Beautiful Dreamers Chapter 1

BEAUTIFUL DREAMERS

a novel by

Chris Kent

GLB Publishers San Francisco

First Edition
Copyright 2006 by GLB Publishers
All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic
or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system now
known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who
wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine,
newspaper or broadcast.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Control Number
2005938690
ISBN 1-879194-60-0
978-1-879194-60-1

This book's for Jon
who convinced me
to write more when
I was convinced I couldn't.

"He who would learn, must first suffer,
and even in our sleep,
the pain which will not forget,
falls drop by drop upon the heart,
and in our despair, against our own will,
comes wisdom, by the awesome grace of God."

Aeschylus

Chapter 1

"Fuck it. I can't get this in. The hole's too small."
"Well then, stretch it a bit. Nobody'll notice."
I pulled Leslie towards me. "I'll know it's been stretched. And I don't want it slipping out. Will you hold bloody still while I try again? It's like getting a camel through the eye of a needle. Hold on, I think I've got the end in. Stay steady while I push."
Leslie, sounding slightly strangulated, wheezed, "Why don't you just swallow your pride and put your glasses on? They really suit you, honestly they do."
"I only need my glasses for reading." It was my turn to gasp. "There, it's almost in. One more shove should do it."
I stepped back from Leslie, gave him a quick once-over, then stepped forward to adjusthis bow-tie. "There, that looks cool. Though I don't know why you can't wear a school tie like everyone else."
"Burgundy and gold don't go with this suit. I've told you ten times."
I had to agree Leslie looked terrific. The oat-meal-coloured linen suit, silk waistcoat, light brogues, and an arse to die for. The dickie bird was the perfect touch. By contrast I was conservative to the point of drabness. Dark blue pinstripe, white shirt, school tie. Hard to believe Leslie was the doctor and I was the publisher of avant-garde novels; for avant-garde read erotic, and for publisher read my own small printing press and staff of two. But I was
doing what I wanted to do, I was making a living and I was happy. Much more than happy though I didn't tempt fate by claiming too much happiness; a man can stand only so much happiness. And Leslie, in the second year of practice, was already a highly sought-after gynaecologist. The irony of his chosen profession didn't escape us. Lying in bed, I'd still let a 'Why?' slip out to which he would murmur, "How the hell should I know?
Now just let me in a little deeper, a little deeper, there, that's it."
We shared a flat in South Kensington, or rather Leslie gave me house room. No matter. I'd supported him as best I could through those long years of training. I'd sat up with him late into the night, testing him on this, that and everything gynaecological. The happiest days of our lives? Who knows? Leslie and I'd been blessed with so many happy days it seemed invidious to compare them. Now my business was making a small profit at last, and I could afford to contribute a better class of plonk to the household fare.
"Let's walk," said Leslie. "It's such a beautiful night. It's a shame to waste any of it. It's only half a mile."
"C'mere," I said. He joined me on the hotel balcony. A warm, cloudless summer night, the sky pocked with star dust. We looked out over the city. We could see Union Street. It was strange to know other folks now lived in the Morrisons' home. Strangers, not Mrs M., Leslie, Bryan, me, sitting down to dinner. The rooms echoed with their laughter, not ours.
"Is your mother happy?" I asked.
"Yes, you know she is. I was on the phone to her last night. She loves the house in Montrose; she's so glad she bought it. Let's stay on for the weekend and visit her. She'll squeeze us in somehow."
I started to find excuses, then said, "Fuck it. Let's do it."
Leslie, as so often, rescued me from my innate caution. "Hey," I said, "we'd better get going. Don't want to be late for the big date."
"Oh, we got time for this," he whispered, pulling me into his arms and kissing me full on the lips. I struggled a moment for form's sake, then opened to let him enter. Noses crushed, lips mashed, our tongues fenced a wet duel under the starry sky. We continued to talk as we strolled down the street.
"Do you remember the night we sat there and watched the Northern Lights?" asked Leslie, pointing into the Western Acropolis.
"Yes, I do. And I also remember what you wanted to do. Getting buggered in a cemetery wasn't my idea of a romantic night out."
"But it was Halloween," pouted Leslie. "Trick or treat?" He stopped. "Do you think we've got time to pop in and make up for that lost opportunity?" I couldn't help laughing but I grabbed his arm and pulled him across the road.
"Shut up. Behave. We're here."
And here we were. The mighty hulk of Bruce Academy lay before us, the gangway leading into a burst of light and laughter. One hundred years had passed since the first Bruce boys in their burgundy blazers had crossed the stone drawbridge into their destinies; fifteen years since I'd left; thirteen years since Leslie had left to join me at university. We entered through the swing doors; the hinges still creaked. Two handsome Sixth Form boys stepped forward.
"Looks like one each," Leslie whispered. I dug him in the ribs. I handed over our invitations.
The taller boy scanned them. "Welcome, Mr Morrison. Welcome Mr Cameron." The shorter boy chimed in, "I'm sure you remember where the Great Hall is. Have a wonderful evening."
Leslie ran his fingers beneath the taller boy's chin. "We would if we had you two," he staged-whispered. Both boys grinned. The short one smiled, "I bet." I muttered, "Plus ca change," but no-one was paying attention to me.
The Great Hall was an explosion of lanterns and light. A ceilidh band was playing on stage. Kilted figures swung across the floor in a 'Gay Gordons'. Buffet tables along the walls were stacked with Scottish fodder: heart attacks and soaring cholesterol guaranteed. Other tables groaned under the weight of beer, wine and whisky. I wondered how many of the guests would be groaning under the tables before midnight.
Leslie saw him first.
"Over there, Donny, to the left of the stage. Isn't that Eric Murray? He's piled on the beef. Who's that with him? She's pretty in a mousy sort of way. He's seen us. He's waving. They're headed this way. He's still got great legs. Look your best for Bruce's finest."
So began our school reunion, and as the now adult figures from our past entered again into our conscious sphere, my mind flew back to the days when we boys were boys --- and very glad of it, too .

