his desk, started his computer and opened a new file. As temporary title he wrote "masons-01". The real title would have come out while writing the story, as usual. He decided in broad outlines the plot skeleton, invented the names, the ages, writing some more detail on scrap paper, and started to write:
"From up there, the reality of the surrounding city seemed to assume the characteristics of a relief model, much more beautiful and complex than those he admired when, as a little boy, his eyes wide open, he pushed his nose against the glass of the toy shop window. Yves took off his helmet and wiped his sweat from his tanned face, his strong neck, his wide shoulders and then, with a kind of sensual pleasure, from the broad naked chest. Unaware of the look full of desire with which Karim, his Algerian co-worker, looked at him from the control cab of the crane..."
Yes, instead of the fat man, Jacques imagined a handsome Arab about twenty eight years old, lean and sensual, who, notwithstanding that he was married and a father of three children, was a lover of his own sex. He would describe how Karim courted Yves, and how he could lead him to discover, little by little, his latent sexuality and, finally, how he succeeded in taking him. A love and passion story, that would culminate with Karim's wife attempting to kill Yves and with the flight of the two lovers to a village of Provence where they would live working as servants in the villa of a rich gay man, an ex lover of Karim. His stories, usually, were always with a happy end, because Jacques thought that, for the sad ends, everyday reality was enough. And anyway the majority of his readers loved both his stories and his endings. Jacques used to write his stories in one go. Then he read again, corrected, polished giving them the definitive form according the style he had thought in advance. While he was writing his stories, the young man fell in love with his characters. He felt them alive, real, animated by their own life. Once they were born, he couldn't constrain them to do what he wanted. He was conscious of that and he was also rather amazed. It seemed to him as he could just create the situations and then just observe how his characters will confront them, and resolve them. Sometimes, occasionally, there were the few sad endings he could not avoid. Who knows how it would really end between Yves and Karim? he asked himself while he was continuing to describe the French boy, his emotions, his ideas, his reactions.
He broke off for lunch. His mother told him about price increases, about the neighbour wife quarrelling with her husband, about the banker's son who was about to divorce and other similar trivial things. Jacques listened, intervening with a couple of words just to give his mother the impression he was talking to her, and he asked himself what would become of him the day when his mother would no more be. His mother was still young, she was just forty three, was in good health, and as long as an unforeseen event didn't occur, she would live still for a long time. Egoistically, he hoped to die before her. Of course he couldn't say such things to her. But what could he do the day he was alone? Probably he would be admitted into some bleak institution where the nurses would lose their patience with him, where about twice a year the charity ladies would arrive bringing the inmates the leftovers of the wealthy society, pretending that was generous charity. Where he would have to put up with, and to be put up with by, other unlucky people like him. Patience! He could do nothing for that, and that was to be his end. And there in the institution, quite likely, he could not even follow in writing his stories, nor spy on handsome masons with his telescope...Yes, he really hoped to die before his mother.
The woman, after her husband died and his son was alive but immobilized, found those small domestic jobs: to assemble and package ball-point pens, costume jewellery and other similar items. But with his father's pension, her earnings and those of Jacques, they managed to go on with dignity. And happily, they owned their small apartment. They couldn't complain, in spite of all. Sometimes she brought him downstairs in the old squeaking elevator, taking him for a stroll around the block, pushing his wheelchair. Some neighbours greeted them with a belaboured smile, but nobody ever stopped to talk with them. Nevertheless he knew that when his mother went out alone, she chatted with the local people. He was the problem, his infirmity that put ill at ease the others.
He managed to go to the toilet and to take his baths alone, thanks to a set of handles his mother did have placed in the right spots. Sometimes his cousins popped over to his place, but he didn't really get on well with them. Their visits were a distraction to his days; they and he were rather similar, but Jacques didn't have too much in common with them. He felt in them more sympathy than friendship. He didn't charge them with that, but of course he wasn't so happy with them because of it. He soon understood that people feel ill at ease in front of an handicapped person, almost guilty, and they don't forgive the handicapped for those feelings. They feel the duty to go to visit him, but then they long to rush off. Jacques felt all that and accepted it, as he now accepted his state; to be forever relegated to a wheelchair. At times he had also thought to write a story about an handicapped, but he knew that his readers would react badly, as his cousins did, feeling at the same time sympathy and annoyance. Handicapped people should not exist: that the Spartans well understood, hurling the handicapped to their death from a cliff. But Jacques was happy not to live in ancient Sparta. He loved life.
What was a burden to him was his sexual loneliness. But just like his legs, he could do nothing to change that. His wheelchair did substitute, a little and very badly, for his legs; masturbation had become the wheelchair of his sexual life. It was little and useless, but was better than nothing. Who knows why, he sometimes asked himself with sad irony, why fate didn't paralyze his dick? All would have been lot more simple.
