Date: Fri, 14 Nov 2008 11:58:35 -0500 From: John Ellison Subject: The Landing - Chapter 3 This story contains situations and scenes of graphic sex between consenting males. All legal disclaimers apply. If this topic offends you, do not read any further; and ask yourself why you are at this site. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, although it may be loosely based on real events and people. If you are under the age of 18 (21 in some areas) and too young to be reading such material or if you are in a locale or country where it is not legal to read such material then please leave immediately and come back when it is legal for you to do so. We'll be glad to have you back. Copyright 2008 by John Ellison Additional works publish in Nifty in the Military Category: The Phantom of Aurora The Boys of Aurora Aurora Tapestry The Knights of Aurora Aurora Crusade The "Aurora" books are a series and should be read in sequence. A Sailor's Tale Constructive criticism is always welcome, and comments are appreciated. Flames expounding a personal agenda are not appreciated and will be treated with the contempt they deserved. Please feel free to send comments to: paradegi@sympatico.ca The Landing Chapter Three I cannot remember a time when I wasn't gay. There was no sudden epiphany when I reached puberty, no waking up one morning and announcing to the world that I was here, and queer. I just was. My earliest memories are of an inquisitive, insatiable curiosity to see, to examine, the nether parts of boys. I was as curious as a cat and while they did not know it, my two older brothers contributed to satisfying my curiosity. Philip Charles Tradd was the oldest, and in the absence of our father, who was always away saving humanity, took it upon himself to teach his younger brothers, Damian Lee and me, the things he thought growing boys should know. Since we lived in the South, and in the countryside, this meant first and foremost, huntin', fishin', and shootin', with baseball thrown in and, later, football, although I was never attracted to the game itself. The players, now . . . Living in a rural environment, we had access to things that city kids could only dream of. We spent most of our time, when we were not in school, outdoors, and everybody had a smooth, tanned body. We could ride, for the area was criss-crossed with old riding trails and country lanes. We hunted in season, riding hell-bent for leather across the open fields chasing the hounds and a hapless fox. We shot in season, stalking deer for the most part, although we also bagged game birds and raccoons. When we were in the mood we would fish off the dock, or row a skiff to mid-river. On the blood-hot summer days, when the sun was an unforgiving orb of fire high in the sky, and the humidity like a blanket covering all, we would walk or row downstream to our special "swimmin' hole" and skinny dip. Most days we lived in our cut-off shorts or bathing suits - if we were swimming near the house. Decorum had to be maintained, at least on the surface. More often than not we would stroll down to the hole, and off would come the suits. We had no inhibitions at all when it came to being nude, or nekkid as we called it, and my education in basic male anatomy began there. Having two older brothers helped pique my curiosity as well. Boys are naturally curious. They seem to be born with the need to explore, be it a gator hole or each other's body and, having no inhibitions at all, thinking it perfectly natural to compare, to touch, to discover the essential differences between boys. Philip Charles, before he married and found THE LORD, was totally understanding of the curiosity of little brothers. He didn't mind at all when Damian Lee and I charged into his room at the most inopportune moments, usually when he was in bed in the morning, sportin' mornin' wood, as he told us happened to all boys in time. Damian Lee and I would giggle at the bulge in Philip Charles's boxers (a proud hangin' man, as they say) and unlike us, he had rebelled against the ubiquitous tighty whiteys, and never wore pajamas. Sometimes, when I pulled the covers off of him, his thick organ would be poking from the slit in his boxer shorts, the smooth round head red and enticing. The first time I saw his erect penis I damned near fainted. It wasn't big, just a normal, run-of-the-mill circumcised pecker. But to a seven year old his big brother's bone was huge, compared to his own little appendage, or his older brother's, and Philip Charles was always telling Damian and me that we would one day be as big as he was - when we grew up. God, how I waited for the day when my little nub would swell and grow. It was under Philip Charles' tutelage that I learned that my penis was not called that. We went through the usual little boy names, pee-pee, weiner, and the like, and eventually settled on "pecker". Testicles, well, everybody had a name for them, from "the Boys" to "eggs" and every descriptive name in between. Eventually, balls were what we called them, although they were actually shaped like eggs. Once, and only once, did Philip Charles allow us to actually touch him. He never tried anything "funny", and while I knew he masturbated (choked his chicken, he called it), he always did it in the shower. Damian adored our older brother and while we did compare peckers, Philip Charles allowed no liberties and smacked me silly the one time I tried to hump him. We'd been rough housing in his room and my little pecker got excited so I did what any sane boy would do and started rubbing it against his leg (we were only wearing tightys at the time). He told me that was "queer", and good little boys did not, under any circumstances, hump their brother's leg! Given what later happened in the Eagle Scout room, I later thought it strange, but obeyed. I depended on Philip Charles for information, particularly on the differences that sometimes occurred in boys. When I was five or so, I was dragged to the Blakes', where preparations for a wedding were underway. Usually I would have been left in the stern care of Mam Berta, but that day she was off, attending a funeral, as were the two dailies my mother employed. As there was no one to look after me, I went to the Blakes. Southerners love a good funeral or a wedding, and being Southerners just have to be a part of the festivities. That day all the ladies were gathering for a "wedding shower", where they all handed out gifts to the bride to be, drank punch, and got decidedly giggly. Being a boy I had no interest at all in watching my mother and her friends make fools of themselves (at least to my mind) and, since the girls didn't need pesky little boys around, I was sent out to play with Adam van Lews, the brother of the bride, who was a year or so older than I was. Now boys, when left on their own, tend to either burrow or dig in the dirt. Having a water supply close, the easier to make mud pies, also drew boys like flies to honey. Adam and I, with warnings of dire punishment if we got dirty ringing in our ears, went outside. We sat on the porch steps, wondering what to do. I couldn't see any toys littering the yard, and I didn't know Adam all that well so I didn't know what he liked to do. Being bored, we sighed, squirmed, and kicked our feet as little boys do. As we were sitting there the sprinkler system came on, watering the smooth, emerald green lawn. "I is hot!" Adam exclaimed eventually. "Me too," I answered. "Y'all gots a swimmin' pool?" Adam shook his head. "M'brudda brokes it," he said sadly. "He's a peckerwood!" As Adam had three younger brothers, I wondered which one had done the deed. Most likely Jason, who was a year younger, I thought. The other two were toddlers and so far as I knew incapable of breaking anything. I sighed. "No swimmin'." Adam sighed and then giggled. "Wanna run in the sprinklers?" "Huh?" "Ya know, run in the sprinklers," repeated Adam as he pointed to the spray of water. "Don't gots no swimmin' suit," I replied. "Mummy will whup me if I get my clothes all wet." Adam gave me a strange look. "Don't need no swimmin' suit." He stood up and started to take off the T-shirt he was wearing. He carefully folded it, placed it neatly on the step, and reached for button of his jeans. As I watched Adam disrobing it dawned on me what he meant. Hell, that sounded good to me, so I took off my shirt (new, on sale at Biedermeyer's for $1.50). When Adam dropped his jeans, stepped out of them, and kicked them aside, I unbuttoned the khaki shorts I was wearing (hand-me-downs from Damian) and stood there, wondering what was coming next. I assumed that we would go running through the sprinklers in our tightys. I was wrong. Adam pushed down