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.
BUNKIN' WITH BARRY by janus znaiu
I'd only been awake for an hour but I was already exhausted, utterly drained. And drenched. Two streams of my own sperm trickled their parallel way to the mattress between the xylophone keys of my heaving, skinny-kid ribcage. Another rivulet dribbled along one side of my neck and was beginning to dampen the pillow. That one came from the spot where my first, most pent-up jet had caught the bottom of my upturned chin. Had it not, it would have sailed past my head and decorated my headboard, as primary spurts of mine had been doing for more than two years. A viscous puddle of white, some the accumulation of subsequent shots and some of it Barry's, not only filled the hollow of my belly button; it hid the fact that I had one at all. I stilled Barry's jacking hand. His job was done, for now.
Our sunrise orgasm ended just in time. Moments later, I heard my mom's slippers shuffle along the carpet outside my room as she headed downstairs. By the time she'd finished with the coffee grinder, my brother Nils could be heard shaving next door in the bathroom. He'd be getting ready for church. Me, I'd already had all the sacrament I needed-- the blessed ooze of Barry's earlier load still lay thick on my tongue.
"Wow! I counted seven fuckin' shots that time, Jens." Barry whispered, as much in awe as from any effort to be quiet. He spooned in beside me and smeared my ejaculate across my torso, "Seven. Shit, that'll be something to put in your diary!"
My diary? Oh yeah. I'd told him about it that first night we slept together.
I used to keep a detailed jackoff diary throughout most of my early teens. Well, not one exclusively dedicated to the practice exactly; it took the form of a daily addendum in the more conventional journal I kept. At the bottom right-hand corner of each page, I would draw a little box. In it, I'd make cryptic notes of the previous twenty-four hours' one-handed diversions.
A small "x" meant a perfunctory wank, one indulged in purely out of transient teenaged stress or simple boredom. If it was followed by an "s", that meant it took place in the shower, as "b" stood for "bed" and so on, to define location. A real boomer of an orgasm, one with many spurts, or one of exceptional velocity, merited a larger "X", with one "!" tacked on for each distinct volley of cum over my average, which was four. If another guy was involved, two "x"s would be placed next to each other.
I know how absurdly fastidious all this sounds, but that's the kind of kid I was. It's a Capricorn thing, so they tell me. From the previous year's diary, I could tell you that my cock, when hard, grew from precisely 4 7/8 inches to 5 3/4 inches over the fifty-two weeks from my thirteenth birthday to my fourteenth. But its real growth spurt happened during the year Barry and I were buddies.
For the three months prior to the first time Barry and I masturbated together, my jackoff log consisted mostly of xb and xs notations, with few X or ! to be found. Also rare, were symbols indicating that I'd had company in my relentless pursuit of temporary ego-loss. One could deduce, from an overview of that summer's record, that I averaged between three and four orgasms a day of so-so rating, that they usually occured in the shower or the barn, with one or two of them being occasionally memorable ones in bed at night. I'd guess I was probably an average wanker for a horny fourteen yearold.
But from August 28th, 1964, a week before I was to start tenth grade, there begins at the corners of my diary pages such a profusion of upper case XX and multiple !!!! notations that, looking at them now, I have to suspect that I must have been bragging to myself in code. I see also, by the other things I wrote among my normal day-to-day prattlings, that I was beginning to fall in love with my brother Nils' former best friend. Previously, I might have entered something like: "Barry and I cycled out to the mill and then we went to his house to work on the rigging to his Cutty Sark model", and that would be it. But all entries after that magic day also include curious minutiae about him that document the progress of my captivation-- things like a quarter-page description of Barry's new haircut, or what he was wearing that day, or a quote of something he'd said that struck me as clever.
We'd only been chumming around full-time for a few weeks when we found ourselves beating off together in a portable outhouse off a two-lane blacktop. Not only had he brought me to a bona fide X!!! orgasm in that smelly sweatbox of a john, slipping and sliding my dick against that herculean loaf of his. No, he'd also done it to me inside his own briefs-- while he was wearing them! I'd have followed him off a cliff from that moment on. Turns out, that incident and the ones that followed it laid the foundation for a huge part of what I consider erotic today.
Before that day, underwear was a pretty much a no-brainer thing-- you put on a clean pair in the morning after your shower and you didn't think about them again until bedtime, when you took them off, put them in the hamper, and put your pajamas on. At least that was the routine for me until I became buddies with Barry. He might have been nearly as inexperienced and confused as I was about the broader spectrum of man-to-man possibilities; but he already knew, at barely sixteen, that whatever else it might entail, underwear was going to be a part of it. Since I was the one with whom he first explored many of those possibilites, I suppose was natural for his preoccupation to influence me the way it has.
Another reason I fixated on the whole underwear thing might stem from the fact that it was a prominent element the first time I ever got it together enough to display open affection towards another guy. Barry had seemed so natural nuzzling and licking me that my Nordic self-control had been completely undermined. Not only was it the first time I'd kissed a guy; it was the first time I'd kissed anybody, and meant it. But I sure thought about it a lot. Visualized it. Jacked off to it. Arranged my pillows into a vaguely human facsimile and practiced it on the decidedly un-mouthlike crook of my elbow.
