Disclaimer: This reminiscence contains descriptions of consentual sexual activity between teen males. Ironically, if you happen to be one yourself, you're not allowed to read about it, so get back to your homework.
Some of the sex isn't safe, but the events described happened in the sixties.
BEATIN' IT WITH BARRY by janus znaiu
Barrett Llewellyn was actually my older brother's friend before he was mine. In much the way that my wardrobe consisted largely of things that used to belong to Nils, Barry began to befriend me when Nils outgrew him. A two-year difference in ages, one that's no big deal when we're eight or nine, can become positively generational when we hit the mid- to late teens. That's what happened between Barry and Nils. My brother, at eighteen, now had his own razor, a part-time job, and a steady girlfriend, Sheila, the cheerless, ferret-faced daughter of our local Baptist minister. Barry had paid only passing attention to me for the three years he and Nils had been buddies, but when my brother went on to other things, Barry just kept coming over to the house and hanging out like he always did, except that he did it with me.
Although Barry was more than a year older than I was, sixteen at the time this story takes place, he still exhibited a healthy distrust of girls, a quality I admired in a friend and one that was becoming increasingly rare among guys my age. And, as it turned out, he liked a lot of the same goofy kid things I still did; things like building scale-model tall ships, poking about in the woods and going for long bike rides around the countryside. Ten-speed touring bikes were still a novelty back then and, other than Nils and me, Barry was the only person I knew who had one-- a beaut of a Peugeot painted a metalic gold, the showy twin to my plain white one.
That he was a much stronger cyclist than I was hardly surprising considering that he stood more than a head taller and outweighed me by twenty pounds, most of it in the form of thighs and shoulders. I usually wound up riding behind him, but I would have placed myself there anyway. I was happy to be able to watch the way his tight butt would rise up off the seat and sway from side to side whenever he leaned into the pedals to climb a steep hill. Barry was always fun to watch. His basket never had the same shape any two times I sneaked a look at it, but he always seemed well-packed into whatever he was wearing. Barry might have looked tempting alright (suddenly, as if the plain boy who had been Nils' friend had been someone else), but I kept my sexual cards pretty close to my chest in those days, particularly around someone with whom I'd only officially been friends for a few weeks.
Then, one late-summer afternoon, we dropped shirtless onto the grass, out of breath and sweating like hogs, grateful for the small roadside rest stop at the top of a particularly grueling hill. We'd lain there for a few minutes without speaking when Barry suddenly propped himself up on one elbow and faced me with a strange look. Right out of the blue, he asked if I felt like jacking off with him. Now, masturbation wasn't a subject that had really come up between us very much, though our friendship had progressed to the point where we'd admitted to each other that we "did it", and often. But it wasn't as if I'd spent a lot of my wanking time watching movies of a romping, bareass Barry play in my head. I had a pretty hot catalog of jackoff memories and recurring fantasies stored away, even by that time. Barry wasn't in any of them. From that afternoon on though, he was to be their central focus for some time.
There wasn't anybody around, so I told him sure. I remember blushing a little, because of the way my tone betrayed my enthusiasm. Now that Barry had taken it upon himself to break the sexual ice (tacitly raising the possibility of an assisted orgasm), I was suddenly all for the idea. My sex life, such as it was at fourteen, stank.
We both began scanning the environs for someplace suitably private. The little park we were in was surrounded on three sides by fields of ripe grain and consisted of little more than a weedy patch of grass with couple of picnic tables, a water spigot and one of those blue portable toilets they put by the highway. It wasn't the presidential suite at the Plaza, but it would do. Before I even got the door closed and locked behind us Barry was offering to "get me off real good", if I agreed to stroke his for him. I was certainly no stranger to that kind of trade-off, in fact I'd been more or less counting on it. Again I told him sure, little caring this time whether my enthusiasm showed or not.