* * *

Fuck it! Late again. That was the second time that week and it was only Tuesday. I'd almost made it. Sprinted out of the house. Down Merton Road, into the High Street. Just in time. Just in time to see the red double decker pull away from the bus stop. I shouted. I waved. I bet the bastard conductor saw me. Bet he grinned. Probably waved two fingers.
Couldn't really blame him. We were famous, infamous, notorious. You could hardly blame us. We were an all boys' school. His was the school bus. Fuck it. We were meant to wreck it every day, twice a day in fact. Going to school. Coming home. Wreck the bus. That was the natural order, the way it was supposed to be.
I stopped for breath at the top of Carnegie Avenue. Why hurry now? No matter how fast I ran, bag thumping against my shoulder, I'd be late. In fact, being very late was much safer than being just a bit late. A bit late meant I was
certain to get caught. I'd been caught the day before. But very late meant I'd a sporting chance of sneaking in without being caught.
After all, it was Tuesday. Whole-school assembly. Entire school packed into the old Oak Hall with its bewhiskered portraits of headmasters of yore. Wasn't quite sure what 'yore' was but if it meant a long long time ago that would do. The lists, names in gold-lettering of those old boys, prefects, war heroes, cricket captains, rugger buggers, all of those boys
of yore who'd served God, King, Queen, Country, and school so well.
Ah, the old Oak Hall with its serried ranks of boys...boys, boys and more boys. Flannelled boys. Boys in blazers. The soft burgundy cloth with the piping of gold round the edge of the blazers. Badge affixed to each left breast. A dead sheep and a stack of corn, representing what I hadn't the faintest idea. The school motto: per arduam etc.
Fuck it. I was only yards from the grey squatting hulk of the school. It lay there like some malevolent Loch Ness Monster or some beached, rotting battleship. I'd been day dreaming again. Focus now, you fucker. Do the Houdini. Slip and slide straight in, as the bishop said to the choirboy. You won't notice a thing.
I tiptoed across the granite drawbridge. It wasn't a drawbridge that could be raised, but it was known as the drawbridge anyway. Pupils weren't allowed to use it, strictly forbidden, which on a Tuesday at this time of day made it the safest entry of all. The Rector would be in Oak Hall, bleating on about whatever occupied his pea brain that fine day.
That's not fair. Saying the Doc. had a pea brain. Very few of us had intimate knowledge about our glorious leader's brain or much else about him for that matter. Very few of us had seen Doctor Humphreys outside of Oak Hall, beyond a Tuesday whole-school assembly. In fact, there was a rumour that the good doctor didn't actually exist, at least not at assemblies.
Science nerds suggested he was a hologram projected from his office but they were all Trekkies, Star Trek freaks, so no one paid them much attention. Across the drawbridge. Through the swing doors. Fuck it. Somebody should take an oil
can to those swing doors, but who the hell had an oil can in an all boys' Scottish grammar school? It was all amo, amas, amat. We left the dirty-hands' stuff to the local technical schools. Places for plebs and proles. Not for us, not for the intellectual creme de la creme, not for the boys of Bruce Academy for the Sons of Gentlefolk. Whoever dreamt up that name had a sense of humour or was a complete moron. Take your pick.
Sharp right. Tiptoe through the tulips, metaphorically speaking, past the double doors of the Oak Hall itself fuck it. They were only into the first hymn: Who would true valour see hum dee hum down the Classics corridor and into the Junior Boys' Toilet.
Strictly legit. After all, I was only 13, so technically I was still a junior. At least until the Summer Holidays rolled in, and then away. In late August I'd be in Middle School hurrah! then I could have my wicked way with the fresh-faced first-years, but for the moment, safety first was best. To be caught in the middle toilets meant you'd get a chance to see the brown goldfish close-up, to be caught in the seniors with your pants down well, if they weren't, they soon would be.
The Junior toilets it was. Swing door open. Step inside. Let door swing closed. Fuck it what a pong. Piss, crap and disinfectant. The smell of hundreds of boys, even this early in the week, even at this unearthly hour of let's see: 10 to 9. To be honest, I didn't mind the smell. It was pure school. It was pure boy. And to be honest, I liked school and I love boys.
Wow what a weird statement: I love boys. Pretty strong for a 13-year-old, don't you think? Thing is, I did. I loved their open faces, and their unruly hair, and legs going every which way, and the chests, broad and thin, topped with chewable raisins. And the way their bodies narrowed into their school trousers, or cricket flannels, or gym shorts. I liked their
big feet, and their long toes. I liked their scabby knee-caps. I loved their bums, the fat ones, the thin ones, the round ones, the flat ones, the sticky-out ones, the sticky-up ones. I didn't discriminate. I loved them all.
And I loved their cocks, their dicks, their penises, their stiffies, their hard-ons. I loved them even when they had dumb names like 'members'. That's what our idiot tutor called them as we trudged through dog-eared manuals on Sex Education without ever really learning what we were desperate to know. Could you get pregnant if you swallowed another
boy's ejaculate? I swear that's what they called it. We called it stuff, or semen, or sperm, or the newly-fashionable word: cum. Though I wasn't sure if that was spelled 'come' or 'cum'.
At this point I should admit I'm homosexual, or is that homo-sexshual? To tell the truth, the word was too embarrassing to use. It was hinted at in our Sex Ed. manual but only to rule whatever those homosexshuals did as unmentionable, beyond the pale, guaranteed one-way ticket to Hell. And even then it didn't seem as bad as the big 'M'. Masturbation!
I still shudder when I say that word, or even write it. They managed to turn one of the most beautiful activities on the planet, a gift as God-given as snooker, into something fit only for the fallen, only fit for his satanic majesty and his satanic minions.
Sucking cock yes!
But Masturbation no! That will get you to Hell faster than you can say "Beam me up, Scotty!"
So it was difficult for me to admit I was homosexual but I can admit I was queer. Fuck it I AM queer.
I can't say I was proud of being queer. That's just the way things were. Might as well be proud of being left-handed, or ginger-haired, or having a big dick (well, I'm proud of that) because that's just luck, just the way the cookie crumbles, the way the genes combine, the way the cards fall all a matter of chance.
God or Whoever had decreed that I was Queer! And I intended to make the best of it.
Scatter ye rosebuds while ye may, and I knew a couple of puckered rosebuds that needed scattering.
Fuck it!
The door swung open, and in stepped Raymond. Raymond, ah, Raymond, how can a boy, so well-built, so good-looking, be such a nonentity? If you met a boy upon the stair, if you met a boy who wasn't there, if he wasn't
there again today well, that was Raymond who wasn't there.
Raymond Elder was 13, he was in my Year, in my tutor group, in some of my classes. I'd even sat beside him in class a few times, and Raymond, with those big sheep's eyes, those freckles, that tidily-combed fringe, was utterly fucking boring. And so passive! I always felt, when I could be bothered, like giving Raymond a sharp kick up his fat arse not fair, it was big and round and firm, definitely not fat telling him to lighten up, unload, have fun.
Raymond was an over-looked boy. Last to be picked for the rugby team, not because he couldn't play, he could, not because he wasn't strong, he was, but because he was hardly there. At cricket Raymond always fielded in the deep, as far away from the action as possible, and he always batted number 8 though he could belt a cricket ball into the stratosphere with those arms, those shoulders of his.
Pointless trying to have a lively dialogue, conversation, or debate with Raymond to pass the time. All you could get was 'perhaps', 'maybe', 'I'm not sure.'
But to my credit I tried.
"Fuck it, I missed the bus this morning." "Mmmm..." "Did you miss the bus?" (I knew Raymond didn't take the bus, but might as well try for conversation.) "No." (I swear Raymond blushed when he said the one word.) "That's the second time this week." (Response there was none.) "How the fuck do you get to school, Raymond?" (Pause for thought.) "Car." "You're too young to drive." (That was me being facetious. No effect.) "I know." "Well, who the fuck drives you?" "My mother."
The entire exercise was pointless.
"How long till the bell?" (Raymond looked studiously at watch.) "13 minutes." "That'll do."
I ran my hand across my flies suggestively.
'Suggestively' is the wrong word. I was suggesting nothing. This was an open, direct, invitation.
Did I tell you that Raymond was queer, too? Well, he is. Fucking raving queer. Though I doubt whether he'd have done anything about it until I sat beside him and stroked his flannels in an R.E. (Religious Education) lesson. (Well, how did 'you' pass the time during R.E. lessons?)
Raymond responded! And I mean 'responded'. His face lit up like a Halloween lantern.
He shuffled that yummy arse of his, but made no attempt to move away. Bingo! And when I let my sweet little fingers slide across his fly, he had a stiffy like a milk bottle. Big, too. Big and thick and hard. Big balls, too. When I slid my cute little fingers beneath his balls, he opened his legs wider and let me explore. Meanwhile he gazed straight ahead, listened raptly about 'all things bright and beautiful' while I tried naughtily to bring him to orgasm.
You'll notice that those Sex Ed. lessons weren't totally a waste of time. They gave us the language. We learned the terms, and I sat there trying to squeeze and stroke Raymond to orgasm. The devil in me, and there's a lot of Him, was trying to make sweet Raymond 'cum' in his Y-fronts. He'd go around the rest of the day with dry cum sticking his skin to his Y-fronts and I would be the author of the achievement. Bravo for me!
So I gazed at Raymond and ran my fingers across my fly. I already had half a hard-on anyway. One of the reasons I'd been delayed was I'd been playing with my dick over breakfast. I was aroused. And why was I aroused? Because I was going after Eric. Going after the first prize, the big one, the school idol, at least the sports idol of the Junior school. So I was playing with myself that morning, giving myself an edge, making sure I didn't turn back with the result I'd missed the bus and had to stroll-cum-sprint all the way to school.
