Date: Tue, 23 Mar 2010 05:17:39 -0700 (PDT) From: Brad Healey Subject: Chapter 3 of Growing up Denying I was Gay, "My Bad Influence on Scott" Author's Notes: Thank you to all the people who have written to me with comments about the first two chapters of this story. My childhood and especially my adolescence were terribly conflicted; I knew I was different from the time I was five--and by the time I was thirteen I was sure I was doomed. I had something major working in my favor in my quest to hide my homosexuality, something that perversely certainly worked against me in learning to accept it. That is, I didn't look or act gay at all. I was athletic and masculine; I talked and walked like a guy. There was nothing I had to hide in my outward appearance that would have given me away. I smugly looked down on the poor unfortunates who lisped and swished and therefore had no choice but to defend themselves from the taunts and barbs that came their way, some of them hurled by me. Secondly, and I beg you to forgive what sounds like immodesty, I was rather attractive, (though in my insecurity I thought I was terribly ugly) and this doubtlessly helped enable my sexual exploits to a great extent. Both boys and girls were inclined to be with me. I was slim and tall and well muscled, slightly olive skinned, with straight white teeth and deep green eyes flecked with yellow. I look at photos now of myself in high school and realize that I was handsome, and it makes sense to me now why older women and men used to flirt with me in a way that was confusing and even a little frightening to me then. Besides this series, which will have over twenty chapters when complete, I submitted the story "Gay and Married" which can be found in the ENCOUNTERS section, posted February 13, 2010. The current link to this story is: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/encounters/gay-and-married Biographically, I have been married (to a woman) for almost 25 years at this writing, have two handsome sons, and have come to a sort of peace with my sexual orientation. Today, I have doubt that I would ever have married if I realized then when I know now about myself. More about all this as the story contines. I will respond to messages sent my way, at bradhealey@rocketmail.com. ********************************************************** Chapter 3 My Bad Influence on Scott I've mentioned several times in my stories that as a small youngster I preferred friendships with older boys to playing with boys my own age. I am sure this preference wasn't primarily sexual, but looking back I must conclude that there was certainly a sexual element to it. Let me tell you a little more about this, and about one such relationship in particular. **** Cowboys and Indians was an exciting summer game for us as little boys in 1966. There was always arguing about who got to be cowboys and who were the Indians... but with my dogged insistence I was nearly always one of the cowboys. Barefoot in the yard, running around on our skinny legs, sometimes squirting each other with the lawn sprinkler, we dashed around nearly naked save for our tiny swimsuits in the August heat. Back then all us little kindergarten boys had buzz-cut hair. I still remember looking at myself naked in the mirror while dressing, examining my small, undeveloped skinny body, staring especially my tiny penis, and wishing I could be big and strong like my friend Steven's older brother David, rugged, tanned and tall Skip two doors down, basketball playing tall-and-handsome teenaged Paul next door, and various other of these "half-boys-half men" from my neighborhood whom I observed with great curiosity. That far back I recall being unexplainably and affectionately drawn to the older brothers of my little friends .Calling it sexual attraction might be stretching it, because I didn't know a single thing about sex, but looking back, that's clearly what it was. I had no older siblings, and the idea of having a big brother was emotionally very appealing to me. I'd pepper my small friend Steven with intimate questions about David, which I recall caused him confusion then. While Steven was slight and blond with pale blue eyes, David was probably about fourteen, stocky and broad shouldered, with curly dark brown hair and dark eyes. Did Steven ever see David naked? What did he look like naked? Was his penis small like ours or had it grown big like my father's was? I knew even in kindergarten that something magic happened to boys at David's age that made them cease being boys and start to turn into men; I was fascinated by this process that seemed so mysterious and magical. I knew somehow it had something to do with the parts hidden in their shorts, and even at six years of age I realized I was more than a little obsessed with what they had between their legs as compared to mine. Steven regarded my questions about his brother's physique and sexual development with confusion and quickly dismissed them. He obviously had not noticed or cared that teenaged boys went through this wondrous transformation, and it clearly wasn't important to him in the slightest. "I dunno," he replied with bored annoyance. "I guess I've seen him naked. I don't remember," he answered. Didn't remember? How could he not remember whether or not he had seen this beautiful tall, teenaged Adonis naked? Why, if I were he, I would have taken every opportunity