Barry sat himself down on the lid of the toilet seat and immediately started unbuttoning my jeans. Without looking up from my crotch, he asked, "You've done shit like this before, right?" But he said it more as a statement, as though he hoped it to be so.
"Oh yeah, plenty," I said proudly, glad not to be the greenhorn onanist Barry might have figured me to be.
Spencer, my regular jackoff partner of two years, was a kid from my class at school who lived two farms over. But he and his family moved away the beginning of that summer. I missed his practiced hand as much as I missed his cock in mine, but there were a few guys I'd kept in contact with from our old neighborhood who helped fill the void Spence left. I'd visit them in the city from time to time or they'd come out to our place, usually for sleepovers. We'd pump each others' dicks under the covers after lights-out and sometimes even in the barn or back in the woods during the day, but things had clearly changed. Wanking with them wasn't anything like it had been when we were younger, when everything connected with our dicks seemed so new and scary. And many of the guys I'd grown up with had become less and less interested in messing around like we used to, now that they were beginning to discover what girls had to offer, though for the life of me, I couldn't see the allure. So I got used to just wanking by myself most of the time. Now, as if in answer to prayers I was too agnostic to utter, here was Barry, eagerly feeling me up with both hands in this stifling port-a-potty out in the middle of nowhere. I guess if we'd been hanging out together a little longer, if I hadn't still been so afraid of his reaction, I might well have proposed this very thing myself.
I'd been taken by surprise at Barry's suggestion and things were progressing fairly quickly, so I wasn't yet fully hard while he fumbled with my fly; but looking down at him, I could see that the fat knob of Barry's boner was already sticking out the leg of his blue gym shorts, all red-tipped and shining. All steamy and pungent from our strenuous uphill ride. His taut foreskin hugged the widest part of the glans, pale in contrast with the crimson head and the even deeper-hued lips of his piss slit. I was happy to see that he was uncircumcised, as I am. I always prefered jerking one like my own; I gave me a better idea of what the other guy was feeling. I also knew it meant that Barry would take it easy with my cock. Cut guys at that age, accustomed to applying maximum friction to their own, are almost always too rough on the bared rim of an uncut guy's dickhead, at least until they've had "the lesson" a few times.
Barry's hands played here and there across the front of my jockeys, outlining my spongy bat against the bleached cotton. I felt it pulse under the pressure of his flattened palm as it plumped up to full erection. He closed his fingers around my meat and began kneading it through the fabric while his other hand slipped around my legs to fondle my cotton-bound bag from behind. When he began lightly dry-jacking my wrapped dick in earnest, I let out a groan they must have heard back in town. "Oh man, keep that up and I'm gonna hose right into my shorts!"
"Promise? I really dig that!" Barry flashed me a lascivious grin from beneath a perspiration-soaked mop of Welsh curls. His fingertips were working their way into the peehole of my jockeys. "I do it all the time. Blow my stones into my shorts, I mean. On purpose like. My mother just thinks I just have a lot of wet dreams."
"My mom would have a fit if I ever did that!" I told him. And then again she might not have, but she'd never have gotten the chance. I'd have walked off a bridge in them before I'd have let my mother find a pair of my cummy drawers. On those rare occasions when I actually had a wet dream, I'd gather up enough other items of clothing to make up a load and put everything in the washer myself. This raised my parents' eyebrows whenever it happened, but their bemused curiosity was preferable, by far, to the stilted lecture I'd be in for if they had reason to suspect I was masturbating again-- I was already a three-time loser on that score. My folks held some pretty old-fashioned notions about the practice that made me devious far beyond necessity. From the time I first began shooting, I was so paranoid about being found out that I actually used to dispose of my used kleenex or paper towels in a public trashbin on my way to school every morning, just in case my mom ever got inquisitive about the contents of my wastebasket.
