Date: Wed, 06 Sep 2023 22:45:21 +0000 From: kleiner.gespenst Subject: Justin's Journal | Part 1 - Gay / YF An old friend's secret diaries open a window onto middle school romance. This story features consensual sex between tween boys. If this work of utter fiction violates your local laws or your moral code, close the tab. If you enjoy this story, or any of the works here on Nifty, please chip in to keep the lights on: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html ====================== Think about a friend. Do you picture them like the last time you were together, or do you see them years before? For me, I'll always think of Justin as the middle school boy I fell in love with, and who became my boyfriend through high school. Though we eventually drifted apart, we remained good friends, and I even attended Justin's wedding. Still, in my mind, Justin will always be the ace Little League short stop with an infectious smile, who would do anything for a friend. It's been 6 years since Justin's funeral, and last week, out of the blue, I got a small package from Justin's widower, Andre. Inside were two of Justin's journals. Andre's note explained that he was distributing some of the Justin's years of diaries to friends and family, and that since I figured so prominent in my old friend's middle and high school entries, I would get those two volumes. Why had he taken so long to send these volumes? Apparently, Andre put off reading through Justin's words, since he thought it was an invasion of privacy. Well, now you know how I felt, pouring over my friend's private musings. And when I initially flipped through the first book and saw the various sketches and photos of me, I was embarrassed that Andre had witnessed so many depictions of my naked youth - but also relieved no one else every would. Really though, Andre will always have my gratitude for more profound reasons. Finishing the first volume, I was even prouder to have been Justin's friend from the time we first learned how to read. Yeah we'd been best friends as long as I could remember, through countless sleepovers and trips with each others families. We shared in each others' victories and tears, effortlessly comfortable with being emotionally and physically naked together. In fact, through innocent bathtub and bedtime investigations, we'd surveyed each other's bodies so often, I was almost as familiar with his penis as my own. It almost seemed inevitable we'd become boyfriends - if you discounted the prohibitively homophobic culture of Boise, Idaho, in the 80s. Even so, on the down low, we eventually fell in love, then broke up some time during our freshmen year at different universities. College boys are promiscuous anyway (trust me, I've known this since well before I entered university). Throw in long-distance, and most relationships collapse. But I'd broken his heart once, long before. Our romantic history probably started the summer we were both 10. Maybe "romantic" is a stretch for a very close and very physical friendship, when boys are are simply jerking each other off, in between Little League games and dirt clod fights. Nonetheless, when I look at the old framed photo of the two of us from that time hanging on my wall, my heart aches with longing for that lost innocence. There's skinny little me, dripping wet in a speedo, proudly showing off a gold medal from a swim meet, while Justin has his arm around my shoulders, getting his sweatshirt soaked. I'm grinning like an idiot at the camera, while Justin has his head cocked, and his eyes sideways toward me, showing some expression like possessiveness, or pride. It was clear he knew something I didn't. I may have been the one to introduce him to sexuality, but he was the first to have a clue about his sexual orientation, well before I did. An entry from when he was 11 tells all: -------- June 10, 1987: It's hot tonight and I can't sleep. It's like the heatwave last summer. That's when Tommy and I started doing sex things. He showed me how he rubbed his dick against his bed and I lay down next to him and did it and had my first tingles. I loved that. I day dream about that a lot. I think about Tommy a lot. He's the cutest boy in school and he's got a total hard body. I already beat off a couple of times tonight thinking about Tommy. There's the thing. When I rub it I think about Tommy or some other boy. Never girls. I can't get the special feelings from boobs. I can't even pop a boner. I don't think it's a phase. I'm a homo. I can't change that. My parents say God makes us all in his image. God must be part homo. I hope my parents never find