Date: Fri, 22 Jan 2010 13:08:19 -0500 From: thorin@hushmail.com Subject: Corrugated Cardboard ******************************************************************************** * Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, completely a work of fiction, and * * nothing but fiction. * ******************************************************************************** They say that smell is the one sense of the five most strongly tied to memory. They also say that it can evoke the most powerful of emotions. I sit amongst friends, a box upon my lap, a birthday present; their voices fade to a faint mummer. They are laughing, joking, teasing each other, passing around the silly birthday cards and playing with the gag gifts, most of which make me cringe with embarrassment. I am lost to them for the moment, forgotten, which is just fine with me; forgotten by all except for Jake, who notices my silence. He stares at me curiously. Inside the box can be almost anything. It's already opened and I have only to look and I could see what it is. But, for the moment I am stuck, paralyzed. Just seconds ago, cutting through the tape and pulling open the flaps, I am struck by the strong smell of the cardboard, corrugated cardboard to be exact. That smell, along with the strong afternoon sunshine, brings back the memory of another birthday, perhaps the most special one in my life. * * * * * Ronny has done it again. Once again I stand transfixed, bewitched, if you will. I find it both maddening and perplexing that he is able to do this. He looks at me with those clear blue eyes. His dirty-blond hair, short on the sides, wavy on the top, is ruffled by the wind. He is shirtless, the way he has spent every day this summer. Never once turning red, even the first time he peeled off his shirt in May, he has turned a rich golden brown. His chest is firm, with well defined pecs for an eleven year-old; his shoulders slope down nicely from a trim neck. For a moment, I find myself wanting to reach out and run my hand gently down his shoulders and across his chest. I want to caress the small nipples standing erect in the cool breeze. But, I'm a boy, and boys shouldn't feel that way! I look up and meet his eyes again. A small smile crosses his lips. It is a smile that is both wise and mischievous at the same time. Sensual! It is a word I will not master for many years, but in my memory it describes Ronny's smile perfectly. The smile tells me, like it has many times in the past, that he knows exactly what I am thinking. "Let's go," he says, and he leads the way up the street and toward the vacant lot at the corner. Ronny arrived in the neighborhood just after Christmas with his mother, as well as with his older brother and sister. His father was nowhere to be seen. "Living up in North Carolina with his other family," is all I ever got out of any of them. His sister, Rebecca, is fifteen. While only three and one-half years older than me, it might as well be decades for a boy my age. She wants to have nothing to do with us, and I care little about her. I see her only as a potential threat, a rat who will gladly squeal to her mom, or my mom, about any trouble we might plan or carry out. And there is a steady stream of that. His older brother, Jimmy, is thirteen. A tall, exceptional thin boy with jet black hair that hangs straight down over his ears; you wonder how he and Ronny can be related. He's the one I want to hang out with, at least at first. He's already in junior high and seems far worldlier than me. But I soon find there is a strangeness about him that makes me uneasy. Their mom works during the day and they are latch-key kids. So, of course, it's their house we all flock to after school. No parents, no problems, right? However, although she is not there, we soon find that their mom can influence things even from twenty minutes away by car. The boys are restricted to inside the house, and we, the rest of the neighborhood gang, are restricted to the outside, at least until Rebecca gets home from high school. Then Jimmy and Ronny are free to join us in the three or four suburban blocks that make up our playground. It's a rule they respect without question, no matter how much we try to tempt them into trouble. It is during this time that I learn of Jimmy's oddness. We are sitting on their front porch, talking and joking through the front window to Ronny and Jimmy inside, when Jimmy gets up and walks back to his sister's room. We all barely notice at first, until he comes prancing out in one of her blouses and skirts. He laughs as if it is all a big joke, but the rest of us are silent. He quickly plops down in the recliner across from the window and his legs fly apart revealing a silky smooth pair of women's bikini briefs. We can all see that he's started puberty, and that scores him maturity points with the rest of us. But, the outfit, and the comfort with which he wears it makes me what my distance from