Raymond stepped forward. I stepped back. Into a cubicle. Raymond followed. I turned on tiptoe, probably looking like a fucking ballerina, so Raymond was facing me, knees against the toilet seat. I gave him my best 'yes, please' smile and stepped forward. He reached tentatively forward and let his fingers brush across the front of my flannels. Knowing
Raymond, I suspected he might take his time, time we didn't have, so I reached down and unzipped my flies. Then I pushed him gently backwards. His legs bent at the knees and he was sitting on the loo.
Is there anything more erotic than the sound of a boy's fly being unzipped? I know a few things, so I'll leave you to answer that.
My shirt tail stuck out of my flies hardly erotic, but it least it served as flag and guide to the treasure, to the family jewels, as it were.
Raymond, like a good boy, reached in with his fingers, fished around like a blind man, got his fingers through my Y-fronts, and pulled out my hot, hard, sticky shaft. Yes, I'd gone from half-hard to tent-pole hard in a matter of seconds. Hell, I was only human, only 13.
I looked down at Raymond. His nose was up against my dick. I wondered just what he could see. He was enraptured, I could see that. He was worshipping my dick, my 6, well, nearly six inches of hot hard boy flesh. I could feel his breath against my skin. I knew what he wanted to do, and I knew he couldn't do it without my help. God knows, I was a helpful
boy.
"Take it, Ray," I whispered. "Go on, suck it. You know you want to. And I want you to. Go on."
And on he went.
I felt the shaft of my penis slip between Raymond's thick lips, felt his tongue caress the unsheathed head, felt him release my penis for a moment and slide little kisses down its length. Felt him take me deep again till the head of my cock touched the back of his throat, tickling his tonsils as it were. I opened my legs to let his fingers slide inside my underpants, dig deeper until they unearthed my sweaty little sac and manipulated the gems within.
I sighed and ran my fingers through his thick rather coarse dark hair and thought about thought about myself actually.
Thirteen years old. Not that short, not that tall. Maybe about 5-4. Slim but not thin. Dark brown hair in a sort of bowl cut, the fringe parted at the middle and swept away on either side. Lovely skin. I've always had lovely skin. It sort of glowed, even in the winter, now it was sun-kissed. Yes, the sun does shine in Scotland. Brown eyes set fairly wide apart with curving eyebrows, and thick up-turned eyelashes that made me seem permanently cheerful and inquisitive and cheeky. No little upturned nose, but nicely shaped, and framed on either side by round cheeks that dimpled when I smiled, and I smiled a lot. Nice, white, shiny teeth.
Thanks, mum. I'd served my time in braces, and here I was now with a lovely set of nice white shiny even teeth. Little ears. Legend had it that mum had sellotaped my big brother's big ears every night when he was little. No need for that with my small pointed elfin ears.
What else?
Oh, yes, I had a big penis. For my age anyway. Actually I'd had it since I was about 11 years old and since it was much the same at 13, I guess it was big for my age. About six inches and quite thick with it. Not like Eric's, not that jumbo-sized beauty, but big compared with boys my age, my Year, and in the couple of Years above. I knew that because those were the days when we all bundled into the showers after sports. No curtains. No cubicles. No separation of the ages. All for one, and one for all. Bundled into a big marbled shower room where the pipes rocked and rolled and the shower heads
spat either scalding or freezing water with no Mister In-Between. And we all compared. What boys don't? And I was big for my age, noticeably big, pleasingly big. I saw other boys eyeing me up and staying to linger. And hair. I even had hair at 11. Not lots and lots, but it was there, the dark little tuft on the pubis. No waiting till Third Year for me I had it in First
Year. No embarrassment of naked skin for me. Dark hair the rest of me satin smooth. And a dick many a Fifth Year could envy. Surrounded by naked boys, all sizes and shapes. But none as big and shapely as Eric, my Eric. Not my Eric yet, but if he was human, if he could be seduced, I'd have a real go at it.
My sac had tightened, my balls rose in my scrotum. I felt the pulsation that leads to the shudder, the uncontrollable shaking, the heavenly squirting and spurting. No, no, not yet. Keep the edge. Keep the hunger. We had German second period. German, where I sat beside Eric, the seats so small, his thighs so big, contact guaranteed.
Fuck it!
Gently I eased Raymond's head off my penis. He looked up at me, glassy-eyed. My pre-cum glistening on his lips. Shit, he had beautiful eyes. I'd never really noticed them before. He lowered his head to graze again. I eased him away.
"The bell," Raymond. "Listen. That's the fuckin' bell."
Raymond shook his head like a shaggy dog waving water away.
"Oh, yes," he mumbled. "Thank you for having me," he mumbled.
"No thank YOU for having ME," I whispered, pressing my erection against my belly, stuffing my shirt tail back in, zipping myself up.
"Raymond. Raymond."
"Mmmm yes?"
"Oh yes."
Raymond rose to his feet just as the door burst open and half a dozen juniors came storming in.
"Hi, Donny."
"Hi, Alan."
"Hi, Donny."
"Hi, Marshall."
"Hi, Donny."
"Hi, Dougal."
"Wanna fag?"
"You know I don't smoke. It's fuckin' disgusting. How was the Assembly?"
"Fuckin' bor-r-ring," they chorused.
"What we got now?"
"Latin."
"Shit, let's get going. Corky's a real bastard if you're late."
"Sure is. I know the first chapter of Caesar's Gallic Wars off by heart. I've written the fuckin' thing out often enough."
"Hey, who was that in here with you?"
"Just Raymond."
"Oh, Raymond. Come on, let's go."
An hour later we are sitting in German. I feel the heat of Eric's thigh against my own. We are reading, or rather translating, 'Emil and the Detectives' word by word, line by line, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, from German into English. If Eric wasn't beside me, I'd scream from boredom.
I like the book. I've read it twice. I think that Emil is cute, and, after all, he is surrounded by boys as they chase the thief across Berlin. It's German I can't stand. All this hanging round till you get to the end of a sentence, find the verb, and work out what the fuck is going on. If that weren't bad enough, the teacher is 'Jock' Macdonald, deputy headmaster and vicious
bastard, who hates me as much as I hate him. It's personal. Jock Macdonald hates all us boys from the 'wrong' side of the city, from the working class areas around the jute mills. He's a snob, and that cuts no ice with us boys who didn't know what snobbery was until we beached up on the shores of the Bruce Academy for the Sons of Gentlefolk.
Jock Macdonald carries a strap, made of the finest Lochgelly leather, slung over his shoulder, under his academic gown, and when he gives you 'six of the best' you can't feel your fingers for an hour after. My fingers have been so numb, I've even had a friend fish my dick out of my underpants when I've needed to take a piss.
Well, fuck it and fuck Jock Macdonald. I have Eric Murray by my side for the next fifty minutes and nothing is going to deny me that pleasure.
I slide my glance to the right as if watching the seagulls making their way up and down the estuary. Eric's face is in profile. My heart skips a couple of beats and I hear my indrawn breath. Christ, he is beautiful. I wonder if Eric is aware of his own beauty. He is by far the best all-round sportsman in the school but, unlike me, he isn't in the top sets for every subject. Not Maths, and especially not Algebra. I've been trying to demonstrate to Eric just how logical algebra is, but he's no Mr Spock, and he just can't get it. In the end, he grunts and says "Let's do some place-kicking," and off we go. I hate rugby and I hate place-kicking, but I'm with Eric so it's Nirvana. We learned about Nirvana in R.E. I know where my Nirvana is; right between Eric Murray's legs, or buttocks if you're approaching from the rear.
Eric's got the first sentence of Chapter 3 to translate. His German's worse than his Algebra.It's my favourite chapter and I whisper an adequate translation. He repeats it for Macdonald, loudly because Macdonald is a bit deaf. My turn, and I rattle off the next three sentences, knowing that will annoy Macdonald who likes it sentence by sentence.
Macdonald glares at me. "Didn't you hear my instructions, laddie?"
I gaze blandly back. "Sorry, sir, what, sir? My ears are waxed up. Can't hear a thing. Getting syringed this afternoon."
Macdonald grunts and glares. I doubt whether he heard much of my mumble, but he doesn't seem in the mood to accept a challenge and goes on to the next boy. Twenty two more boys to torment. It'll be a while before he gets back to us.
I return my gaze to that heavenly profile. The straight nose. The slightly curved lips. The cheekbones. The skin kissed by the early summer sun. The straight ash-brown hair, flopping over one eye. Those shoulders. That chest. Those thighs like fucking tree trunks. That bulge below the grey flannels.
I take a breath and take the plunge. I run the fingertips of my right hand along Eric's thigh. His school trousers are so tight I might as well be running them on his bare skin. I whisper, "Did you have a good weekend?"
I'm not the least interested in Eric's weekends, but I know he's fascinated by mine. Eric has got it into his head I spend most weekends doing 'dirty stuff' with girls on the 'wrong side' of town. Eric lives on the right side of town. I know that's in his head because I put it there.
Eric's not far wrong. I don't do much dirty stuff, at least not with girls, but I see more than my fair share of dirty stuff. That's because my elder brother, Iain, and his best mates, John and George, are notorious for doing dirty stuff with the girls in our neighbourhood. And sometimes, when they're in a very good mood, they let me watch.
Iain is fucking good-looking, though I've no interest in him 'that' way; John isn't bad; but George gives Eric a run for his money in the body-beautiful stakes. George, with his shock of black hair, his thick eyebrows, pouty lips, straight white teeth, and ear-to-ear grin, has been the image that launched a hundred of my orgasms, but he belongs to Iain's crowd, and I'd get a good kicking if I even mentioned homo stuff in front of them. Although they're only two years older than me, they belong to a different world including a different kind of school where they build bird-baths, stools, and better mousetraps.
I don't know if any of them have fucked a girl yet. I'm pretty sure they have but I always get sent away when the knickers come off.
So I sit there in German class, casually stroking Eric's thigh with my fingertips, describing as graphically as I can what 'we' did that weekend.