out. They hate homos. ------- Reading this floored me, for a few reasons. Firstly, at that age, I never gave my sex romps much thought. Sliding my fingers into Justin's briefs on a sleepover was just something fun to do. When I masturbated at night, I mostly raced toward orgasm, enjoying the sheer pleasure of my handiwork in and of itself. Eventually, images of boys started dancing through my head, but I never wondered why. I just wished they were the ones doing it to me. However, if you'd asked, "Tommy, are you gay?" I'd have told you to fuck off. My parents weren't religious, but they were reflexively homophobic, like a lot of America in the 80s, and I didn't question their wisdom. Unlike me, Justin was one of the few truly introspective tweens. The second shocker is that he really thought I was physically attractive, and that I was in his spank bank from early on. People toss out compliments easily, and words are the cheapest of all currencies. I didn't think of myself as good-looking; the mousey brown-haired boy in the mirror looked like nothing special. Justin, on the other hand - wow. He was all sorts of pretty. He had these sort of girlish features, like a little upturned nose, long eyelashes, and thick, full lips. Like me, he was skinny, but very blond, and milky pale without a summer tan. We both had longish hair, though his reached further, almost to his collar, and feathered, like Rod Stewart's (reflecting Boise's hopelessly out-of-date fashion styles). So Justin was self-aware of his sexuality at 11, while I could never admit such a thing to myself. And he was attracted to me in a way that was beyond his years. His friendship - and our more mature love, years later - was so much deeper than I appreciated at the time. Around the same time he wrote these admissions, Justin and I had introduced our pack of friends to the glories of masturbation. The summer before 6th grade, his forest fort became more than a place to hang out and play war, or solve Rubik's cubes. It was a magic kingdom, where wrestling turned to groping, and tickling, probing fingers quickly ignited naked, turgid need. Occasionally, we recruited another friend into our informal JO society through dares. No, not "Truth-or-Dare," which we hadn't learned about - yet. A lot of our dares were the reckless things that occasionally land a kid in the ER with a broken arm, like jumping off a roof into a hedge or catching a football while riding a bike. But the dares that lead to naked pleasures were typically more mundane, like do backflip, or lick a snail. If a boy (and it was never girls), failed or chickened out, he faced a "firing squad" with water balloons. Of course, those wet clothes simply had to come off to dry - if they were on to begin with. -------- June 29, 1987 We were at Sam's house and Billy flunked Tommy's dare. He had to skate to the end of the block in just his underwear. Tommy's dares always mean your gonna lose some clothes (I wonder why, Tommy hmmmm?) Billy refused until we made chicken bwoks. It was so funny cause he's super shy. He made it about half-way when the mailman drove onto the block. He 180ed so fast he kicked his board into the street. He sprinted back to Sam's and we were like "Loser! Loser! Loser!" No one was at Sam's so we didn't have to go to the fort for his execution. We used eggs, this time. Sam got in so much trouble later cause we used all of them. Billy was totally pissed. We were careful not to hit his face or his nuts. When it was over Tommy (of course), rubbed Billy's dick until he got the special feeling for the first time! He really liked it, even if he was still tied up. We all had boners so we untied Billy and got in a circle and did it to each other. We did it a couple of times, and stayed naked for the rest of the day. I love seeing other boys naked. Yeah, totally not-gay, I know. (Sorry, Dad). -------- Justin's journal memorializes so many afternoons I don't recall, though almost always, our ridiculous 80's short running shorts and undies ended up in a heap while we got busy. Whether totally nude or just in shoes, socks and t-shirts, we'd often end up in a circle, pulling to the right. Always, I stared in wonder at circumcised little cock heads appearing and disappearing in eager fists, like musky-scented wack-a-moles. And that pale flesh untouched by the sun was like vanilla ice cream for my eyes. But that afternoon at Sam's still stands out in my memory with more detail than Justin's record. Billy was a cute little brunette, with a bowl haircut just above his ears. He was so embarrassed about being seen even stripped to just his