Brass Nv

Sounding Brass Novella from Brass Pony

Sounding Brass

A Novella by

Marsh Cassady

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not love, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.
I Corinthians 13:1

Learning about Sex

It was June 10, 1948, Martin's twelfth birthday, when Aunt Sarah gave him a book called Learning about Sex. Lying in bed on Saturday afternoon he read it through. Much of what it said he already knew, except he was kind of mixed up. It didn't have any pictures or drawings, and when he tried to visualize what a girl or woman looked like naked, it was just sort of blank.
There was something else he didn't understand. The book said a person should never masturbate. Martin wasn't sure what that meant. He'd heard some older boys in the locker room at school talking about "beating off," and he knew this must be the same thing. Yet what was it?
For almost three years now he'd felt his penis grow stiff, sometimes at embarrassing times—like when he was sitting at his desk in school. Once it was stiff when the dismissal bell rang, and he didn't know what to do. He didn't want anyone to see. Yet he couldn't just sit in his seat. Finally, he tucked his books under his arm, and stuck both hands in his front pants pockets, making fists, trying to disguise what was happening.
Mostly at night he got what Donny called "a boner." No matter what he did, it throbbed and ached in a way he couldn't understand. He wondered if this was what "beating off" meant because with each beat of his heart his penis seemed to jerk or beat.
Just a couple of weeks after he read the book from Aunt Sarah he had a bad sore throat, and his mother took him to see Dr. Carruthers. As he sat in the waiting room, he glanced through an old copy of Life Magazine. There was an article about a man named Jenkins, almost the same as Martin's name which was O'Jenkins.
Martin turned the page and saw the man's picture. He felt a thrill in the pit of his stomach and felt his penis begin to grow stiff. He thought Mr. Jenkins was beautiful, his face filled with angles and planes. Just then the nurse popped her head through the doorway. "Martin," she said, "Doctor will see you now."
Martin stood, not wanting to let go of the magazine, holding it till the last possible second. He closed it then and laid it on the square coffee table in the center of the room.
Two nights later he dreamed of Mr. Jenkins, how they'd become friends. In the dream, something inside him exploded, something that gave him the most wonderful feeling he'd ever experienced. When he awoke and knew it all had been a dream, he felt a sense of loss, a yearning like he'd had as a little kid wanting to be around his friend Donny's father, who coached the town baseball team. Yet this was a thousand times more intense.
Suddenly, Martin realized his pajamas were wet, sticky. For an instant he didn't understand. Then he remembered the book Aunt Sarah had given him. There was a chapter on nocturnal emissions, wet dreams, "a natural occurrence for the adolescent boy." Even so, he was embarrassed; he didn't want his mother to know. Nor his father.
He couldn't stop thinking about it, thinking about Mr. Jenkins, who looked a little like Mr. Lang, his physical education teacher. The teacher's hair was darker, but he and Mr. Jenkins had the same kind eyes, the same caring manner. They liked Martin; they paid attention to him, something no one else did, except to bawl him out.
Every night after that when Martin went to bed, he hoped, almost prayed, that he'd have another dream about Mr. Jenkins.
One day Uncle Stanley stopped by and said a Boy Scout troop had been started at the Lutheran Church near where he lived. Ray had already joined. Uncle Stanley said he thought it might be nice for Martin to attend the meetings.
Dan said he could drop him off, and Uncle Stanley would bring him home. Martin didn't know if he wanted to join since he didn't know any of the other kids.
"You know Ray," Uncle Stanley said. "And you'll get to know the others."
"Okay," Martin said, though he didn't like the idea. He changed his mind right away when he saw the Scoutmaster, Sam Holden. He went early the first time so Sam could talk to him before the meeting. He lived right next to the church, and when Martin knocked on the door, he hurried down the steps from the second floor, wearing a pair of grey work pants, but carrying his shirt in his hand.
Martin, seeing him through the panes of glass in the door, felt the same thrill he had when he'd seen the picture of Mr. Jenkins. Only this person was real, not just a photo. Sam looked strong, tanned, even though it was wintertime. His chest was muscular, the nipples hard, a patch of dark blond hair between them, a thicker patch just above his belt.
Martin flushed and glanced away.
Struggling into his shirt, the sleeves and front dangling open, the Scoutmaster opened the door. "Hi," he said. "You must be Martin."
"Yes," Martin mumbled.
He held out his hand. "I'm glad to meet you."
At the same time he felt embarrassed, Martin felt good. He took Sam's hand. It was dry, the handshake firm. Martin followed him inside. They sat in the living room while the Scoutmaster talked about the troop and the meetings and what Martin would be required to do.

