CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: – Stories from my youth

By Quentin Collins (hauptwerk88@gmail.com)

© BJB Conglomerated Media

 

This story is fictitious and takes place in a fantastic realm where inconvenient physical, biological, medical, legal, and moral strictures don't exist. It is intended only for the entertainment of those who are legally permitted to access and read it.

This is my first attempt at storytelling, so please be gentle in your criticism, lest you make me cry.

Another thing that makes me cry is the thought that Nifty might go away if we don't support it. Think of the hours of fun you've had on this site. Isn't it worth the price of a movie ticket every month or even every quarter to keep it going? Donate here.

 

My son Channing and I had just gotten into our moving van after spending two days at Primrose Farm Bed & Breakfast. It was two days that changed us profoundly and opened our minds to the wonders of an ethereal existence parallel to our own.

We had just pulled out of the long private drive and back onto secondary public roads. It would be about four hours until we would arrive at our new house in Columbia, South Carolina.

We both remained naked. I had my rugby shorts nearby, but I doubted that I would be able to squeeze into them after having my musculature substantially enhanced through the munificence of our Chinese spirit guide, whom I call Bunny. He said that both our friends would reveal more about themselves soon.

Chan was not as dramatically transformed as was I, but his bubble butt certainly got bubblier. He also seemed to have a duplicate of our lover Dave's large and talented tongue. Both our cocks and balls were identical at nine inches hard, and with our foreskins restored. Our friends Cody and Victor were genitally identical to us.

We were both in a contemplative mood, and Chan was guiding me back to Interstate 77 with the GPS. He reached to the center of the bench seat and picked up a cardboard tube that was about three inches in diameter and two feet long.

"Dad, what's this?"

"I don't know, Bunny. Did you bring it with you? I know that I never saw it before."

"No, dad. I just noticed it now."

"Well, Bunny, open it and find out what's inside."

Chan took the metal cap off the end and pulled out a roll of linen paper. We were still on a back road with no traffic, so I pulled to the side and stopped the truck.

Chan slowly unrolled the paper to reveal an eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch photo of Chan and I giving Ducky his tongue bath on the floor of the kitchen vestibule at Primrose Farm. I looked closer and realized it wasn't a photograph at all. It was a pen and ink stipple drawing in a photorealistic style. Duc Pham must have drawn this overnight. It was astounding in its quality.

I helped Chan completely unravel the roll. Ducky wrote the title, "Bath Time," on the bottom and signed and dated it in the lower right corner.

I couldn't believe the detail and the way he was able to portray all of our happiness and love for each other. Duc's smiling face almost glowed brighter than the paper as Chan's broad tongue swiped his neck. I was shown with my back turned three-quarters to the observer. My hair was draped across Duc's shoulder as I was obviously licking his underarm. There were globs of cum in my hair. I have to say that my ass and thighs were drawn in a very complimentary manner, with just a hint of my rosebud peeking out from between my cheeks.

Chan was drawn in a three-quarter profile, and his torso looked magnificent. His cock was almost fully hard and draped over Duc's hip. Duc was fully engorged and dripping cum. Duc's torso was covered in splatters of cum. We must have already cleaned off his face.

We admired the drawing for several minutes, both hard at the reminder of the fun we had with the young artist of Vietnamese descent.

"I love him," we both sighed together.

Chan carefully rolled up the drawing, handling it like the irreplaceable piece of art that it is. He gingerly slid it back into the tube, capped it and placed the tube behind the bench seat where we had a few other small parcels.

"Bunny, we have to call him and tell him how much we love both him and his gift. But I don't think I got his number. Do you have it?"

"No dad, I don't have it either. I'll call the main number and hope someone answers."

Chan grabbed his phone and dialed from the call history when he made the reservation Saturday afternoon.

"Hello, is this Victor? Hi, my love, it's Chan. Yes, I miss you already. That's a given. But I'm looking for Ducky. He left a present for us in the van, and we want to thank him for it."

Chan took the phone from his face. "Victor is going to get him. I'll put it on speaker."

Chan slid closer to me and held the phone between us.

"Hello? This is Duc Pham. May I ask who is calling please?"