* * *

Her name was Marie. One of the Irish girls, from the poorest part of our neighbourhood. She was 13 maybe 14. Saturday afternoon. Hot and sunny. Marie was stretched out in the gravel pits. My brother straddled her belly. Her blouse was open, her bra was down at her stomach. His big fat thumbs were kneading her big fat nipples. His fly was open, his hard cock pulled out. He ran it across her lips.
Down below, John was under her flimsy skirt. He was playing 'stinky finger'. John was ruthlessly finger-jobbing the girl with his middle finger. Every now and again he'd pull it out, wave it at me, and laugh, "Want a sniff?" Yuk!
Marie's head would've rolled from side to side, but it was trapped between George's knees as he knelt above her, cock out, tossing himself off over her eyes, nose and mouth. Every now and again, the head of his cock made contact with the head of Iain's cock.
"Let's see if we can shoot together," laughed George. "Hey, Marie, keep your eyes closed and your mouth wide open. Wider. Wider. Good girl, that's it."
My own cock was so hard it ached. George's cock was thick, brown, wet, slimy, slippery, beautiful. That should be my face below it, eyes closed, mouth wide open, but I wouldn't wait for him to cum, I'd slide up and slide him in, I'd swallow him to the root, until that thick black hair tickled my lips, until...
"Fuck off, Donny."
That was Iain. He didn't even turn his head. Just hissed, "Fuck off."
I didn't argue. My brother could be violent. I had the childhood scars to show it. And to be honest, I didn't like watching him. It made me feel weird, uneasy, embarrassed. I'd stay because George was there, but when Iain told me to fuck off, I felt relieved, turned and scampered across the gravel pits, through a hole in the tin fence, and off to meet Alan Aitken.

* * *

Eric hears nothing of the end of the 'seduction' of Marie. He hears about the hair and the slit and the 'clit' (I'd only just learned that.), and the big puffy breasts and the pointy nipples.
My fingers are caressing the buttons of his flies.
Bingo!
But why the fuck hasn't Eric got a hard-on? Is he flesh and blood or what? I've been working hard for a hard-on. I deserve a hard-on. But Eric is still soft and squishy. I'm puzzled but I don't remain puzzled for long.
"Up a bit. It's up a bit," he whispers.
So up a bit I go.
Holy fucking Moses!
It's not his cock. It can't be. It must be his bicycle pump. He must've shoved it down the front of his trousers. It's thick and hard and it goes on and on, up and up, forever and ever A-fucking-men!
Eric's erection is so long and hard that it doesn't seem real. Jesus, if he shoved that up Marie it would poke out of her mouth! I fit my thumb and fingers round it. Must be 4 inches in diameter. I should know, I'm top of the class for Maths. And the length 10 inches. That's what we see in the changing rooms, and that's what I have in my hot little grasp, ten thick
inches of a stiff Eric Murray.
"Fucking hell, Eric, it's BIG. Where'd you get it?"
"Well, yours is 6 inches. And you've got more hair than me. And you've got a curvy shape
to the end of yours."
How the fuck did he know...?
Ah, the changing rooms, the showers. He must watch me as much as I watch him. Yes, that counts for a lot. As we whisper, I keep stroking.
"You know what I'm doing, don't you?"
"'Course I do. I'm not an idiot."
"Do you do it?"
"'Course I do."
"How long?"
"About 10 inches, I guess. I measured it. Ten inches."
"No, I mean how long before...?"
"Before before what?"
"Before you cum, shoot, squirt?"
There's a pause while Eric works it out. Maths isn't his strong point.
"About 10 seconds."
Ten fucking seconds!
"Ten fucking seconds?!"
"That's in the morning. When I'm in a hurry. At night I can make it last a bit longer."
I know what I want to ask next. And I know I don't dare ask.
"What do you think about when you're wanking?"
That's to myself.
I don't know what my next question would have been. The bell on the wall behind us explodes. A flurry of books closes around us. We stand up behind our desks. Everybody up except Eric Murray. He sits there blushing furiously, his Dumbo-like ears on fire.
"Murray, that was the bell."
That's Jock Macdonald.
"Yes, sir, I know, sir. But I wanted to I wanted to ask your help. I can't understand this last sentence."
Eyebrows are raised around the room.
Murray doesn't ask for help with German, and Macdonald never stays behind during the break. Break is fag time, and the only thing Jock Macdonald enjoys more than paralysing a boy's fingers is his coffee and cigarettes, cheap fucking Woodbines at that.
"Cameron can help you. He seems to know 'Emil' by heart. Cameron, help Murray." And with that Macdonald sweeps out of the classroom in a cloud of chalk dust and black gown.
Eric stands up. His erection is outlined in his thin grey flannels. "We'll have to wait a minute."
I reach out my hand. He slaps it away, but he's grinning.
"Help me in the nets after school?" he asks.
Cricket. I fucking hate cricket. You stand there in the deep for two hours doing fuck all. Then one catch comes your way. It's the most important catch in the whole match, and it's coming your way. Bombing down from the sky like a V2 rocket. You're underneath it. You're meant to catch it. You know you won't. You know it will bend your fingers, bruise your fingers, maybe even break your fingers, but you will not catch that mean little red leather ball. So you do what any sensible tennis player does; you chicken out at the last second; move your hand away and watch the ball slam into your fucking big toe!
My face falls.
"Okay, half an hour in the nets, and half an hour on court. Deal?"
"Deal."
That leaves a spare half hour. Maths isn't Eric's strong point, but it's mine. Two half hours equal one hour. Which leaves a spare half hour before the school grounds close. Mmmmm my erection, wilting a few seconds ago, takes heart and perks up again. I glance at Eric's crotch. He's wilted, too. Now it's only like a small elephant trunk. And just sooooo kissable.
You want to kneel down and-- Oh, for fuck's sake, Cameron, is that ALL you ever think of?
It wasn't 'all' I ever thought of. That would be ridiculous. But I'd thought about it a lot since I was 11 years old. Exactly 11 years old as I remember.