One of Barry's hands disappeared up a leghole of my jockeys and he squeezed my shaft with it while the other teased the underside of the head from outside. "What a nice fuckin' bone, man!" he cooed, his breath warm on my belly. Barry's compliment broke the trance I was in and reminded me that he had one too. I bent over slightly to reach for it, but he gently straightened me up again. "Plenty of time for that, Jens. Just relax for now and let me check you out. I knew you'd be into this stuff. You're so different from Nils."
"Thank Gawd!" I cut in.
"I mean it, man. He's such a fuckin' tightass. I lost track of the times I tried to get him to whip it out." Nils? One half of a two-man circle jerk? Not in this lifetime.
Barry kept rubbing my cock and balls, from inside my jockeys and from without, once again limiting his pallette to the flats of his palms. He was clearly in no hurry to whip mine out anytime soon. He'd just stare at my boinked jockeys and pose my cock this way and that under the cotton, pulling his head back slightly after each rearrangement to inspect his work. I was wishing he'd just pull it out and start pumping it, but it was plain who was in control here. I could only put my hands on my hips and let him have at it.
Barry went on, "One night last summer, my parents left to go to some stupid geezer dance or something. Anyway, Nils and me got into my grandfather's barrel of peach wine. Before too long we got to feeling pretty good and he was, you know, letting his hair down a bit, for once in his life. I tell ya' Jens, I really thought I had him talked into beating off with me that night. And he almost went for it too, but he chickened out right at the last minute. By that time I was way too fuckin' horny to stop, so he ended up sittin' there watching me while I spunked onto a pile of dirty laundry. He didn't say anything much, except that he thought lickin' the juice off of your fingers afterwards was gross".
I snickered at that. Nils could be brought to the gagging point by showing him the scum off a baked custard. Or by any of several dozen other things, to my continuous delight. He'd have shit himself on the spot if I'd ever gotten into his face with a fresh load in my palm and calmly horked it back, the way I did in the shower just about every morning.
"Nils never even got a bone-on from lookin' at me either. Not that I could notice anyways-- and I was checkin' him out pretty close." Barry added, still fingering my dick and nuts.
I could picture Nils' hesitation and embarrassment vividly. I'd only seen very occasional flashes of my brother naked in all the years we were growing up and I'd certainly never seen his dick hard, if indeed it ever got that way. The bathroom we shared adjoined our two bedrooms, but Nils had always been in the habit of locking my door to it when he was in there. If we had to change into our swimsuits or undress for bed on family vacations, when we were forced to share a room, he'd always try to do it under a bathrobe or behind a blanket. I had a vague idea of what his dick looked like, of course: it was long, slim and uncut like mine, with slightly more extra skin at the end of it than I had. But I hadn't actually seen it since long before I had hair above mine. I remember how shocked I was when the towel he'd been wearing fell open and I saw that he had some where I didn't.
"Still," Barry continued, almost off-handedly, "it was cool to get him drunk. He's usually so full of Jesus and all that friggin' Eagle Scout shit. We just sat around in our underwear and told dirty jokes til my folks got home."
The image of Nils lounging around with a buddy in just his skivvies struck me as so out of character for him that I almost refused to believe it outright. Nils had no experience with alcohol that I knew of, so he must have gotten some rocked on that peach wine to let himself be that free. He probably prayed over it for weeks afterward.
It suddenly occured to me as Barry spoke, that the pair of jockeys he was currently rifling might well have been the same pair Nils had had on that night. In the normal run of things I didn't inherit my brother's briefs, but he'd just grown so much in such a short period that my mom couldn't bring herself to throw them out. It did make me feel a little weird the first few times I wore any of them, knowing someone else's cock and balls used to call them home, but I never gave it another thought until Barry mentioned Nils in his underwear.
The hand that Barry had inside my drawers cupped my sweaty, tightly-drawn nutsac in its warm, equally sweaty palm and he rubbed my balls against one another. I reached down past the waistband to give my dick a few pulls as soon as he let it go. It felt a little odd, but very arousing, to bump into a strange set of knuckles inside my own briefs like that. I went to pull them down, to free my straining cock, but Barry stopped me and firmly guided my hand back inside. Then he jammed both his hands down the front of his shorts and leaned back against the wall of the cubicle, just staring at my crotch and licking his smiling lips.