to see him such, drinking in every moment. I imagined I'd maybe if I was David's brother I'd try to climb into the shower with him, my small body next to his bigger one, him washing my hair and constantly bumping against his naked body because we'd be so close to each other. "Let's talk about something else," Steven said with impatient disgust. "I don't care about David's stupid wiener, or why you do either." I often watched neighbor teenagers Skip and Kurt from across the street as they worked on Kurt's Yellow 1963 Chevy Impala, thrilling a little when they'd strip off their T shirts in the heat or playfully soak each other with the hose wearing just their boxer shorts. I could tell from the way their wet shorts clung to their bodies when soaked that they had apparatus that was very large that they kept hidden in there. I was curious about seeing their equipment, and wondered when my embarrassingly tiny peashooter would grow long and fat like all of theirs obviously had become. Before I give the impression that I was so totally obsessed with sex and this is all I ever thought about, let me tell you that I appeared a very normal and balanced little boy to the rest of the world. I never caused my mother a moment of worry, I was cute and friendly and cheerful and played nicely with all the boys and girls my age, took care of my smaller sister and was very normally adjusted in school. I had no trouble making friends and my teachers and the other parents would always comment to my mom what a nice child I was and how much they enjoyed having me around. I just had this "thing" for other boys, which must have been very confusing and significant to me at the time, judging from how vividly I remember the minute details of my affectations now, nearly forty years later! My fascination extended no further than a desire to ask questions, to see and to touch. I didn't have any concept of the topic of sex any further than that. Mine was a childlike innocent, but intense curiosity of the human body. I didn't yet know where babies came from and I didn't care, nor did I even fathom that this topic was somehow even remotely related to my unnamed lust . I just knew that boys' bodies were different from girls', that boys' bodies were far more interesting to me than girls (who when naked were simply plain-looking and boring), and that something magic happened to boys as they became teenagers that made them even more appealing to me, and that I wanted to see. These intense feelings stayed with me all through my childhood, My best friend when I was eight was a tall boy two and a half years older than me named Scott. Now, when you are that young, two and a half years is a huge difference, and few kids were close friends with others so much older than they were, almost a generation apart! But Scott was sort of awkward and shy when around boys his own age, and his enhanced size and physical maturity were highly appealing to me. Often as the target of teasing when around older boys, he must have felt more comfortable playing with me. We spent most days together, doing the sorts of things that little boys do, playing Army, using hockey sticks as guns, drawing pictures of cars in spiral-bound notebooks, making colorful Creepy Crawler bugs in his kitchen, and swimming in his above-ground backyard pool. Scott was tall, skinny and long legged, and I loved to snuggle against him as we watched cartoons on our basement TV. He always wore camping shorts and hush puppy shoes, and I'd cuddle to him as we watched Superman reruns, Bugs Bunny and Speed Racer cartoons. He'd let me prop my head on his lap and touch his long legs without complaining. I don't remember any real sexual excitement from this activity, and I doubt he attached any meaning to it either. My mother likely did, however. She'd often tell me how happy she would be if I found some friends my own age. She said that she thought Scott was too mature for me, this comment coming after she had overheard a conversation between us as we discussed his new experiences he had in sixth grade where the boys all had to strip to take showers together in gym class. I was full of excited questions, and he honestly answered all of them. My mother obviously thought that my access to such advanced carnal knowledge was damaging to my virgin mind, because her requests that I play with boys my own age intensified after that incident. Scott must have started puberty about that time, as I remember that he smelled a fascinating, new way after we played outside together, his sweat taking on a new pungent aroma that was not at all unattractive to me, but again was something that my Mother commented on. "You can tell that Scott was here," she said, sniffing the air distastefully in the playroom one afternoon soon after he had gone home. As time went on, I grew more interested in sex, and often tried to steer my conversation with Scott in that direction. Scott had no interest in sex whatsoever, it seemed, as he would quickly steer it back towards more vanilla subjects or even abruptly change the subject entirely. I wonder what my Mother would have said if she knew that I was the instigator of the discussion of "mature topics", not Scott! Scott and his family were avid campers, and as boys we would spend many nights with pup tents in his back yard sleeping outside together in the summer. I would try to get Scott to show me "his" or