Elgee sat, expectantly, eyebrows raised in unasked questions, waiting patiently for me to respond with more information than I’d provided thus far. At that moment, the singular slot of time in the infiniteness of time, the little cough in the congested corridors of life, I realized he wanted, needed, to know more concerning me, the man now his benefactor and uncle, not dissimilar from me wanting to know more about him.
Perhaps it was the wine, tiredness from the long day, the lateness of the hour, or the general maudlin feeling sometimes creeping in on me this time of the evening when the sadness of my loss and the lack of David’s cheerful, supportive companionship overtook me. It may’ve been the proximity of a blood relative, a great-nephew who wasn’t just perfunctorily interested in my life, but genuinely so and desired me to share it with him and his husband to be.
No matter the reason or the circumstances, I decided to share my life to now and relive it with them as I remembered it, something I’d not done before except with David.
Sipping slowly on my wine, holding it in my mouth momentarily, savoring the essence of it, tasting the fermented fruit beverage, and finally swallowing it, I began,
“It’s a long story, Rick and Elgee, and it may take several evenings to re-tell it. You may find it boring and beg me to cease and so I shall, or you may desire me to continue, which I shall. There are places you may feel anger, sadness, or happiness, but your emotions will not change what happened, only cause you to understand how it affected me or if you should encounter similar situations in the future. Life is an education unto itself and what you learn from it can be used by others or yourself. You’ll only have life once, so I urge you to live it.”
“We were two boys born five hundred miles apart in different states, never realizing or caring, at the time, our lives would sometime in the future, joined together as one. It was pre-World War II, in 1932, David entered this world and the summer of 1940 when I was born. War wasn’t too far distant into the future, but its start, impending disasters, and early years were unremembered by me since I was too young. During the later war years and the aftermath certainly affected the lives we lived, especially me. I only knew of David’s life on this farm from what he relayed to me over the years and personal experiences I had with his family after we became a couple.”
I was born into a highly conservative, prejudiced family in a country, the United States. Racism was alive and well in the country of my birth; a country with deep roots in slavery and racism. The most blatant, pervasive, insidious, violent, and common in large parts of the country was the segregation of black Americans from white Americans. White privilege and white separatism promulgated and maintained it by laws and practices. Community and personal actions and beliefs of prejudicial bias was not uncommon.
Fear was used to intimidate and enforce the denigration of people of color and still is today. Schools were segregated, voting was restricted as were buses, eating establishments, hotels, restrooms, movies, churches, banking, jobs, the military, if not outright by law, then by ordinances or restricting codicils, actual practice in large portions of the country. These “Jim Crow” laws were meant to hold African-Americans in modern subjugation. Beatings, church and home burnings, castration, and lynching’s were not unheard of and kept a reign of terror thrust on the oppressed! Marrying or dating a black person of either sex meant imprisonment.
Even in those states, particularly the northern industrial and agricultural ones, where segregation wasn’t lawful, there were laws concerning marriage and de facto segregation – segregation by intent of practice- whites and blacks were somehow relegated to separate parts of town, movie theaters, churches, and employment.
It wasn’t only the black community who suffered from racial discrimination, but Asian-Americans, Native Americans, and Central and South Americans as well, citizens of the United States or not, made no difference. World War II and the attack on Pearl Harbor saw the imprisonment of U. S. citizens simply because they were of Japanese ancestry. Native Americans weren’t considered citizens until the 1930’s and some not even then.
The propaganda machine of the government during the war ginned up hate of the enemy using film, cartoons, and hate speech for domestic consumption; all of it intended to help the war effort and motivate the general public. It also taught people to hate, especially the young!
Of all of this I was unaware since I was too young. All I knew was there were shortages and rationing of all sorts of things. Since I’d never had some of the rationed items, such as meat more than once a week or sugar or more than one pair of shoes or new clothes, except remade hand-me-downs, I didn’t miss them. There were soldiers and military equipment moving through town to places unknown to me and a general feeling of fear and suspicion.