the briefs he was wearing and waited for me to do the same. Now, I had seen both of my brothers nekkid, and since I was at the age when I had not yet been taught about nudity, I followed suit. Being myself, I of course just had to look at Adam's jewels. Adam did the same. "You don't gots skin!" he exclaimed. "How come you don't?" I looked and saw that Adam's pecker was different from mine. Where I had a little acorn, the end of his pecker ended in a thick, long, wrinkled tube of skin. Not having any reference other than myself, and my brothers, I stared and then I shrugged. "Don't know," I said. "My bruddahs, dey don't got no skin." Adam looked thoughtful. "Jason, he's got skin," he informed me. Then he blurted, "Matthew and Ethan, they don't gots skin." I regarded Adams uncircumcised penis, looked at my circumcised penis, and said with the wisdom of a five-year-old, "Guess we was borned that way." That seemed logical to Adam's childish mind. He shrugged, opined that he guessed so too, and ran into the sprinkler. At the age of five we had the attention span of a poodle, and I promptly forgot all about the differences in our little danglers and followed Adam, jumping and laughing as we cavorted in the sprinkling water. We lasted all of five minutes. Mrs. Blake, hearing our shouting and laughing as we cavorted naked in the sprinkler, poked her head out the door and let out an ear-shattering screech! Of course Adam and I stopped dead in our tracks and turned to look at her. Mrs. Blake's screeching, needless to say, drew the attention of the other ladies who, when they stopped laughing and pretending to be shocked, observed that boys would be boys and returned to the party. My mother, who was so old-fashioned that she never acknowledged that boys even had peckers, snatched me inside and dressed me, all the while threatening me with a good hiding when we got home. Good little boys, I was archly informed, did not remove their clothing in public, and embarrass their mothers! Needless to say, she kept it up all the way home, and I received a good swat on the behind and was sent to my room without any dinner. I eventually came to realize that she was angry not at my removing my clothes and showing off my diminutive appendage, but because I had embarrassed her, hinting that I was not properly raised. ****** Being "properly raised" was very important. Children were taught their manners from the cradle, usually by a stern-visaged old "mammy", in my case, Mam Berta. She was old, very black and brooked no nonsense from little boys. She had been with the family for what seemed like forever, and had raised my father. Mam Berta had come into the family's employ when my grandmother, Mary Tradd de Marigny had married my grandfather, Philip IX. Grandmother was always called "May", and was a stern traditionalist who never allowed deviation from the dictates of the Code. She dressed conservatively, in keeping with her age and perceived station, and never left the house without wearing a hat, gloves, and carrying a tightly furled umbrella. She also never left the house alone, always accompanied by a male relative or, in a pinch, another lady or Mam Berta. It was the custom of her youth, and good enough for her middle and old age. Grandmama May had been born into all the Charleston traditions, and was the acknowledged "Doyenne" of what passed for society. She knew who was well born, and who was not. She knew who was "fast", or a "cad", who was received, and who was not. She was the last word in any social squabble and when she rendered a decision it was written in stone. Like many Southern women, Grandmama May never raised her voice for any reason. She expressed herself calmly, no matter how provoked, and exhibited an iron control and hid an iron backbone. She might be the picture of genteel, gentle, southern womanhood, but God help you if you did something she did not approve of. She was a "Steel Magnolia", and while we were all afraid of her, we also were in thrall of her. As children, boys and girls were first taught proper manners from the moment we could understand. As we grew older this education continued with gentle admonitions and on more than one occasion a tart observation. Good manners meant showing respect for all adults, regardless of color. Blacks, while obviously not equal to whites, were to be treated with discretion and respect, and males were always addressed as "Mister" until we were told otherwise. Black women were always to be addressed as "Miss", followed by their first name. Under no circumstances were they to be referred to as "niggers" or "darkies". Only illiterate swamp trash and poor whites and riff-raff resorted to such pejoratives. We were never to show disrespect, or cause offense, which of course these words did. We were also taught to be polite under all conditions. Words like "please," and "thank you," were commonplace, and we always asked permission to do something when adults were around, such as leaving the table, or even going to the toilet. You never actually said where you were going, especially to the toilet, but you get what I mean. We also learned how best to deal with bores or people we did not particularly wish to be with. This was to "polite" them to death. When a Southerner defers to you, expresses consideration time after time, smiles and is so overbearingly polite that it becomes sickening, look out. You've entered a morass, a place you really aren't wanted, and a place where you have forced yourself into. Manners, and expressing them, were expected from children at all times, although to be truthful, little girls had it worse than little boys. Little boys were irresponsible and impulsive, and more often than not had much more important things to think about, like climbing a tree or going fishing. Girls, however, were given no leeway at all. My sister Alva, who quite frankly was born a bitch, was once out with Grandmama May. They were staying at the Charleston house and Grandmama, with no male available, had decided to take Alva with her when she made her rounds of calling on her friends. Grandmama did not drive and tooled around town in an ancient, battered Daimler, driven by Oscar, Mam Berta's husband. Politeness dictated that one never arrived early. Ladies "received" in the afternoon, usually between the hours of 2:00 and 4:00 o'clock. That way they didn't have to feed their guests lunch, or a proper tea. Grandmama realized that she was early for her first call, and rather than wait in the dusty back seat until the proper time and the door was opened, she decided to take a walk along the sea wall. When the car stopped Oscar got out, opened the back door and extended his hand to Alva, saying, "Let me help you down, little lady." Oscar was being polite. Alva, being Alva, decided to take umbrage (I told you she was a bitch) and snapped, "I am not your little lady!" and stomped off to the stairs leading to the sea wall promenade. Grandmama hid her shock at Alva's conduct and allowed Oscar to help her from the car. Then she called Alva back and addressed Oscar. She looked directly at Alva and coldly informed Oscar, "This is Miss Alva de Marigny, who one day, one hopes, will be a lady!" Alva turned scarlet, and promptly went into a monumental pout that lasted for a week. She had been well and properly put in her place. ****** In addition to proper manners and conduct, we learned the intricacies of the Code. This was an intricate series of "dos" and "don'ts", something that had been more or less in effect for two hundred years. The Code covered everything from what to wear, and when, to relations with blacks, or rather, non-relations. Blacks were an acknowledged part of our lives. However, that did not mean that they were in any way our equals. One could work with blacks; one could socialize with them - at funerals and such - but under no circumstances was a white to become sexually involved with a black. Now, I am not about to say that there was no "race mixing", as it was called. There was and it was a very well known fact that half the men who snuck in the back entry of Letty MacDonald's boarding house were white. "Miss Letty" was a Madame, pure and simple. Her house, a multi-storied Victorian stood just over the line that separated Overbridge from the county. Almost all of the ground floor of the place was a bar, smoke filled and patronized by the "sports" from Overbridge. No white man ever set foot inside the front door, not even the County Sheriff. When he called to collect his "fee" for protecting the place from embarrassing moralistic do-gooders, he always used the back entrance. So did the white men who visited the upstairs rooms, each one of which was home