"Just stand there playing with yourself like that, inside your underwear. Yeah, JUST like that." I wasn't used to being directed that way, but I was far too horny not to play along. In fact, I gave him what I thought might have been the male version of a hoochie-koo dancer. This was 1964 and we didn't have a lot of role models in the male stripper field. Still, I bumped. I grinded. I writhed.
In a shy, husky tone, his gaze suddenly cast downwards on his own churning package, Barry said, "You have a much nicer body than Nils did when he was your size."
"Jeez, I've never thought about Nils as having any kind of body." I said, no longer gyrating my torso, but still feeling myself up. It was true enough. If it wasn't for Nils' two dates a week with Sheila, the Born Again She-Weasel, I'd have said my brother was about the most asexual person I knew.
As I continued my command performance behind the pouch of my jockeys, I began staring pretty openly at the way Barry's hands were roaming the interior of his school-issue gym shorts. Every so often the full length of his thick rod would make its scary self known, or the outline of both his nuts would suddenly appear under the blue fabric. And up the leg hole of his gym shorts, I'd occasionally get a flash of Barry's light blue Stanfields showing the curve of a ball, the ridge of his knob or a dingy white leg seam with dense black curls escaping from beneath it.
Again I was seized by the need to pull my dick out and stroke it in the open. There were many reasons to get things moving: someone could have pulled in at any moment wanting to use the john. I wasn't so far gone that the spectre of being discovered exiting an outhouse with another guy didn't rear its head. Besides, it was becoming very close and hot in the little cubicle and the disinfectant fumes were starting to get to me. "Hey, Barry, this ain't right!" I told him, "I'm standing here poking a new hole in my drawers and you've still got your damn shorts on."
Barry's face lit up, as though he'd just awakened and remembered that it was Christmas morning. He leapt into a squat on the seat cover and kicked his legs out one at a time like a Cossack dancer, pulling his shorts completely off without ever standing up. His man-sized dick formed a long, diagonal cylinder that challanged the stressed white waistband of his faded blue fly-fronts.
"Must be laundry day at your house," I joked when I saw them.
"Huh?"
"Your underwear. Those are some beat fuckin' skivs, man." Barry's dad was half-owner of a Chevy dealership. It wasn't as though he needed to wear tattered drawers.
"I guess these are getting a bit raggedy, but I they're my favorites. I love the groovy way they let the cool breeze in when I'm riding and the way they let my bag hang free." As if to demonstrate, Barry pulled open the slack leg holes and stuck the fingers of both hands in to jiggle his nuts.
Jiggling nuts or not, my attention was completely captivated by that massive, sprung cock as it lay nearly horizontal above them. It was easily the biggest one I'd ever seen; longer than mine by at least a couple inches. But its most disinguishing feature was its disproportionate girth. You could have put two hardons the size of mine side by side and hidden them behind it.
Barry tapped both sides of the small, raised platform into which the toilet seat was set to get my attention. "Climb on up here," he said. Then he patted his lap. I watched a rivulet of sweat as it trickled down the length of his torso to the frayed waistband of his underwear where it stopped, soaking past the elastic in a spreading, U-shaped wet spot. Again his cock drew my eye, but how could it not? A dark blot of fluid defined the inverted V of its upturned glans, seemingly translucent where precum pasted the threadbare fabric to it.
I stepped out of my jeans and attempted once again to pull off my briefs, but Barry's tsk-tsking stopped me before I could drop them past the head of my bone. "Why are you in such a god-awful hurry to get undressed?" he asked, with a cocked head and horny smile, "Get right up here and let's rub 'em together for a bit." That was something none of my other jackoff buddies would have suggested, but I was certainly up for it.