My problem had always been one of available targets. I was far too reserved to try kissing any of the guys I occasionally wanked with. It had become almost like they were jacking off with me as a kind of favor anyway, as though it were some prerequisite way of thanking me for my hospitality during sleepovers. Like any ritual we observe purely out of sentimentality or with an air of resigned politeness, the experience usually left both of us unfulfilled, each for his own reasons. Still, it was always a welcome foreign hand coaxing my load-- and something I wasn't about to fuck up by laying a big slurpy one on the kid in bed beside me. Now, with Barry, I'd no longer have that to worry about. He claimed I was the first guy he'd ever kissed on the mouth, but he sure was good at it.
We arrived back at my place several hours after our outhouse tryst. It had been a long ride home, but mostly downhill or easy flats. The shadows had grown long and it was "date night" at our house. My brother had just driven off to a prayer meeting or somesuch with Sheila: the rat-faced frumpette he called his girlfriend.
My folks thought she was "a little too religious", but they seemed to accept her. I hated everything about her. Her rodentine features aside, she also behaved like a shrew. Very occasionally she'd pass her arm around Nils' neck, seemingly out of affection, but I suspect she was simply sizing him up for a collar. After only six months of her steady company, my brother had mutated from a mildly toxic Goody Two-shoes into a morally superior prig. I only go into such detail because it serves to demonstrate what a moron Nils had been for dumping Barry as a friend in favor of Sheila's henpeckery.
My mom and pop were avid ballroom dancers. Saturday was also the night they drove into the city for their weekly infusion of canned Count Basie, waxed parquet flooring and nursed drinks. Once the obligatory parent-to-parent phone call was made concerning his spending the night, everything was set; Barry and I would be left to our own devious devices until whatever time Nils came home. The folks wouldn't be back until 1 am or later. We waved them goodbye and tried to contain our smirks when my mom said to make sure we got to bed at a "decent" hour. I, for one, was planning on an early night.
Apparently, so was Barry. Their car was still spitting gravel down the laneway and we both smelled like ditchdiggers, but Barry pinned me to the wall of the laundry room the instant we were inside the house. He gave me such a needy, passionate kiss that it just about took my breath away.
"I've been wanting to do that for the past hour," he admitted, when he finally let up. "I'm real glad we don't have to wait until later to mess around again."
As was I, but my sense of hygiene was running neck-in-neck with my libido, threatening to overtake it any minute. Whatever happened between Barry and me next would have to wait until after a shower and a much-needed encounter with a toothbrush. "Strip," I told, him with a smirk and a cocked eyebrow.
"All the way? Right here?" he shot me a confused grin, but he started to pull his t-shirt over his head anyway.
"There's nobody else home but you and me. And you're standing next to a washing machine," I told him, "Just put your shit inside and then you can go have the first shower."
"First shower? I was kind of looking forward to us having one together," Barry said with a theatrical pout. "Where'll you be?"
"I'll be..." I trailed off. We hadn't eaten since lunchtime. I meant to tell him that I'd be warming us up some food. But just then, Barry stepped out of his shorts and briefs in one graceful swoop, leaving him suddenly, splendidly, naked. Blood instantly drained from my brain at the sight of him and rushed straight for my prick. Barry's cock hung soft, pale and hooded. Even flaccid, it looked anything but innocent: thick as a knackwurst and as long, it curved heavily before his fuzzy nuts. His foreskin seemed to sneer. He tugged at the flap of extra skin with his thumb and forefinger a few times, absently stretching it into a hollow pink sheath, extending it nearly an inch beyond the tip of his dick.
Barry's shorts and underwear sure were a sight. He threw them into the machine without even separating them; for all I knew, they were stuck to each other from all the cum we'd hosed into them. The breeze generated by our ride home had dried all but the most saturated places in his beat-up old Stanfields. Still, large greyish blotches bore witness to our excesses of that afternoon. Barry removed his socks and added them to the washer as well.
"Now you," he said, pulling my t-shirt out of my jeans and gathering it upwards along my sides. I started to undo my pants. Barry's dick suddenly started to pulse and widen, as if the mere sight of my flat, hairless abdomen and my count-the-ribs chest were sufficient to arouse him. But I knew he was thinking about the evening before us. I was too. Before I'd added the last of my stuff to the washer, I was thoroughly boned, standing near-vertical and stiff as a pump handle. Barry nuzzled the back of my neck and reached around me to give my cock a few friendly tugs while I tried to concentrate on how much soap to use. His hot, spongy dick prodded the back of my thigh, causing my own to surge in Barry's loose fist.