underwear, I don't know how he made it camping with his Scout troop. It took a lot of coaxing and mockery to get him out the door and on his skateboard. In retrospect, it was even more absurd, because his tighty whities were a little baggy, and you couldn't see any of the hidden details. All the same, when he failed, he thought he would just get water ballooned, or drenched with a bucket, and let us tie his arms and legs spread eagle and standing between two trees. He was laughing until Sam busted out the eggs. Then, Billy begged and struggled to get free. Billy knew something we didn't: eggs sting when they hit you with enough force to explode. He didn't cry, but he sure cursed up a storm, as each of us threw his share of eggs. Billy's chest was a complete mess of pink splotched skin and egg carnage. Like an expressionist painting, it was pretty, and definitely arousing. I had the last unused egg, and looking at the mess sliding down onto the front of Billy's briefs, I was inspired. I whispered my plan to Justin, who giggled and joined me in front of the poor boy. "Please guys! It hurts!" "Oh, we won't throw it, man," Justin replied with another giggle, and pulled out Billy's waistband. "What are you gonna do??" I replied with something about making a 3-egg omelette, then spilled its gooey contents into Billy's underpants. I watched his tiny penis, mostly just a circumcised little head sticking out of a baby smooth groin, suddenly drowning in egg whites, and eclipsed by a yolk twice its size. "Oh come on Tommy!" Sam, Justin and I were howling with laughter, and eventually Billy started laughing too, and Justin snapped the boy's waistband closed. "You guys gonna untie me now?" "Not yet. We gotta cook the omelette." I rubbed the front of his swamp sticky underpants with the flat of my hand, feeling nothing but wet cottony mush, at first. Billy squealed and squirmed against his bindings. "Stop! It tickles!" While he was cackling and writhing, a small hardness poked into my palm. I rubbed it harder. Billy's laughing turned into heavy breathing. "Uh...that feels weird, Tommy." My fingertips rolled from his taint to his butt and back, while I palmed his little nubbin up and down. He stared down at my hand, and Sam stepped behind him, grinning mischievously at me. Then Billy squealed and giggled again, while Sam tickled his buns. I felt Justin's fingers mirroring Sam's. He ran his hands up and down my buttocks, then kneaded them like dense dough; squeezing sighs out of me - but nothing like the sighs coming from Billy. Reflexively, Billy's hips started grinding, pumping his tiny meat against my stroking palm, and I rubbed him harder. I knew the tickling was turning to a needful itching. My hot hand was scrubbing him with slippery, sludgy fabric, and his itching cock would crave more itching. "Something's happening, Tommy!" Something sure was. Justin was peeling down the front of my Adidas, exposing my white stretchy tent toward Billy. But I don't think Billy was paying much attention to that, even as Justin slid his fingers into my briefs. Stroking my little donglet with a couple of fingers, Justin hugged me with his other arm. His rock hard boy prong dug up my cleft through my shorts and undies. Justin started grinding into me like we'd done to one another through our pajamas over several sleepovers. At the same time, Billy reflexively pumped against my palm through his egg-slurried briefs, racing instinctively for what his body craved. With that bulge in my hand, and another one burrowing into my bottom, I barely noticed that Sam's shorts and undies were bunched around his ankles, while thrusting against Billy's plump, round bottom. Justin was jerking me with the same rhythm with which he ground into my butt cheeks. My little chorizo's helmet raked against the inside of my underpants with every stroke. My groin-polishing palm curled into a claw, holding onto Billy for balance in the passionate chaos. Billy's head fling back, and he cried out at the sky. His hips kicked violent, punching his tiny sex into my grip. I saw the ecstasy spreading across Billy's face for only a nano-second, but it's an eternal climax in my forever memory. Right then, Justin's moaned in my ear. Sight and sound merged with the grinding sensations between my buns and in my hand, and my prong's itchy tingles burst into flames with a dry detonation. I clenched my eyelids shut, and groaned through gritting teeth, while Justin stroked me brutally, pulling 4 or 5 more explosive waves of raw pleasure out of my poor little penis, and out through my shuddering body. Deafened by my own pounding