Martin bought a uniform and a Boy Scout ring, as well as a couple of books about Scouting. In one of them there was a section that said some of the same things he'd read in the book from Aunt Sarah.
It talked about something else, too. It said that sometimes boys were sexually attracted to other boys, and if they were, they should try to find new companions.
Martin sat in the living room at home, heat from the coal stove warming his left side, leaving the right side cool. He sighed as he laid the book on the arm of the chair. He was all mixed up. It must be wrong, he thought, to have the kind of feelings he had about certain men. But they were men and not boys. He wasn't attracted to other boys. Was it wrong to be near the men as well?
He moved to the piano stool, away from the baking heat of the stove. This book too warned against masturbating. Although the practice didn't seem to be particularly harmful, it could, the book said, stunt the natural development of an interest in the opposite sex. Martin still wasn't sure what masturbating meant. He was just beginning to be interested in girls, though no one in particular. But if he masturbated or spent time around boys—men—to whom he was attracted, would he never marry, never have kids of his own? He swallowed hard. He didn't know; he just didn't know, and there was no one he could talk to about it. Even if there were, it would be too embarrassing.
He became a Tenderfoot and began to work on his Second Class rank. He'd joined the troop just in time to be able to go to winter camp.
Their first night in the cabin, his cousin Ray refused to get undressed and crawl into bed. "I'm embarrassed," he said. Martin thought he was just being silly.
"Come on, Ray," Sam said. "Everyone else is getting undressed."
"I don't want anyone to see me," he said.
"Don't you take gym at school?" Sam asked. "You have to get undressed there, don't you?"
Ray just shrugged and sat on his bed.
"You have the same thing as everyone else," Sam said. He smiled and nodded. "So come on."
Ray pulled back his covers, crawled underneath them and struggled to pull off his pants.
Sam laughed. "Okay," he said. "That's one way to do it." Then he undressed as well. He pulled off his shoes and socks, his shirt and pants, his undershirt. Aware that he was staring, Martin glanced around the cabin to see if anyone noticed.
Sam wore only his underwear now, a pair of jockey shorts, bulging in the front. Martin breathed in sharply when he saw Sam's legs. One was muscular, the other scarred and thin. Martin wondered why, but then forgot about it as Sam stood up, facing toward where Martin lay in his cot and pulled off the underwear. Martin's heart began to pound. Sam's cock was long and thick, surrounded by bushy hair, light brown.
Sam stepped into his pajamas, folded his clothes and stuck them into a knapsack. "Get the light, will you, Eddy?" he asked as he crawled into bed.
It was dark then as Martin lay on his back, wide awake. He'd never seen a naked man before. His own cock wasn't nearly the same size as Sam's. He wondered if it ever would be. Martin's pubic hair was just beginning to grow. Would it ever look like Sam's? He thought he must be crazy then because all he wanted to do was bury his face in that hair. He felt ashamed and somehow guilty.