By the time I'd put the casserole my mom left us in the oven and joined him in the bathroom, Barry was already rinsing off. I handed him a loaded toothbrush and stood scouring with my own while I took in Barry's sexy, dripping form. God, he was built; broader across the chest than even my brother, who was two years older and lifted weights. Barry's most conspicuous feature, however, was his downward-pointing, but fully-aroused cock. I was happy to see his ardor hadn't diminished since we parted. Nor had mine-- my cock stayed hard all the time I was busy in the kitchen, even while I wrote out a phone message from one of my mom's stupid friends.
Once I stepped into the shower Barry had me turn around and began soaping up my back. My eyes closed in a euphoria only true cleanliness junkies can know, I shampooed my hair while a spare pair of hands roamed my body with a washcloth and a soap cake, from my neck to the very bottoms of my feet. But Barry saved the good parts for last. He knelt in front of me and treated himself to a close-up, dog's-eye view of my soapy dick and balls. He'd pull my cock down to the horizontal and then let it go, over and over, just to watch it spring back by itself. Humming to himself, as if in wonder of its rigidity, he murmured, "Fuck, I wish my dick did that," more to himself than to me.
"Yeah, and I wish my dick was half the size of yours." I gurgled, still chewing on my toothbrush. Barry took his time applying more soap to the insides of my thighs and my bag. Having finished rinsing my hair, and since Barry was taking care of the rest of me, I turned my attention to my cock. I skinned it all the way back and meticulously cleaned behind the ridge of my glans. My fingertips could discern precum blending with the soap and I couldn't resist spreading that along my shaft, working it in with squishy strokes that made Barry giggle.
He ran a set of washcloth-covered fingertips along the crack of my ass. I immediately clenched my cheeks in automatic recoil, spitting his hand out of my soapy rift, but somehow retaining the washcloth. Barry tittered and pulled it out with a playful yank. "Hey, I'll wash there!" I told him. It wasn't just because I was ticklish that I'd balked.
"What? I just washed ninty-five percent of you, Jens. And it's not like I don't know how to clean a butthole-- I even have one of my own. See?" Impishly, Barry bent over, head to knees, and flashed me. Traces of suds clung to his raven-toned butt hairs and his squinting, bronze-edged anus. To give me a "better" view, he spread his cheeks grotesquely with clutching, outstretched fingers. Except for the fact that his fat, partially skinned bone and nuts showed below it, I found the sight of Barry's asshole singularly unerotic.
"Yeah," I told him, "and you'll be washing it yourself too." In my head, any and all buttplay was queer. (As if my swapping spit and semen with Barry in that port-a-potty hadn't been.)
I got the same inadequate sex education from my folks that Nils got, that a lot of kids in those days got. It consisted entirely of the distilled wisdom to be found in two advice-for-teens books, tactfully left on our beds one day while we were at school. Mine was by Dear Abby and Nils' was by Pat Boone. I gather we were supposed to read them and then trade or something like that, but Nils and I never confided in each other about anything, least of all about sexual matters. I only read the Boone epic by sneaking it out of Nils' room while he was away at Scout camp. Neither book mentioned homosexuality in a very positive light. And there had been no follow-up discussion with my parents concerning any of the information they contained; I sensed immediately that giving us those books had been their way of avoiding the issue.
Supplementary information was to be had in abundance on the playground however, where lurid descriptions of what homos really did with each other were sniggered over and reviled. I knew that a lot of the things I wanted to do with another guy were high up there on the official list of queer shit, but I'd somehow convinced myself that if I just didn't do too many of them-- most especially not "corn-holing"-- I'd be okay. In effort to preserve my dodgey definition of normal, I managed to completely de-eroticize anything anal. It had been fairly easy actually, given the fanatical attitude toward personal cleanliness my parents had already instilled.
Barry stood up and draped the washcloth over my upstanding pole with a playful grin. "No sweat,Jens." he said affably, "Fronts are where it's really at anyway." He pulled the wet cloth off again as though he were unveiling a statue. Then he backed up a step. Hands on his hips, Barry eyed me up and down, as if he were inspecting a calf he might buy. His toned, cyclist's legs were spread wide, his feet against each side of the tub. Accentuated by the slight bend of his knees, his bloated dick hung at about four o'clock, skinned back and dripping more than just shower spray. Barry locked my gaze, tweaked his knob and ran his tongue across his lips. "Damn, I'm going to have to kiss you again."
We groped and necked and traded Pepsodent-flavored spit against all four walls of the stall until the hot water tank finally bled. Barry didn't appear to be at all concerned about the sudden change in water temperature, but I sure was. It was my back that was getting the full brunt of it. I thought we'd better opt for a change of venue before my nuts headed north for good. "Let's get out of here," I told him, as I shut off the icy spray.
Barry clutched me playfully about the waist from behind, just as I was raising a foot to climb out of the tub. "Nothin' doin', Slim," he chuckled, "You don't get outa' here until I squoink." He rubbed my belly vigorously with one palm, bumping the head of my upstanding boner with his knuckles on each rapid up-and-down swipe. Again, the heat of Barry's fat cock pressed itself into the back of my thigh like a fleshy branding iron. Again he twiddled my stiff nipples. His transitional stubble rasped along my cheek, lightly, just before he drilled the tip of his tongue into my ear. That pinned me. If I had a thought in my head to insist on a move to the comfort of my bed, Barry found it and erased it with his tongue.