heart, and blinded by the stars bursting in my tightly shut eyes, I wasn't even aware of Justin's building climax, until my own started to fade away. By then, he was hugging me tightly with both arms around my chest, and he throttled like a machine. Releasing Billy, I reached behind to clamp Justin's buns with both my hands. I pulled him into me, wedging his cloth-covered rod into my crevice, through my own shorts and underwear. Punching up with his toes, and raggedly gasping, he plowed up and and in as far as he could, again and again. When Justin finally finished, he wilted onto my back, and I continued holding him up by the ass, giving him gentle squeezes. At the same time, Billy was half-collapsed against his restraints, and he bit his half-smiling lower lip. Sam was holding Billy in place with hands on the boy's hips, and Billy's body shook from a series of fast, violent thrusts. And then, Sam shook from the violent dry belching in crotch. "What...what happened?" Billy was equally enraptured and mystified. We untied him, and clued him in to what little we knew about boy biology. Even if a parent or health teacher explained that an orgasm was something more than human pollen-spreading - that it was actually a fun thing - it was the secret wisdom one could only understand through experience. What's more, back then, it wasn't like a lot of parents or teachers discussed masturbation with kids, at least in Idaho. Billy was bubbling with enthusiasm, wanting to know more - to do more. But first, we had to address the egg proteins drying like a second skin all over him. He was only mildly hesitant about shedding his briefs before they became glued to him, though his hand reflexively covered his diminutive equipment while we trotted over to the garden hose. But after we rinsed out his undies, he was happy to let Sam spray him thoroughly. It was a hot afternoon, so Justin, Sam and I quickly skinned off our clothes, and took turns getting drenched. By then, Billy had lost his inhibitions, at least around us, and jumped on Sam, dragging him to the ground. Justin and I piled on, making a writhing, wrestling, tickling mass of rolling and flailing limbs and laughs. Thankfully, Sam's yard was bordered with high hedges and trees, because it never occurred to us that some neighbor might spy our wet, rubbery bodies rolling around on the lawn. Inevitably, our tickling turned to groping, and our wrestling melted into floppy lolling. With rigid little prongs demanding our attention, we ambled over to some shade. Filthy with mud and grass, we sat in a circle, ready to initiate Billy into manual manipulation. But first, we sat cross-legged, knee-to-knee, and let him study and touch each of our hard-ons. Justin had a near photographic memory, so I wasn't surprised to see this journal entry adorned with four illustrations of erections, from his perspective that day. His draftsman-like renderings showed his skilled talent. Each was labeled, and the genitals marked "Me" were drawn from an overhead view. His turgid, circumcised cock, probably 2 inches at the time, seemed to massively eclipse petite spheres barely peeking out from underneath on each side of his shaft in a slightly wrinkled wrapper. The side-view of my tackle, which was no bigger than Justin's, showed a diagonally surging stalk with a circumcised helmet's ridge sweeping out above the the upper deck, and prominent frenulum bridging the under side's division to the stem. My scrotum was just a tight little half-dome merged with the base of my meager shaft. Justin's drawing preserves Sam's 3-inch rod just as I remembered. His dick was the biggest of our gang, and his pallid circumcision scar was also the longest of us all, leading from a bullet-shaped knob to about about a quarter of his shaft. Of course, those three drawings eclipsed the illustration of Billy's tiny bulb: mostly knob, the cherry-shaped head crowned a slender, half-inch stem. Billy's boy flesh was barely longer than the width of my index and second fingertips. Billy sat to my right, and when his curiosity was satisfied and he sat back, I gripped his minuscule drive train mid-shaft. Appearances deceived, because he was astonishingly hard. He pulsated with primal anticipation, then sighed while I showed him what to do. When I stroked forward, I stretched his little circumcision scar over his cherry-shaped tip, and when I pulled back, my fingers partially plunged into his pubic mound. Studying Billy's groin while I jacked his joint, I could barely see any scrotum; it was just a small flap of wrinkled skin. I reached over with my other hand, and burrowed a finger