* * *

It was a Tuesday afternoon. After school I hadn't gone home. I'd forgotten my key and there was no chance a window had been left open. Mum was fed up of my scrambling through the kitchen window, of "Sorry, mum, I forgot my key." I used to wear the bloody thing on a string around my neck, but these were my last few weeks at junior school. I was bound
for Bruce Academy for the Sons of Gentle Folk, and I was damned if I was going to wear my doorkey on a string round my neck. That was kids' stuff.
I took myself to Steve's. Steve was a friend of my brother's, not a mate like George or John, but a friend who'd give me house room till my brother got home around half past four.
I guessed Steve would be home because Steve didn't go to school much. His mum was dead and his father was a drunk who didn't give a shit where Steve was most of the time. So it was to Steve's I headed, and I was right Steve was home. He was smoking as usual, the ciggy between his lips bouncing as he spoke, the smoke making his left eye squint.
Steve was a rocker, a greaser, his thick black hair piled high on his head and sleeked back with Brylcream. Steve was 14, maybe 15. He looked like a younger version of Elvis Presley, younger and rougher. He wore a lot of denim and a battered black leather jacket that ended about four inches above his arse.
We sat and rabbited on about nothing much in particular, Steve's 45s dropping onto the turntable with three and a half minute regularity, and Elvis launching forth with equal predictability. I was no Elvis fan. I admit he was good, but he just wasn't me. To be honest, I wasn't really into music though some of the young guys appearing on TV were really cute.
Hey, where did that come from? Guys, not much more than boys, cute! I caught myself blushing.
It's strange how you often can't remember how something started. You remember what happened, but not how it started. How the hell did I end up dancing with Steve to Elvis on that threadbare carpet in his darkened living room? I remember the smell, Brylcream and whisky. Steve often stole his father's whisky. More than once he'd been battered for it, but I suppose if you live in a smelly pit with no mum and a drunk for a dad, you've got to find something to get you through the days, and the nights.
When it happened, it wasn't Elvis. It was Procul Harum. It was 'Whiter Shade of Pale'.
The song was like nits racing through my junior school. Everybody got a dose. The fuckin' song had been 'Top of the Pops' for weeks. It was never off the radio. I thought it was a bit of a dirge, and the lyrics didn't make any sense whatsoever, but the whole thing had a hypnotic effect. You sort of went into a trance and hummed or whispered the words along with the melody as if they were full of meaning, full of significance, when you knew in your heart they didn't mean jack-shit.
'Whiter Shade of Pale' was the last 45 in the bunch, so the needle would reach the end of the track, lift, move back, drop, and start from the beginning.
I don't know when it happened. I just realised my head was leaning into Steve's shoulder, my eyes closed, my nose full of the heady smell of whisky and Brylcream, and that his hand was in the pocket of my school shorts. Yes, it was Summer Term, and we were in the obligatory corduroy shorts. I fuckin' hated them and was secretly thrilled to know I'd be in
grey flannel trousers by the end of August. For one thing, I've got a round little bum, a bit like split peach, and those shorts didn't half show it off. I suppose I should've got a new pair at the start of the year, but mum was convinced I "could get another year out of them" even though they were tight last August, let alone this June!
Mum would probably make me wear those shorts right through the summer. She'd got a summer job house-keeping up near Dunvegan. She was to keep the house while I kept her company. Iain was off to a summer camp subsidised by some charity or other. Lucky bugger. I'd be off in the middle of nowhere, deep in the heart of the countryside. Me, who'd
never even seen a real-live cow. I sighed and sank my head deeper into Steve's shoulder.
The melody wound round us, my head on Steve's shoulder, my eyes closed, my nose full of his smells, and his hand deep in right hand pocket of my corduroy shorts. Fuck it! He'd have to choose that pocket, the one with the big hole in it, a very big hole, and bigger now that his fingers were through the hole, up the side of my y-fronts, playing with my very stiff,
very hard, birthday penis.
I was paralysed as much by my own lust as by fright. And I was scared, not because I was afraid of what Steven might do, but because I didn't want to admit how much I was enjoying it. Enjoying 'it', but what the fuck was the 'it' that I was enjoying?
You'll have to take my word, but I hadn't the faintest idea what was happening to me, especially what was happening 'down there', down there in the Forbidden Lands. For Christ's sake, I had a mother who made her sons sleep with their hands ABOVE the blankets, so I knew playing with myself was wrong, but she'd never given any instruction about another
person playing with my 'down there'. I'd heard my brother and his mates pass comments, remarks I knew were 'dirty', but I couldn't quite figure out what was dirty about them.
I knew I wasn't going to pee. Believe me, I knew when I was going to pee, and this wasn't that about-to-piss feeling. This was in a different league altogether. For a start, peeing didn't make my tummy flutter like this. Peeing didn't make my legs tremble. Peeing didn't make my little scrotum tighten. Peeing didn't make my limbs tighten and my bum-hole clench then loosen. Whatever this was, it wasn't peeing.
I wanted to push Steve away. I wanted to pull him even tighter. I wanted to raise my face and burrow into the hollow of his neck. I wanted to pull his buttocks so that he pushed right into me. And I did. I wanted to feel that hot poker of his burn even hotter against my groin. I wanted to slip my hand round and feel its length, its hardness, its sheer alive-ness. I wanted to --I wanted to--
But suddenly I was beyond need, beyond wanting. I was shuddering and shaking.
"Ohhhh Ohhhh Ohhhh "
My penis was convulsing, leaping between Steve's fingers, spitting fire and flames, squirting liquid gold, spurting beyond my control. This was me, the essence of me, and I was squirting myself into another boy's hand. I shuddered, shook, staggered, and held onto Steve's shoulders.
And we danced on, a drunken, staggering dance, into his father's bedroom, where the curtains were always drawn, where I was backed against the double bed, where I fell backwards onto the bed with Steve full length on top of me. I kept my eyes tightly shut, kept out the truth, kept out the reality, kept out the shame of my pleasure. And I felt Steve naked against me, or at least naked from the waist down. How the fuck had he managed that? And he was clambering up my skinny body, knees on either side, and I felt him and tasted him against my lips.
My eyes fluttered open, and there it was, that thick dark sausage with the purple head, knocking at my lips. I'll never know how I knew what to do, but I did. I opened my mouth just enough to let the head slide in, and I sucked on the head, whirled round the head with my lips, slid a hand down the shaft till I felt the hair brush against me, worked the shaft,
let it slide in deeper until around four inches were inside, and sucked and suckled the shaft as if I'd done it all my life. I let my free hand feel his arse, squeeze his buttocks, let it slide into the hot dangerous unknown territory in the depths of his crack.
Above me, out of sight, on another planet, Steve moaned and groaned, as he gently fucked my mouth. I worked that one out. I wasn't stupid. I knew that men and women fucked. I wasn't entirely sure how they did it but it was something like this. I took my hand away from Steve's cock. He was entirely capable of what he needed to do without my help, and using
both hands, I pulled his buttocks widely apart. Don't ask me why I did that. I don't know.
It just seemed the right thing to do, pull them apart, loosen, let them come together, then pull them apart again. Establish the same rhythm as his hot hard-on pushing and pulling into and out of my mouth. Speed with him, slow with him. That's it: quick, quick, slow then quick, quick and quicker.
Fuck it. Take it easy. You'll choke me. Pinch his arse hard, he'll get the message. It's hot, and it's salty, and it's slimy, and it's spurting, and it's hitting the back of my throat, again and again, and over it goes. Hardly a taste because it's all going over so quickly. Fuck, my mouth's full. It's overflow time. Taste it now. Salty? Sweet? Both, and so fuckin' much
of it. And Steve's cock's gone now. And his open mouth is against my open mouth. And he's tasting himself, taking himself back, and his tongue is halfway down my throat. I'll show the fucker. I can give as good as I get well, almost. See me, feel me, touch me, heal me.
Steve and I never had sex again. Not because he didn't want it. Not because I didn't want it. But he was my brother's friend. He knew Iain would kill him if he ever found out what he'd done to his little brother. And when I say 'kill', I literally mean kill. Even at that age I knew, and my brother's friends knew, that Iain was capable of killing someone. Best not
to play too close to home. I was certain Iain would kill Steve if he found out, and I wasn't completely certain he wouldn't kill me. And the funny thing is Iain would be convinced he was killing me for MY sake, for my OWN good, to stop me becoming a little homo.
Too late, brother dear, someone had opened Pandora's Box, and I dived headfirst in.