tell me about things involving other older junior high boys that were titillating to me. He wanted no part of this, and was visibly irritated by my preoccupation. One sleepover at my house, I had a newly obsessive idea. I begged him to let me "suck his dick", though I was only 11 or so, and I have no idea where I had heard of such a thing! I didn't know a thing about masturbation or orgasms at 11, but somehow the idea of taking his limp penis in my mouth and sucking on it like candy was a very, very exciting one to me indeed! I recall that before bedtime he was quietly reading a magazine while wearing his pajamas and lying on the bed, and unbeknownst to him his penis had become exposed, limply poking out of the gap in the fly in his shorts. It was a fascinating sight to me... while my penis was still white and tiny, his was large and darker and wrinkly. I gazed at it for a few minutes in rapture, feeling wonderful tingly feelings inside I could not explain, I felt suddenly flooded with warmth and found my own penis growing curiously stiff and erect in my pajamas. Then, unable to resist escalating the situation, I spoke: "Scott, You know I like to see your dick like that! It looks really cool!" I said reverently. "Could I please touch it?" Scott jumped up like he had been poked by a cattle prod. He quickly gripped at his crotch and covered up his escaped peeking monkey. "No!" he said with obvious extreme embarrassment and blushing red as a fire engine. "You didn't see that!" he insisted in an overly panicked way, as if he could change the fact that I had spent the past several minutes examining his wrinkled, sleepy wiener, hanging limply on its side, looking with special amazement at the wiry tufts of brown hair that peeked out around its base. I don't think I had ever really seen (or at least noticed) anyone's pubic hair before that moment. "But I did see it, Scott," I pleaded sadly. "Please, let me see it again. You can see mine too. Maybe you could just let me suck it, just a little?" Scott was mortified by this suggestion. "That's disgusting!" he spit. "Why would you ever want to do THAT? It sounds gross and besides it would be totally UNSANITARY." Honestly, I couldn't begin to explain why I wanted to do THAT myself. I just did, with all my heart. It seemed like the naughtiest, most erotic and wonderful thing I could imagine to do with another boy. The rest of the night passed (disappointingly for me) without incident and as I recall the topic didn't come up again. Soon, I started puberty too, and my interest in Scott grew even more acute. I recall often trying to see him naked while he was changing for swimming. He knew this was my intention and he glared at me with annoyance. I especially recall the day he practiced diving off the pool platform while I camped out in the water below it, looking straight up each time as he prepared to jump, looking directly into the open leg hole of his loose swimsuit and was treated to a full view of his plump, hairy balls and cock before every jump. He and I slept over in the tent again that summer, and I asked him right out if he masturbated. "Maybe once," he answered, emotionlessly. "And I hated it." I was dumbstruck. Either Scott was wired like a freak, or he was flat out lying. Either way, I needed to know more to confirm my suspicions. "What are you TALKING about?" I questioned unbelievingly. "Are you crazy? It feels awesome! What don't you like about it?" "It was messy and didn't feel that good," said Scott beside me in the tent. "I don't know why anyone would like it, and I don't do it." I was now sure he was crazy. "You're nuts!" I replied. "I do it every night. In fact, I'm going to do it right now and you can do it with me, that is if you're not too chicken." Undaunted, even insulted by his ridiculous attitude, I lay beside him in the tent, tossed my sleeping bag open and brazenly began to rub my stiff dick in his full view, that is, if he had chosen to watch, which he did not. He didn't join me, and I orgasmed boldly and defiantly inches from where he lay, and as I cleaned up I could tell by his breathing that he was already asleep. Scott moved away that summer after I turned thirteen. I had begun to spend much more time with Mario, another boy on my block a year younger than I was. I was sad Scott was leaving, but in the end didn't miss him so much. We had one more sleepover inside his house before he departed the neighborhood for good. We slept in separate beds, and I didn't even try to get him to mess around with me, as by then I regarded him as hopeless. I knew he wouldn't and I wasn't "into" begging. So, I lay on my bed, and as quietly as I could, under the covers, I masturbated at bedtime like I always did as a prerequisite to sleep. I was careful not to make even the smallest sound. "Rub a dub-dub," said Scott softly from across the darkened room. He obviously knew what I was up to, even though I had tried my best to keep it private. "What?" I said incredulously. "What do you mean 'rub a dub-dub?" even though we both knew full well what he meant. "Oh, forget it; never mind," said Scott. I finished my activity quietly and in peace, and he never said another word. After Scott moved and Mario and I became inseparable friends, my mother said one day to me "I'm so glad that you met Mario. I think that Scott was too old and was a bad influence on you." If she only knew the truth!