to various degrees of black beauties, all available for a price. Like everything else in the South deemed unpleasant, white men visiting the black whores at Miss Letty's was best left unnoticed and not spoken about. If nobody talked about it, it wasn't happening. While the Code did not address places like Miss Letty's, or white men paying black girls for sex, it most certainly did address a white girl becoming involved with a black youth. Such things simply could not be allowed to happen and there were plenty of people around to make sure that if it did, hell would follow, usually in the form of the Klan. All it took was a whisper, a hint that something was amiss, and the Klan would pounce. I had heard rumors of black boys being taken in the night to secret places. There, if they were lucky, they would be whipped unmercifully, and ordered out of town. More often than not, however, there was no mercy. The boy would be stripped, whipped, tortured in as many hideous ways the Klansmen could think of, emasculated, and then hung from the nearest oak or pine tree. While he hung there, dying, or mercifully dead, his body would be shot full of holes. When they were finished, the Klansmen would shove the boy's severed genitals into his mouth and steal away into the night. The girl in such an affair usually screamed rape. People might accept this publicly, but privately tongues would wag, heads would be nodded and sooner or later the girl's father would be visited and advised to cleanse the stain from his family name. If he refused the entire family would be figuratively cast into the outer darkness, completely ignored and expelled from whatever church they attended. If the father was a farmer, he could not sell his crops. If he owned a business in town, no customers came to buy his goods. The family, as a whole, and in all ways, no longer existed. If it was suspected that a white girl had willingly entered into a relationship with a colored boy, then God help her. Nothing she could say or do would mitigate what she had or had not done and, as she had flouted the Code, it was accepted that her father, or one of her brothers, would take her out to the pine woods and only the father or brother would return. Of course, that was never spoken of and in my youth it was acceptable for a girl in such a situation to leave town and never come back. She would never be spoken of publicly again, and if she was, there would be frowns and icy looks. There was always someone who knew, and Southerners have long memories. A case in point was a fabulously wealthy, old Southern family that lived on one of the most magnificent and beautiful plantations in the state. They were descended from a man who had fought first in the Mexican War, and then became a General in the Confederate Army, with a sterling record. Unfortunately he chose to marry, as his second wife, a woman from New Orleans, extremely beautiful, or so the story goes. This in itself was nothing unusual . . . until the rumors started. One would think that in 1864 folks had something a little more important to talk about, like the War, but no, Richmond was abuzz about the woman who, or so it was gossiped, was the daughter of a mulatto woman who kept a house of doubtful purpose, albeit very carriage trade if you know what I mean. The general's wife denied the rumors, but the damage was done and she, and the general, were not "received". Not to be received was social death. One could not attend any function, from a private dinner or the St. Cecelia, ever. One was shunned, and more or less ignored. They no longer existed. In the case of this one family the ban continued through the generations. It did no good to argue that the general's son was the product of his first marriage, his mother being indisputably white. There was colored in the family, and that was all there was to it. I saw the effects of the Code. Damian, when a cadet at the Citadel, wrote to our mother to say that he was bringing home a friend. He added the boy's name - he was the scion of the plantation family. Mother, when she recovered from shock, wrote back that Damian was not to bring the boy. He was not received. Damian argued, pleaded, raged and threatened to boycott, but mother was firm. Damian stayed away for months, and his friend never visited. It was the way of the Code. In my day, there was a walking example of what could happen if one ignored the Code. Miss Elizabeth van Lews, or "Crazy Betsey" as she was called, lived in a huge Victorian house at the south end of town. She wandered around in bib overalls and the strangest looking hats ever seen. She cultivated a huge garden and grew vegetables which she donated to the worthy poor. She was an "artist" and made mobiles and wind vanes out of scrap metal. She also made huge wind chimes that clanged and banged in the slightest breeze, the discordant carillon so disturbing that she once spent ten days in the pokey for being a public nuisance. Crazy Betsey's eccentricities would have been overlooked had it not been for her activism. She proclaimed that she was a "Kennedy Democrat", that blacks were her equals, that segregation was morally wrong and that integration was morally right. She was a Left Leaning, Liberal Democrat in a land where the average person was slightly to the right of Attila the Hun when it came to blacks. It was the kiss of death. Betsey's family refused to let her into their homes. The Presbyterian Church suggested that she worship elsewhere, and on market day only the tourists and black folk frequented her vegetable stall. She was not received. ****** Growing up I was constantly bombarded with dictates about my conduct. I was a budding gentleman and I was constantly reminded that a gentleman did not lie, did not steal, did not cheat, and always kept his word. It was constantly drummed into me, by my father, my mother, Mam Berta, and my brothers, that no matter what, no matter what the cost, once given, I could never take back my word of honor. A man's honor was one of the very few things he had been born with that could not be, if lost, replaced. You could lose a kidney, or a liver, and there were machines that would keep you alive. You could lose an arm, or a leg, and there were prostheses to replace the missing limb. Hell, you could lose your foreskin and have it replaced (not a pleasant thought, and having seen examples of the replacement, I consider them prime candidates for first prize in an ugliest penis contest, but I digress). The point being, that your personal honor was special to you, and the measure of your character. A man without honor was a being to be pitied, and ignored. ****** The one thing that was never discussed was S-E-X, and if you are a hot-blooded, thirteen-year-old, sex is all you think about! You cannot help but be obsessed with your organ, because the damned thing eventually comes to have a mind of its own! You know, you're twelve and a half, walking' down the street, not thinkin' about anything in particular when BOING! Yep, up it roars, rubbing against your Fruit of the Looms, and pooching out the front of your jeans or shorts! Or you're lying in bed, idly fiddling with the little man, when something wonderful happens and suddenly you know that it's a built-in (or on) toy that brings such wonderful feelings that you thank God you were born a boy. When I was a boy, there was no such thing as sex education, anywhere. Why I cannot quite understand. Everybody seemed to think of nothing else! At least once a month, in church, we were treated to a thunderous sermon, filled with fire and brimstone, about the sins of flesh (there were more than one), and told that we were all sinners. The town biddies gossiped about this or that girl who was "fast", and the town boys boasted about having "nailed" this or that girl. They also had a field day when a girl walked down the aisle carrying an oversized bridal bouquet to hide the tightness of her dress. Sex was everywhere and being inquisitive, and horny, and surrounded by equally hot-blooded, twelve and thirteen year olds obsessed with their penises, did not help at all! And then there was Wade Hampton, he of the red hair and gravelly voice. As a walking encyclopedia on sex, Wade Hampton was always consulted for information. He also led the charge when it came to initiating what we euphemistically called "fooling around." Wade Hampton was a man of experience, and no argument there. He claimed to know every glory hole in Charleston and Columbia, and boasted that there was not a pecker in the school that he could not have, if he wanted it. At first I put all of his bragging down to just that: bragging. He was only fourteen, for Christ's sake, and while he