I hopped onto the platform and squatted over his thighs, lowering myself onto them until our cloth-covered dicks stood belly to belly. Barry's dampened knob was lined up perfectly with my smaller one, the apparent similarity in our lengths owing to the fact that I was sitting on his lap with my ankles crossed behind him. As soon as I was settled in, he cupped both our dickheads together and squeezed. I threw my head back and instinctively humped upwards into his palm at the sensation, grasping his broad shoulders to keep from losing my balance. Barry's other arm slipped behind the small of my back to help support me.
"Damn, you smell nice," he observed, and he pressed his cheek against my breastbone, still rubbing our wrapped dicks together. I didn't know quite how to take that. I was dripping with perspiration and felt pretty funky. Nobody had ever said anything like it to me before. But then, nobody had ever sucked on my nipple before either, as he was doing. It felt interesting, but coupled with the pressure on my cock, it was far too intense. His tongue lapped at one of them for only a moment before until he felt me flinch and eased off. Barry's next target was my dripping armpit. He slobbered briefly on the sparse tuft of dark blond hair he found. But that tickled like hell and I was forced to pull back until he couldn't reach it anymore.
Barry chuckled at my discomfort and let go of our dicks to put both arms around me and draw me back to him again with a horny growl. The tightness of his hold on me mashed our dicks together all the more and we kind of rocked like that for several minutes, making simulated fuck moves against each others' bodies. The whole time, Barry was busy licking at whatever part of me he could reach. I deliberately held my face away from him, simultaneously hopeful and fearful that he'd try to kiss me on the mouth. He'd already sucked at my neck and my chin a few times and it had given me goosebumps.
This was a new thing for me: "sex" and such unabashed affection in combination. With all of the other kids I'd ever jacked off with you just dropped your laundry and you got on with it. You stood, sat or lay side by side and pumped away until each of you came. Then you wiped up, got dressed and went back to whatever you were doing before the urge came over you. We didn't confuse what we did with lovemaking. Indeed, we had no idea what that was.
But late at night, under the covers and behind closed eyes, I'd begun to try to reconcile what I did with my friends physically with the new kind of fondness I was beginning to feel for them. I envisioned myself doing other things with them-- stuff you were supposed to do with girls. But I was far too apprehensive to caress any of my sleepover buddies beyond the limits we'd established over the course of our boyhoods. That meant: no touching, except the genitals and certainly no sappy displays of gratitude or inverted affection. Now, here with Barry, normal was nowhere to be found. I began to feel that warm rush that comes from knowing one's on the shore of untested waters. Again I was experiencing the thrill I'd been missing from those early days of: "... right, you show me yours and I'll show you mine. Okay then, on the count of three..."
Instead of just using his shoulders to balance myself, I dropped my arms lower and allowed my hands to pass slowly across Barry's glistening upper back. Tentatively, I drew him to me in a barely perceptable requital of his embrace. I nuzzled my cheek against the top of his curly head and closed my eyes. My nuts were getting crushed every once in a while by our rocking on the toilet seat but the novel sensation of having another guy's gunting, sweat-soaked body against mine, just as I'd imagined it, would have made almost any discomfort a minor one.
I took in a deep, decisive breath and, boldly reaching into Barry's briefs at the same time, I clamped my lips onto his neck, just below his ear. Barry hummed his approval and sucked his abdomen in slightly to give my hand better access to his dick, much of which stood above the waistband anyway. I grabbed his sticky tool, even more amazed by its dimensions now that I had my hand around it. Barry moved my fist to its head and grasped his shaft below my hand, as though we were choosing first-ups for a game of baseball. He'd already slipped his other hand past my waistband and was treating me to some long, gentle overhand strokes behind a veil of cotton. We jacked each other like that for some minutes. Barry's sweat was salty on my tongue.
Finally, he shifted uncomfortably beneath me, drew back from my sucking of his collarbone and said, "God, you're getting heavy, Jens. Let's try this standing up." I scrambled off him and before he got another chance to prevent me, I peeled off my jockeys and tossed them on top of my jeans. My dick bobbed out in front of me, the foreskin retracted of its own accord to form a wrinkled collar just behind my cockhead.