It seemed Victor decided to surprise him by not telling him who was on the phone.

"Hello, Ducky, it's Channing. I'm here with my dad."

"Hello, Ducky, my love. We found your present and wanted to call immediately to tell you how moved we were that you would take the time to memorialize your bath time like that. I thought you were an oil-on-canvas type of artist, but this stipple work is breathtaking. You are exceptionally talented, my love."

Chan chimed in, "we thought it was a photograph at first glance, but then saw your artistry, and the love you must have put into it. Ducky, I love it almost as much as I love you. Your drawing will have a place of honor in our house, not just because it is such an exquisite piece of art, but because it comes from a cherished friend."

I agreed. "You are beloved more than we can say, my sweet. How much time did it take you to create this masterpiece?"

Ducky chuckled. "I don't think I would call it a masterpiece. I spent about five hours on it, I suppose. I had the picture in my mind so vividly that I just kept at it until the paper matched my vision. You are very kind art critics."

"No Ducky," I retorted, "You really are exceptionally talented. I've been to many museum and gallery shows, and your talent rivals anything that I've ever seen. But even more, we could tell that the drawing was filled with love. I won't speak for Chan, but I feel blessed for having met you. I feel lucky to call you my friend, and incredibly fortunate to call you my lover."

Chan enthusiastically agreed. "I couldn't agree more. You are one in a billion, my love. I'm amazed that you rendered us in such perfect detail. How did you remember with such precision every curve and freckle? I'm looking at my hands now, and even the creases on my fingers are an exact match."

"Oh, Chan, you're making me blush. I seem to have an eidetic memory, especially when it comes to people. You and Drew are indelibly written in my memory."

Chan's eyebrows raised. "Wow. Can I ask a favor, my cherished friend?"

We could almost hear Ducky bouncing with excitement.

"Ask me anything."

Chan smiled. "Could you draw another picture for me? I want you to capture your brother Phuc when you make love to him. I want to see him bathe his face in cum from the joy of having you inside him as his brother and eternal lover."

"Oh, Chan, of course, I will draw you a picture, if you want one. But won't you and Drew be there in the garden with us? Bunny said that we would be together. You will help us enjoy the garden, won't you? I want very much for you to share my brother with me."

"There's no way that my dad and I would miss it. But I want to see it through your eyes, even though I am going to feel it through your body and Lucky's too."

Ducky moaned and took in a sharp breath. "Chan, I just came all over myself. I wish you and Drew were here to give me another tongue bath."

I felt my dick leaking. "Please don't tempt me to turn around, my love. Chan and I would relish giving you another tongue bath. We will be together soon enough, my lovely Duc."

"I know," Ducky replied. "I hope you don't mind, but I copied your number from Victor's phone. I'm sending you a picture to remember me."

I sighed, "Ducky, you are indelibly imprinted on us too. We will never forget you. Take care, my love, until we are together again."

Chan added his love, and disconnected. A few seconds later Chan's phone chimed, and he opened a photo of Ducky's face with cum running down from his hairline. His beaming smile was beguiling.

We laughed and started down the road again. We entered the highway in a few minutes. Chan put his phone in a pocket on the dash and lay down across the bench seat.

The Monday morning traffic on Interstate 77 was definitely heavier than the traffic we encountered Saturday. There were noticeably more trucks too. I wondered how many of the big rig drivers looked into our cab to see my beautiful fifteen-year-old son lying naked across the bench seat, with his head resting on my naked lap, my tumescent penis draped across his cheek as he smiled up at me.

One look at Chan's smile as he luxuriated in being my penis pillow left me without a care that anyone would see us. Mr. Bunny was looking on approvingly from a small niche in the truck's dashboard.

"Dad?"

I stroked his flawless face with my right hand and ran my thumb over his full lips. His full lips? When did that happen?

"Yes, Bunny?" My son smiled at his new nickname.

"Do you think you would love me even if I weren't your son?"

I caressed his face for a moment while contemplating my answer. I know that our growing psychic interconnection would betray any falsity or pretense on my part.