I turned to face him, but instead of locking him in another embrace, I dropped to my knees in front of him-- assisted by the downward pressure of his hands on my shoulders. "Pound it for me, Jens." he pleaded in a throaty whisper. I began a series of long, slow tugs at it, underhand, right next to my shoulder.
He hummed quietly and bent his knees a little more. "That's nice, Jens. But go faster and grip it tighter. There! That's it, just like that. Now faster." I began slamming his dick like I was shaking some obstinate ketchup bottle and my very life depended on getting the contents out. His balls were rattling forward and back, bumping the heel of my wanking hand with each clenched and frantic downstroke. Soon the muscles on the front of Barry's splayed thighs began to tighten rhthmically, as did the ripples of his abdomen. He began a lot of erratic forward thrusts into my palm. "Oh Jesus! Tighter!" he gasped. I grabbed his twitching thigh for better leverage, bit down on my lower lip and gave him everything I had.
Abruptly, his thrusting stopped and he went perfectly rigid. I continued my flogging of his pole though; I was determined not to stop skinning until I saw jizz. I looked up at Barry's face after a few more seconds. No sound or breath escaped his open, laughing mouth, yet his beet-red brow was knit as though he were about to cry. Then I felt the moist heat of his first jet on my shoulder. He laid a broad, creamy epaulet of sperm across it, so close to my ear that I actually heard it splat. Then Barry bent forward slightly with a great, explosive exhalation and grabbed his cock away from me.
"Lean back!" He practically shouted it. I grabbed my heels and lowered myself backwards, reclining until my back met cold, wet tile. I looked down at my neglected boner. Its exposed pink knob was fairly glimmering in the harsh, almost surgical lighting of our bathroom. Though quite wet already with my own preseminal juice, my dick was about to get a lot wetter.
Barry's second spurt went to waste on the floor of the tub near his foot while I was busy repositioning myself, but the next two, impossibly long and thick, landed right on my pole, causing it to twitch and thump against my belly. I grabbed for it and started wanking. Barry drained the remains of his load into his palm, stripping the last drops off his gathered foreskin between two fingers. He fell to his knees with shudder of fulfillment and he held his spunk-filled hand in front of me. Three long, white puddles filled the spaces between his fingers, joining where they met the larger, deeper pond in the middle of his palm. Barry brought it to my face with a probing look. I nodded. Yes.
I watched his beaming face as he fed me his wad, slowly tipping his palm to my lips. I gripped his wrist with both hands, abandoning my cock once again, so as not to lose a single drop of him. Once I was down to licking the final, sweet-salty remnants off his palm, he drew his hand back and leaned in to embrace me. Most of his first volley had trickled into my armpit by now, and Barry lapped at it lightly before finally docking with my parted lips. As soon as our tongues began their dance, he gripped my cock and began jacking it slowly between our pressed abdomens. Time kind of hovered there for a while.
"Your turn," Barry said at last, pulling off me and squatting back on his heels. "But you have to tell me what you want."
"What I want?" I wondered out loud. His pulls on my cock dropped off to gentle, infrequent tugs, as if he wasn't going to proceed without express instructions. "I just want to get off," I told him, "What else?"
"Yeah. I know that. But how?"
"The usual, I guess," I'd never really had choices. I only had a rough idea of what most of them could be.
"Jens," Barry chuckled, "we've only done this shit once before. We don't have a usual."
"Well, you know, jack it. Like I just did to you." I suggested, climbing off the floor of the tub and standing up before him.
Barry put his fingertips on my slimey knob and twiddled it absently. "That's it?" he asked. He was still wearing that ever-present grin, but his eyebrows lent a note of incredulity to his face now, as though I were blithely passing up some great opportunity without properly thinking it through. I suspected, of course, that he was trying to find a way to tell me that he'd be willing to suck my dick.
That was an extremely gutsy thing to do in those days. Getting the rep of "cocksucker" at school meant suffering the most irrevocable pariah-hood. Every highschool seems to have had at least a few kids who got tarred with the epithet, deservedly or not. At my school, a single ill-fated boner in the showers after phys ed meant you ate lunch with exchange students and the math club until college. But the possibility that Barry would be inclined to blow me opened a far bigger can of worms for me.
With all the other kids I'd grown up messing around with, there had always been a strict code of reciprocation. You did to the other kid as he did to you. Even at that, you stayed well within our admittedly restricted repertoire of exclusively genital fiddling. Now, as the citadel of my masturbatory orthodoxy was beginning to crumble at its very foundations, I was fairly certain that if I told Barry it was okay to blow me, the implication would be that I'd blow him in return. I wasn't so sure I could do that. Of all the things I fantasized about doing with my jackoff buddies, giving head was the item off the "queer shit" list that disturbed me the most. That's because for the past couple years I'd been convinced that I'd tried it on a friend while he slept.