did have a lot of freedom, and wandered the streets of Charleston at will, I couldn't conceive that anybody could have that much sex, no way, no how. How wrong I was. ****** Being boys, and being as curious as cats, my friends and I checked each other out. At first that was all we did, and to be honest, since all our peckers looked more or less the same - well, except for Adam and Jason Blake - our inspections were brief and not at all that interesting. We were much more interested in swimming or playing ball, or just hanging out together. Everything changed as we approached our thirteenth birthdays. For some reason, the length of Sinjin Tradd's pecker, the thickness of Greg Cecil's shaft, the hang of John Pegram's balls excited interest. We would lie on the beach, at our special swimmin' hole, and compare. We had gone through the grab-ass stage, and nothing had happened. Oh, there had been boner days, as we called them, which increased in frequency as we approached puberty. I swear that if a cool breeze blew up the river as we lay on the beach every pecker in sight went up. The appearance of pubic hair was cause for comment and excitement, and led to deep discussions concerning masturbation, and when we first started doing it, how many times a day we did it, and so on. This led to a gang jerk-off, although at first we never touched each other. Then, one day, out of the blue, a hand reached over as I was pleasuring myself. I looked to see John Pegram, who was grinning evilly and holding out his hardness to me. His hand on my penis felt great, and I reciprocated. From that day on, we would masturbate each other. We did not go beyond that because while we saw nothing wrong in jerking a friend off, we were too afraid to do anything else. Oh, we knew about blow jobs, and "corn holing", but sucking another boy's pecker, or sticking yours up his butt, was "queer", or so we thought, and nobody wanted to be labeled a queer. Wade Hampton changed it all. ****** It was high summer and we were all lazing away the day at the swimming hole. Tony Ravelli was sniping at his brother, Vittorio, for playing with himself. Tristan Conyngham was admiring Sinjin Tradd's pecker, and I was dreaming about Charlie Pegram. The others, Marty Beidermeyer, Nick and Bob Lee Cecil, Tommy Pegram and Damian Conyngham, were just lying there, catching some rays, and kidding each other about getting his balls sunburned. As it was one of those blood hot days when it was too hot to fuck or fight, idling the day away seemed to be just the thing to do. I was falling asleep when I heard a gravelly voice saying, "Hey, y'all gettin' it on?" I knew Wade Hampton had arrived. I had not expected him. He came and went as the mood struck him, or whenever his parents were on the warpath, usually over his father's philandering with the laundress, or the kitchen maid. Of course, it could have been Wade Hampton's latest depredations against the Citadel cadets, whom he adored. He attended every parade and claimed to know the lower regions of Johnson Hagood Stadium like the back of his hand, and I swear could give tours of the sinks in any of the barracks. He also knew which part of White Point Gardens was best for cruising, and moaned that the quality of potential conquests had deteriorated at school with the loss of the military program. He went to Porter-Gaud, and I knew some of the boys who went there, and couldn't understand Wade Hampton's complaints. I think he just liked a boy in uniform. Still, in uniform or out, Wade Hampton never lost an opportunity to get into the pants of one of his classmates. Wade Hampton's blatant sexuality was more or less kept in check when he came to visit me. While he admitted that my friends (and I) were "prime meat", he had a tendency to sniff at us, dismissing us as country boys, hicks, who would never understand the cosmopolitan life of the big city. Well, I suppose we were hicks, as none of us had any great desire to lurk in the bushes or haunt the showers and toilets of our school. In the event, Wade Hampton trod lightly around us. Mind you, Wade was not one to hide his light under a bushel basket. He boasted of an active sex life, and had an artlessly artful way of letting us know when he scored, although he never named names - knowing Wade I doubt he knew any names, as most of his assignations were anonymous. I looked up and grinned. Wade was naked and his pecker was flopping as he hopped barefoot across the sun scorched sand. He flopped down beside me and gave my parts a squeeze. "How's my favorite country boy?" he asked as he felt me. "Good, and stop feelin' my pecker," I said half-heartedly. I liked getting my pecker and balls squeezed, but gently, and not in full view of my friends. "It's a nice pecker," responded Wade Hampton. "Cute too," he rasped throatily. Pushing his hand away, I asked, "So, how long y'all gonna be here this time?" Wade Hampton shrugged and lay back. "Don't know. Guess until Momma calms down and let's Daddy back in the house." I sniggered. Wade's momma's battles with her horn dog husband were legend in the family. "The maid again?" "Or the cook, or the daily, or . . ." Sinjin sniped. He knew, as did all the boys, of Wade Hampton's battling parents. "Naw, his new secretary," Wade sighed. "Momma went down to the office to take him to lunch and found 'em nekkid and doin' it on the desk," Wade offered. "She was some ticked off." "Your momma or the secretary?" asked Tristan. "Better than doin' it on an ant hill," offered Sinjin. "Who said anything about an ant hill?" I growled. "Sometimes, Sinjin you really are a boob!" "Ah, suck my dick," Sinjin returned. This was his favorite retort when challenged, or called a name. "So, how's tricks?" I asked, wanting to get away from Sinjin's sniping and knowing that Wade Hampton was only interested in my friend because he had a nice dick. Usually Wade ignored Sinjin. "Well," Wade drawled, "had me a Yankee!" "A what?" I gasped. "You had a Yankee?" asked Sinjin, making it sound as if Wade Hampton had had sex with an alien from Mars. "Yep," Wade said, totally at ease. "His family just moved south and his brother's in school with me. He was walkin' around the school, lookin' it over, and asked me where the toilets were, so I showed him." "I bet that's not all you showed him," muttered Sinjin under his breath. Wade Hampton took umbrage. He rose up on one elbow and glared at Sinjin. "Ya know, your problem is you ain't gettin' none." Before Sinjin could make a smart ass reply, I stuck my nose in. "So, anything different? I mean he was a Yankee!" Wade Hampton shrugged. "Yankee dick is just like Reb dick, only not as sweet." He grinned lasciviously at me and winked. "Cum like a horse, he did." Now, I am not saying that I put too much credence into that wink, but sometimes I did wonder if most of Wade Hampton's escapades were fiction, rather than fact. Sinjin, the goof, was just as doubtful. He wasn't that fond of Wade Hampton, and I think only tolerated him because he was my kin. "Y'all are as full of shit as a Christmas goose!" Sinjin spat. "Nobody gets as much as you claim to!" He shook his head and gave Wade Hampton a disgusted look. "If you did your pecker would be worn down to a nub!" "Sorta like yours?" asked Wade Hampton, raising one eyebrow. Now, if there was one thing Sinjin was not, was small. He knew it and did not care to be considered less that what he was. He also did not care to hear any more of Wade Hampton's real or imagined escapades, with Yankees or Rebs. "I think y'all are lyin', Wade Hampton, and that the only sexing y'all are doin' is with your hand!" Wade Hampton sniffed. "For a country boy you are dumber than most," he said calmly. "If y'all don't believe me, come on down to Charleston and I'll prove it to y'all." He gave me a nudge with his leg. "The boy will come back walkin' bow-legged!" I started to laugh, as did the others. Tony guffawed. "Sinjin is saving himself for marriage! He don't like sex." "I do too!" snapped Sinjin. "And look whose talkin'! Laura Hope was all set to suck your dick and you shot off when she breathed on it!" We all oohed. Sinjin had just let a very large cat out of the bag. Laura Hope was the town bad girl. Tony had taken her to the movies one night in the hope of getting into her pants. Unfortunately he spooged too soon and Laura spread it all over town. We never talked about it. It was not the thing to do. Wade Hampton laughed at Tony's darkly diffused face. "You should try it with a guy, Tony. They know how to do it right!" he advised. Poor Tony, embarrassed, didn't know what to say. Sinjin did. "Yeah, listen to the big expert! Bet he's never met a pecker he didn't like!" "Got that right!" Wade