him. I'm not the oldest in the neighborhood gang, but close. I have a good head for trouble, but mostly for how not to get caught and that means I have a leadership role. I've been looking for a new best friend, and with Jimmy now eliminated, I turn my attention to Ronny. As a newcomer, and as someone a grade behind, I expect Ronny to be pleased. I expect him to fall in. But, somehow, no matter how much I try, instead I find that I am clearly following him. It's subtly, and I'm thankful for that. It won't due to have the others notice. But instead of asserting myself and not caring if he comes along, I find myself waiting first to see what he'll do. When he hangs back, I hang back; when he throws in ideas, I quickly push them forward as my own. More and more, he drops out of the group's escapades and I find the two of us hanging out together, and alone. Part of it is his looks. I've never been attracted to a boy this way before, or ever, in fact. I find him to be gorgeous to look at. I can't help staring and he clearly knows it. I try to hide it, to sneak looks when he won't know. I watch his strong legs pumping hard as we run; I study the curve of his butt. I image my hands brushing the grass from his back when he falls. I often find myself lost in the smallest details of his body, imagining touching what I can see and what I can't see, only to find that he has caught me staring again. And then he smiles that clever little smile. More than just how he looks, there is also an air about him. He seems to know things that I don't, to have experience in matters I do not, as if he has access to parts of life that I don't even know exist. These aren't kid matters either, these things he knows. No one matches me in being able to play ball, drink from a garden hose, or make farting noises with my underarm. No, there is something more adult about what he knows; what he is keeping hidden. And so I find myself following him that day, up the block and through the vacant lot to the back of the strip mall that divides our community from the highway beyond. It is my birthday, see. I am turning twelve, and Ronny has promised me a special present. I am careful stepping out from the cover of the tall weeds and onto the asphalt of the loading docks. This is forbidden territory for me and I will catch it bad if my mom ever sees me or if any of her nosy friends tattle. Ronny, however, doesn't hesitate. We come out of the field behind the bicycle shop and he leads us to the dumpster. He makes a quick check about to make sure we are unseen, then, struggling to lift the lid, he motions me inside. "What are you, nuts?" I say. "I'm not climbing inside the stinky old garbage can!" His look is one of exasperation, as if he is teaching a small child about gravity for the hundredth time. "Hurry," he says, "I can't hold it for long." Still staring at him like he is a space alien, I approach the dumpster and look in. To my surprise it is quite clean inside, mostly packed with broken down bicycle boxes. They are the large flat kind that a bicycle frame comes in. A strong smell of corrugated cardboard greets me as I hang my head over the edge. The boxes make a smooth, cushioned floor as I land inside. Turning, I grab the lid from him and hold it as he scrambles in. "Careful," he says, helping me to close it quietly. "Hardly anyone comes back here. They only throw cartons in here at the end of the day. But, we need to be quiet because you never know who might be walking by." It is surprisingly light inside the dumpster. The bright afternoon sun finds many cracks through which it pours in, and the light brown cardboard reflects the light throughout. We are both forced to sit the minute the lid of the dumpster comes down, I with my back against the side, my arms crossed over my knees; Ronny on one butt check. He seems to be savoring the moment. His smile is broad and he stares at me without embarrassment, without turning away. Then comes my second shock of the day. "Strip," he says, the word coming out almost in a laugh. The unease that must be on my face turns to instant horror! Strip? Outside? Before that day I don't think I had ever been naked outside of my own bathroom. Without waiting for my protest he leans close, I can feel his warm breath on my face. "You do want your present don't you?" he asks. Before I can react he has eased himself up on his knees. In what seems like one fluid motion his shorts are unsnapped, his zipper is down, and he is working his pants down his legs. What greets me is the most beautiful site I have ever seen; I am frozen by its splendor. It far exceeds all of my imaginings. He has the most incredibly well defined tan line, the golden brown skin of his legs and his stomach in sharp contrast to the creamy whiteness of his groin. My eyes stay there for only a moment before they are drawn to the most wonderful dick and set of balls ever. The latter are drawn up tight inside of his