I remember well the day the War ended and the celebrations. There was no celebration in the Moore house however. My oldest brother, Neil, seventeen when I was born and hence don’t remember him at all, was drafted and died on some remote Pacific Islands, fighting, as my father put it, “those yellow bastards.” Peter, seven years older than me, LeRoy nine years older, Nancy eleven years older, and Robert thirteen years older remained at home, although Robert was eighteen when the war ended, but escaped the draft.
My parents and siblings became quite bitter, blaming non-white heathens and non-believers for Neil’s death. They became withdrawn from the community at large and sought out friends of similar beliefs. In the process, concentrating their efforts and sometimes ire it seemed on the older children, my parents neglected me more and more and in doing so, I gained more and more freedom, as my siblings moved away, than they had at my age. However, I was constantly admonished by my parents and siblings, to “stay away from those people.” “Those people” included Blacks, Latinos, Jews, Arabs, Catholics, Mormons, and a raft of others different from us. As long as I wasn’t causing trouble or drawing attention to the family, it was fine.
Fortunately for me, I had my cousin Claire, my age and quite understanding, living some four blocks away. She and her family gave me refuge and support when I needed it and I was always welcome- as long as I didn’t become a pest, according to my mother and father.
Life was a learning experience for me, more than just school, but in survival as well. I was a quiet boy, shy some would say, thin with no waist what-so-ever. I could stand clad only in my underwear, wiggle my hips, and they’d pool at my ankles. I found it more comfortable and efficient not to wear any at all if and when I could get by with it. I also learned people thought I was cute, an extremely good looking boy. One of Claire’s older brothers once laughed when I complained about people ruffling my hair and telling me I was “adorable” that I was too pretty to be a boy. I knew better since I had the identifying equipment to prove it and made certain it was still there several times a day.
I learned, around the house and adults, to keep quiet, listen, and learn. I discovered there was more than just racial discrimination in our house and community. The other kinds, sometimes not so obvious, still hurt other people and were nasty as well. Gender discrimination kept women and girls subservient to men; religious discrimination almost forbid talking or marrying someone outside your own; foreign people who were not quite as “American” as you were; and one which would affect me in my life, homophobia, just to name a few. Our society was full of prejudice, bias, discrimination, and suppressed hate. I just had to ask myself time and time again – why?
You’d be surprised what adults will say when they think a small boy isn’t paying any attention to them. I learned all sorts of new words, those naughty kind you get your mouth washed out with soap, derogatory terms for people of color, those of different religion or countries, names for various body parts, and to avoid walking funny, looking at other boys, or playing with myself because it was “queer.” I had no idea what a “queer” was, so I asked.
My mother was horrified and threatened to wash my mouth out with soap, my dad said it meant “homosexual,” Robert said they were “fairies,” and the preacher, who expressed obvious and loud distain, called them “sodomites,” destined to hell and eternal damnation.
When all else fails, I sought my answer elsewhere, specifically Claire’s older brother, Wyatt. Four years older than Claire and me and was the repository of all wisdom, I thought at the time, especially when it came to the “naughty” stuff, and if he didn’t know, he’d know where to find it. Considering all of the different, confusing, round-about answers I received, I was convinced “queer” was really nasty, quite wicked, to say the very least.
I was disappointed, at first, when Wyatt explained a “queer” was when one boy liked another boy. Well, I liked boys; in fact, I was in the process of discovering I liked boys more than girls. The exception was Claire, my best friend. She wasn’t equipped with the particular part I was most interested in but that was okay.
But, when Wyatt got into the nitty gritty detail, the very vivid description and examples, without being judgmental, what “queer” meant boys did to boys, I really learned what “queer” meant and it was something we didn’t talk about because boys and men weren’t supposed to do those kind of things to each other, although Wyatt did admit boys and men did, only in secret and “never, never” told anyone. Frankly, I thought they’d be rather fun to try!
I also learned there were people who hated “queers” and would do them harm if they found one, or as Wyatt put it, “beat the shit out of you.” Wyatt also said it was against the law to do “queer” things and a “queer” could go to jail where some very bad men would do some very nasty things to you, most of it concerning your “asshole.” That was a new word and I understood it once Wyatt pointed toward his butt-hole.