"Hey, that's cheating!" Barry griped, when he saw I'd shucked my jockeys and was skinning my pole. He tried to sound pissed off, but there was a chuckle behind it.
"I had to take them off. I was starting to leak into 'em," In evidence, I drew a clear, viscous string of precum off my piss slit with a fingertip before smearing the exposed head of my cock with it.
"We can't have that! Okay, have it your way then." With that, Barry spread the pee hole of his briefs and watched himself haul his entire package out. He rolled his eyes upwards at me and grinned momentarily at my gasp. He apparently knew full well that he was exceptionally endowed and made a great show of shaking it at me. Barry's cock was one of those very large ones that never completely stiffen, as if the guy's body couldn't spare enough blood to fill anything that big properly. It wasn't so flexible that you could fold it in half or anything like that, but it stayed pretty spongy. I could tell Barry's grip on it was tight by the way he compressed the flesh with his fist. When he came to the end of one long, lazy upward pull, the constriction of which made him tremble, his partially-covered dickhead flared red as a radish and broadened by a third. A long streamer fresh drool escaped it and stuck to his hairs of his inner thigh.
I could have stood there watching Barry handle his one-eyed anaconda like that for a week, but having so recently given myself over to the wonder of full-body contact, I meant to have some more of it. As if he'd read my mind, Barry took the one step that separated us and wrapped himself around me. Something akin to an electric charge surged through me as the tips of our bared dicks met. As we embraced, our cocks found temporary homes for themselves: mine surged at the sensation of being mashed between the heat of Barry's and the comparatively cool, soaked front of his briefs. Barry's cock, hot and sticky, pressed itself into a burning hollow up the center my abdomen.
We sucked one anothers' necks as before, but during one long, spitty swipe of Barry's tongue along my chinline, I took the plunge and impulsively welded my lips onto his. I hesitated at the contact of our open mouths, a little tense and unsure exactly what to do next. As was to be the case for the next year in all matters sexual, Barry took over. His tongue explored my mouth for a few seconds and then quickly got out of the way, leaving a void my own tongue instinctually filled. Within seconds, the initial apprehension I felt about kissing him left me altogether. I explored the contours of Barry's molars until his tongue leapt out and playfully tried to wrap itself around mine. All the while, we continued to grind our crotches together and moan atonally down each others' throats.
Reluctantly, I broke the kiss when Barry did, opening my eyes for the first time in ages and squinting at the sudden brightness of the afternoon light as it streamed in through the vents above us. Barry fired me a devious grin, his cheeks smeared with our spit, his hair all flattened on the side I'd been pressing against. He pulled his goods back into the front of his briefs and jammed one hand in as well, down past the waistband. Presently it emerged out the fly and Barry stepped forward again. His hand sticking out the peehole of his underwear like a puppet, he grasped my boner and pulled it inside, flush against the upturned underside of own dick.
He bent his knees a little so our cocks lined up better and, gripping them together with both hands, Barry began jacking them energetically. I sighed in weak-kneed acquiescence and locked my chin around his neck.
He spoke directly into my ear, "You're about to see how cool it feels to blow your wad inside in a pair of drawers, and you'll still be able to go home in dry ones." I only had a sketchy idea of what he was proposing, but Barry's mention of blowing my wad got my immediate approval.
He realigned our cocks, jacked them together a few more times and then pulled his waistband open, so I could see inside. Both our foreskins happened to be pulled back and his fist was curled around the base of my shaft and the middle of his. Snail trails of glimmering precum criss-crossed each other above Barry's pubic patch.
"Spit." he ordered.
I worked up a good mouthful and gobbed it onto our cockheads. Barry sprayed them twice more for good measure and then allowed his waistband snap back with a wet slap. His other hand was inside working our precum and spit into a noisy lather. I could see new dark places forming on the front of his briefs where our juices were soaking into the fabric. The biggest spot was where Barry's drooling dickhead stretched the cotton near the waistband.