That is, I woke up one morning and the sight of Danny Fenske asleep on the other half of the bed caused me to flash on an incredibly vivid recollection. In it, I had the longjohn bottoms he slept in pulled down to mid-thigh and I had my mouth on his cock. His dick had started out soft, but it soon filled out in my mouth and I slimed it up and down for what seemed to be a very long time. The vision/memory evaporated before he came, but I don't remember him as capable of ejaculating at that point. When Danny awoke, he gave up no clue as to whether it had actually happened. And I certainly wasn't going to ask him outright. To this day, I don't know if I'd been recalling a dream I'd just had, or whether it was a memory of something that had actually transpired in the mist of half-sleep. It doesn't matter a fig to me today either way, but standing in the shower, with Barry on his knees in front of me, it mattered the world. It mattered because, real or imagined, I'd enjoyed doing it-- and that was unquestionably queer.
"I said...." drawled Barry, until he had my attention, "is that it?" He was still wearing that same smirk of disbelief. "You sure whackin' you off's all I can do for ya'?"
He let his gathered fingertips pass along the rim of my cum-coated, unsheathed dickhead and slid them downwards along my shaft until the tip of my knob bumped hard against the heel of his palm. The similarity of his caress to a mouth going down on a dick wasn't wasted on me. (Even if I hadn't experienced the genuine article, I'd simulated it myself countless times, and in precisely that way.) Barry pulled his fingertips back up to the head, thumbed it lightly a few times and then quickly slid them back to the root. He knew exactly how rocked and confused I was just then, how malleable. He was teasing me, pure and simple.
"If you were me, what would you want?" I asked him. There. That would put the ball back into his court.
Barry responded without hesitation, "Oh, I'd want somebody to lay me out and lick me all over, no question about it-- but I'd want a pair of jockeys on."
"You mean if I put a of jockeys on, you'd lick me all over? Or just the parts you could see?" I wasn't merely being coy. I was beginning to catch a glimpse of a possible comprimise. I was anxious to try the sensation of Barry's lips on my tits again and his fascination with my armpits intrigued me somewhat. If I could indulge those things without having to reciprocate beyond that, I'd welcome the chance.
"What you wear is up to you, I'd just lick around it." Barry said resolutely, but with great humor. He stood up and pecked me on the lips. He kept his face close to mine and stared into my eyes for a few seconds. Gripping the outsides of my thighs, he became very businesslike, but there was an unguarded sense of need in his tone, "I REALLY want this, Jens. We've only got so much time alone, let's not piss it away."
He had me by the bag literally as well as figuratively. I was horny beyond measure; all Barry had to do was grab my shaft. He knew I'd shuffle along behind him as he pulled me back into my room. His cock started to fattenen up again at the prospect of more action. "There's probably not enough hot water yet, even for a quick rinse," I lamented, looking back over my shoulder into the bathroom.
"Never mind that! I love you this way: clean, but cummy. "
That shot me for a loop. He said 'I love you'. It had been qualified, of course, and tossed off in the way one might say, 'I love bagels'. Still, it made the small hairs on the back of my neck bristle with something like pride.
"None of these will fit you," I told Barry as I mussed the meticulous rows of uniformly folded white jockeys that were my underwear drawer. "Even the ones that used to be Nils'. Do you want a pair of his nowadays ones, or a pair of my dad's boxers? Nobody'll mind."
"Your dad's BOXERS? Yech! These ones right here'll do just fine." Barry said. He snatched the pair I had in my hand and stepped into them. His dick wasn't even fully swollen, yet it threatened the very structure of those poor briefs. The waistband didn't pinch him as much as I thought it would, but he was forced to wear them way low on his hips. Even so, the pouch was full-to-bursting-- in spite of his having tucked his meat down between his splayed balls, the total package expanded the peehole of my jockeys to a yawning rent that revealed a dense thicket his blue-black pubes and the thick vein that ran along the top of his cock. I was having no small amount of trouble cramming myself into my own briefs. I opted for comfort and allowed my dick to lie on an upward diagonal with my dickhead throbbing just below the ridge of my pelvic bone. Most people take their underwear off for sex. Barry and I put a fresh pair on instead. That was to become a pattern of sorts.
Barry yanked the quilt off the bed and had me lay flat on my belly. Then he straddled me from behind. Keeping his packed crotch a respectful distance off my butt, Barry covered my upper body with his and began by drawing wet circles with his tongue across my freckled, knobby shoulders. That was how he began. For the next twenty minutes or more he licked every bit of exposed skin he encountered. I discovered the true erotic nature of parts of my body I'd taken completely for granted until that night-- the backs of my knees, the soles of my feet. I found out why we have earlobes.
