Fight Night

WARNING: The following story contains graphic descrip- tions of a sexual nature. It is intended for mature persons only. Any persons not old enough to legally receive adult materials or who are offended by them should read no farther. Further distribution of this story--and all others of this nature by this author--is permissible only to appropriate persons and only if the contents and author credit are unchanged.

NOTES:

1. Copyright (c) December 2000.

2. The persons and situations depicted in this story are entirely fictitious. Any similarities to actual persons or situations are completely unintentional and coincidental.

3. Reader comments and feedback are always encouraged; send to Pervitron@Hotmail.com http://www.asstr.org/~Pervitron

4. This story may be copied for free distribution, provided the author credit is retained.

5. This is a FANTASY. I'm nothing like the people in my stories -- I'm really a nice person.

Fight Night by Pervitron

I was a child until the early spring of my thirteenth year. It was March of 1975, and the world seemed to have left its orbit. The communists were humiliating us in Vietnam. We had hounded Nixon from office, and now we had a President who needed the Secret Service to help him to his feet after falling down the stairs. Patty Hearst was robbing banks and recording TV messages for her black kidnappers, the Symbionese Liberation Army. And New York City, the financial capital of the world was sinking into bankruptcy -- the streets beneath our sixth floor apartment were ruled now by drug dealers and street gangs.

Dad had been unemployed for more a year. Mom took off with her black lover in January, and the two of us sat alone in our apartment that late winter and early spring, getting on each other's nerves.

"You know you look like a girl," he said for the millionth time. He sat in his recliner, his face buried in the Daily News.

I wanted to tell him what he looked like. Sitting there in his Gold's Gym tank top, showing off his sagging shoulders and his spreading waist. You shouldn't wear a shirt like that unless you actually went to a gym - and he hadn't seen the inside of a gym for years.

I stared at the TV. I was watching the Jeffersons. No, I wasn't getting a haircut -- I liked the way I looked, the way my blond hair fell around my ears. It was another act of sullen, wordless defiance on my part - part of my arsenal of things he found offensive. When I really wanted to get him I wore my black Kiss T-shit, the sight of Gene Simmons in makeup and high heels made him speechless.

"I'm sick of listening to this crap." He raised the remote and switched the channel, cutting off the end of one of George Jefferson's cutting remarks.

"C'mon Dad - I was watching that!" He got me -- I reacted. I even spoke to him.

Looking back, I feel sorry I was such a pain in the ass. Now that I'm middle aged, I understand the mixture of anger and despair he was feeling. But I was thirteen, things were happening to me too. Puberty was turning everything upside down inside me. I had a cock that seemed like it was always hard. No matter how often I masturbated, I still woke up in the morning with wet underpants. My cock was like some ravenous alien creature that was grafted onto me - I couldn't go more than a minute without seeing something, or thinking of something that made it stir. If the world had been kinder to my father, if he was still the strong, vibrant man I grew up with he might have helped me with this. He might have shown me that all men feel that way. But the father I knew was gone. Instead of feeling sadness, I was angry at him. Angry at his weakness, fearing that his defeat by the world meant that I too would be beaten down. I'd look over at him with contempt, wondering how he could let the world treat him this way.

"C'Mon Dad - put the Jeffersons back on!"

"I'm sick of seeing jigaboos. I see enough of them without having to watch them in my own house." He wasn't even looking at me. Funny though -- it seemed like every channel he switched to had a black person on it: Barbara Jordan pontificating on Nixon; Soul Train; Howard Cossel interviewing Muhammed Ali. And when he saw Ali, he flicked the set off.

And then it started: that roar that started every night at this time from upstairs. Our walls started vibrating as the music of James Brown thundered over our heads. They must have speakers like steamer trunks up there, and it sounded like they were placed face down on the floor, so loud was the rumble.

He tried to ignore it. He pretended it didn't bother him. He buried his face in the News. There was no place for him to hide, because even the News was about blacks - the front page had a picture of a couple of black killers being led in handcuffs up the stairs of a precinct. Still, he just sat there, and I felt this strange feeling rise within me. Each time the music started I remembered what happened a few weeks ago. It was a Saturday morning when a black woman and three tall boys got on the elevator with me. She said hello, she told me they had just moved into the building, and when I spoke with her I realized they were in the apartment above us. She seemed really friendly. Her sons were between 17 and 20, they were tall lanky kids with huge afros, they looked down at me coolly, saying nothing.

