Date: Mon, 1 Dec 2003 14:30:15 -0500
From: David Waugh
Subject: Looking-for-Sex-1

Copyright c 2003 by David Waugh.  All rights, except those
expressly transferred by the author, are strictly reserved
to the author alone.  No part of this work may be
reproduced, except for single copies of the work and
excerpts used by a reviewer, by any means whatsoever, unless
a written permission is provided by David Waugh.
This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to actual
people, whether living or dead, is strictly coincidental and
unintended.  The story contains material directed to an
adult audience and involves gay relationships, including
sex, between adults and minors.  It is not intended to
promote or otherwise condone such relationships, only to
describe them as they may exist in reality.
If this kind of literature offends you, or if you live in a
state which places age limits on your right to access this
type of material, please read no further.

Looking-for-Sex-1

     I was five when I started noticing bulges between men's
legs.  It was impossible not to because at that age I had
just about reached up to the groin of most adult men.  Of
course I knew what was concealed in men's pants:  the
wonderful pee-pee that made your entire body tingle when you
touched it.  And yet, there was a mystery about it because I
had never had a chance to see a naked adult male.  Things
would have been different in the "bad" old days when people
had to go to communal baths.  Young boys could satisfy their
curiosity by looking at their neighbors.  Nowadays, when
everyone had a bath at home, one did not have a chance.
Perhaps, if I learned to swim in a swimming pool. But I was
too small to go to the swimming pool by myself, and there
was no one to take me, everybody was busy.  Nor did our
family environment provide me with any opportunities:  both
my parents were fastidiously modest, father as well as
mother, so I never had a chance.
     Our visit to the Museum of Fine Arts was an unexpected
boon.  It was mother's idea:  she decided that my esthetic
education had been neglected.  To my great surprise, Dad
went along, although as a rule he preferred to stay at home.
Most likely he did not want to be excluded.
     I was not awake to the new possibilities until my
indifferent eyes focused on the statue of Michelangelo's
David that greeted the visitors at the entrance.  It was of
the "original" size, that is huge, and, like the original,
au naturel.  I remember looking at the enormous statue,
thinking how beautiful a man's body was and how exciting it
would be to touch "him" THERE.  But several things bothered
me.  For one, why did "he" have what looked like a strange
flower up there, above his pee-pee?  And second, what were
those round things below?
     I asked mother, but although she was always there to
answer my most various --and most personal - questions, this
time she nodded at father and said, "ask him."
     I did, repeating the question in a soft sotto voce
while he bent over to hear me.
     "The flower," he explained, "is pubic hair; and the
round things below his pee-pee are testicles."
     "What's testicles?" I asked, more puzzled than
interested.
     "Haven't you noticed those small round things under
your pee-pee?" asked Dad.
     "No."
     "Well, next time you go to the bathroom take a look."
     "I will," said I.
     I didn't have any idea that adults had pubic hair.  In
fact, I didn't know what "bubic" meant.  But I knew, of
course, what hair looked like, and the fact that "he" had
"bubic" hair up there, although surprising, was not
unbelievable.  After all, I had seen both father and
grandfather in summer, clad only in shorts, with hair all
over their bodies.  From there it was easy to conclude that
adults had hair between their legs as well, the hair called
"bubic."  But testicles were more exotic and, for that
reason, more interesting.
     Hardly had we got home as I went to the bathroom,
ostensibly to pee, but in reality to examine my body.  I
can't believe I haven't noticed these "testicles" before,
it's impossible, I said to myself as I unbuttoned my pants
(they were still zipperless) and felt around my organ.  And
yet, there they were, two small, but distinct ovoids hanging
below my penis.  The evidence was incontrovertible!
     From that moment on, I was dying to find out more about
testicles.  And I was anxious to learn more about adult men.
Dad was the natural target:  he was the adult male who was
closest to me and most available.  But there was a problem:
he did not want to "play."  When I timidly touched his
behind the next time I saw him in the morning while he was
making toasts for breakfast, he gave me a startled, puzzled
look that clearly warned, "Don't touch me!"  And I didn't
dare do it again.  But my desire to touch was growing
stronger.  I spent the next few days in a state of longing,
longing to see and feel an adult male or any male for that
matter.
     Then, all of a sudden, I was in luck.  Once a week, on
Saturdays, we went to dinner at my paternal grandparents.
Occasionally, Dad's cousin Bill also showed up.  Cousin
William was the son of my paternal grandfather's brother who
had died young.  When his mother succumbed a few years
later, the teenager was taken in by my grandparents and
raised like a son.  In the family he was called Little Bill,
my father being Big Bill.  Actually, it was a misnomer:
Little Bill was a head taller than Dad (who was of medium
height).  He was very tall and very handsome, with jet-black
hair and eyes of astounding blue.  (Dad was also handsome,
but he was more compact, and his eyes were green.)
     That Saturday Little Bill happened to be at my
grandparents'.  He hadn't been there for a while, and I had
forgotten just how tall he was.  In fact, he was so tall
that his groin was way above my eyes.  I suppose I stared
because I noticed that he unobtrusively checked his pants -
he probably thought that his fly was open.  Then he smiled
at me.  I smiled back.  It seemed to me that we smiled like
two old conspirators, but we had never conspired in
anything, so it was probably my imagination.
     After dinner, while the "adults" (Little Bill was 25
but for many reasons that I don't want to go into he was
still treated as a wayward teenager) were having coffee in
the kitchen, and the maid was cleaning the table in the
dining-room, Little Bill and I stayed in the living-room and
played "catch-me."  It was a silly game where you were
supposed to lay both hands on top of another person's hands
and he or she had to smack you on your hands before you
could turn them upside down.  If he did, he won, and you
changed positions.
     It was not only a stupid game, it was boring as well, a
game of desperation, when nothing else was available.
Little Bill was sitting on a love seat and I was standing in
front, between his legs, and we were doing an endless "catch-
me" when all of a sudden I lost my balance and, quite
inadvertently, touched him.
     I touched his chest, but I immediately realized that I
could touch another place, a much more intimate one, as
well.  I did not hesitate.  It was pure instinct.  I knew,
somehow, that I could get away with it.  Without looking, I
put my both hands on his groin.  It was warm and lumpy.  And
when I squeezed him, not hard, just enough to feel it, I
felt those large lumps of flesh within.
     For a second, I felt his gaze on my face, but I did not
look back.  Instead, I touched and fondled him in that most
intimate of all places while he sat, passive and silent.  As
I squeezed him deeper, I again felt something soft and large
inside his pants, and then, all of a sudden, there was a
response:  I felt his hand touching me between my legs.  It
was so pleasant!
     We would have stayed like that for ages, but then I
heard my mother's voice calling me.  At once, Little Bill
released me.  Reluctantly, I released him - and that was
that.  All that I remember was the warmth of his groin and
the feeling of fullness in my hand.  I had him by the
"testicles."

     My experience with Cousin Bill was not to be repeated.
Soon after that memorable Saturday he bought a small
apartment in a distant suburb, and his visits to my
grandparents grew rare.  And so did ours, as my parents
separated and then divorced.  Since then, I hardly saw him
at all.  But I have always retained the memory of that
fleeting moment when I touched the first adult male in my
life.

                            * * *