into his nascent sack. Finding each tiny testicle hiding within the boy, I tickled a couple of gasps out of Billy. Copying me, Billy used both hands to play with Sam, though Sam provided a lot more surface area to explore. In a chain reaction, Sam massaged Justin's nuts, too, while stroking my best friend with his other hand. Ergo, Justin dove in on me with both hands. When we were in a group, Justin always positioned himself where he could be the one to hold my penis, something I never mulled over at the time. Yet his touch was always magical. The way he tenderly, rhythmically juiced my little grapes, while steadily buffing my billy club, was a feeling I wished would go on forever. At the same time, we were just starting out on a long journey of discovery, and at 11, the whole point seemed to be orgasms. We knew nothing about foreplay, or patience, and just wanted those tingles. Feeling the itchy fire in my cock building, I stroked Billy faster, as if I could urge on my own climax. Maybe I did, because, like in a game of "Telephone," he jerked Sam harder, and Sam pulled on Justin with increasing fury, then Justin pounded me barbarously. Wordlessly, we raced toward the edge, our panting and grunts merging with the rapid rhythm of fapping flesh. One after another, we groaned and gasped, and fired blanks in a staggered four-gun salute. As usual, Justin held me long after I regained my breath and started to soften, and likewise, I caressed Billy while his cock retreated to its almost nipple-like flaccid state. Our penis adoration was another clue about Justin and me that I ignored. But at the time, playing with each other seemed like just another fun thing to do, like hitting in a batter's cage, or going fishing - though, obviously, it was something we did secretly. So, we spent the rest of the afternoon in the yard naked, which wouldn't have raised an eyebrow in the Bay Area or Denmark, but was way off-key for Boise. Yet it sure spiced up two-on-two soccer, and inevitably lead to another wrestling pile. And that, of course meant at least one more circle jerk, before we frantically scrambled for our clothes when we heard Sam's big brother yelling that he was home. I didn't know it at the time, but we'd unleashed a tiger in Billy's shorts, and he started shamelessly grabbing friends' junk when he thought they were alone. This was not lost on Justin, either. -------- July 4, 1987 Went to the fireworks show over the park tonight. It was really short. Mom and Dad were nice to each other for once, and Tommy is staying over, so this'll be short. We ran into Billy and his family and a bunch of us kids played volleyball. I had to piss, and Billy went to the boy's room with me. No one else was there, and the minute I got my dick out, Billy grabbed it. He does this a lot and most of the time I let him hold it while I drain it. When I'm finished he pretends he's pulling out the last drops, but he keeps pulling until its hard and then jacks me off. We went into a stall and did it to each other. For some reason, I really wanted to feel his butt. He felt mine too. I think he's a sex fiend. I'm glad he's not staying over or we'd all end up in trouble with my parents. Billy's really loud when orgasms. -------- Justin's parents had long warned Justin about the sin of "self-abuse." They'd angrily scolded him whenever his hands voyaged into his pants when he was much younger, just as they did with his 4-year-old sister when she explored the depths of her pull-ups. I'm sure they couldn't possibly imagine Justin "sinning" with another boy. So after I "lead him astray," he was extremely discrete about his favorite new hobby - especially with other boys. On the infrequent occasions I stayed over at his place, I slept on the floor, in pajamas, even in the summer heat. If we could stay awake, we'd wait until we heard his parents go to bed. Then I'd creep into his bed, where we could beat each other off quickly and quietly, then I'd slink back into my sleeping bag. Locked in a loveless marriage, Justin's parents cast a pall over the household that would have crushed a lesser soul. However, Justin was not only introspective, but very resilient. That's probably why he excelled later, serving as a Marine aviator. And that's also why he didn't spend every summer night having fun at my place: he truly loved his little sister, Mia. He played with her every day, even when he wasn't babysitting her. Hanging at his place, I always joined in their tea parties with stuffed animals, and Justin always joked with Mia how I'd look like a pretty little girl if I could fit in one of her dresses. He