He was affectionate to his member, fellow of his loneliness, and at times that affection even gave him the illusion of placating his desire. Illusion, because after a short while he again felt lonely and full of desire. He knew desire very well, when it was too strong it seemed to be a purely physical thing, and on the contrary it was something more vital, more involving, more deep. It was the dream; to exchange love. "And you cannot exchange love with your dick, Jacques Moiret!" he thought with sweet sadness.
When he got his GCE A-level, newspapers wrote about him; about that "brave boy" who was forced to live in a wheelchair, yet had succeeded in continuing and completing his studies, by himself. Then his mother had enrolled him in the university, but he didn't feel like continuing. He passed with difficulty the first year's exams, then, little by little, he didn't bother any more. His mother didn't insist.
At times Jacques asked himself how did his mother manage for her sexual life. But to try imagining the sexual life of his mother gave him a kind of embarrassment, of modest shyness. Almost like if parents had to be asexual beings. And yet, if he existed, that was just thanks to the sexual activity of his parents...
Widowed at thirty five years, she too had to feel the sexual urge. Jacques had the faint sensation she had a lover: at times the woman prepared with peculiar care before to go out. When she came home, she was more serene and cheerful than usual. He had the temptation tell her to bring him home, to introduce him. She never hinted at that, so also Jacques thought it more opportune to say nothing. Was the woman shy in front of her son? Or simply he was guessing non-existent things? Did he project his own desire for a mate onto his mother?
Sometimes Jacques regretted being an only child. He would have liked to have brothers and sisters; to grow together. Older or younger, was not so important. To have a brother, probably would have made him feel less lonely. But then, why didn't his mother's presence have the same effect on him? And yet she took care of him, talked with him, loved him. Perhaps because she was woman and of another generation? Or perhaps just because (how big could be the love between a parent and a child?) there cannot be a real friendship as with a brother, or rather as with a lover...
When the lunch was over, as his mother washed the dishes, he went back to his room. He asked himself whether to continue his story or to do the proof reading. He opted for that second activity, the sooner he ended with that work, more time he had for his new story.
It was a critical text about the science fiction literature of the 60's. Interesting. He wondered if there were gay science fiction stories. He could even perhaps write one himself. But not now. He was too much caught with his masons story, that was little by little taking shape in all the details.
Monsieur Dumarne had a nice family and he was rightly proud of it: a sophisticated and elegant wife, the elder son Alain, nineteen years old, who one day would take his place at the management of their gym chain, a nice seventeen years old daughter, junior swimming champion, and the youngest son, fourteen, brilliant at school and passionately fond of the cello. A dignified middle class family, a model family.
Monsieur Dumarne started his gym with his father, an ex-champion in long jump. He transformed it, with his wife's inheritance, into a place for wealthy people to lose weight and to build a nice body. Then he opened a second gym, a third one, with a successful formula. Now they had five gyms in Paris and three in other towns. Just forty six years old, Monsieur Dumarne was a millionaire, having used in a clever way the initial family inheritance. So, he decided to have a new house built just for them. Thanks to his political acquaintances, he obtained a corner of the municipal park. At the ground floor he would have a new gym. At the first floor the offices for the management and coordination of all his gyms. At the second and third floor, the flat for his family and on the roof a nice garden with private pool and solarium. All designed by one of the best architects of the capital.
Alain had enrolled at the National Academy of Physical Education. As sport, he competed in swimming, hurdles, tennis and judo. He was a handsome boy, tall, lean, his body had perfect muscles. His father was really proud of him. He would have been much less so if he knew that the fact his son didn't chase skirts was not because the boy was so serious and responsible and dedicated to sports as his father believed, but simply because he was gay.
Alain realized he was gay when he was barely sixteen. He always had been a fan of the athlete Jean Chambard, silver medal winner at the world championship for the hurdle. Once his father had hired the athlete for six months for a tour in his gyms. Alain was extremely happy he could now meet his idol. To follow his lessons, he followed him gym to gym. Jean had a liking for the boy and they got in the habit of showering together, after the other students left.
One day Jean suggested they could wash each other's back, but they didn't limit themselves to wash just that part of their bodies. The boy noticed the hard on of the man and that aroused him too. After a few days, the man had embraced and kissed him, the boy threw himself into the arms of the man without hesitation, making love under the pelting water. When the man said he wanted him, Alain allowed the athlete to penetrate him and the boy lost his virginity happily.
For the remaining months, they became lovers. No more under the showers, of course. Alain accompanied him to the hotel and there, on the bed, under the skilled man's guide, he had applied himself with passion to a different kind of joyful and much more pleasurable training.