* * *

I'm not sure how true that is. I'm sure I'd've got there eventually but Alan Aitken certainly helped me speed things up. And this was strange because Alan and I had been friends since we were four or five years old. In fact, I can't remember a time when Alan wasn't around.
Alan was cute. It's not a word I like much, but 'cute' is the best word I can think of to describe Alan. Ever since I can remember, women liked to ruffle Alan's curly glossy black hair; women were charmed by his impish good looks, the bow mouth, the sparkling black eyes. I've never met anyone else with genuinely 'black' eyes but Alan's were. Sometimes you
thought they were the deepest of purples, but closer inspection revealed, yep, genuinely black, set against the purest white. Upturned nose, the bridge spattered with freckles, the high cheekbones, the dimples when he smiled, and Alan smiled most of the time. His family was well-off; they lived on the top floor of a . I'm not sure what to call it. If I write tenement, you'll get totally the wrong idea. Poor folks lived in tenements; the Aitkens were anything but poor. After all, they owned the fucking tenement.
You might find it odd that Alan and I even attended the same junior school, but that was because wait for it Alan's dad was a chimney sweep. Well, he'd started out as a chimney sweep, but in a few years had built a chimney-sweeping empire that had a monopoly of the whole city. There were few chimneys in our city, a city whose skyline was punctuated by chimney stacks, that were not swept regularly by Aitken & Son. The 'Son' was Alan though he hadn't, as far as I knew, had that much contact with a sooty chimney yet. The Aitkens never forgot their roots, never moved out of our district, and got on with everybody like a house on fire -- maybe that's not the best image for a chimney-sweeping business. And Alan
and I had become instant friends from the moment we pulled on our floral pinafores at nursery.
I've just noticed I've been writing in the past tense. Fair enough, but Alan is still very much part of my life though not so much of my sex life nowadays because Alan has got a man, a real, live, grown-up man, with a deep voice, big muscles, and a cock like--. But I'm not going into Alan's private life here. That wouldn't be fair. Maybe I will later, but not now,
not right at this minute.
Alan Aitken -- what happened was this.
After Steve, after the unexpected introduction to the delights that lay between my legs, I was hungry for more. My hand was okay, my fingers were even better, but I wanted more, I wanted someone else's flesh, male flesh, pressed up against my flesh. I wanted a hot hard penis against my lips, I wanted to feel the tip of a fat cock bouncing against the back of my
throat, I wanted to exchange the taste of semen with another mouth, I wanted to but with whom, and when, and where, and how?
The answer came from the most unexpected person : Alan. I spent lots of time at Alan's.
We'd both passed the 11+, both pulled on our new blazers and long flannels, both caught the bus to Bruce Academy, both ended up in the same Form Class, and in the same classes for most subjects. Alan is very bright, but I'm brighter; at least I usually come top of the class while Alan trails in at second or third. It's a rivalry we both love.
After school we often go to his home. His mum makes tea, and there's iced buns or scones with real dairy cream. We stay at the table, get our homework done Alan's crap at Latin, my Geography is erratic swap tales of the day, then retire to Alan's room for half an hour.
I was going to write bedroom because there's a bed in it; a fucking double bed! For one person. Not even a grown-up person: just Alan! But it's a lot more than just a bedroom. Alan Aitken's bedroom is bigger than our living room. Fuck it! And he's got great stuff. Like a real hifi set. His own TV. Toys galore. And a fuckin' full size snooker table! I kid you not. His own full size snooker table.
We were on the bed. Laughing and joking. I was looking at Alan. His eyes were sparkling. That curly hair needed cutting. The sun had brought out his freckles. I was listening to his voice; it hadn't even started to break; it tinkled through the scales. We were stretched out on our backs, heads on the same double-size pillow, looking at Alan's collection of model aeroplanes; he was explaining the comparative merits of the Spitfire and the Hurricane. My head was turned to him. I couldn't take my eyes away from his face. And then it happened so slowly that I wasn't aware of it until it was too late.
A fuckin' erection!
It's a funny thing but at 11 and a half I had more or less the same size of dick as I do now that I'm 14. About six inches long and quite thick. Not quite true my dick's seven inches now, and it is thick. But at 11 and a half it was embarrassingly big for my age. I hadn't realised that until we started having showers after P.E. at the Bruce Academy. I'd got used to the
stares and the cheeky comments, and the furtive glances, and, of course, I'd been relieved when Eric Murray revealed his ten inches of thick ivory flesh. That had silenced all of us.
But there I was, lying on Alan's double bed, with an erection like a milkbottle, outlined underneath the thin grey flannel of my school trousers. I prayed for it to go down. I concentrated on the merits of the Spitfire and Hurricane. I tried desperately not to look down at my tummy and below, nor to look into Alan's eyes. Maybe he wouldn't notice. Maybe he
wouldn't say anything. Maybe Batman could beat Superman in a fair contest.
Alan's hand slid down my chest, down my belly, down to my belly button, where his fingers grasped my hard-on and measured out its inches. I lay there paralysed, stricken into silence.
"Shit, Donny, you've got a big one. Where the fuck did you get that? I've seen it in the showers, but, fuck me, you and Eric Murray make a right pair." As he spoke, he continued to tweak and measure, tweak and measure out its length from root to tip between his thumb and finger. I tried to speak. My voice box betrayed me, and whatever I was going to say,
escaped in a strangled screech.
Alan laughed.
"Let me see it."
I said nothing. I didn't trust my voice to get anything meaningful out. But I didn't push his hand away. I lay there on the verge of wishing and hoping--
"Let me see it."
Was that a note of exasperation in Alan's voice?
"Look, fair's fair. You show me yours and I'll --" Alan started to laugh again. I couldn't see what was funny.
He reached down, unzipped himself with a flourish, fumbled into his underpants, and fished out his own erection. Fuck it! His own erection. Alan was as hard as me. Not as long, not as thick, but definitely as hard. And it was pretty. Lovely. Beautiful. A four-inch column of ivory. The foreskin pulled back to reveal the shapely purple head, wet and slick with what
I've learned is called pre-cum.
"Can I?" I mumbled.
"Be my guest," my childhood friend laughed. "But wait a sec."
Alan reached down and pulled his trousers wide upon, wriggled his bum up, and pushed trousers and underpants down to his knees, then turned to me and I did the same.