was only half-kidding. As I found a couple of years later - and in a couple of journal entries - he really had a thing for me in girl's clothes. In fact, he would eventually get me in pink panties. It would be a soft juxtaposition to my All-American Boy image that would make Justin shoot quarts - but that's another story for another time. I don't know where Justin's hid his journals from his parents' snooping, but they'd have had strokes from their son's unfettered thoughts, if not the side-by-side Polaroids we'd taken of one another naked, getting out of the shower. Though often brief in description, he cataloged every sexual encounter with other boys, along with many notations about especially vigorous wanks. But these musings were sandwiched between much longer ruminations about his family's problems, notes about Little League successes and failures, meditations on books he was reading, and all the daily challenges that seem insurmountable to a kid, but are almost insignificant to adults. All the same, Justin's unremitting sexual accounting was a bit jaw-dropping for me to read, given how much I'd forgotten. It seems that in the Spring and Summer before sixth grade, we got each other off almost every day, alone or with other boys. The only cessation was through the week his family visited his grandparents. Thankfully for me, Justin and I had steadily increased membership in our secret JO club. So even though he was away, I could still bring another friend or two to the fort for at least one round of boy-on-boy action. While our usual methods of seduction were wrestling or water-ballooning, sometimes we simply educated a friend about the things parents and school neglected. -------- August 3, 1987 Mom's not talking to dad again. [3 paragraphs of family travails follow] We gave Kirk his first tingles this afternoon. Me, Tommy, Kirk, and Barlow hunted for salamanders in the creek. Tommy jumped on Kirk and they rolled in the mud. Barlow and me jumped on them. I hope we didn't hurt any salamanders. We were laughing so hard. Then we went up to the falls and stood under them for as long as we could. It's cold water! We went to the fort and we stripped and hung up our clothes on sticks outside. Me and Tommy got boners and it was so funny when we threw a frisbee around. They'd swing like we were batting at fast balls. ("Fast balls" - ha ha). Then Kirk and Barlow got them. Kirk asked why they happened so we had to show him. We went inside and told him to lay on the mattress inside and close his eyes and we took turns rubbing his dick. His boner is half the size of mine but not as small as Billy's. Anyway, he shook real hard and loved it. I guess he's now one of us, now. -------- Yes, Kirk joined the Meat Beat Elite, as I later called our core group: guys you could count on for mutual relief, even after some began to crave pussy. But I barely remember his initiation, and certainly couldn't recall the cherry shape of his circumcised head, were it not for Justin's dutiful pencil sketch. Apparently, it had a fat little skin turtleneck under his glans, and rather large balls for his childish bone. But I clearly remember his uncontrolled giggles at first, while Billy waggled the boy's bone, and Justin tickled his balls. But when Billy started stroking, Kirk quivered and gasped. "What are you doing? It feels so good." One of us - maybe Justin or maybe me - explained masturbation, while Billy continued stroking Kirk, and started on himself with his other hand. We switched up, and I rubbed Kirk vigorously, with Barlow squeezing the boy's scrotum. The itchy tickles inflamed Kirk's cocklet and his heavy breathing grew quick and tattered. His eyes stretched with panic. "Better stop Tommy! You're gonna make me piss!" Of course, everyone chuckled knowingly, and told him not to worry, while I just pounded him faster. A moment later, his heels pounded against the plank floor, and Kirk shrieked like he were in pain. But it was only the agony of muscles behind his balls pumping and pulling in vain, flooding his body with an ecstasy that would change his life. When his climax finally withered, he insisted on masturbating each of us to orgasm individually, then eagerly got his first lesson in the art of a circular hand party. According to Justin's journal, that summer vacation concluded with happy endings at the fort almost every afternoon. But two weeks later, middle school put an end to that carefree summer. In many ways, 6th grade killed off childhood. Overnight, emotionally unequipped kids had to survive the social trials of suddenly growing up, even if their bodies were far behind