Hampton chortled. Sinjin had expected a little more than a frank admission from Wade Hampton. Since he hadn't got the expected rise out of Wade Hampton, Sinjin shook his head and snapped, "Oh, suck my dick!" Wade Hampton slowly rose to his feet and walked to where Sinjin was lying. "Okay," he said. Before Sinjin could react, Wade Hampton was on him, taking his flaccid dick in his mouth. "Wha . . .! Hey . . . God Damn!" Sinjin yelped as Wade Hampton sucked on his dick, which before our shocked eyes began to grow large. Sinjin's yelps of protest waned and we noticed he'd spread his legs, offering everything he had to the warm, sucking mouth. Wade Hampton reached up and began to squeeze and fondle Sinjin's balls. "Oh Gaaawwwd!" Sinjin squeaked as he slowly began to thrust his hips. Wade Hampton continued his ministrations and before too long Sinjin's body stiffened and his hips rose to new heights. His head was back and his eyes were rolled back, and then he started flopping like a fresh caught gator and squealing loudly. Then he stopped and flopped back onto the sand, breathing heavily. Grinning widely, Wade Hampton raised his head and Sinjin's softening pecker, looking as red as a cherry Popsicle, fell out. Wade Hampton let out a most ungentlemanly burp and rasped, "Nothin' like a bit o' sweet Southern cream to get the taste of a Yankee out of your mouth!" The silence that descended over the beach was thicker than the humidity. We had all heard about blow-jobs, but damn, this was too much. We didn't know what to say. Sinjin did. "Oh, fuck! That was awesome!" he groaned as the effects of his first blow job drained from his body. "Man, what happened?" Wade Hampton, ever helpful, answered, "You shot a load." Sinjin, a look of surprise crossing his face, looked down at his now sleeping, slightly shrunken pecker, and asked, "I did?" He shook his head. "I never done that before." Wade Hampton laughed and stood up. "There's a first time for everything," he said with a grin. "I guess you can now tell everybody that today you are a man!" In actual fact, Sinjin was the first of all of us to ejaculate, and of course we all had to find out what it had felt like. At first Sinjin was embarrassed and wouldn't tell us, but then he opened up about the wonderful feelings he'd had, and how he'd thought he'd died and gone to heaven. We were all very happy for him and couldn't wait until the day, or night, when we would start producing what we all called "cum". Sinjin was over the moon and I noticed he kept darting glances at Wade Hampton, who smiled like a cat, his eyes sparkling, whether from his vindication, or from Sinjin's sperm, I never knew. I did know that Sinjin would be very happy to see Wade Hampton from now on. ****** That night, as we lay in bed, and Wade Hampton moved to cuddle, as he always did, I moved away. The light was off, of course, and the room as dark as the inside of a cow's stomach, but I could feel his angry glare. Even though we had plenty of spare bedrooms, Wade Hampton and I always slept together, and he always cuddled with me. "Okay," Wade Hampton said eventually, "what's bugging your ass?" "Nothing," I pouted. Wade Hampton sighed in exasperation. "Coops, I've known you all of our lives, so don't bullshit me! Something's up your butt big time!" I sniffed in disdain. "That's one place you and that little dink of yours ain't never gonna go!" I snarled back. I could hear Wade's shocked reaction. Then he said slowly, "You're mad because I blew Sinjin?" His tone was one of complete disbelief. Up to then I had never commented, one way or another on his activities, or on the veracity of them. "No! I don't care if you blow Sinjin or the Bulldogs, collectively or individually!" The Bulldogs were the name of the Citadel Football Team. "I ain't, at least not collectively," returned Wade Hampton with an impatient snort. I growled and my fist pounded the mattress. "There you go again!" I said. "I never know when you're telling me the truth, or when you're lying! No wonder Sinjin . . ." I stopped abruptly. I didn't want Wade Hampton knowing the real reason for my sudden fit of pique. Wade Hampton, however, was no dummy. He knew exactly what I was on about. "You're pissed off because I blew him! You're jealous," he accused. "I am not!" I yelped. "Take that back!" I rose up and raised my fist. "I don't care that you blew him." Wade Hampton's voice was very low and very calm as he answered, "Then you're pissed off because you didn't do it or . . ." His voice trailed off and then he chuckled. "Why Cooper Marigny, you wanted me to blow you!" he said with heavy emphasis. At first I tried to bluster my way out of my predicament. Wade Hampton had hit both nails squarely on the head. I did want to blow Sinjin, and yes, I was jealous because Wade, in all the times we'd been together, had never once tried anything. "You don't know what you're talking about! What makes you think that I'd want to suck Sinjin's pecker? And as for you blowing me, well . . ." Damn it, I couldn't lie! So I shut up. Once again Wade Hampton laughed. "So, you want to try a little rumpy-pumpy! Why Cooper, you do surprise me!" He scooted over and spooned me, his arm draped over my naked waist. His hand gently rubbed my belly, then my pathetic excuse for a pubic bush. I could feel his warmth, no, his heat, against my back and buttocks. Surprisingly, for someone I thought had been born with a hard-on, Wade Hampton was soft as a cooked noodle, his pecker nestled in my butt crack. "Come on, Coops, tell your ol' uncle Wade Hampton what's really bothering you." Wade Hampton's hand moved lower and I felt his fingers gently teasing the head of my pecker. "Don't," I said half-heartedly. "Why? You like it, and you've been waiting for me to do something," replied Wade Hampton without rancor. Needless to say Wade's manipulations had the desired effect. "Hell's bells, you got yourself a decent sized pecker, Coops," Wade said admiringly. "Sinjin's is bigger," I grumped. "Yes, it is." Wade's voice was low and husky. "But yours is nicer." I shook away Wade's hand. "It looks exactly like Sinjin's," I retorted. Wade Hampton chuckled. "Of course it does. Yours looks like mine, and mine looks like everybody else's." He sniggered. "Except them as has skin." "Not too many around with skin. Except for Adam and Jason, and Simmons Richmond," I said. "He looks like he's got a big ol' sausage hangin' between his legs." Wade Hampton laughed. "So, you do notice." His hand slid back down into my crotch. "Yeah," I admitted. "I noticed." "And did nothing?" "What?" I demanded. I turned my head and my nose rubbed against Wade's cheek. "Coops, you've been hanging out with a bunch of proud hangin' guys and you want to tell me that you did nothing?" "If you mean did I feel 'em up, suck, or anything else, no!" I was frankly procrastinating, and didn't want Wade Hampton to know that we had all fooled around - and drew the line at a helpful hand job. "Well you're a damn fool!" snapped Wade Hampton. "If it'a been me, they would have been the happiest bunch of guys south of the Mason-Dixon Line!" I snorted. "Here we go again!" "You don't believe me, do you?" Wade asked, sounding pouty. I rolled on my back. "Wade Hampton, are you telling me you never lied about the guys you've been with?" "Nope." I sat up and stared at Wade Hampton. "You've, I mean you've actually sucked dick - I mean other than Sinjin's?" "Yep." "Had you dick sucked?" "Many times; I have a cute dick and guys like it." He shrugged expressively. "Well, some guys. Some just want to get sucked and don't want to return the favor." Being a complete naïf, I decided to use this opportunity. "Um, Wade Hampton, when did you know?" "That I liked guys?" "Yeah." Wade Hampton sighed a deep, wistful sigh. "I always knew. From the moment I understood about sex and stuff, I knew I wanted guys." Wade's words struck very close to home. I felt the same. Girls had never featured in my night time fantasies. It had always been boys, my friends, my naked, enticing friends. I didn't say a word though. I wasn't quite ready to reveal my deepest, darkest secret, not even to Wade Hampton. We lay quietly in the dark, listening to the roar of a bull gator off in the distance. Wade Hampton giggled. "He's horny!" he whispered. I was too, but I wasn't quite ready to explore my feelings. So, I changed the subject. "Wade Hampton, when did it happen? When did you, you know . . ." My voice trailed off. "First make it with a guy?" "Yeah." Wade Hampton hesitated, and the spoke softly. "Do you remember my tutor, Mr. Fasciano?" I did remember the young man; a short, devilishly handsome, black-haired young man who had been hired to pound something akin