I had jammed one hand under me and was giving my drooling knob a good fingering while Barry lapped away, humming and slurping shamelessly as he went. At one point he'd stuck his probing tongue under the legseam of my jockeys near my ass and he pulled downwards at their waistband with his teeth a few times, but otherwise he seemed to be okay with our half-struck bargain. That is, it seemed that way, until he told me to roll over. When I did, the head of my dick and and an inch of slender shaft stuck out beyond the waisband.
"Hey! I'd call THAT outside your drawers!" Barry said, pointing at my exposed cock and smacking his lips lustfully. I reached down to tuck it back in, but Barry had already spun around so that his face was lined up with my crotch. He let out a wistful sigh and returned my cock to its home in my briefs. Then he lay his cheek on the inside of my nearest thigh, staring at the foreshortened view of my bulge and caressing the flat of my belly with an open, roaming palm. "You look so cool up close, boned in your jockeys like that, Jens."
So did he. He'd arranged himself so that his own package lay less than a foot from my face. I spread my hand on the mountain range of bulges that loaded the pouch of the briefs I'd loaned him. That got him licking again; the insides of my thighs this time. I thought it might not hurt to try it on him. I lapped tentatively at the front of one thigh and felt it tense under my tongue. I groped until I could make out the head of his cock through the cotton and began fondling it while I flattened his thigh hairs with my tongue. Barry moaned his consent, cocked one leg and thrust his hips forward slightly.
As before, when I'd been on my stomach, Barry limited his licking to exposed flesh, but at the terminus of one long, wet nuzzle upwards along my inner thigh, I felt his mouth capture one cotton-encased ball. His spit bled through the fabric almost instantly. I groaned and my dick pitched excitedly inside my shorts at the moist, migrant warmth when he switched to the other nut.
"I don't know about this, Barry," I told him in a wavering tone. That's when his hand, which had still been palming my belly, went inside the waistband of my Jockeys and gripped my yearning shaft. Barry said nothing, his mouth never left my sodden balls. All he did was rearrange his meat so that it lay more sideways and defined in his briefs.
I don't know if he did it so it would present a more appealing, edible, package, but it did. The long, fretful crossing of my oral Rubicon began that very moment. I leaned forward and started to mimic the slurping and sucking Barry was treating my balls to. Then, with eyes closed, filled with pent-up lust, and without a conscious thought of accelerating the proceedings, I wantonly clamped my mouth onto the drooling, veiled head of Barry's oversized cock. I heard his muffled, "Oh fuck, yes!" Again his hips pitched forward, this time mashing the length of his log against my cheek.
In spite my passion, I meant to pull off it as soon as I realized what I'd been mouthing, but even before I could, Barry rushed to reciprocate in kind. His hot mouth descended on my knob and he sucked noisily at the precum that was straining through the fabric where it pulsed.
I froze. For a split second I felt absolutely nothing, in full knowledge that Barry had just gobbled my cockhead. Then the wave broke. It was literally like that-- a warm, moist glow spread from the tip of my dick and traveled up the length of my torso, gaining heat and momentum as it came. Then, with a mighty, wet ka-THUNK, it enveloped me totally, just like the rib-crushing smack of a curling, two-meter breaker. I unleashed my wad with an urgency that even took me by surprise, not to mention Barry, who was hastily slurping my seed through the front of my briefs as fast as I could pump it to him. In sheer orgasmic abandon I reattached my mouth to Barry's knob, suddenly determined to tap Barry's load of cream the same way.
I didn't have long to work on it. Before my spasms abated completely, Barry began a series of "oh"s that rose in pitch and tempo until his glans began swell in my mouth. His sudden silence and several erratic throbs signalled his climax. A single layer of underwear cotton doesn't make a very resistant seive, I found; not when a guy's piss slit is pressed tight against it and there's a sucking mouth on the other side. Barry's hot load blanketed my tongue almost instantly, accompanied by much groaning and pitching about from him. He rolled from his side onto his back in exhaustion, separating my mouth from his cock. But I could see he was still pumping. At the spot where his palpitating dickhead was outlined in the saturated cloth, a single milky drop grew and grew until its surface tension finally broke and it drizzled down the outside of his briefs. I lapped at it while Barry panted and tried to regain his breath. When I was satisfied I'd gotten it all, I curled my lips to return to his knob. He shuddered and grabbed the back of my head.
"Oh, Jens! For chrissakes back off a bit. At least for a few seconds," he half-chuckled, nervously, pulling away from the onslaught of my suddenly insatiable, cleaving mouth. I was always like that: it took forever for me to get up the nerve to actually do a thing. I'd have to weigh all the pros and cons first; fret over all the details and possible ramifications. But once I finally gave in to an urge, I tended to approach things with the fanaticism of a true convert. Jacking off with the neighborhood kids had been just like that. I stared at the profile of Barry's ebbing, cloth-covered bone and tried to calculate how long it might be before he'd be ready to do that again. He stroked my inner thigh lightly as he gradually returned to the here and now.
"Jee-zus! That was the most righteous fuckin' squoink I ever had, man." he drawled lazily.
"Me too," I told him.