Another one of Claire’s older brothers, James, overheard our discussion and entered into it. It was from him I learned cute boys like me should not help strange men “find their lost puppy” or “accept candy,” or “special treats.” I could end up with something stuffed somewhere where the sun didn’t shine and it’d hurt! If I was in the movie theater and some man sits down next to you and has his jacket across his lap, don’t accept his invitation to “meet his little friend.”
“And for god’s sake, Levi,” James warned, “don’t let an older boy or man do anything you don’t want done. Be careful in public restrooms or even those at school.”
I learned a great deal that day from saying “no” to how important it was not to be caught “peeking” at some other boy’s pecker in the restroom. Our talk that afternoon helped me survive in so many ways over the years, and I’m forever grateful to Claire’s brothers. They figured I was gay or “queer” and made no issue of it. They and Claire accepted me for what I was and that was that.
You might think it’s a lot for an almost seven year old boy to absorb and understand, but, as James said, “You’re a smart little shit,” knowing I understood and would remember.
James was absolutely right; I was smart and my school work reflected it. My grades were always at the top of the class. I studied hard and once I learned to read, seemed to devour books. I loved to read and read and read and after I read it, I could remember what I read and where I read it. My parents weren’t overly impressed with my report cards, seldom if ever complimenting me on them. They didn’t see much value in an education beyond the eighth grade, all which was required then before you could quit school and considered educated. Some might need a high school diploma but definitely not a college education. Doctors and lawyers and “other rich sons-a-bitchs” have those.
Riding my scooter down the alley behind the house, the summer after I turned eight, I ventured down our block and into the alley of the next. Standing inside a wire fence, watching me come down the alley, one foot pumping the ground to propel me, I spotted an older boy, one I’d not seen in the neighborhood before, watching me. The closer I approached, the clearer I could make out his features.
I didn’t recognize him. I thought at the time he was particularly handsome; tanned, somewhat rough-cut, blue jeans handing low on his waist held up by what I didn’t know since he wore no belt, faded tee-shirt, tennis shoes, and baseball cap perched jauntily on his head. I thought he might be eleven or twelve years old. I slowed, came to a stop, and looked him over. His eyes tracked from my face down to the front of my shorts, down to my shoes, and back up to my crotch, where his eyes rested. It was a warm day and I was dressed only in shorts and tennis shoes; no shirt, no underwear.
“Hey, kid,” he said loudly.
I shouldn’t have but I did. This kid was trouble, big trouble, but I was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Stepping off of my scooter, leaning it up against the fence, as he instructed, “Come in the gate.”
He stepped toward it, opened it, and waved me in. It was a mistake on my part I realized later. He looked me over like a cat does a mouse before it pounces on it! In a brief conversation, I learned he was just visiting and was thirteen years old. The boy stepped closer to me, lifted my chin with a finger of one hand while the other hand slipped around my waist, slowly pulling me closer to him.
“You’re just the cutest fuckin’ kid I think I ever saw,” he smiled, licking his lips.
The boy pulled me closer until we were almost belly to belly. He smiled at me again as he unzipped his pants and poked out his hard cock. It was maybe four to five inches long, uncut, and the size of a roll of dimes.
I couldn’t help but stare at it, feeling my own little tool begin to stiffen. He reached forward, put a hand down the front of my shorts, and began stroking my little pecker, saying, “Nice!”
I shrugged again.
“You know what I’m going to do?”
I shook my head “no.”
“I’m going to take you into that garden shed,” flipping his head toward a small building, “pull your pants down, taste this little morsel you have in your shorts, then turn you around and fuck your sweet ass until I squirt my jizz up your butt-hole.”
I should have run away, but he had a rather secure hold on my pecker and I really didn’t want to risk leaving it behind if I did. I should’ve screamed but somehow I just couldn’t. Maybe because what he was doing to my cock felt pretty darned good.
In the garden shed, full of rakes, hoes, shovels, and other items, there were two saw horses, “Just the right height,” he declared.