"What about your mum?" I whispered though my blushes.
"Are you deaf as well as dumb?" he giggled. "Didn't you hear the door close about 10 minutes ago? She's gone round to Auntie May's. Back around 6. That gives us mmmm nearly an hour." Alan pulled my hard-on away from my body. "A little kiss to start with." He leaned over me and kissed the head of my penis. "Aw, fuck it, lots of kisses to start with." His pursed lips ran the length of my erection, up and down, up and down, his lips open to slip the shaft between his lips. He stopped a moment, looked up at me, eyes glazed, and whispered, "Whatever you want to do, just do it. I'll like it. Fuck it, I'll love it."
I understand the meaning of '69' now but I didn't then. It took me about five minutes to discover the position. Was I the first? Probably not, but in my wilder moments I like to think so. Only joking.
Two naked 11-year-olds lying side by side on a double bed. Their fingers clasped round each other's erections. Their heads bobbing on the other's stiffies. Mouths sliding down until lips are pressed on each other's naked pubis. The sweet liquid of precum already in their throats. Fingers of each free hand manipulating hairless scrotums. Giving and taking in unison, in harmony. Instinctively matching rhythms. So difficult to concentrate. Is it the pleasure of fullness in the mouth? Is it the pleasure of the other's mouth seeking to absorb the other's fullness. Naked limbs twisted in such beauty as no sculptor could ever match.
Not only the sights but the smells. Sweat. Milk and honey. The untainted smell of immature semen.
It was hard to focus on sucking Alan when my own senses were so absorbed. The touch of his naked skin overwhelming in itself. The sight of every vein, the shape of his scrotum, the pink of his shaft, the curve of the head, the little eye that demanded to be probed with a tongue tip. So much. So much. And always so much more.
I felt my legs pushed wider, felt Alan's head burrow between them, felt his hot tongue lick my scrotum, his lips single out each testicle to find its shape, assess its weight. To take one, then both, then the sac into his mouth. For a moment I panicked. Could there be any greater exposure than this? With one little clamp of those little white teeth my balls would
be gone. What could I tell my mother? I was an adept little liar but it would be hard to wriggle my way out of that one. I sighed and copied Alan, my mouth opening wide to take in his own little sac. Then I knew what it meant. That I could snap off the sac, his balls, and swallow them in a single gulp. And the possibility felt wonderful. He trusted me so much. Trusted
me with the family jewels. Trusted me with so much of his future. If my mouth hadn't been so full, I would have laughed.
Then he was gone. Deeper. Lower. Into the unmentionable. My legs pushed wide apart by his insistent head. I felt his thick hair brush and tickle the inside of my thighs.
He couldn't. He wouldn't. Fuck it. He did.
His tongue was deep between my buttocks, circling the dirty place, the place you had to wipe clean three times, the place no one ever talked about, and certainly not in relation to what was happening, not in relation to sex. How could there be any pleasure in this?
Ah, but there was.
The image, even then, was incredibly erotic. My cock pulsed even harder. I couldn't keep the image out of my mind. It was wrong, it was wicked, it was wonderful. Alan's tongue circled closer and closer to What should I think of it as?
My bum hole. My arse hole. My anus.
Shit, I'd hardly ever seen my own bum hole, and here was Alan getting a close-up in Technicolor. I'd seen it a couple of times when I'd lain on my bed at home, my legs hooked high by my elbows, a mirror strategically placed. Why had I done that? I've no idea. Insatiable curiosity, and an urge even then towards the taboo, the forbidden.
And the tip of Alan's tongue touched me there. Right on the centre spot. The tip ran the small length again and again. Tiny pressures, increasing with each run. My mouth took his cock in again. My lips swirled around it. I sucked just the head, released it, and then took in the whole shaft again. There was no music in the room but I felt a singing in my ears.
"We're all going on a summer holiday."
"Whatever you want to do, just do it. I'll like it. Fuck it, I'll love it."
Had Alan really mean that WHATEVER I wanted?
Just do it.
Now my head was between his legs. He splayed them wide, giving me all the access I desired. It was dark in there. I wanted to see. I heaved his arse, his legs around, a little rudely, a little unceremoniously, until he was facing the bedlamp. The light focused where I wanted it. There it was. The centre of the known universe. And I was about to go there, to boldly
go where oh for fuck's sake, not Star Trek.
Valleys, sand dunes of silk skin ran towards the centre. Creamy ivory darkened to a darker centre. The eye of the universe. The Starfish Enterprise. Cream gave way to a light flush of brown, to a slight serrated edge, to a pucker, to a rosebud that asked to be kissed. Rosebud! A rosebud by any other name. A rosebud is a rosebud is a rosebud. I closed my eyes, slid out the tip of my tongue, about to enter Eden.
Bang!
"Alan! Donny! I'm home. Tea'll be ready in five minutes."
A light rap at the door.
"Scones and cream. Real cream. Dairy cream."
Shit!
We unhooked ourselves and shot off that bed like bats out of Hell. A scramble of clothes. When I got home, I found I was in Alan's underpants! We dressed as if our lives depended on it; they probably did. Alan snagged his dick in his zip. Hopped around in agony. I knelt and unsnagged it. Gave it a little kissie to make better. Then neither of us could stop giggling.
"Boys! Boys!"
We made final adjustments to our semi-hard cocks, emerged from the bedroom, crossed the lounge, and entered nonchalantly into the kitchen. I assume Alan was nonchalant; he looked nonchalant; I was terrified. Couldn't they smell it? That sex smell. It was all around us. Overwhelming. But mums have the wonderful gift of not noticing what they don't want
to notice.
"Come on, boys, it's on the table. Sit down and tuck in. Auntie May wasn't in, so I got us a treat for tea "
"Donny, you look a little pale. Alan, you look a little flushed. I hope you boys aren't coming down with something. You don't want to be in bed for the rest of the week, do you?"
Alan fell from his chair, laughing, his mouth crammed with a scone splattered with raspberry jam and dairy cream.
"Oh, Alan, you are a silly. Thank goodness Donny has a lot more sense. You're lucky to have a friend like Donny. You could learn a lot from him."
Alan was doubled up in helpless laughter, tears streaming from his eyes. I tried but I couldn't help it; I joined in the laughter. Then Mrs Aitken joined in, too.
As she pulled herself together, she smiled.
"I don't know what's made you two so happy, but whatever it is, it's doing you a power of good."
And it was.
And it did.
Believe me, Mrs Aitken, it did.