Barry rolled himself off the bed and headed for the bathroom, his firm butt amply filling my jockeys with alternately clenching cheeks as he padded to the toilet. I could see him in profile as he hauled his sticky prong out and skinned it back. "Hey! No fair peekin'!" he joked. I snickered and interlocked my fingers behind my head, listening to Barry piss with my eyes closed.
When Barry came back to bed we sat cross-legged, face to face. We talked for a long time, occasionally reaching out to fondle the other or leaning in for yet another kiss. Barry said he could use a neck rub, so I had him lay on his stomach and knelt beside him. I was just beginning to massage Barry's neck when the door to the bathroom from Nils' side suddenly burst open. Nils appeared, carrying a towel and wearing only his corny pleated, cuffed Bermuda shorts. Barry and I had been so engrossed with each other that we hadn't even heard Nils' car pull in.
He was looking downward as he entered the bathroom, but did a classic double-take at my open door. His eyes momentarily bugged out when he saw Barry and me on the bed. Barry remained flat on his stomach. When he heard Nils open the door he'd snatched up a Fantastic Four comic and instantly pretended to be absorbed by it. I sprang off the bed and turned away from the bathroom to hide my soaked jockeys from Nils. I called "hi" to him over my shoulder. I wasn't boned exactly, but my dick looked almost naked from the way the dampened cotton adhered to it.
"Uh, Hi Jens. Barry." He said "Barry" like it was a question.
"Sure is a hot night, eh?" I blathered, as if a superficial comment on the humid evening ought to be sufficient to account for our undress. But I was instantly sorry. I wondered if he'd think I meant it in some flaunting manner. It was going to be awkward talking to Nils with my back to him. I wished he would just pull the bathroom door closed and leave us alone. That would give me time to put my room back in order, but most importantly, it would give me time to put on a dry pair of jockeys.
"Yeah, hot night," echoed Nils in a trailing voice that told me his thoughts were on something else. "uhm, excuse me, Barry. Jens, can I talk with you for a minute? In my room?"
"Sure, alright," I said, sounding artificial, far too chipper for the occasion. I turned, facing Nils, momentarily forgetting all about the state of my briefs. I quickly turned away again, panicked that Nils had seen them, if only for an instant. Then I noticed that the mirror above my dresser was reflecting my frontal image to Nils even then. In it, I saw him glaring down at Barry who was still steadfastly pretending to read. "I'll be right there." I told him. I snatched my bathrobe off its hook and hastily threw it on, but he'd already stepped back into his bedroom by the time I turned around again.
Barry didn't look up from the comic, but he said to me, as I headed through the bathroom to Nils' room, "Boy, if looks could kill..." I knew he was trying to sound lightly sarcastic, but his tone betrayed a distinct unease.
I found Nils standing with his hands on his hips just inside the doorway. He closed the door to the bathroom and pushed me into a sitting position at the foot of his bed with one prodding index finger to my solar plexus. "Hey!" I growled in a low, threatening tone.
"There's a burnt cassarole in the oven," he spat.
"Call the Fire Department. Is that all?" I started to get up.
"The bathroom looks like a war zone." he spat again, punctuating the vitriol with another stiff-fingered prod, to my shoulder this time.
"I'll pick up later. Who made you towel monitor anyway? Fuck Nils, lighten up!"
"That's not what I called you in here for." Nils paused, but not for effect. For all his uncharacteristic aggressiveness, he suddenly took on the look of a person who can't make up his mind whether he's about to put his foot in it or not.
"Spit it out, Nils. I have company,"
"Your 'company', yes. Well look, Jens, it's like this..." He paused again. The exhalations and stuttering false starts of nerve being marshalled filled the silence. "That is, I don't like the change I'm seeing in you lately. Mom and pop just think you're going through some phase. But I know better. You're always acting like twerp because you're well on your way to becoming a pervert, if you aren't one already." Nils said it with his legs spread and his hands on his hips again, posturing like John Wayne chiding some tenderfoot ranch hand. I hoped he'd more or less shot his bolt with that, that his sergeant-major caricature had taken most of what passed in him for bravado.
Nils was a big guy at eighteen. Though he hadn't actually hit me in years, he stood eight inches taller than me and outweighed me by more than twenty pounds. He could have laid me out with an effortless backhand. Even so, I hated righteous indignation at the best of times; I sure wasn't going to take any of it from my brother. He knew that from old. If he'd prodded me with his fingertip one more time, I'd have sucker-punched him without a second thought. I think knew that too.
"Save it, St. Peter," I told him, "Go practice your missionary work on somebody who gives a shit. You don't know what you're talking about." Again, I started to stand up.
"I'm not as stupid as you imagine, you little pig!" He almost yelled, but he lost steam and quieted right down right after he said it. "You think I don't know you and Barry were... abusing yourselves in there?" Nils could barely get the words out. He looked down at his bare feet and he actually blushed.
"There's nothing good on TV. We're just hanging out on my bed. You're the one with the perverted mind, asshole."