***

A few months after Martin joined the Boy Scout troop, another one was formed in the town where he lived. The Scoutmaster was Rev. Johnson from the Lutheran Church down on the corner of the street where Martin lived. One Saturday the members, all of whom Martin knew, planned to go swimming at the Y in Johnstown. His friend, Donny, asked Rev. Johnson if Martin could go with them.
   Martin usually went swimming in the stream on Grandpa's farm or once in a while at the pool in Clivesville. But his mom didn't often let him go there because she thought he might get polio. But she said it was okay to go to the Y.
In the locker room, everyone got undressed. Martin looked up and saw Rev. Johnson standing just on the other side of the bench from him.
   Although he'd liked him from the first time he'd met him, he didn't feel attracted to him as he had to Sam Holden or Mr. Lang. Not until now. Broad, without being the least bit fat, he was a few inches taller than Martin's dad, close to six feet. He had brown eyes and a craggy face, but what drew Martin's attention was his chest and stomach, covered thickly with a mat of dark brown hair.
   More than anything in the world Martin wanted to reach across the bench and run his hands down the front of Rev. Johnson's body, hug the man against him. Never had he felt so attracted to anyone. He knew he should finish undressing, but he couldn't move.
Finally, everyone left to go to the pool, and Martin shucked off his clothes and hurried to join them. Most of the kids already were in the water, as was Rev. Johnson. Trying not to make it obvious, Martin stayed as close to the Scoutmaster as he could, watching as the water slicked down the hair on his arms and legs and chest. Martin thought of the man's penis, long and thick like Sam's, buried in bushy hair, and his own penis hardened. He hoped the water would distort its appearance, and no one would notice.
On the way home he made sure he rode in the Scoutmaster's car, sat next to him in the front seat, squeezed over so that their legs often touched. He tried to keep hidden the fact that his penis once more had stiffened.
At home he went up to his room, undressed and climbed into bed. He'd never felt so excited in his life. He couldn't stop thinking about Rev. Johnson. As he thought of him, he stroked his cock.
His body grew tense, drawing back almost in a bow. Martin wondered if he were going to burst wide open, explode into a million pieces. But he couldn't stop. His hand in a fist, he began a rhythmic motion, thinking of Rev. Johnson's chest and broad back, his thighs, his body hair, his cock.
A chill began at the top of Martin's head, spread down his body as white liquid erupted, spurt after spurt after spurt across his stomach, onto the sheet. When it was over, he lay back, closed his eyes.
What if Mom came into his room? he thought. Quickly, he jumped up, grabbed a handkerchief from his drawer, wiped himself and the sheet. He remade the bed, dressed, wadded up the handkerchief and sneaked downstairs. No one saw him go into the living room where he opened the door to the coal stove and threw the handkerchief inside. He watched as it blazed up, destroying the evidence. He knew now he didn't have to wait for the occasional dream; being awake when it happened was so much better. He knew he'd discovered what the word "masturbation" meant.
After that it became almost a nightly ritual. He thought about Rev. Johnson, about Sam, about Mr. Lang, about neighbors up and down the street. He thought of them naked, holding him, caring about him.
Martin had been taking trumpet lessons for about a year. At his next lesson his teacher, Mr. Carlson, said he was going to retire. Tim, over on First Street and also in the band, told Martin about a musician named Tom Thatcher who was supposed to be a good trumpet player. He'd recently moved to the area, and had started to give a few lessons. Martin called and the man agreed to see him. Because he lived just beyond Sixth Street, Martin could walk to his house. Right away he realized the man was good, as good as Mr. Carlson or maybe even better. He also seemed to realize how serious Martin was about his music.
Because it was warm when Martin started lessons, Mr. Thatcher sometimes wore only an undershirt and pants. He sat in a chair beside Martin, who sometimes could barely concentrate on his playing. Mr. Thatcher was in his sixties, completely bald, with greying blond hair on his arms and sticking out the top of the undershirt.