in the process. The upper grades were an asylum for the hormonally insane, and a prison playground for bullies. I don't remember any eagerness for the next big steps in my life, nor do I remember much of school life itself, beyond occasional outstanding traumas. It was just a blur of misery between weekends. By contrast, Justin cataloged all the annoyances and petty humiliations as thoroughly as he mused about his successes, and his contemplations about life itself. Unlike me, he excelled in math and science, and so a lot of his entries focus on things I still find dreary. But one thing we both loved about school was P.E. The classes themselves sucked, since the head coach was a failed athlete who hated his job. But like kids suffering through a dinner of calve's liver and lima beans for the promise of dessert, we did the wind sprints and climbed ropes because, at the end, were showers. -------- September 3, 1987 Coach Peterson is a total douche. He's always picking on me to run faster, even if I beat everyone in the 50-yard dash. Then he makes me do extra push-ups. Maybe it's a good thing cause I'm always so tired when I get to the locker room I can barely look up at Phil and Sergio in their jockstraps. Damn they have such hot butts! A couple of boys even have pubes. When I get into the shower it's tough fighting my boners. I just want to rub soap on all the hotties and wash them all over. I wish I could scrub every dick and make each of `em super hard and tickly. -------- All those sudsy, water-slopped bodies glistening in the afternoon were powerful erection fertilizer. I'd never felt embarrassed about locker room bones before, but in 6th grade, an awkward stiffie lead to jeers of "fag!" At the same time, of all the indignities of middle school, that was the most common, and something forgotten an hour later. It went along with towel snapping, wedgies, and calling each other "pin dick" (something I'd never heard before middle school). Until now, I only vaguely remembered the gym showers like school itself: a blur, albeit a blur of flesh. I still can't tell you how many boys could wash themselves simultaneously under the multi-nozzle, stainless steel shower cylinders. I just remember that a group of us from the fort eventually found a shower column in the corner, where we could tickle and grab one another surreptitiously. Still we couldn't do much more than tease each other, unless we slinked into the stalls, with bunched towels held in front to hide our throbbing need. That I did on more than one occasion, especially with Sam. If Justin had been in my gym period, we might have never left the stalls. I'd sit on the toilet seat, sort of slumped, and Sam would sit on my belly, his back to my chest, with his feet propped up on my knees. Anyone coming in would see one pair of feet, and think a boy was baptizing a Baby Ruth. But in reality, Sam reached between his widely spread thighs, clasping my freshly washed, dripping 2-or-so inches between his fingers, and strangled it with a powerful grip. At the same time, I'd reach around his scrawny torso, taking his bigger member in my full fist, and churn that butter barbarically. His ass felt so nice and firm and warm on my tummy, adding to the thrill. The bathroom tiles always vaguely echoed with the furiously fapping cadence of tenderizing meat and stifled breath, since it was all about bringing about those tingles as quickly as possible, and not about any romantic desire. Even so, my free hand would slide back and forth between Sam's nuts and his abs, relishing the trusting way we shared our bodies, and sensation of his bare skin against mine. It's weird how I'd mostly forgotten all those delicious, delirious hand jobs. But a lot happened that fall, all recorded meticulously in Justin's journal. For example, I barely recall the day I dropped out of Little League that Fall to focus on swimming. I was a shitty batter and a mediocre first basemen, but a ferocious medley racer, and it just made sense. But from Justin's perspective, I was abandoning afternoons I could spend with him. Nonetheless, on Saturdays, after the baseball games and swim meets, most of us still met at the fort's clearing, to shoot BB guns, and play "Ghost in the Graveyard," or "Smear the Queer" (a deeply ironic name, given how we'd always end up with our hands in each other's trousers). After that, Justin would head over to my place, as much at home as if he were my parents' third kid. === === === === === === To be continued... Related Adult/Youth story: https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/lessons-from-the-granny-flat/