Date: Fri, 25 Nov 2022 16:25:05 +0000 From: Sam Tudor Subject: Gay, High School, Rent Boys Revisited, Lexington's Story - Part 3 Nifty relies on us for material, and cash. give what you can. Lexington's Story -- Part 3 The school librarian was Mr. Bricklin. He was, as they said, "as queer as a three-dollar bill". He was one of the few Black faculty members, others being the football coach/physical ed teacher and a math teacher. In a special assembly for the Black kids, put on by some state agency, we were told we could amount to something, I guess on the stereotype that Black males turned out to be useless, and were told to emulate Mr. Bricklin, Coach Mulvaney, and the math teacher, Mr. Collins. The speaker went on to explain what "emulate" meant, since, as Black kids, we probably did not know. Some of us were insulted, and most of us amused. We were in the college prep high school, not the trade school high school, the drop-out rate was low, and most of the dropouts were because of basic family finances, or pregnancy, not a lack of intelligence, or ambition. So, a bit cruelly, we walked around the corridors emulating Mr. Bricklin, his walk, big ass swaying, limp hands, affected speech. The white kids wanted to know what we were doing, and we told them about emulating Mr. Bricklin. So, some of them began emulating as well. The faculty soon caught on, most of them thought it was inappropriate, but funny. I was called into the principal's office, being seen as a leader, for good, and for ill, at the school, of both Black and white kids. The principal, who was a good guy, he had hired the few Black faculty, asked me if I could see my way clear to help shut done the "emulation", and then, along with a few other chosen kids, go, one by one, over the week, and see Mr. Bricklin and apologize. I reluctantly agreed, and went. He had always been OK with me, so I met with him in his office after school, I would be late to football practice, but the Coach would be OK with it, I was missing warmups, not plays. It was known that I was bi, by many of the students and probably the faculty, who always knew more about was going on than we gave them credit for. I got no grief for it, being a star on the football team, and as straight acting as you could want, and being 6'2" and 190 pounds of muscle did not hurt. "Mr. Bricklin," I said, "I am here to apologize for my behavior, and that of others, for the "emulation" campaign going on. I suspect you know how it began, with the state guy telling us to "emulate" you as a successful Black man, and then explaining what "emulate" means as though Black college prep students were dumb." "Apology accepted," he said. "But can you explain how you get away with being gay and I don't? As gay man to gay man?" I was dumbfounded. How could he not know his stereotypical mannerisms were the reason? How could I tell him? Man to man. Gay or not. "I can try," I said, "but I think it will take a little work." A lot of work, I was thinking. "Do you want to meet after practice?" "I can't today, but could on Sunday." "My place? You know where I live." How could I forget? He lived about a block away from where I grew up. He lived with his mother, a sister, and the sister's kid, who was my age, and with whom I had my first "heterosexual" experience. She showed me hers, and I showed her mine, we were in first grade. After the show and tell, it was April, the cruelest month, in my life as well as T.S. Eliot's, we played ball on the lawn, in which he had planted crocus and daffodils. Not in the garden, but in the lawn. He came out of the house and told me in no uncertain terms to get off of his lawn, and never come back, calling me a "little red devil". And, when I was 12 or so, and knew things, I witnessed him, and his next door neighbor shouting at each other over something to do with their property lines, the neighbor, with a great body, called him a fucking faggot, Mr. Bricklin threw a punch, the neighbor intercepted it, and hit him back, hard enough to drop him to the ground, and then walked away. So, at this point his mother had died, his sister had gotten married again and moved out, and he lived alone. I was not worried, I knew if he tried anything I didn't want to do, I could take him. I was sure he knew that, too. So, it was November, no sign of the daffodils, I showed up, rang the bell, it was a one family house in the midst of three deckers like my Mom's, and went in. He offered me tea, which I took. And we began. "I will trade you tips on acting straight for lessons on gay sex," I offered. (I had already done just about it all, but, any port in a storm, and I was really horny, and, just maybe he would teach me something I did not already know.) "First, let's work on your speech. Get rid of the lisp." We worked on this for a while, he was not very aware of it. That was the hardest thing to fix, or, alter, if you think a lisp is just fine. Then the hands. No fluttering, how to hold them still. How to hold them when walking. How to not gesture as much when talking. And how to tame that bubble butt, a feature of some Black guys, but on him it just looked womanly. How to pull his butt in and his junk out, tilting the pelvis to do so. "But my butt is my best feature, I am a bottom, as you probably have heard." "Yes, I can see it, and," I got behind him, and put my hands on it, "tuck it in, hold it there," as I pushed his not too flabby ass cheeks in and under. "But it puts my junk out." "Right." I was getting hard, he had a nice butt, which I had not really noticed before, fem guys not turning me on, and having known him since I was a kid. I reached around to his junk, he was getting hard, I pushed my cock up against his ass, and flexed it. He flexed his cock, which was in my hands by then. "You want to fuck that ass?" he asked, getting to the point. "Do what you know how to do, and I will give you lessons to perfect your technique. Let's go upstairs." We went up to his bedroom. He had plenty of toys, and I don't mean Legos. "I don't get out much," he explained, gesturing at the assorted butt plugs, dildoes, straps, cock rings, and a small fuck machine with, as I found out later, detachable dildoes. We stripped, he immediately went down on my cock, and, took it all, down to the pubes. "I can't do that," I said. "O.K., lesson number 1. Deep throating a big cock. Get in 69 position with me and do what I do, and, then, what I tell you." His cock was "average" for any guy, about 6" hard, cut, clean, hairless pubes and balls, I took it all in, no problem, but it was hitting the back of my throat, and only was all in if my lips were out. "Relax, and let me push it in." I did, he sort of did, but I began to gag. "Concentrate on not gaging. You have control over that reflex, you just need to learn to do it, it is like wiggling your ears, you can learn how to do it." We worked on that for about fifteen minutes, "Time to fuck," he said, handing me a condom and the tube of lube. He bent over the bed, I put on the condom, and scooted up behind him. It went in easy. "Now, the lesson. Move it in and out, I will tell you how much, and how hard, and what angles, and every guy is a bit different, unless you are lucky enough to get identical twins, so you need to listen to them, and move your cock accordingly. So, for me, angle it down a bit, that is good, now angle it to the right, you might think that given your straight cock that an angle to the right or left would not matter, but, to me it does." He proceeded to give me instructions, I proceeded to follow them, "That is perfect, keep that angle and fuck the shit out of me," I did, and he came, his hole grasping my cock, and I came as well. And, despite his claim of having cleaned out, I did fuck some shit out of him. "That is what towels are for, into the shower, towel into the washing machine." We showered, I dressed and that was the first lesson. It was not the last.