They sat in the dining room, Mrs. Thatcher most often in the kitchen doing the dinner dishes. Out the window Martin could see a pasture stretching down over a hill.
Sometimes when Mr. Thatcher wanted to explain something important, he reached out and squeezed Martin's leg. Martin longed for him to do more; he didn't know quite what. But he tried to play his best to please this man, to make him proud.
Often at night now, he thought of hugging and being hugged by Tom Thatcher.
One Friday evening just before school was out, Martin's mom and dad decided to go to Uncle Stanley's. Once there, Ray and Martin went outside on the porch. Ray's brother, Garth, now five, followed them.
"Go back in, we don't want you," Ray said. He pushed Garth toward the door.
"Don't want to go in," Garth said.
"But I want you to, and you'll go." Ray shoved him toward the door. Garth stumbled and fell. He started to cry as he picked himself up. "I'm telling," he said. "I'm telling."
"So go ahead and tell," Ray said.
Martin was shocked. He'd always wanted a brother. If he had one, he'd never treat him like Ray treated Garth.
"Come on," Ray said, "let's go around to the pond." Uncle Stanley had scooped out dirt at the side of the house and poured in cement. That was a couple of years ago. Now the pond was filled with big goldfish. In the summer lilies covered the surface.
"Let's sit down," Ray said. There was a tarp by the pool.
"What for?" Martin asked.
"So we can talk."
Martin shrugged. Ray could be weird sometimes. "Okay," he said.
He sat down, Ray right beside him. "I'm going to camp out here tonight. That's why the tarp's here. I'm going to put up my pup tent. I'd like you to stay. I asked my mom and dad and they said it's all right. We'll take you home in the morning."
Martin wasn't sure he wanted to stay. "I don't know."
"Oh, come on," Ray said, "it'll be fun."
Martin sighed. He guessed it would be all right. But he thought he might be getting a little old to sleep out in the yard. But even though Ray was kind of funny, they had been friends, as well as cousins, ever since Martin could remember.
"Okay," Martin said. "But I'll have to ask my mom and dad."
Suddenly, Ray reached over and felt between Martin's legs. Martin was startled.
"You don't mind, do you?" Ray asked.
Martin didn't answer; he knew he shouldn't let Ray do it. He spread his legs apart. Ray unbuttoned his pants and reached inside. Martin felt himself get suddenly hard. Then he jerked away.
"What's the matter?"
"We'd better go ask Mom and Dad if I can stay." Martin stood quickly and buttoned his pants. What if Ray tried to feel him like that again?
Uncle Stanley and Aunt Rose already had talked to Martin's mom and dad about spending the night, so he had no choice.
   Martin helped Ray put up the tent. Then the boys went inside the house to go to the bathroom. Aunt Rose gave Martin an extra toothbrush. "You two be sure to get some sleep," she said. "I don't want you staying awake all night talking."
"We won't," Ray said.
They lay on a sheet on top of the tarp, two blankets covering them. Ray wore pajamas, Martin only his underwear. He scooted over to the side as far from Ray as possible. In a little while Ray said he was going to sleep. He rolled to his side facing away from Martin.
Later Martin woke up, Ray's hand between his legs, underneath his underwear. "It feels good, doesn't it?" Ray asked.
We shouldn't be doing this, Martin thought, but he couldn't help it. He pulled down his underwear till his penis struck straight up. "Yours is big," Ray said, "a lot fatter than mine."
"Is it?" Martin asked, trying not to think about what was happening, yet wanting it to happen.
   "Feel it," Ray said, "you'll see." Ray pulled off his pajama top and then the bottom. He grabbed Martin's hand and drew it between his legs. "See," he said.
   Martin had never before seen anyone's penis hard except his own. "Stroke it for me," Ray said. He reached out and grasped Martin's cock and gently ran his fingers up and down.
Feeling a kind of release he didn't understand, Martin reached out and took Ray's cock in his hand, wishing it could be Rev. Johnson's, or Sam Holden's or Tom Thatcher's.
   Later, when Ray was asleep, Martin got up and went inside to the bathroom. He hoped he wouldn't wake Uncle Stanley and Aunt Rose. He washed himself off. Then he sat on the front porch until he saw the sun come up.