"I really don't really know how to answer that, sweet baby. Would you be the same young man if you weren't my son? Would I be the same old man if I weren't your father? I couldn't image the endless loneliness of not having you as my son, lover, and teacher."

"Teacher?"

"Yes, Bunny. You are my teacher as much as I am yours. You teach me the joy of opening yourself to love. You teach me to take chances. You teach me about the garden."

"Thank you, dad. I don't think I would exist if you weren't my dad, lover, and teacher. Bunny knew what he was doing."

Chan kissed my foreskin and lapped up the pooled precum as I contemplated whether my life was predestined. I felt a tingle at the contact of his tongue. I never even considered the notion of a preordained life, but it seemed to make more sense now than it would have two days ago.

"Dad, tell me about when you and mom conceived me. What were you like? Did you ever really like mom, or was she just a test to verify that you're gay?"

Wow, Channing comes right to the point. I could tell there was no malice in his question. We pledged to each other that we would not keep secrets, so I guess I owed him the truth as much as I knew it from my point of view.

"Well, Bunny, if you insist, I'll tell you some stories. I guess we have nothing but time, right?"

Chan kissed my foreskin and drew a little of it into his mouth. I felt another charge as if we were about to go to the "garden," but I made an effort to stay fully on planet earth, so I could concentrate on driving and tell Chan my story.

I began to relay my history to my son:

 

   _   _   _   _   _   _  

 

Annika Madsen was 31 when she died from an accidental overdose. She was already suffering from multiple organ failure due to years of extreme substance abuse.

Our families had known each other from community functions and the Lions Club. Mr. Madsen was a lawyer and franchisee of the town's two Ace Hardware stores and its sole McDonald's. Mrs. Madsen managed the household.

Annie was the youngest of three children and was extremely spoiled. I was the younger of two brothers. I would never admit to being spoiled, but we all knew that I was.

My dad was a plumber, and my mom worked part-time as a bank teller. We were average. The Madsens were substantially above average.

Mr. Madsen admired my dad's work ethic and tried to use him for most of his plumbing work, both in his house and at his businesses. He paid generously for off-the-clock and weekend work.

Even though my dad and Mr. Madsen lived very different lives, they became close acquaintances, if not friends, based on their mutual respect for each other.

Annika – Annie – was the first person I told that I thought I might be gay. I would have probably told my brother Dan first, but he was away for his freshman year at Notre Dame on a soccer scholarship when I started suspecting my sexuality. He went to Indiana the first week of August that year for soccer camp before training for the season.

I have a feeling he wouldn't have been surprised. I had a crush on my brother. Most people did.

Annika was two years older than I and treated me like her pet, though not in a nasty way. I didn't really like it, but, with her family's stature in the community, she was used to getting what she wanted, and she wanted a pet.

My mom and dad didn't endorse Annika's friendship/ownership, but they didn't object either. They were more suspicious that the Madsens were Lutheran while my folks were Catholics at the time.

They had allowed me to go with Annie and her friends to see both NSYNC and Michael Jackson in Pittsburgh. Mrs. Madsen drove/chaperoned us both times. I think the Madsens were hoping I would have a calming effect on Annie.

In some ways we were alike: Annie skipped second grade; I skipped first grade. For Annie, being the youngest in her class was a struggle, and she was emotionally behind her classmates.

Conversely, I felt almost like a co-teacher in my class and seemed to spend more time with the faculty and staff than with my classmates.

A guidance counselor had suggested I also skip fourth grade, but my mom refused, fearing I would suffer emotionally as Annika had.

Annie and I didn't see each other all that often when she started high school while I was still in middle school.

The summer of 2001 she took me under her wing to prep me for my freshman year at Cool Springs Regional High School. She was fifteen and starting eleventh grade. I had turned thirteen in July. I could have passed for fifteen, which I liked.

Part of her preparation was how I would interact with high school girls. She said I looked mature for my age and older girls were sure to notice me at least as much as they noticed my brother Dan. She was very outgoing. Not quite a wild girl – yet.

Annie was about five foot ten and athletic. She played basketball and lacrosse at high school. She used to do gymnastics when we were younger, but she got too tall to compete against the four-foot-nine-inch firecrackers around her.

