Date: Mon, 28 Jan 2008 12:58:03 -0700
From: michael.blewitt@hushmail.com
Subject: Marc and Michael

A Remembrance
By B. Michael Blewitt
michael.blewitt@hushmail.com

    What follows is another slightly fictionalized account of experiences
between two seventh-grade boys growing up in Southern California. One is
named Michael and is 12, the other is named Marc and is 13, and both were
truly touched by their time together.

    This is not an endorsement of any particular lifestyle, but facts are
facts, and neither Mike nor Marc denies "something" happened when they got
together.
    Let us know what you think.

    In this game, don't hold on 18

    A darkness rolled over our neighborhood and it appeared it never would
go away.
    The minutes were like hours, the hours like days, the days like months.
    That's how it was in the days following the death of my father, a young
man of 50 who, it turns out, lost a year-long struggle with a heart
diseased caused when he saved two drowning people from a river.
    Michael was 12 at the time, also too young.
    The weeks that followed were not easy for anyone because daddy was such
a loving and caring man who put his family first. Mom never remarried --
or even dated -- after daddy's death.
    Individuals stepped forward to fill the void, but it was devastating to
everyone and Michael, the youngest of three, still had another month or so
of middle school to complete before the summer months, the family vacation
and good times with neighbor friends.
    Friends like Dennis and John and Marc, possibly Michael's best friend
who lived next door, spending a lot of his time in a tree house he and his
dad had built several years before. Marc's tree house was his own private
hideaway and not even his mom was allowed inside. That's because Marc did
his homework there and kept cigarettes and some of those magazines there.
    Now, Michael didn't smoke and the only magazines he really enjoyed were
sports magazines. Except for those nudist magazines his cousin John had,
and his interest in those were strictly looking at the boys, naked, some
reminding him of boys at his school.
    Cousin John never said a thing about Michael's interest because the two
of them had explored one another for a couple of years, even sleeping in
the same bed (until John's dad found them naked) and masturbating
together. So while John looked at the girls, Michael looked at the
boys. That's how it always was.
    Marc, on the other hand, had been able to get his hands on Playboy and
those other girl magazines, but Michael had seen those magazines and,
frankly, he found nothing there to interest him, except maybe the sports
stories. And even though he married and helped raise three girls and a boy,
Michael never was able to maintain a physical relationship with a woman,
and his first marriage ended after 20 years when he admitted his preference
for boys.
    Growing up, Michael always had been a good boy, never a troublemaker,
an average student who loved sports and television, his friends, and
life. It's no different today.
    Since graduating from high school, he's maintained his love of life, of
sports and television, of his friends, and he found something he could do
-- write professionally, for magazines and newspapers and now, the
Internet. Success came early.
    But, early in life, maybe when he was 9 or so, Michael discovered there
was something special about those boys at his school, those boys in the
neighborhood, those boys he'd see at the mall.
    It was a feeling, an intense feeling that gripped his entire body, one
that continues to permeate almost every aspect of his life, largely because
those beautiful boys are a part of his every day life as a journalist.
    Marc was one of those beautiful boys and Michael didn't mind admitting
it, first to himself and later to Marc. Still, this was a different time,
and it took awhile before the two of them were able to totally express
their feelings.
    It happened that summer, less than three months after the tragedy in
Michael's life, and it would begin his incredible journey, one that has had
both its highs and its lows, one that has hit several dead ends, one that
continues with no turning back.
    "Wanna come over and shoot some baskets?"
    Marc, standing at the fence that separated his yard from Michael's,
nodded his head.
    "Is your mom home?"
    "No, she's spending the night at my sister's house.
    "Cool," said Marc, gathering his yellow t-shirt and jumping the fence.
    Michael couldn't take his eyes off Marc as he wrapped the t-shirt
around his neck and then tossed it aside as he picked up the new
basketball, a gift from the coach at the elementary school.
    Marc was thin, smooth and pale, with short brown hair and freckles, and
slightly taller than Michael.
    The first time Michael had these feelings for Marc, he clenched his
fist and started to hit himself, believing those feelings were wrong.
    No. No. No. I can't feel this way, he said, and he continued to
question himself for years. That is, until he began to understand the depth
of his feelings, the beauty of those boys.
    Those feelings always were there and it was only a matter of time
before Michael could express himself to someone else. Perhaps this was
going to be that time.
    Now, shooting some baskets, Michael told himself, was a way to get Marc
to come over, perhaps even to spend some time playing games, watching TV.
    By the time Marc had taken his first couple of practice shots,
Michael's thoughts had grown intense. He watched Marc's chest, bare and
smooth, that patch of underarm hair, and the baggy jeans with holes in the
knee and around the crotch.
     "Mmmmm," he is hot, Michael would say to himself, and continue those
soft moans of pleasure. He felt a twitch and throbbing between his legs.
    Marc was only an average athlete, but he and Michael would shoot
baskets or play catch just for fun. There was no high-level intensity and
Michael was thankful because some of his other friends, the athletes,
weren't much fun to play with.
    Marc, he hoped, would like to play.
    The game of H-O-R-S-E is not designed to improve skills, but more or