* * *

Eric and I wandered up Carnegie Avenue after school. It's 3.30 but it was still warm, the sun casting stark shadows. The school sports grounds lay between Carnegie Avenue and the Balmore Hill. To go home, Eric branched off to the right and the right side of town; I branched off to the left, crossed the hill, and went home to the wrong side of town.
The sports grounds are first class, donated by a wealthy merchant whose three sons were educated at Bruce Academy for the Sons of Gentlefolk. The grounds stretched over a few acres, the pavilion, tennis courts and cricket square at the Carnegie end, the rugby and soccer pitches at the Balmore end. There was a full time groundsman but he never showed up until 15 minutes before closing time; that depends on the time of the year.
We strolled into the pavilion. A handful of boys there already. Mostly senior, mostly tennis players. We dumped our bags and changed, Eric into cricket, me into tennis whites. We must have looked a little incongruous but nobody paid much attention to a couple of juniors like us even though we were already playing for the Under-15's (Eric, cricket; me, tennis).
We wandered out to the nets where Eric became brisk and business-like. He was going to bowl to me in the nets. Like fuck he was! I was not going to stand there while the fastest bowler in the school aims chunks of leather at my most delicate parts, even though I had a cup on, and pads that reached up to my waist. I sighed in relief when Eric announced he's going to use a practice ball and that he'll only bowl spin. Even I could get bat to ball with spin; well, either that or I could get the fuck out of the way.
Eric bowled me first ball, and second, and third.
"For fuck's sake, keep the bat straight, Cameron. And stop hopping about."
Keeping a straight bat is indescribably boring, but the sight of Eric running in, head tilted back, hair caught by the lightest of breezes, crotch bulging (it's his cup, not his dick, more's the pity) was compensation enough. I knuckled down and start stroking the ball back to him.
"Stroke it for Eric. Stroke it for Eric. Stroke it for Eric," I hum to myself.
I was in dreamland when a ball hit a crack, rose sharply, and whacks me right where cup meets flesh. Fuck it, that hurt! I yelp like sissy, drop to the floor, and start rubbing high inside my right leg.
Eric trotted up and flopped down beside me.
"Okay?"
"What the fuck do you mean 'Okay?'" I howled. "Of course I'm not okay. You might not have a sex life, but I have, and you might have ruined it, you mutha --"
I didn't complete the sentence because Eric's mother died when he was five years old.
I didn't know the details. I knew he lived with his father and elder brother. I knew they were a moneyed family. But that's about it.
"Oh, come off it, Donny " (Donny. I like that.) " it'll sting a bit but it'll go in a couple of minutes. See --"
See what?
See Eric's long thick fingers slid down the inside of my thigh.
"There?"
"Down a bit."
"There?"
"Over a bit."
"There."
I sighed, "There, yes, right there."
Those thick fingers began a gentle massage, a gentle caress, and the pain drifted away as I took leave of my senses. It was me who stroked Eric, not Eric who stroked me. I suddenly realised I was getting a bitch of a hard-on, and it's cramped in the cricket cup.
A pleasure it is not. I tried to keep the frown off my face, but Eric caught it and bursts out laughing.
"You're hopeless, Cameron."
"Don't you mean incorrigible, Murray?"
"Nope, hopeless. Come on. Get off your arse. You still owe me 20 minutes."
And the twenty minutes were the most pleasurable I'll ever have in relation to cricket.
Manfully, if ineptly, I knuckled down and gave Eric full value. He got me out around two balls every over no matter how well I defended. That pleased him and caused me no pain.
My turn came soon.
It was strange. Eric was definitely the best cricketer our school ever had. He was, maybe, the best rugby player we've ever had. But on the tennis court he was crap. Make that capital letters: CRAP. He tried his best. In sports Eric always tried his best. But even though I set the ball up for him, even though I keep it mostly on his forehand, even though I set up dolly smashes at the net for him, he managed to look clumsy and inept. But he did try. My God, how he tried.
So I began to drive the ball from side to side, hitting his baseline more often than not, pulling him into the net and then lobbing the ball casually over him so that he had to turn and scamper back to the baseline. He never got it back, of course, a little topspin makes sure of that. Was I being cruel? No, just cunning. If he runs enough, if he's sweaty enough (and Eric sweats easily), Eric will need a shower, and we might just have a shower before we head home. Cunning plan or what?
But I was foiled because those senior bastards had used up the last of the hot water and left us nothing but lukewarm dribbles. I went back and checked the water, just in case, but no luck. Nope, the seniors had gone and the last of the hot water with them.
BUT (and it's a capital letters 'but') when I came out of the shower area, Eric was stretched full length along one of the benches. Eyes closed. Face redly flushed. Shirt unbuttoned to the waist. Crotch bulging. And that's no cup.
I squeezed down on the bench just behind his head. I wasn't quite sure what to do. If I got this wrong, I could end up with a black eye, a bleeding nose, and worse. That's easily explained at home, but I don't want to go into school tomorrow and find that I'm a-- a what? 'a fucking queer'. I AM a fucking queer. My bum chums know I'm a fucking queer. But that doesn't mean I want it broadcast around the school.
Better play safe. Better safe than sorry. Fuck it. I've never played safe in my life, and at 13 years of age it's a little late to start. I run my finger tips over Eric's forehead. I flick back the thick damp hair. He sighs. He murmurs "Yeah." What I really wanted to do is lean over and kiss him on the forehead, but that would be pushing things too far, too quickly.
I ran my fingers across his cheeks. Down his throat. Across the top part of his chest.
He murmurs "Yeah." Not the most articulate of responses but it does for me.
I shifted my position so I'm squeezed alongside him. Actually I was perched on my left buttock, and if Eric shifted suddenly I'd fall on my arse. Ah well, what's life for if it's not for falling on your arse?
My fingers slid across his stomach. Wow, he had one of those six-packs. I wasn't sure what a six-pack was, but if it meant a strong, flat, muscly stomach, Eric had one, and I was fingering it. His belly button was an innie. I wondered what it would feel like to kiss it. Eric willing, I may get my chance today.
Fucking hell, the bulge at his crotch was bulgier. In class, Eric would reach down and straighten it out. That duty seemed to be in my hands that day.
I said a silent prayer and faced the moment of truth. "It's now or never." Elvis was absolutely fucking spot on: it IS now or never, and I decided it's now.
I fingered the clasp on Eric's cricket flannels. I flicked the clasp open. I waited for the punch in the mouth. Nothing. I found the little zip and slowly, agonisingly slowly, edged it down. Down, down, down, until there was no more down. Using both hands, thumbs and index fingers, I spread his pants open, tugged his shirt flaps away, and there it was. No, there
IT was, curled like a sleeping python under the 100% pure cotton Y-fronts.
The python was awake. It was stretching for the sun. I watched it elongate, then extended my fingertips to help turn it round to face due north. Shit, I knew it was BIG; I never suspected it was this big. It was long but it's also thick. It was genuinely ten inches long, and it's as thick as the span of any three of my fingers put together. Try that and you'll see what I mean.
Suddenly the head poked out above the elastic. That's strong elastic; it takes a lot of poking to get past that. There, Mister Python, you found the sun at last.
I notice Eric had raised his bum off the bench. The penny dropped. There was a God after all. I reached over him and gently eased his underpants down to his knees, revealing it was beautiful, it was truly beautiful. In size, shape, texture, colour, and yes, sniff sniff smell, it was truly beautiful. A thing of beauty may be a boy forever, but his erection was a thing of beauty right now. I reached and took hold of it, my fingers unable to meet around its girth. I began to gently jack him off. I wondered if he would let me do this would he let me kiss it? I'm was desperate to kiss it.
"I'll cum if you do that," he whispered.
(I'm proud because I taught him that word 'cum'.)
So what? I wanted him to cum. I was desperate to make him, see him cum.
"It'll make a real mess when I cum."
(Pause)
"I don't want to make a mess of my shirt or my whites."
(Pause then the penny clunks off the floor.)
Cum mess bless you, Eric, bless you.
I leaned forward and almost say "Ah". I let three, four inches of Eric's thick shaft slide into my mouth. I sucked him hard. I wanted to taste him as much as I can. See me. Feel me. Touch me. Suck me. Heal me. My mouth opened, my jaws stretched wide. I manipulated the base of his shaft, then gently jacked it as I sucked. Oh this is going to be wonderful.
"Oh, oh, oh "
Eric's bum jerked straight off the bench. His cock was driven to the back of my throat. It was probably tickling my tonsils. And he was cumming! Squirt after squirt splatted against the back of my throat. I wam struggling, gagging, fighting to get it all over, to get it all down the back of my throat, and not onto Eric's whites, and not into my eyes. Splurt, squirt, splat!
Who would've thought the young man to have so much semen in him? And now in me.
I gagged, I coughed, my eyes streamed, but little hero that I am, I took it all, or almost all of it. A little escapes to my lips a little sweet, a little bland, but it will do. It contained Eric's babies, or at least his potential babies, or at least 50%, genetically speaking, of Eric's babies, and millions of them were swimming in my tummy. I wondered if they got there
yet. I wonder how surprised they felt when they looked around and found no door marked EGGS-IT, or even ARSE-IT. Actually, I thought all this later that night as I lay in bed and relived Eric's first --I know the word-- blow-job.
Eric was embarrassed now. He sat up, swung his legs round, pulled up his underpants, fastened his trousers, and then sat there looking at me. His eyes were a little glazed. He was blushing. I knew he wanted to tell me something. I couldn't help because I didn't know what it was he wanted to tell me. He was pointing at me, at my face. Now it was me that's blushing. Why didn't he just come out with it?
"On your face, your lips."
"What? What?!"
"Me," he laughed.
I raised my finger to my lips. I felt it a big gob of Eric. I couldn't help laughing. I scooped it with my right index finger and slurped it into my mouth.
"There, happy now?" I asked.
"Yes, happy now," he replied. "But I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
"You know. That ten-second thing. I'll do better next time."
Next time!
My heart leaped.
"Hey," said Eric. "It's only ten past five. Want to come to my house for tea?"
"For tea?"
"Yes," he laughed. "Just for tea. My brother'll be there. You'll like him. Come on."
And off we went. No guilt, no shame, no remorse, no regrets, no recriminations. Just two boys, hungry, and wanting their tea.
Anyway, there'll be a next time, so don't be greedy.
I suppose my seduction of Eric would have moved faster if I hadn't been so distracted by sex and by love.

Blame the sex on Alan.
It wasn't that I had sex with Alan. I did but far less often than I might have anticipated after that first encounter. Two things made sex with Alan sporadic. First, I didn't fancy him much and he fancied me even less. Don't get me wrong. We liked each other, and, as far as boys are able, we probably loved each other. But we'd been together so long it was a bit
like having sex with your brother.
I don't know if nature makes a sort of taboo about that, but Alan and I'd been together for so long, since we were about four years old, nursery, junior school, now secondary school, that it just didn't feel right. I can't speak for Alan but I couldn't get those images out of my mind; all those years when we were little kids, down on Braeland Ferry beach, making
sandcastles, squealing and running when the water lapped over our sandals. I just couldn't match that with the times we lay head-to-toe sucking each other off.
But Alan was --how can I put it? Alan was a voracious little predator who enjoyed sex simply because it was there, and, above all, he enjoyed having sex with boys who were or seemed to be unattainable. And since I'd spent most of my life going along with Alan, I went right along with that, too, and loved every inch of it.
Take Liam Marshall. And in the end we took Liam Marshall.

* * *

... (To Be Continued)

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