With one tug, he had my shorts down around my ankles, quickly kneeling, pulling my hips forward, he slurped my hard cock and tugged up tight balls into his mouth, and began one of the most mind-boggling, tickling, licking, sucking sensation on my little prong I’d ever felt! Much better than just me fiddling with it. I felt something building inside me, growing larger and large, causing me to shiver and shake until suddenly, I felt as if my balls were going to blow out through the end of my stiffie. They didn’t thank god, but the feeling was tremendous.
I didn’t have time to comment since he whirled me around, leaned me over one of the saw horses, spit on my tiny pucker and his cock, and with one thrust, rammed it home! He paused a moment, allowing me to adjust to the size and the discomfort from having something go in where things normally went out, and began pumping away. It wasn’t long until I felt him shove his crotch up against my ass cheeks, shudder and push harder into me, and feel his cock seem to swell several times, before he pulled out. He reached down pulled up my shorts, tucked his wilting cock back into his pants, left me alone in the garden shed, and walked to the house.
I could feel stuff running down the back of my legs so I reached hand back there to check. It came back sticky with white stuff, but no blood. How was I to know it was semen? This was the first I’d ever seen anything like it, but for some reason it didn’t cause me concern since it wasn’t blood. I thought maybe it was the result of the reaction he had similar to mine when he sucked me off. Scampering out of the shed, I grabbed my scooter, and tore up the alley toward home. I never saw the kid again. I should have followed James’s advice!
I breathed not a word to another living soul, not even Claire. For some reason I knew the boy knew I wouldn’t say anything to anyone. For the very same reason, I knew he wouldn’t either. I became a keeper of secrets. I learned to keep my mouth shut, hold my secrets and those of others inside, careful at all times of betrayal. The session with the strange boy was a valuable lesson for me and I used it to my advantage over the years. I became someone, another person, especially those of like nature, could trust.
Navigating the journey through junior high was precarious, but attainable, and into high school was accomplished by keeping my head down, eyes diverted, grades up, and a low profile. I’d witnessed what happened to other boys with less discretion, and I had no desire to fight anyone concerning anything or suffer the bullying and humiliation heaped upon them. I used my wiles to avoid most scrapes at school, but I wasn’t quite so successful at home. “Spare the rod and spoil the child” was something my mother and father definitely believed in; delivered at times because of anger, mental distress, frustration, or just because I was handy.
Their deliveries of that type of punishment came to a halt in fifth grade after I had my ass whupped to the point of bleeding. My teacher noticed me fidgeting in class and when I confessed I had a sore bottom, sent me to the school nurses office. Totally embarrassed when asked to drop my britches (it’d never happen today. In fact, the school would be lucky to have a nurse.), the application of some ointment, and a call to my parents brought it to a screaming halt.
In junior high, I was really careful, especially after physical education class and we were required to shower, hoping I didn’t pop a bone in the midst of the rest of the naked boys. I saw a couple of other boys sprout a hard-on and they were teased without mercy. I wanted no part of that; didn’t need my ass teased because I boned up or my nose bloodied when I looked too long at a nice, smooth, cock. Better be careful than sorry, I thought.
The real split in the relationship between my parents and me, although it was never that great, happened shortly after I entered the ninth grade, got a job, and announced I wasn’t going to church anymore. I explained my decision because the supermarket job required me to work Sundays. I put my foot down, held my ground, refused to give up the job, and gave up church. The shit hit the fan and I was tossed out.
My re-entry was gained by Aunt Bess, my mother’s older sister and Claire’s mother. It basically became a place to sleep after that. Only Claire knew the real reason why I refused to go back to the church and it was her grand idea to get a job as an excuse.
A different pastor showed up at our church the summer after I finished seventh grade. From the very beginning I had a dislike and distrust of the man. Now remember, I was still an extremely good looking boy, small in stature, and I’m certain looked vulnerable and easily seduced. His sermons were just what the adult members of the church thrived on with underlying themes of white privilege, racism, homophobia, and xenophobia, all justified by his own far right, evangelical interpretation of selected parts of the Bible.
His sermons, almost once every two or three months condemning the evils of the “sodomites” in our society and how God would condemn them to hell, were especially virulent! I found them most disagreeable. Listening to him, I began to sense the old saying, “me thinks thee protests too much.”
