Date: Sun, 3 Jan 2016 01:35:00 +1300 From: Ben Masters Subject: The Hay Barn THE HAY BARN by Ben Masters From my spelling and grammar, readers will perhaps realise I am not a resident of the USA - this story is true and happened in one of the British Commonwealth countries At the time, in the early 1950's, I was in Form One - Y7 in today's terms. My best buddy was Errol. We were both early developers. I was shooting spunk from about age 11 and was growing a nice little selection of pubic hairs. My legs were the first to get hairy, then my arm pits and last around my cock. I even had my first shave at 12 when I decided to get rid of my fast growing moustache. By the time we were 12 and 13 Errol and I were regular weekend fuck buddies. I lived further out from town on a largish farm, Errol was on what these days is called a Lifestyle Block - back in 1952 it was a Farmlet. I was a keen bike rider but Errol was in to horses. I have heard it said that if a boy is still into Pony Club after puberty then he's almost guaranteed to be gay. We looked forward to Saturdays and Sundays - Errol would saddle up his horse and come out to the farm and we would roam the back paddocks ending up in the furthest away hay barn, out of sight of the family, and farm employees. We soon learned that our cut cocks were far too dry for comfortable penetration even with lots of spit. So I searched the medicine cabinet for some lube. Errol had said "Look for Vaseline".. I found some, but Mum had read some article in a women's magazine about a home made burn cream. Seems she had mixed equal parts of Vaseline and cod liver oil. So the first trial using this lube was a disaster, we had lovely sloppy fucks, - but we ended up stinking like a badly kept fish shop - I had to tell everyone that we had got bad sunburned as a cover for the pong that accompanied us everywhere for the rest of that afternoon. I threw my under-pants into the washing machine hoping Mum would not get them back out before doing the wash. There wasn't any real boyhood love between us two - it was just pure adolescent lust, and lots of it - If Errol fucked me first I had to wait about ten minutes before I could "do" him because his lovely 6" cock would give me an orgasm quite soon after penetration - I was quickly shooting my load. We were pretty much basic in our positioning for intercourse, it was always doggy fashion. We hadn't though of Missionary fashion. Oral sex had not occurred to us for at least another 5 or 6 years. It was Errol you took the plunge and sucked me off - but I was 29 before I could bring myself to give my first blow job. Oh the memory of those early adolescent days -no more than ten minutes to recycle - often two ejaculations on the same "stiffy". Some days we didn't even wait to fuck - we would have a "pulling" contest (wanking is a much more modern term). Three times in 20 minutes - seven times in an afternoon was pretty common. The smell was enough to clear your sinuses - OMG the testosterone that flowed. So, early on we learned that Mum's burn cream was not a good idea at all. It was a great lube - quite a few years later it suddenly occurred to me, while trialing pussy, that the aroma we manifested had another very heterosexual connotation. It was then that I understood the smutty joke I overheard my Dad sharing with some other men while drinking beer after harvesting the hay. Seems a bunch of men were staggering home one night and as they passed a fish shop one of them stopped and said "Good night ladies".. As an eleven year old I could never understand how that guy, even when very drunk, could mistake a bunch of fish in the shop window for some women folk !. In the search for a better lube I was in my much older brother's bedroom and came across his jar of Brylcreme -- Great - it was the right consistency and the smell was not as volatile as cod liver oil. We smuggled the bottle up to the hay barn. Up among the bales, high under the roof, we made ourselves a humping nest and set about to trade fucks. Errol was a wee bit younger than me but better hung, 6 inches to my 5.1/2.. We would usually spend at least an hour and had maybe three or four rounds each... One day when dressing and preparing to leave - I realised my singlet was nowhere to be found. Shit ! (The strongest cuss word that we would every use in those days) It had fallen down between the bales. At our age we didn't have much weight and strength to heave too many bales around, but after half an hour I rescued my singlet and finished dressing. It was then I discovered that in the scurrying around and heaving of bales the jar of Brylcreme had plummeted at least ten feet down a gap in the bales and was now totally irretrievable. Shit, shit SHIT !!... I prayed that my brother or one of the farmhands would find it, not my father. Looking back nearly 65 years I realise they would have pissed themselves laughing. benm.ninetynine@hotmail.com