to knowledge into Wade Hampton's obstreperous head. I also remembered that Mr. Fasciano had been twenty-four or twenty-five at the time, and a graduate of Old Miss. Then I remembered how old Wade Hampton had been - eleven years old, or as close to it as damn it is to swearing, at the time! "Jesus, Wade Hampton, you don't mean to tell me that he . . . he boned you . . . that he made you . . ." "He didn't make me do anything," Wade Hampton growled. "I was totally in love with him!" He sniggered. "Coops, I took one look and damn, I wanted him." "And you got him." It was a statement of fact, and not a question. "Yep. He slept in the same room, you know, and I saw his morning woody, and well, I waited for the right time. Momma and Daddy had to go up to Columbia, and Johnny - his first name was John - was left in charge. Anyway, I waited 'til he was asleep and then I snuck over to his bed. He slept in his boxers so it wasn't too big a deal to feel around." "Gosh! Wasn't he, um, angry?" "More surprised than angry," replied Wade Hampton. "I mean, there I was, suckin' him, and he was a handsome man down there." Wade paused and then added, "Not big, about normal I guess, but handsome and I guess you can say he'd already reached the point of no return, so I got a mouthful." He sniggered. "Damn near choked the first time he squirted in my mouth." "The first time?" I exclaimed. "You mean you and him, you did it . . ." Wade Hampton gave my pecker and balls a squeeze. "Every night, every day, whenever I could get him alone and his pants down." "Wow!" "He was a stud, sure enough," Wade confirmed. My curiosity aroused, I had to ask. "Did you and him, did you ever do it?" I asked, emphasizing "it". Wade Hampton hesitated, and then I could feel his head nodding. "Yeah. Not at first. Mostly we just sucked each other, but . . ." I felt Wade Hampton's hand again. "Coops, I was so in love with him. I wanted to give him everything; I wanted him in me, so . . . we did it. At first he didn't want to do it, 'cause he said I was too little and he was too big, but I forced him, and damn, Coops, it was so good . . ." Wade Hampton's voice trailed off and I could hear his sob as he remembered his first time. "Um, didn't it hurt?" I asked. The very thought of having a man's erect member, or anything else for that matter, up my butt, made me wince and shiver. "Coops, I won't lie. At first it hurt, but Johnny was, well he was real gentle and damn, it felt wonderful." He chuckled dryly. "Of course, once he found my prostate . . ." "Your what?" I asked. My knowledge of basic anatomy was worse than limited. "It's a gland inside your butt, up under your balls. If a guy fingers it, or pokes it with his dick . . . wow!" While Wade Hampton's explanation was simplistic in the extreme, I got the message. "So, how many times did you do it?" I asked. "Well, the first time was the night before he left, and the second time was the morning he left." I knew that Johnny Fasciano had left for post-graduate work up north. Wade Hampton had grieved for days, and now I knew why. "Coops," Wade Hampton went on, "when the time comes, do it with a guy you love, truly love. Anything after your first time is just fucking and usually the guy doing the fucking just wants to get his rocks off." "You've done it with other guys?" I asked. "Yeah, a few times, although not often, and only with a guy I knew." Now I was confused. "Wade, what's the difference? Fucking is fucking!" I said forcefully. "No, it isn't!" Wade Hampton was equally forceful. "Like I said, the very first time is something special. Once you give it up, it's gone, forever. Oh, you might shack up with a guy who's a great lover, but no matter what, your first time is the best time, the time you always remember." Before I could reply, Wade Hampton sat up and wrapped his arms around his raised knees. "Coops, I gotta ask - are you queer?" Was I queer? Well, I had been thinking about that very subject . . . a lot. As I entered puberty I had come to regard my friends in a different light. No longer were they buddies, friends I had known forever. Now they were objects of fantasy and lust. I could no longer look on their smooth, tanned bodies with indifference and lack of interest. Now I craved the sight of their round, plump bottoms, their sweet, flaccid peckers, their wonderfully full-looking balls. I wanted to taste them, to feel them, to have their hard peckers in my mouth . . . "Yeah, I think I am," I admitted without regret or guilt. "I want to . . . well, you know." Wade laughed a low, evil laugh. "I sure do." I sat up and ran my hand down the inside of Wade's naked leg, found his hard pecker, and squeezed it. This was the first time I had initiated any activity and it surprised Wade Hampton no end. "You sure?" Wade Hampton asked, a tone of doubt in his voice. "Yeah," I breathed. "I want to, with you." Wade Hampton's arm snaked around my shoulder. "Coops, have you done anything with another guy, ever?" I could not lie. "Um, well, once, when I was little, I played with Philip Charles' pecker." "Nice pecker," Wade Hampton said dryly. "That all you did?" "Well, yeah. He wouldn't let me do anything more. He said it was queer." Wade Hampton snorted disdainfully. "He didn't say it was queer when him and me were in the huntin' blind." I gasped. I could not believe what I had just heard. "You . . . you and . . . Philip?" I squeaked. "Don't sound so shocked," Wade Hampton said easily. "We're kin after all." "I don't see what that has to do with you getting into Philips Charles' pants!" I huffed. "First of all, he got into my pants. He started it," returned Wade Hampton defensively. "Besides, we only did it a couple of times, and then he decided he liked girls better." He shrugged. "It happens, Coops, and if you're really queer, you better get used to it." "Huh?" "I think I better tell you the real facts of life," Wade Hampton said as he settled back. He returned to toying with the head of my pecker. "Coops," he began, "being queer is sometimes like a voyage of discovery. You sail along and soon you meet a guy. Sometimes other guys come sailing up to you. They all want the same thing, and that's where the discovery part comes in." "Okay." "First of all, you know that all guys are the same, only different." "They all have peckers!" I giggled. "They surely do," agreed Wade Hampton. "Now, they know you're up for a little fun. You know that they're up for a little fun, just as you know they wouldn't be with you otherwise." I nodded. "They think that because you're queer, being with you would make folks think they're queer too?" I offered. "Yeah, so you do everything you can think of to make people think you're not queer," Wade Hampton said with a grin. "You know the routine . . ." I did and quickly interrupted Wade, "You play sports, you pretend to have balls of brass, the usual `normal' boy crap!" I said. "Yeah, it's a pain in the ass, but it goes with the territory," Wade Hampton agreed. "But, if you're smart, you can have all the sex you want with only you and the other guy being the wiser." "You get a lot of sex?" I asked, still doubtful of Wade Hampton's tales. "Sure do," replied Wade Hampton firmly. "I know where to get it. I know how to get it, and if you're serious, you gotta learn." "Okay, teach," I said dismissively. "If you're not serious I can go sleep in the guest room," threatened Wade Hampton. "I'm serious, really serious," I said quickly. "Please stay." For emphasis I gave Wade Hampton's soft pecker a squeeze. "Please?" I wheeled. Mollified, Wade Hampton grunted, "Okay." He returned the gesture and continued. "After being with Johnny I knew what I wanted. It didn't take me long to figure out where what I wanted was." He sniggered quietly. "You know how my Daddy is always dragging me to football games at the Citadel?" "Yeah." "Well, Coops, Daddy has an in with the coaching staff and after every game we always end up in the locker room. Daddy walks around being hail fellow well met, slapping the players on the back and ass, you know, Mr. Jock That Was. Meanwhile, I sit there, with all these nekkid football players, scratchin' and adjustin' their parts, takin' showers and hell, Coops, a body can just stand so much!" I could see where being in a locker room with a tribe of naked football studs would be invigorating to say the least. "You didn't try anything there, did you?" I asked. "Nah! One thing you don't do is advertise in public!" Wade Hampton shook his head at my ignorance. "The first time I couldn't stand it, so I figured I'd go off and take care of business in the men's room." "Private cubicles and all," I said knowledgably. "Yep. Anyway, I went into the room down the corridor and