I could tune out the sermons, drift off into my own world, and disregard him, but it was the way he looked at me, a longing, wanting, the look a cat gives as it eyes a canary before devouring it. He made me uneasy, uncomfortable, and made me want to really, really avoid him! No way was I going to “meet his little friend” as James warned me about years before.
The preacher would many times take a special interest in this boy or that one, claiming he wanted to help the lad find his faith. The summer I left eighth grade and was headed into high school, he decided I needed some special “tutoring” to help me face the rigors, temptations of high school, and be strong in my faith. I objected, but my parents agreed with the preacher so I ended up in special class with two other boys, both younger.
Once a week, we reported to the parsonage for our lessons. The third week, he took one of the other boys to his “study” for personal counseling. When the boy returned, his face was flushed and he sort of walked funny, but made no comment. The next week, the second boy went to the study and when he returned, his eyes were red as if he’d been crying.
Now I’m nobody’s fool and I put two and two together and came up with “he’s fucking boys!” I figured the next week would be my turn in the “study” and our little encounter was going to be on my terms and not his! I came prepared.
In the study with the pastor, we visited a little, me sitting on a chair facing him behind his desk. He walked out from behind the desk, with an obvious tent in his pants, stood behind me, and as he did, I thought I heard the sound of a zipper being slipped down. He sort of leaned over me, murmuring softly, “You’re such a beautiful boy, a true gift from God, made to give special service to the church and its clergy,’ and leaned up against my shoulder.
I could feel it- his naked, hard cock poking out through his pants as he moved it up and down the backside of my shoulder. I sat very still wondering what would be next, my pants down or my mouth open.
“On your knees,” he commanded “and pray God forgives you.” (Mouth this time, pants next, I’d bet).
He mistook my quiet and easy obedience with acquiescence, but how wrong he was to be. As I kneeled, I pulled my pocket knife from my pocket, opened the blade, and concealed it from him. He wouldn’t have noticed anyway he was so concentrated on me giving him a suck job.
Stepping in front of me, his hard cock pointing out of the fly of his pants, he grabbed my head, and pushed his crotch toward my face.
I grabbed his cock with my left hand, heard him gasp, “Oh, my, yes,” and with my right, pushed the very sharp point of the knife up tight against the base of his cock.
“Maybe, preacher,” I said menacingly, “you’re the one who should be praying I don’t slip or sneeze and you lose your cock like a Frenchman loses his head on the guillotine.”
I must have pushed a little harder than I thought and nicked one of the tiny blood vessels on the underside of his stiff member. The cock is made stiff by muscle and lots of blood surging into it at arousal. Well, the blood sort of spurted out momentarily before it began to slowly drip, covering my left hand where it held his deflating cock, and when the preacher looked down, he saw my blood covered hand, evidently mistaking one of my fingers for his dismembered member, and I heard him say, “Oh fuck!” and fainted. Plop- right there on the fucking floor; his dick sticking out and covered with blood!
I wiped my knife and hand on his white shirt, put my knife away, stepped out into the “study” and announced there’d be no more special sessions and it was time to go home. I decided I was done with that church and wouldn’t go back. Claire came up with the idea for a job when I explained to her what happened. All she said was, “Old pervert!”
My social life during high school was pretty well limited by my work schedule and hustling for food and clothing. Working the concession stand during the school year kept me fed one meal but also kept me in contact with fellow students, teachers, and the public. Many of my customers who came through my line would visit with me and more often than not slip me a buck or two. I know it wasn’t quite right, but I didn’t turn it down. They were being nice, helpful, and thanking me. I made certain when they came through my line at the store, I took care of them as well, pointing out sale items, giving them their discounts, or even scanning extra coupons I kept in my drawer so if they forgot theirs, they’d still get the coupon price. People appreciate those little things.