I looked directly Barry's ever-grinning face. "I'm not going to last much longer," I warned him.
"You're not meant to," he giggled, and somehow doubled his rhythm on our poles. For several long seconds I was able to stay in a kind of limbo: not cumming exactly, but experiencing a lot of the same sensations without actually ejaculating. I broke the spell when I snuck a look at Barry's busy hands under the cotton. He was wanking us both, as madly as before, but with one cock in each hand now. The sight of those cotton-covered bulges being flogged was all it took to send me past the gates of Valhalla.
I braced myself by hooking one arm around Barry's shoulder and pressing the other palm against the wall behind him. Frantically, I sought out his mouth and only just managed to plunge my tongue all the way into it before I began to lose my load. In the confines of Barry's briefs, my deluge of spunk had else nowhere to go but all over his knuckles. He stroked my pumping hose several more times before switching hands. I could hear him whimpering quietly as he worked my spew all over his own ax-handle of a cock. All of a sudden he took a sharp, whistling in-breath and presently I felt the first of his squirts, hot as molten lead, coat my still-spasming dick. Barry moaned long and plaintively into my sucking mouth. Barely getting enough air in via his nostrils for a second moan, he broke our kiss for a hasty intake of breath and exhaled it profoundly as he sqeezed off the last of his wad. Finally, he fell backwards onto the lid of the toilet, leaving my slimy, still mostly-hard cock hanging in mid-air.
"Fuck, Jens! ...Fuck!" was all Barry could say as he slammed his back against the wall. Two thirds of the front of his briefs was saturated with spit and semen. Whole dripping globules of our combined loads dribbled out one gaping leg hole and fell onto the black toilet seat in a random archipelago of round white islands. Barry's rapidly-defalting dick was gradually forming a bas relief of slightly more human dimensions under the soaked cotton. "Fuck!" he kept saying, as if he felt the need to say something but was temporarily unequal to the task of articulating anything that better expressed his feelings. Fuck, indeed.
I'd been giving my dick some casual pulls while I took in the scene of Barry heaving in post-orgasmic rapture. Before long it was stiff again. It throbbed and pointed proudly skyward as I spread Barry's knees and stepped between them. I felt my cum rising again, much sooner and with greater intensity than I had reason to expect, given that I'd spent a load in the shower that morning as well. Barry opened his eyes wide in burlesque wonder when I announced quietly, "There's more."
Among my other friends it came to be considered bad form to get any of one's load on the other kid, but it still happened from time to time, despite the fact that we'd more or less given up face to face wanking once we became capable of shooting jizz. But I often found myself trying to get "in the way" of the other guy's spurting dick and wished they'd ask me spray them too. With all we'd been up to for the last half hour, I had no reason to suspect Barry would have similar qualms.
My knees pressed hard against the toilet's unpainted plywood platform. I leaned over Barry and caressed the ripples of his lovely tanned abdomen while, with my other hand, I flogged my cock for all I was worth. My eyes clamped shut in concentration. My face contorted painfully. Flying drops of sweat dripped off my forehead onto Barry's chest and belly.
"Oh yeah! Get it, Jens! Put it right here." I opened my eyes to see that Barry had hooked the waistband of his underwear behind his balls, exposing his sticky cock in repose. Even soft, it was more than a match for the one I was so fervently jacking. His foreskin had returned to what I was to discover to be its normal flaccid state: covering his entire glans, but leaving the tip of his urethra visible at the end of a short, puckered tunnel. A meandering, bluish vein ran the length of his dick's upper surface. Above it, the dense black curls of Barry's bush were speckled with cum. He plucked some of it up with two fingers and drew them across his tongue as he watched me beat off.