it was empty. My pecker was just throbbin' so I went into one of the stalls and was sitting there, enjoying the mood, when I noticed there was a circle, a hole cut in the wall between the stall next to the one I was in." "A hole?" I asked, intrigued. "A hole," repeated Wade Hampton. "It's called a glory hole and you'd be surprised where you can find them." "What's it for?" I asked. "Boy, you really have to get down to Charleston more often!" growled Wade Hampton. "Come on, tell me," I said. "A glory hole lets a guy offer his dick for a-suckin'," said Wade Hampton. "If you know what you're about you know that if you stick your dick through the hole it's gonna get sucked." "So, what happened?" "Well, I was sittin' there, takin' care of business, I heard the door open and footsteps. I peeked through the opening and saw a guy standing in front of the pisser. I couldn't tell how old he was, but he had a nice looking' body from the back, so I figure he was pretty young." "A cadet?" Wade Hampton shrugged. "Don't know. He wasn't wearing a uniform, so maybe he was just somebody who came to see the game. The Bulldogs were playing the University of Pennsylvania Quakers; he could have been one of their fans." "Okay, so then what happened?" "Well, he finished peeing and then I heard him wash his hands, or his pecker, I couldn't see the sinks. Then he strolled down the line of cubicles, checking them to see if anyone was in them, I guess. He musta seen my legs and he scooted into the stall next to mine. The next thing I knew there was this really cute pecker lookin' back at me." "Get outta here!" I scoffed. "No bull, Coops, he was standing there, slowly playing with his pecker. Remember, I said that there was a glory hole and he musta known how things work." "Aaannnddd?" I drawled. "Well, it was a really nice pecker, not too big, about six inches or so, and really clean looking, so I reached out and touched it. I heard him groan a bit and then I saw he was leakin' precum - you know what that is, don't you?" I did. "Then, after I played with it a bit, I heard him whisper, "Suck it," so I did. He musta been real horny 'cause he didn't last long." I didn't know if Wade Hampton was disappointed or not. "Did he come?" "Like a horse!" laughed Wade Hampton. Then he sobered. "He shot his load and then pulled back, zipped up and walked out." "Bummer," I sympathized. "That's something else you have to get used to," opined Wade Hampton. "Which means?" "Well, Coops, most guys are basically walking hard-ons. Once they find out that another guy will blow them, or let them fuck him, that's all they do. They know that you're queer, but they're also convinced that they're not, that they're just getting their rocks off. They won't do anything in return." I sniffed. "They don't mind using you, they don't mind letting you suck them off, or fuck, but at the end of the day all you are is a receptacle for their sperm!" "You've been reading again," said Wade Hampton. "But then, you're right. I've been with a lot of guys, and most of them just want me to make them happy. I do, because I like making them happy. That's what I do and I don't expect anything in return, although it does happen." "It does?" "Sure. Some guys are gentlemen, and don't mind reciprocating. Most though, they blow their loads, pull up their pants, and leave." "I don't think I'd like that," I said. "I mean it can't be very satisfying." "Why not?" asked Wade Hampton. "I wanted dick, so I went where I could find it. I wasn't expecting anything other than pleasuring another guy." "You make it sound easy," I grumbled. "If I try anything everybody in town will know it." "Nope." "Nope?" "Look," Wade Hampton began, "the guys you make, the guys you have sex with, will do one of two things. They'll lay back and enjoy it, if you do it right, and come back for more. Or, they'll let you get them off and then walk away, and never come back, and never mention what they let you do to them. They liked what you did, but in the back of their minds they feel guilty for having you suck their dick. They have a guilty conscience, and think what we did is queer, and of course "normal" guys don't do things like that." "That's very encouraging," I complained. "Coops, you live in a small town, and don't have the opportunities that I have. You're also a virgin, have never had sex with another guy, and don't know shit." "You got that right." "I do," agree Wade Hampton. "Now listen. If you decide to put to the moves on one, or all of your friends, you have to know that most of them aren't queer. They're curious, they'll like getting sucked, but sooner or later they'll walk away. With most of them it won't change a thing. They'll still be your friend, and they'll joke with you about what you did, but most of them will just say that it was something guys do, two guys helping each other out. Don't look for love, or anything like it. They'll go with the flow, just like you will." "I will?" "Yes, you will. Coops, are there any glory holes in the boys bathroom at school?" Wade Hampton asked. "Not that I know of." I replied. "Why, is it important?" "No. I live in Charleston, a place where if you know what you want, you know where to find it. If I want sex, I can go to White Point Gardens. There's always somebody looking for a little fun." "There is?" Wade Hampton's mentioned of the Gardens was surprising. I always enjoyed playing there when we visited my grandmother. "I never saw anything like what you're talking about." "It happens after dark," said Wade Hampton. "You'd be surprised how many swingin' dicks you can find there." Wade Hampton sighed almost wistfully. "A lot of the dicks are attached to young guys from the naval base, sailors, marines . . ." "United States Marines?" I squeaked. At the time, to my mind, the height of masculinity was represented in two bodies of men: the Citadel Cadets and the United States Marine Corps. "Well, unless there's a British cruiser in port, yeah," said Wade Hampton, "the only Marines around are the U.S. variety." "There's others?" I asked, showing my ignorance. "Well, yes. There are Royal Marines, and they're some punkin'," advised Wade Hampton. "Most of them are cute, and young, but they can be rough." He paused. "Not to mention they all have extra skin, which can be grim if they don't clean themselves." I giggled. "I know. I heard Daddy railin' at Simmons Richmond about not keeping his dick clean." Wade Hampton snorted. "I knew Simmons was a pig, just had to look at him." I wasn't about to argue the point. If anyone would know, it would be Wade Hampton. "Is that the only place you go?" "No. I always check out the pissers when I go to a football game, and then there's the sinks." "The what?" "The sinks is what they call the shower rooms at the Citadel. They're in the basement of each barracks. You know my mother is always dragging me to some alumni tea, or some other nonsense, so when I get bored I go hunting." "You catch anything?" "Not too often, but sometimes, but those cadets are too straight or too scared to try anything." He sighed heavily. "More's the pity because some of them . . ." "Charlie Pegram," I breathed. "Who?" Wade Hampton raised his head. "Did you say `Charlie Pegram'?" I snuggled against Wade and nuzzled his neck. "You said the first time, when you go all the way, it's special, and you should do it with someone you love, someone special?" "Yeeeaaahhh?" Wade Hampton began, and then he laughed. "You want your first time to be with Charlie? Charlie Pegram?" He began to laugh harder and louder, demonstrating his conviction that I wasn't about to get into Charlie's pants, or his bed, any time soon. "It's not funny!" I snapped. "You wanted your first time to be with Johnny Fasciano, so it was. Why can't I want my first time to be with Charlie Pegram?" "Wantin' ain't gettin'," quoted Wade Hampton. "He's straight, and I think you're the last guy he'd go to bed with!" "Maybe so, but I can still want him!" I returned weakly. "Yeah, we all live in hope," sniffed Wade Hampton in reply. "Personally I don't think you have a cat's chance." "Don't rub it in!" "Coops, I'm just saying, that's all," said Wade Hampton as he gave me a hug. "Charlie is one hunk, and if I had a chance at him, I'd go for it. But he knows about me, and has never come near me. He's a straight arrow through and through." I had to admit, if only to myself, that Wade Hampton was right. "So what do I do?" "Forget about Charlie and concentrate on the boys at hand, so to speak." "Huh?" "Well, like I said, living here in the sticks you don't have much to work with. So, you take advantage of the situation and when opportunity knocks, open the door and do every thing you can to pleasure