An occasional movie with Claire or school play or musical sort of rounded out my social life, except for my frequent visits to the public library. It made a great place to do my homework and offered me an entire world outside of where I lived at my fingertips. I became extremely interested in history, more world history than United States, but any and all. English and Spanish, as well as the biological sciences peaked my interests as well. With the Mississippi River flowing by our city, there was a diverse aquatic, animal, and plant life available for study. I was fairly eclectic in my academic interests and was having a hard time deciding what I wished to pursue.
Life was trucking along fairly well I thought, given the circumstances. I finished my eleventh grade year number six in my class and was looking forward to my senior and last year of high school. After that, college, I hoped. One way or the other, I was determined to go to college, no matter how long it took or cost. Summer, proved to be a real downer, however.
I generally worked one of the later shifts during the school year so I wouldn’t miss school and continued to do so during the summer. It relieved the regular employees from working that shift and gave them evenings with their families. They were grateful and I didn’t mind; besides, it provided me with a hot supper and lunch for the next day after the Deli closed and they were getting ready to toss the leftovers. My shift ran from about twelve-thirty in the afternoon until nine in the evening.
A boy I recognized from school but really didn’t know, a senior who’d graduated in May, started using my checkout line, appearing late afternoons, purchasing some small item or something from the Deli. He always seemed to wait until he could use my checkout line. I thought nothing of it at the time.
At first it was just friendly words, you know, between customer and clerk, with him always using my first name (duh, it was on my name tag), smiling, lingering just a minute before paying and leaving. He was pleasant, nice to visit with, and seemed innocuous enough. The fourth or fifth time he was in, he introduced himself.
“Alan,” he offered, extending his hand. I clasped it and he sort of held on for longer than a handshake is normally held, I thought. It was then I noticed or hoped, in retrospect, he really seemed interested in me, perhaps seeking a friend. I thought he might be as lonely as I was at times. A week and a half later he asked what time I got off work and I willingly told him, again, hoping something just might develop.
“How about a movie tonight – my treat?”
It sounded fine to me so I accepted.
Nothing happened, other than watching a movie at a downtown theater, a lot of laughs, and great companionship. It was a good time and I had to admit, he made me as hard as a nail. A couple of days later we went to the drive-in theater north and west of town. This time in the darkness and privacy of his car, he slid his hand across the seat to the inside of my thigh. God, help me, I wanted it so, when I made no objection, he moved it up to my crotch and cupped my balls and hard cock. I almost creamed when he did.
Raising his eyebrows in question, seeking permission, I nodded and he reached up and unzipped my pants. He pulled my hard cock out through the fly, smiled, almost adoring it. “Man,” he said, “this is a beauty, just like the rest of you.”
What guy doesn’t want to hear his cock is gorgeous or be told how great the rest of him looks?
Alan began a slow, careful, and sensuous masturbation of my penis. He took his time, bringing me to the edge several times before finally letting me expend myself into his hand. Alan studied my offering, stuck out his tongue, and tasted it. “Sweet!” was his comment.
I thought to return the favor, but when I had Alan’s cock fully exposed, instead of accepting a hand job, he eased my head down to his crotch. I could’ve protested, said no, or anything, but I knew what he wanted. I felt so strongly about him, so much in love watching him taste me, I really wanted to do something I’d never done before- suck a boy’s cock, especially his. It wasn’t the last time I tasted his dick.
By the first week of August, we’d graduated to the back seat of his car while at the drive-in movie theater, and things changed, drastically! I remember the night specifically, although not the movie playing that night, but what happened, affecting my life for the moment and a long time to come. At the time, I thought it was an expression of his love for me and mine for him, but I was mistaken. Pathetic, now I think back on it and foolish.
Alan did as he usually did when we settled into the back seat; caressing my neck with his lips and tongue, slipping his hand up under my shirt to tickle, tweak, and lightly rub my nipples bringing them to pencil eraser hardness, moved from there to undoing my zipper, sliding my pants down around my ankles, and reaching inside my sorts to access my cock. He fondled my hardness and my balls, raising my shirt to suckle on my breasts, murmuring how much he loved me, how beautiful my body was, and how my cock was just perfect for him.