less is a game of chance, with players taking shots they don't believe the
other person can make. For example, Marc would line himself up about 30
feet from the basket, turn his back and throw the ball toward the hoop. If
it went in, Michael would have to make the same shot; if not, Michael would
get his chance. A typical game would go 10-15 minutes and by the time this
game was over, Michael had won and Marc was walking toward the side door to
Michael's garage.
    "Wow, I'm pooped, I need a cigarette," Marc said, holding both arms
over his head.
    "OK, we can go in here," Michael said, opening the door.
    The garage, by now, had been cleaned out of most of daddy's tools and a
couch, which he had kept in his office, was now in the garage, right across
from an easy chair.
    Marc, still shirtless, sat in the easy chair, taking a soft drink from
Michael.
    Michael tried not to be so obvious, but he couldn't help himself.
    Marc's legs were spread just enough so Michael could see his white
briefs. Marc's jeans were baggy, with holes in the crotch and knee.
    As Michael sat in the couch, across from Marc, he wouldn't help but
stare at Marc's crotch, hoping he would see some visible. His own crotch
was filled with excitement and those feelings were heightened when Marc
touched himself.
    "Let's play cards," Michael said.
    "Sure. What?"
    "Black jack," Michael said. "How about strip black jack."
    Marc paused for a second, raising his eyebrow.
    "Guess so," he said, lighting another cigarette.
    Strip black jack was a game Michael and his cousin John had played, and
if Michael won, he would watch as his cousin would masturbate. If Michael
lost, he would masturbate and, only recently, he began to kiss his cousin's
cock.
    Marc knew the game of black jack and won the first three hands, forcing
Michael to remove his shoes, socks and jeans. Removing his jeans was
somewhat of a calculated move because Michael was having one of those
moments, his cock was getting harder every time he looked at Marc.
    "Shake `em up," Marc would say, taking the cards and shuffling.
    Michael's eyes never left Marc, and winning the next three hands were
almost too much for him to take.
    Already without his shirt, socks and shoes, Marc removed his jeans,
sitting there only in a baggy pair of briefs that were too big. Surely he
sensed where the game was going because as soon as the next cards were
dealt, Marc's legs were spread, his ball sac visible, his own cock getting
hard.
    Michael lost -- and he later admitted it was his idea to lose --
and was required to strip totally naked, something he wanted to do, feeling
that perhaps Marc understood.
    Sitting naked, Michael looked at Marc and said, "come on, your turn."
    His right hand moved from his own ball sac to his cock as Marc stood
and removed his briefs.
    "Oh, my gawd," Michael said to himself. "He is even better than I
thought."
    Marc's cock, smallish, red and about 4 inches in length, was surrounded
by a nice patch of hair and a beautiful ball sac.
    Michael looked and started to rub himself. His own cock was hard, and
he watched how Marc reacted. However, Marc was totally matter of fact,
sitting there, his legs spread, a cigarette hanging from his lip, a shy
smile on his face.
    "Can I come over there?" Michael asked.
    "It's your garage," Marc said. "But maybe it would be easier if I came
over there (to the couch)."
    Marc stood, his cock rigid, and moved toward the couch.
    Michael was beginning to masturbate himself, but when Marc sat down he
stopped.
    The two sat close to one another, Marc reaching for another cigarette,
and it didn't take Michael long to put his hand on Marc's leg.
    Marc moaned as Michael rubbed his leg, something he also did with his
cousin, his hands smooth, his massage gentle.
    "Ohhh, that's nice," Marc said, his eyes closed. "Go higher."
    Michael adjusted himself and placed both hands on Marc's legs, and soon
they were on his thigh, then even higher.
    Michael didn't hesitate, his hands cupping Marc's ballsac as Marc
moaned again, and it was only a matter of seconds before Michael's tongue
was exploring Marc's chest, then his underarms.
    His hands, meanwhile, were on Marc's cock and as soon as Marc moved his
hips, Michael took Marc's cock in his mouth, sucking it with a quiet
passion he never had experienced before.
    Marc flinched ever so slightly and Michael backed off.
    "Sorry," he said.
    "For what?" replied Marc, spreading his legs again.
    Michael's hands began to rub Marc's chest.
    "Oh, gawd," he said. "I gotta jackoff."
    Marc smiled as Michael grabbed his own cock. He stared at Marc and
moved his mouth to Marc's cock again.
    In no time, Michael was rock hard and ready to explode, something he
had only done for Cousin John.
    He looked at Marc, the intensity of his masturbation heightened by
Marc's own reaction, and soon Michael was releasing the beautiful love cum
that became almost a daily occurrence (often, several times a day).
    "Wow," said Marc, "what's that?"
    "Jizz," said Michael. "It's cool, feels good."
    Obviously Marc knew what was going on because in seconds his cock was
releasing its own love juice, As he got close, Marc told Michael, "come
here, take it."
    Michael put his head near Marc's stomach and waited for his friend's
cum.
    It came in short spurts and Michael, with Marc's hand on his head,
licked it up, the salty liquid going down so easily.
    "Mmmmm," I like that, Marc said.
    "Gawd, me, too," said Michael, his cock still hard.
    Marc started to get up to walk to the refrigerator for another soft
drink, but Michael held out his hand, telling him to stay put.
    "Let's get dressed," Michael said. "We can watch some TV and have
lunch."
    Marc smiled.
    "I know what YOU want for lunch," he said.
    "Me, too," Michael said.
    "Any time," Marc said. "Any time."
    And they did. For several years.
    "You know," Marc said at the 30-year high school reunion. "I've never
had better sex than that."
    "Me, either," Michael said. "And I never will."
    That remains to be seen.