While she was extremely fit, she was also curvy, and her breasts were the talk of some of my guy friends. I didn't understand the fuss.

I told her about my lack of interest in breasts – hers or any other girl's – during one of our "prep sessions" in her basement rec room. I told her that maybe I might be gay because I'd rather look at boys than girls. She said I was too cute to be gay. Really? Is that possible?

She decided that she would teach me how to appreciate a girl's body. I just needed some education and experience. She would provide both.

We touched each other. I got an erection. I was thirteen, so I got an erection a million times a day. Annika took that as a good sign. I was pretty clueless and emotionally fraught.

Over the next few weeks, we practiced kissing and progressed to more intimacy. I knew this was not going to satisfy me, but I thought I would give it a chance and not presuppose "failure." Still, touching her vagina made me break out in nervous hives.

I lost my virginity behind the school's heating plant after the first home football game. It was clumsy, humiliating, exhilarating, disorienting, too slow, and much too quick – both the sex and the football game.

I could hardly face Annika the next week in school. I was generally a happy-go-lucky, reasonably confident kid. But I remained shaken by our unremarkable sex. We had no classes together except for mixed chorus, but she wasn't going to let me off the hook. She wasn't done playing with her toy.

She convinced me that all I needed was a little more experience and skill and I would be a world-class heterosexual lover. I had my doubts. She knew it was a lie.

The following Tuesday both our lives changed.

We were in school when we heard that an airplane had crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers.

I thought it was a terrible and almost inconceivable accident. How could anyone not see those things? I had been to New York City a couple of times and knew how the twin towers punctuated the lower Manhattan skyline.

Then we heard about the second plane in New York. Then another plane hit the Pentagon. These were not accidents.

An announcement came over the PA system that the school was on lockdown and teachers were to verify attendance and send their reports to the office ASAP.

The entire country knew something wasn't right, but nobody knew the extent of the coordinated hijackings. There could be more planes aimed at more targets. Perhaps a few. Perhaps dozens.

We were all scared and tried to grasp what could be happening. It felt the like the earth shifted under me. Soon enough the ground literally shook.

About 25 miles to our northeast, United Flight 93, on its way from Newark to San Francisco, slammed into a reclaimed strip mine in Stonycreek, near Shanksville, driving into the ground at five hundred sixty-three miles per hour. It struck with such force that it registered a 2.1 on the seismograph in our high school's science lab.

We would later learn the lives of thirty-three passengers, seven crew members, and the four hijackers were all extinguished.

Another announcement came over the PA telling us that our families were being notified to pick us up. There would be no bus service. Nobody would leave the school grounds unless they were being turned over to a recognized adult.

We were bewildered with fear and several students – boys and girls alike – were crying openly. The school remained closed for the next week.

Many of our families volunteered in whatever way they could. Both my dad and Mr. Madsen joined hundreds of others in the search teams that scoured the fields in search of pieces of the airplane, or human remains. Dad's boss allowed him to work mostly nights so that he could search in daylight. Not one of his customers complained about the plumber showing up at 9:30 at night, once they knew the reason.

I was deemed too young to join the search teams. There turned out to be little to find on the surface.

I joined my mom in making food for the volunteers, first responders and investigators. My mom made her award-winning halupki (stuffed cabbage), which she learned to make from my dad's mother. She also baked all the goodies in her German recipe book.

I became the master of browning ten pounds of hamburger at a time and mixing in the garlic, onions, paprika, and other spices. I gladly let mom handle cooking the cabbage and rice, and cutting the stems out of the cabbage leaves.

Our house was a nauseating mixture of sweet baked goods in the oven and savory victuals on the stovetop. But we felt that we were contributing in some small way. At some point, every day, my mom and I would stop for a few minutes to hug each other and cry. There were no words, just comfort and emotional release.

Mrs. Madsen would pick us up every day in their van. She stopped by her butcher shop on our way to the Red Cross staging area to pick up three large hams they agreed to cook and slice every day until she said she didn't need them anymore. She offered to pay for them, but Mr. Kozlak, the shop owner, wouldn't hear of it.