whoever it is you're after. Make what you do to him so damned wonderful he'll come back with his dick in his hand, slobbering all over himself and begging for more!" "Wade Hampton, all I've ever done is jerk off! How in the hell . . ." Without replying, Wade Hampton got out of bed, turned on the bedside lamp, walked to the door, locked it and then returned to the bed. He slowly pulled back the sheet that had been covering us and spread my legs apart. Although I didn't know, Wade Hampton was about to lead me into strange waters, waters boiling with pleasure and rolling to heights of glory so high that there are no words to describe them. ****** "Okay," Wade Hampton began, "you want to pleasure a guy?" "Uh huh," I admitted. I kept my eyes on Wade Hampton, not sure what he was going to do to me. I figured that he was going to blow me, but never having had a blow job, I was a little hazy about the methodology. At least I knew that he was actually going to blow on my pecker. "Coops, you've got to please a guy so much that nothing, and I mean nothing, like it has ever happened to him, please him so much that he lies in bed at night and beats off thinking about what you did to him." He began to slowly stroke my flaccid penis. "Most guys love getting their dicks sucked. They dream about getting their dicks sucked." His fingers found the spongy head of my pecker and rubbed it slowly. "Now, most guys think that girls give good head," Wade said as he lowered his head. He licked the head of my now stiff shaft, his tongue tickling the back of the head, just where it joined the shaft. It felt so great I jerked my hips and groaned. Wade Hampton laughed quietly. "That, Coops, is a `G' spot," he informed me. "A what?" I demanded. "Do that again!" "Okay," Wade Hampton snickered. He sucked me a little, causing me to writhe and moan. Then he drew back. I could feel his soft breath caressing my balls as he spoke. "Girls don't know how to give a good blow job because they don't have peckers. They don't know what part of a guy's body gets turned on by playing, or licking. The parts are called `G' spots, and every guy has them. "Some guys, they like to have their nipples sucked." Wade Hampton leaned forward and suckled my left nipple. I could feel it get hard and I have to admit it felt magnificently good. I stifled a moan. "The head of a guy's pecker is probably his most sensitive `G' spot, especially at the back." He leaned down and kissed my pecker. "At the back is a special spot. Tongue it, nibble it, and drive the guy nuts." "Is that what you did to Sinjin?" "Oh yeah," Wade Hampton grinned. "Of course, you gotta be careful 'cause if you do it too much he comes real quick. I like to wait until I've got him so hot he can't stand it and he's beggin' me to make him cum." That didn't sound too bad, and while I did want to blow a load, I also wanted a little more education. "Okay, so a guy's nipples, and the head of his dick. What else?" "Well, that you have to find out. A lot of guys love having their balls sucked." Wade Hampton's mouth was at my scrotum before I knew and I could feel his tongue slowly fallow the curve of my left nut. Then I felt it being engulfed with a warmth I had never felt before. He sucked and rolled my testicle and then switched to the right nut. He did the same thing and then I felt my whole ball sack being sucked. Oh, Sweet Jesus! I bucked and moaned and I could feel my pecker thumping against my belly. The feelings of Wade's mouth and tongue on my balls had sent me into a strange, glorious world, and I was barely conscious of him withdrawing and pushing my legs up to my chest. My closed eyes snapped open. "Hey, get away from there," I snapped. "That's no man's land!" "I know that," grumbled Wade. "You're saving it for Charlie Pegram." "Then what are you . . ." I squawked loudly as I felt Wade's tongue cross my butt pucker. "Holy shit!" "Guys love getting their ass hole licked and sucked," Wade informed me. "It's called rimming." He frowned slightly. "Of course, it helps if he's clean." "I'm clean," I told him. "Do it again." "You got any lotion?" Wade asked nonchalantly. "What? What do you want lotion for?" I had an idea, or thought I did, as to exactly what he wanted to use the lotion for. "You ain't thinkin' what I think you're thinkin' are you? It ain't gonna happen!" "Your loss," sniffed Wade. "Don't worry, I ain't gonna fuck you." "Damn straight you ain't!" I growled. I made to sit up and Wade pushed me back down. "Hold on there, tiger. All I want to do is show you where your prostate is, and what happens when someone fiddles it." "Which means?" I ask suspiciously. "Which means all I'm gonna do is stick my finger up your butt. Your prostate is inside, under your balls." "But . . ." "You want to learn?" Wade asked. "If you do, then where's the fuckin' lube. If I do it dry it'll hurt like buggery." Well, faced with a determined Wade Hampton and frankly curious, I nodded toward the bedside table. "There's a jar of Vaseline in the drawer. I use for beating off." There was no point in hiding, from Wade Hampton of all people that I beat off. Using the lubricant, Wade greased up the middle finger of his right hand and then went to work. He stroked my rosebud, gently probing with his finger tip. Then ever so slowly he inserted his finger. I really didn't mind what he was doing, as it felt nice, and it didn't hurt at all. I felt his finger wiggling, searching then it happened . . . His finger touched something deep within me and a bolt of indescribable pleasure shot through my body. My butt rose higher and my pecker spasmed. "Oh fuck!" I squeaked. What happened next is something I shall never forget. Something deep within my body exploded and waves of something so glorious roared through my body that I can never describe them adequately. I seemed to ascend to a plain of such wonderful feelings that I lost track of time and place. I knew Wade was stimulating my prostate, and I knew that I was having an orgasm, the likes of which could never be repeated. My very first orgasm was not some infantile ejaculation, nor was it an individual, crashing avalanche overwhelming me. According to Wade Hampton my pecker throbbed and stuck straight out from my all but hairless crotch and I all but levitated as the first stream of my immature semen exploded from the head of my pecker. With each squirt my body shook and I growled and groaned and thrust and shuddered. It was the most glorious experience of my young life! I remember vividly that Wade Hampton, not about to waste any of what he called "the finest young Suthrun cream he'd ever tasted" took just the head of my pecker into his mouth and sucked frantically, sending me crashing down into the valley of glory. I could feel the warmth and softness of Wade's mouth, I could feel my watery sperm blast from my pecker and I could hear my heart pounding as my brain went into stasis, with synapses bursting and brain cells exploding. When my poor testicles were completely drained Wade withdrew, but my body refused to stop. I lay there, with Wade looking at me in anxious surprise, I continued to shudder and thrust as still more residual electric shocks of pleasure traveled up my pecker. I gasped and took in heaving breaths of air, unable to move until finally the tidal wave ebbed and I lay still. "Oh fuuuccckkk," I groaned as my body continued to ripple with pleasure. "Damn!" Wade Hampton murmured, his eyes wide. "I sure never saw a guy cum lak that before!" Barely recovered, I rose up slowly, took Wade in my arms and held him, the heat of my body warming both of us. Then we kissed, a deep, open mouth, tongue lashing kiss that seemed to last for hours. Finally, we withdrew. Wade Hampton's pecker stood proudly upward, and I grinned and lowered my head. Wade never spoke a word as I took him in my mouth, determined to repay the pleasures he had given me. ****** That night we barely slept at all as Wade Hampton introduced me to new, strange feelings of wonder. I swear our peckers never softened until the sun began peeking over the trees across the river. We pleasured each other in almost every way a boy could pleasure another. We did not have anal sex, for I was determined to follow Wade's advice and save myself for someone I truly loved - Charlie Pegram. In the morning we were exhausted and spent. The bed clothes were a mess and the room smelled of sweat and semen and boy. I had no idea how I would ever be able to explain the mess, but I wasn't thinking of that when we crawled, finally from the bed. I was thinking of what I would do when opportunity knocked, and wondering which of my friends would be the recipient of my newfound knowledge and lust-filled desires.