Whenever I thought I could get away with it, I'd fallen into the habit of sampling my other friends' wads after I'd made them cum. This was easier to accomplish in the dark during a sleepover, but even at other times, I'd slyly avert my head and lick a finger or two while the other kid was busy wiping up. The sight of Barry doing it, openly, staring me right in the eye all the while, excited me more than anything we'd done previously. He seemed to sense this and treated himself a fresh bit, sucking his glistening fingers completely into his mouth.
Seconds later, pointing my stiff cock painfully downwards, I spilled my encore wad onto Barry's crotch in three comparatively feeble jets that trailed off to a few random, nearly clear droplets. For the first time, I was able to lick the goo off my fingers in the company of another guy without fear of ridicule. I scooped up a blob the size of a half-dollar and brought it to my mouth. Then I half-leaned, half-lay on him and we kissed again, more gently than before, but not without passion. I thrilled at the unfamiliar flavor of our blended juice.
We didn't have the luxury of a completely stress-free recovery period, however. We held each other for several minutes, but as I'd feared earlier, a car pulled in just as we were beginning to talk in terms of getting dressed and back on our bikes. Giggling, we scrambled about and bumped into each other like a pair of characters in a bedroom farce. Even so, we managed to get into our clothes and get Barry out the door before the car's engine shut off. The occupants, a middle-aged couple, were busy consulting a roadmap. By the time they emerged, carrying a picnic basket, I was joining Barry where we'd left our bikes.
He stepped up to me, closer to me than I felt comfortable with under the friendly but curious gaze of the couple at the picnic table. He grasped my forearm and the opposite shoulder tenderly, as if he meant to kiss me again, oblivious to their presence. "That was too fuckin' cool, Jens." Barry gushed, in a stage whisper I knew the couple could hear if they'd been listening. Finally sensing my unease at his public familiarity, Barry stepped back and sheepishly began to examine his cycle's gears.
Without looking up, he cleared his throat and asked if I wanted to hear a confession. Quietly, almost inaudibly, Barry said, "I've had it off with a couple of other guys; well, lots actually."
"So? Me too. No big deal." Some confession, I thought. It was quite plain that I wasn't the first person he'd rubbed weenies with, in fact, he'd already told me as much.
Again using the shy, husky voice I'd never heard from him until that afternoon, "No, that's not it. I mean that's the first time I've ever, you know, kissed another guy before. On the mouth, like."
I was somehow reassured by the fact that Barry, too, had been flying by the seat of his pants; or more properly, by the seat of his underpants. "Me too," I answered him, just as solemnly.
As we rode home I flashed on a mental picture of Barry sprawled across my bed, our whole household blissfully asleep while his boned dick fleshed out a pair of my whites. Maybe I'd get him to wear a pair of the ones that used to be Nils'. Barry'd like that. Maybe I'd get to try some of those other things, the visions of which kept me awake at night, with Barry.
We were coming to the point in the road at which Barry and I would have to part company for the ride to our own homes. I leaned into the pedals until I was riding parallel with him, "Would a sleepover at our house tonight interest you?" I asked him. His ear to ear grin was all the answer I needed.
When we arrived back at our place, Nils was just getting into the car in full Scout regalia. Sheila was standing by the passenger side with a bible and a hymnal in her hand and was berating him for not opening the car door for her. Nils slid out of the driver's seat and walked around the front of the car to let her in, apologizing as he went.
"Promise me you won't turn out like him," Barry said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the car as it pulled out.
"No chance," I told him, and I knew I was right.
END
So, "Barry", if you've been reading this and you experienced some jab of recollection, right down to the make and color of our bikes and underwear, you'll see that I've used our middle names. I still think of you, you know. Always fondly, and at the oddest of times. And lustfully at more predictable times; like when I'm lonely in a hotel bed or late some Sunday morning, when there's no particular reason to get up right away. I like to think I occupy a similar niche in your pantheon of first loves. Write me sometime.
comments heartily encouraged, flames cheerfully ignored janus@greynet.net