When we returned to school, everyone was still talking about the attacks even as we attempted to go back to normal lives. We all knew that "normal" also died on September 11, 2001.

Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson said the attacks happened because of abortion and gay people. What assholes.

We had heard various stories about how Flight 93 crashed because heroes onboard learned about the other planes and decided to fight against the highjackers. They probably saved either the U.S. Capitol or the White House. I learned that Mark Bingham, one of those heroes, was a gay rugby player. I resolved to find out more about him. I had never heard the words "gay" and "hero" used in the same sentence.

We slowly reconstructed our lives and eased back into our mundane routines.

Sexual Intercourse 2.0 took place the second week of October in the sumptuous confines of the Madsens' detached three-bay garage, between the riding mower and the snow blower.

It actually turned into Intercourse 3.0 and 4.0. Some of the bugs in the original release were fixed. I lasted a little longer. I had recently seen "The Blue Lagoon" on late-night cable and fantasized that I was fucking Christopher Atkins instead of Annika Madsen. At least what I was doing met the technical definition of "fucking." I wanted it to last. And then I wanted to do "him" again. I almost gave Annie an orgasm the second time. It wasn't intentional.

During our third go-round, I must have mumbled Christopher's name as I was nearing orgasm. Annika was pissed. Anika was livid. Annika was enraged.

"What ... the ... fuck ... did you say?"

I pulled out of her and froze on all fours, mouth agape, ejaculating substantial amounts of semen all over her abdomen and breasts.

"Get off me, you stupid baby fag. These tits and this pussy are too good for you. GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!"

I had told her that boobs didn't really do it for me. She didn't want to believe me. It was almost not my fault. It was almost entirely almost not my fault.

I didn't talk to Annika for a couple of weeks after I stalled out in her garage. It was beginning to congeal in my head that my response to her, along with my response to Christopher Atkins meant only one thing: Andy Tarnow is gay.

How am I going to come to terms with that? Would I ever be able to tell my mom and dad, whom I thought of as the pope's self-appointed special assistants and guardians of holy orthodoxy?

Before I could think about telling anyone else, I had to be certain for myself. I determined I would employ a foolproof scientific method of determining my orientation once and for all: an exploration of masturbatory fantasies.

That week we had a half day of school for a teacher in-service. I had all afternoon in the house by myself. I stripped, lay on my bed, and just relaxed for several minutes, trying to clear my mind.

I caressed my then-circumcised penis as I had hundreds of times before, still a little surprised that it looked no different for having been in a vagina. I don't know why it should have.

Vagina! As soon as that thought entered my head, my nearly six-inch companion dozed off.

Tits! Nothing.

Annika's face? Snooze.

Christopher Atkins! There's suddenly cum in my hair, on my face, and on my headboard. Wow! It happened so quickly I didn't get time to enjoy it.

I grabbed a tissue and wiped off the headboard, lest I stain the maple. I didn't bother cleaning any of the cum from my body because I was just going to keep adding more.

I wanted to try that Christopher Atkins fantasy again. I decided to be less aggressive in handling my cock so I would last longer. It would also be my third orgasm of the day since I had a quick toss before school, so I had that going for me too.

I got ready to spend more time with Chris Atkins.

 

   _   _   _   _   _   _  

 

I paused in recounting my past and looked down at my son's face as my foreskin lay lazily between his parted lips. I wished I had the flexibility to lean down and kiss those lips.

"Are you doing all right, Bunny? Is that the kind of history you want to know?"

"Yes, daddy," he said, as an inch or so of my penis slipped into his mouth. He continued talking despite the obstruction.

"I'm going to have to watch this `Blue Lagoon' movie to see what attracted you to Christopher Atkins. Tell me more about how you masturbated to thoughts of him. I'm glad I have you so that I don't have to masturbate if I don't want to. I'd much rather make love with you, dad."

Channing turned his head so that he could take more of my penis in his mouth. I warned him against it because I didn't know if I could drive while we were visiting the garden. I didn't want to find out at sixty miles per hour either.

My son reluctantly took my penis from his mouth and encouraged me to tell him more about my childhood.