"There are wet marks all over your bed,"
"Soda." I offered.
Nils wasn't letting up. "I KNOW that smell, Jens."
"Oh yeah? From where? Your fingers in the morning? I can't believe what a fucking hypocrite you are."
He shrugged that off without comment. "What do you think mom and pop would think if they knew? Never mind what the Lord thinks!"
"What the Lord thinks can kiss my ass. And you won't say anything to mom and pop because you wouldn't even know how to bring it up. You don't have the vocabulary, or the balls. Listen to yourself! You can barely talk to ME about it, for chrissakes. And that reminds me. Just why ARE you talking to me about it? Why not just keep your big fucking mouth shut and we'll all get along swell." I stood toe to toe with him.
"Stop swearing," admonished Nils, and backed up a step. He squinted in exasperation and ran his fingers through his butch-waxed military haircut. He still had a little fight left in him.
"I HAVE kept my mouth shut about it, Jens. For years, and you know it. I hear you at it all the time when you have those delinquent friends of yours staying overnight. Most people would say it was a little odd for guys your age to still be having sleepovers in the same bed, you know. Anyway, your friends are noisy and don't watch how loud they... talk. I really AM concerned about you, Jens. I even hear you doing it by yourself at all hours of the night. You actually wake me up with it sometimes." He paused and his eyes went to the ceiling, but he was looking for help from beyond it.
"You know it's wrong Jens," he said finally. "Doing it with someone else only makes it worse."
I'd had enough. If Barry and I were caught, we were caught. And if Nils could somehow summon the moxie to bring the matter up with my parents, I figured I had bugger-all to lose.
"Okay, now you listen to me." I gripped his throat with my gaze. "You wouldn't know this, Poindexter, but doing it with someone else makes it BETTER, not worse! And YEAH! Barry and I DID do a bit of wanking tonight. And we'll probably do some more! So fuckin' what? It's none of your business, that's what! Go ahead and just use yours for pissing. That doesn't give you the right to tell me what to do with mine! God connected this one to me." I flounced the front of my robe at him lest he mistake what part of me I was talking about. I'd long been in the habit of telling Nils to fuck off whenever occasion warranted, but I rarely sounded on him like that. And I certainly never brought God into it as an ally before. I wasn't done.
I lowered my voice to a more conversational level, "Or maybe you're a bit jealous, huh Nils? Bit of the old 'dog in the manger' goin' on here?" I was deliberately cutting deep. I remembered what Barry told me about how he'd tried to get Nils to mess around a zillion times when they were still hanging out together, but Nils had always turned him down. He'd come awfully close though, Barry had said.
Nils knew exactly what I was talking about. Naturally, I'd neglected to mention that what Barry and I had been up to went a step or two beyond simple weenie rubbing, that there was an emotional element to our relationship Nils couldn't possibly understand. I knew for certain he wouldn't be able to understand it, because I didn't understand it myself.
"When we're tempted," he intoned, "it's our duty to resist it. It says in Ephesians..."
"Oh goody, here comes another bible verse. Well, I know THAT smell well enough. And I'm not listening to any more of this shit. Just piss off and quit bugging me about it, okay?"
Nils grasped my upper arm in a fraternal way and went for a change of tack. He tried trowelling on the smarm. Smarm veneered with counterfeit compassion, the very worst kind. He made a grimace, as though I were deliberately misunderstanding his "real" motive for interferring. "I'm only trying to be a brother."
"Very convincing, Nils. Now try being an only child," I spun on my heel, walked through the bathroom and slammed the door behind me. I locked it from my side.
Barry lay belly-down on my bed, just as I'd left him. He folded the comic and tossed it onto the floor, "So. Do you think he'll rat us out?" he looked concerned, maybe even a little afraid.
"You heard all that?" I asked, wearing a hole in the carpet between my bed and the bathroom door.
"Didn't have to. Will he?"
I couldn't put the picture together: Nils sitting my folks down to have a heart-to-heart about my compulsive masturbation and inverted tendencies. It didn't jive. Still, his Dutch Uncle routine had been more than a little unsettling. Normally, we just stayed out of each others' way, lived entirely separate lives. We always had, even as little kids. "Not likely." I told Barry, fairly certain in that.
"Do you think I should go talk to him?"
That worried me. I'd never seen Barry pissed off or scared before; I had no idea how he'd be. "What would you say?" I asked him, still pacing off my anger.
"Nothing you didn't say already, I guess. Hey, let's forget it. C'mere."
I slipped out of my bathrobe and lay down beside him, leaving my soiled jockeys on, in mute defiance of Nils' 'best intentions'. I rolled Barry towards me until we lay on our sides, face to face. We stared into each others eyes for a long time without speaking. There was the click of the glass door and the rush of water through the pipes as Nils began his shower. He wasn't singing gospel songs, as he usually did.
I clicked the bedside lamp off. Barry and I melded under the topsheet. And for the first of what was to be all too few times, we fell asleep in one anothers' arms.
END
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