thighs. They are slightly darker than the surrounding skin and wrinkled. His cock sticks almost straight out, although it curves up a bit about halfway along its length. The head is darker than the shaft, about the same color as his balls. It is hard, clearly hard, and about three and one half inches long. The skin all around is indescribably smooth, without the least hint of pubic hair. He is sitting back, now watching me watch him. His shorts and underwear are tossed to one side, his smile as big and beautiful as ever. "Strip," he says again. Any hesitation I had is gone. Where I am, what I am doing, what my parents would think, the risk of getting caught, never again enter my mind. My tee shirt, shorts, and underwear soon join his in a pile of boy clothes. (Why we kept our socks and sneakers on, I'll never know.) He moves close to me and now it was his turn to stare. The usual mischievous smile is gone and a look that I now recognize as lust, has replaced it. He slowly reaches his hand out and begins to stroke the inside of my thigh. Had I been mature enough to shoot, I probably would have right then. I don't think I have ever been as hard since that moment. His hand continues up and down the inside of my leg, coming closer each time. Finally, when I think I can stand it no more, he gentle strokes the tips of his fingers against my balls and, reaching higher, takes a firm hold of my dick. My mouth is dry as cotton; I am capable of only the most guttural moans. Never has anyone touched me there and like that. There is a first time for every boy when someone else touches him in that most special place and it is beyond description. There will be only that one "first time" and it is a moment and a sensation that we all remember. He is leaning in close to me, our heads almost touching, although our eyes are both fixed upon the business at hand. "Touch me!" he says. My reach may have been tentative at first, but it was not for lack of desire. The warmth and the stiffness are the first things that strike me. It is so different than mine, yet so much the same. I wrap my hand gently around it and begin to pull the way I like to pull my own. I can swear that I hear him purr. The touching and exploring last for some time; each of us absorbed in what we see and feel. All shyness is lost as hands rub over legs and arms, chests and backs, butts and cocks. The smell of sweaty boys and corrugated cardboard is intoxicating. Then comes my birthday present; the gift of his body under my hands and my body under his is not it. There is more. I lay back on my elbows as he gently pushes me back, his eyes locked on mine, that mischievous smile reappearing. My legs uncurl from underneath me and spread out in front. I can feel the warm, smooth cardboard under my butt. He lays his head on my stomach and stares down, his hand still cupping my balls and gentle rubbing up my shaft. Then, in one swift, confident movement he takes me fully into his mouth, the warm moistness enveloping me. My head jerks back in both ecstasy and surprise, my back arches, and my hips thrust up. I can neither imagine someone doing what he is doing, nor can I ever imagine the waves of pleasure that wash over me. The inside of the dumpster echoes like a huge bass drum as my head hits the side and the echoes continue as dark spots begin to circle in front of me. Did I pass out? I'm not entirely certain. I do know that when my vision clears, Ronny's face is close to mine, his expression worried, but the mischievous smile returns as soon as I began to make sense of where I am and what is happening. Glancing about, he finds some packing material. Arranging it as a pillow and placing it behind my head, he pushes me back down. He stays there for a moment, our eyes locked, and then he leans in and kisses me. It is a kiss I will remember forever. Although it is not nearly as practiced as those I share now, it has every bit as much passion and care. He did finish what he started, and I did experience the wracking climax that comes from your first oral sex. I am ashamed to admit that I did not have the courage to return the favor, at least that time. But I do know that I brought him some degree of pleasure, at least judging by the way his legs tensed, by the way his heels dug into the cardboard underneath him, and by the way he cooed. * * * * * The room has gone quiet. I look up from the gift in front of me to the silent faces of my friends staring at me in fascination. "Dude, where have you been?" one asks, and laughter breaks out all around. "Nowhere," I reply, both embarrassed and defensive. "Sure, right space case," is the retort. Jake is now sitting on the arm of the chair, one arm behind me stroking my neck. "Gee," he says,"I had no idea that a simple cookbook could take you so far away." "You never know," is my reply, as I take book from the box and place the box on the table, the smell of corrugated cardboard lingering in the air.