When Jean left, Alain was conscious to the fact that he sexually desired exclusively men. And he was also conscious, now that he had tasted the sex between males, that he was arousing desire amongst some of his father gym's clients. If he did specially like one of them, the boy tried to approach him. He never lacked a partner in those three years, even if he never wanted to stay with anybody. He loved to feel desired. He loved to change, to experiment. More and more the sport where he excelled was the one under the sheets, naked with a handsome naked man. His conquests ranged from his own age boys up to men forty years old, but all of them rigorously well shaped and handsome. He liked to court the young boys and be courted by his elders. But if he realized that somebody was becoming too attached to him, he slowed down until their relationship died. He didn't feel ready for a steady and exclusive relationship, because little by little he understood that, the day when he would fall in love of somebody, he wanted a relationship based on reciprocal fidelity. For the moment he wanted just to enjoy himself and widen his experience, learning to make love in the most complete and pleasurable ways.
At home he had a small notebook with the names of all the person he made love with, be that only once. The first was of course that of Jean Chambard, twenty eight (him sixteen) and four months of relations. Then Serge, twenty two, for one month, then others, down to the last, Louis, thirty one, until that day two months together.
Louis was his sixteenth man. He was a local TV Personality, who was well known. He was a client, like the others, of his father's gym. Alain liked Louis so much that when the man used the sauna, Alain always managed to be there. If they were alone, Alain took the towel away from his groin, letting the other see the half erection he always got. Then Louis started to pull out his towel as well, letting the youth see his glorious erection. When he noticed that the boy was looking at him without hiding his interest, the man stood up, went to his side and started to caress Alain between his legs saying to him:
"Do you know that I like you very much?"
Alain smiled, remaining silent, let the man do as he pleased. Then the man invited him to go out together to have a drink. Afterwards, he led the boy to his garçonnière where they immediately made love. In bed Louis was not as macho as he appeared to be, in fact he loved the passive role. But Alain didn't complain, even if the boy never refused to be the object of a skilled and expert penetration.
Until that moment one of the men he had most liked was a young navy officer, the son of a minister of the government, a young man of twenty three he met when he was seventeen. Their relationship lasted five months. The officer, Philippe, turned out to be a real stallion in bed. He had not a stout body, but a handsome and strong one, and very sensual with an inexhaustible erotic charge. They had often practiced judo together and while catching each other in order to immobilize the opponent, Alain felt the turgid, imperious member of his companion push against him. The first time it had happened just by chance, but as he didn't absolutely lose his composure the other started to do it on purpose. Alain waited for Philippe to be more explicit, and that didn't happen too much later.
After a practice session, Philippe approached him saying in a low soft voice: "God knows why when I try to block you on the tatami, it gives me that... effect!" and looked at him with intense eyes.
"Don't you think it's normal?" Alain answered, smiling.
"But it doesn't to you... Or rather, I never felt it..."
"I wear my cup. That's the way, I presume. But I too feel excited... with you."
"Just with me?" the young officer asked.
"Yes, just with you, but every time." Alain lied in part.
"Would you like to come with me, next Sunday?"
"Where?"
"I asked a friend of mine for his motorboat. It is a cabin boat... and we will be alone, you and I. We will go down the Seine to a quiet spot I know, where it's good to swim."
They went, swam, went back into the boat cabin and while they were taking off their swim trunks to dress again, Philippe made up his mind to take Alain in his arms, to kiss him and, pushing against him his erection, with the voice hoarse with desire, said:
"I want you badly!"
For an answer Alain pushed him to a nearby berth where they started to make love and where Philippe took him with all the vigour of his twenty three years. Alain loved the joyful impetuosity the other had in making love.
Later, they met in a small Montmartre hotel found by Philippe, and whose owner didn't ask questions nor seemed surprised to see two boys asking for a king size bedroom just for a few hours. They stuck together until Philippe had to ship out with the fleet for the Antilles. They parted without regret, for Philippe found in their relationship only reciprocal pleasure and friendship, but nothing more. The young officer was a true hedonist; he deeply loved sexuality and dedicated himself to it with happy ardour. Alain, at times, thought that the partner was an artist of sex; not so much because he knew the techniques well, but because Philippe dedicated himself to sex with inspired delight. With the young officer he felt all right also out of the bed: he was likeable, merry and witty. Probably, at times he thought, if Philippe didn't have to leave, he could even fall in love with him. But Philippe, even if gave him a warm friendship, didn't seem inclined towards a bond with Alain. Alain knew very well he wasn't his only boy, accepting that without problems.
Alain went to that little hotel other times, with other partners, when they didn't have a place for them. In fact Alain could not bring them into his own home, where always somebody was around: or the family, or the "tata" who is the governess that saw both him and his siblings born.