Not once in all of the dates we had did he ever kiss me on the lips; the neck, the stomach, my breasts, yes, but never on my lips. As many times I sucked him off, not once did he return the act. Oh, he’d jacked me off numerous times, but never sucked me. I should’ve seen this as a red flag, but I was color blind I guess.
I felt him slide my boxers down to join my pants. Again, I should have objected, but I let my desires, my feelings for him take over, convinced he loved me as much as I loved him. What I anticipated happening next would be an expression of our love for each other. I was ready to surrender myself to his every wish and desire.
Alan rolled me over onto my stomach, spread my ass cheeks, whispering, “so wonderful, just right,” and I felt his fingers, cold with some lotion or something, as he pushed them in, slowly, lubricating me for his entrance into my depths. He spread my legs to afford him access, kneeled between them, his cock head gently, tickling, prodding my anal sphincter.
“I’m sorry to hurt you, Levi,” he said softly, lust in his voice, “but it’ll soon pass and you’ll feel my passion for you.”
Alan pushed his hips forward, pressing his cock-head up against my asshole; when it failed to yield immediately, he pushed harder and popped through sending a slight jolt of pain into me. Unrelenting, once he’d gained purchase, he pressed himself forward until I felt his pubic bush resting up against my smooth butt cheeks. He was bigger than the ruffian who’d fucked me years before in the garden shed, but Alan was no porn star. In fact, his cock was smaller than mine, so I was thankful.
He began to pump back and forth, pushing, stimulating, massaging not only himself, but me. Alan knew how to prolong the experience and bring both of us to edge time and time again without hurrying our coupling to orgasm. I never thought at the time he was very, very experienced at fucking and taking another boy’s virginity.
He added to my pleasure by reaching underneath me, carefully jacking my cock in the same rhythm of his fucking. Finally, he began fucking faster and jacking me. My climax couldn’t be held back, I began to spew my fluids onto his hand and the back seat. My asshole clenched with each spurt, bringing him to climax as well.
“Perfect!” I heard him say. “Just fucking perfect.”
Alan rested in me, his cock continuing to pulse and leak his semen into my bowel. We lay there a few minutes, both satisfied, and me realizing I did enjoy having a cock in my ass, especially Alan’s.
“Oh, my god!” he exclaimed. “The movie’s almost over. Shit, we better get dressed.”
The outside lights were just coming on as we climbed into the front seat, both now fully clothed. I thought the narrow escape was exciting and funny, but Alan evidently didn’t think so, since he didn’t smile or comment on it. He dropped me off at my house and instead of romantic words and gestures, all he said was,
“You were a good chase and fuck, Levi. I’ll see you around sometime,” and drove off, leaving me standing on the sidewalk in front of my house. I was crushed, wondering what the hell I did wrong to anger him.
Alan didn’t call the next day or the next or show up at the supermarket the rest of the next week. Finally, frustrated and worried, during one of my breaks at the store, I called the number he gave me for his house. His mother answered the phone and informed me Alan moved out to Ohio the week before to live with his father and go to college there.
I hung up, sat a few minutes trying to understand and digest what her announcement meant. Shaking my head in disbelief, I returned to my checkout line to finish my shift. The bus ride home was a lonely and sad one. I wanted to cry out “Why” but deep down I was beginning to know why. Alan used me; used me for sex, not love, but just plain fucking. It was the seduction and the conquest which shot off his rocks, not love. He was incapable of loving, I thought. He’d stolen from me; stolen a part of me I could never regain. In today’s world what he did would’ve been classified as date rape and rightly so. Yet again, perhaps not; he really didn’t steal, just took under false pretenses, which I freely offered, using my infatuation to his advantage.
How fucking gullible could I have been? Again, Claire was my rock and my friend, consoling me, commiserating with me, and reassuring me it wasn’t my fault. Well, not entirely since she didn’t mince any words to the effect I “let my little head instead of my big head,” do the thinking. She was right of course. I didn’t believe her however when she reassured me I’d find someone just perfect for me.
Maybe I would, but I vowed never to assume love, resist falling in love, and not give my heart until I was certain he was willing to give me his in return. My butt may’ve been violated, but my mind cleared quickly and refocused on my long-term goals, graduate from high school and go to college.