When Monsieur Dumarne showed his family the preliminary plans for the new house, he asked each of them how they would liked their rooms. Alain asked to have his on the third floor, with a window wide as the wall, looking over the park. He also asked for a personal shower and toilet. Without problems his father agreed, for space or money were not an issue.
The house was growing rapidly. At the end of summer, just after the August vacation, they could go to live there. At times, with his father, he went to see the building grow and he liked it. It was modern but cleverly inserted in that elegant part of the town, and above all, surrounded on three sides by the park; so that, even being in the centre of the city, it seemed to be in the countryside. Alain was really pleased. The old house, in a big palace of the last century, jointly owned with three other families, was too austere and not too very bright. It was an Egyptian mummy's house, his little brother Didier once said.
Of course Alain would have loved to have his own place, where he could take home his conquests, but he couldn't possibly ask his father for a garçonnière. Even if he would have thought he was using it with girls and not boys, his old man was too puritan to accept such a thing. His parents could not talk with the children about sex, not even with veiled hints. So he had to resign himself to going to his lover's house or to using the little hotel for his sexual adventures. Who knows until what age? And when would his parents start to talk to him about marriage? How could he manage to avoid that problem? Who knows why gay people can't live their sexual dimension with the same tranquillity that straights can? Sometimes he read some articles in "Gay Pied" about that problem and at times he also wrote letters on that subject. Using a pseudonym, of course.
In "Gay Pied" he also liked the stories by Marc Jaures that were published in almost every issue. He had read in the magazine the advertisement of that writer's first novel and he bought the book. Alain loved it. He kept the magazines, the book and some pictures of beautiful male nudes in a drawer closed at key. His family was not curious and he had no problem. They always had respected his privacy, as well as his correspondence. They always knocked at the door before entering his room, so that, even if he was masturbating with his male nude collection, he had time to make everything disappear before yelling: "Come in!"
That year he went on holiday with his twelfth man, Martin, a nice friend from the National Academy of Physical Education who asked him to go to the mountains for some canoeing, camping and to live in nature. At first he accepted it just for the sake of adventure, but then his companion made him understand that he was hoping for more from those holidays.
"Do you have a girl?" Martin asked him.
"No, and you?" Alain quietly answered.
"I'm not interested in girls."
"Hmmm, you too?" Alain asked with evident interest.
"No. I think we'll get along fine, you and I alone in the tent." Martin answered with an allusive smile.
"I think so too, Martin. But I warn you, I sleep naked and I don't feel like changing my habits."
"Good, I like to sleep bare ass naked. After all, we shower naked at school, right? There is nothing new to see!" his friend chuckled.
"Right. And you have a really nice body, Martin."
"You too. You are well shaped, everywhere. Especially... in there!" his companion said with a cunning little smile.
"You have nothing to envy me, anyway."
"Have you made love yet Alain?"
"Sure. Have you?"
"Yes, and I love it very much, especially if I'm with the right person. I think we will enjoy those holidays."
"Sure. You and I are alone, with nobody to bother us."
They didn't explicitly talk of sex, but the message they reciprocally exchanged was clear for both and Alain was happy with that, he liked Martin.
On the first night they both lay naked in the three man tent, the lantern was lit. At a certain point Martin sat up and without a word, leaned over to lick the turgid member of his friend. This one, after a while, had turned and so they united and gave each other satisfaction in a long and hot sixty nine.
"This will be a nice holiday... right, Alain?"
"Wonderful. They have begun in the best of ways. But, why did you invite me?"
"Two reasons. First, I like you very much. And second, I noticed the way you looked at our friends, especially when showering."
"Was it so noticeable? I didn't think..."
"It was to me... I really looked at you."
"Have you had many men?"
"No, a few, you are... the fifth."
"Who was your first?"
"Two years ago. My PE teacher at High School. A handsome man, thirty years old. I got a football shot right at my balls. I went limp on the ground, blue-balled. So he brought me to the medical room, pulled down my shorts and jock strap, then touched me to see there were no serious damages. In a while it was straight and hard like a spindle. I liked the way he touched me, very much. Feeling a little ashamed, I told him I was coming. And he said, 'Be calm. That's good... let's check if it still works properly.' And... I completely forgot the terrible shot that knocked me out. "That was just the beginning. The following lesson he asked me to go home with him. I immediately guessed why and at once accepted. At his place he led me to his bed room, we undressed, went to the bed and he was upon me... Without any ceremony, he put me in the right posture and took my cherry... and I enjoyed it very much. Indeed, by the way, don't you feel like fucking me, now?" Martin asked with a tempting smile.
"Of course, Martin, with pleasure. Come here..."