When I went home and told Dad, he looked pissed, as if this was just the latest in a long line of personal wounds. He didn't say anything, but I could see the anger on his face, the way he looked upwards as if he might see them through the ceiling. That night the music started. Not too loud, but loud enough for both of us to hear. I think it was Sly and the Family Stone, once he heard it he sprang out of his recliner and stormed out the door. I hadn't seen him act so decisively, so boldly in months. A few minutes later I heard footsteps from upstairs as they answered his knock on the door. Then I heard shouting -- whoever answered the door up there had answered his complaint with a tirade of viscous curses. As I sat there listening I remembered I hadn't told him anything about them, I didn't tell him how big the boys were. Dad came back a few minutes later, and he went right to his bedroom and spent the night there. They didn't turn the music down that night - no, after that they really cranked it up. Now every night the music thunders above our heads, an invitation to come upstairs and complain again.

Every night he sits there, acting like it doesn't bother him, pretending it's not an insult, a dare to come upstairs for another round. I knew that this was another unspoken bond between us, because I too was afraid of blacks. I was a freshman in high school, I was one of a rapidly diminishing group of white kids that walked the hallways with fear in our eyes, hoping to make it through the day without being picked on. We huddled together like mice, we walked as close to the lockers in the hallways as we could, allowing the roaming groups of black toughs to swagger like princes down the center.

I didn't dare wear my Kiss T-Shirt to school.

Bitterness was all that was left in him. The humiliation of having his wife leave him. "Bill, we just don't have fun anymore." We sat and simmered that spring in the pitiless heat of those words. Fun she wanted, fun I knew she found in the lean, agile muscles of a black man named Les, an electrician that was working in one of the apartments downstairs. The first time I saw Les was a day I came home sick from school. I could smell the grass as soon as I opened our apartment door. The Doors were playing on the stereo: "Try it on for size . . ." I should have left when I saw the tool belt on the floor of the hallway. If I had left I could have told myself one of the super's men was working on something. If I had left I could have remained a child a bit longer. But beneath the music I heard another sound, a muffled cry that seemed to call to me, as if I heard it before. I walked down the hall, and when I got to my parents bedroom my eyes opened in wonder.

All I could see was his ass, the big black haunches pushing into her, rocking the squeaky bed, and making her cry: "I'm almost there, Les!" Her legs were up over his shoulders, and her hands told me what was happening inside her. She had her hands on his ass, her red nails were caressing the stubby spiked hairs he had down there. "Oh, Jesus, Les . . ." They didn't hear me, they didn't hear my heart slamming and the blood rushing like breaking surf up into my head.

She left a few months after that. Even though her words were directed at Dad, they hurt me too. I don't know if Dad knew what she was doing; if he did he knew it as something unconscious, a truth too painful to face directly. But I knew why she left - whenever she called I only half listened; I was lost in the memory of what I saw that day, and the inner picture of what she was doing these days . . . for fun.

We had always been happy together, the three of us. Mom was there when I got home from school. We'd talk in the kitchen until Dad got home. Every night we had dinner at exactly seven o'clock, because Dad and I liked to watch Star Trek reruns at six. We'd eat dinner, and then most nights we'd take a walk in Riverside Park. We were a good family. Like most we had our problems, and like the better ones they were handled with care.

Now that I'm an adult and understand relationships I have a deeper picture of their problems. My mother had always wanted another child. Even then I could see the look in her eyes at the children in the park, and now I understand why my father stiffened whenever she pointed them out. She spoke often to me about what I was like when I was little, and I knew from the sound in her voice that I was killing something inside her by doing what all boys do: growing up.

But whatever disappointments they had between them, they were managed, they never flared above a low simmer. But the earth shifted on them, the January day my father was laid off, the snow day when I was home with mom, and we heard him walk in the door and saw first the flakes of snow and ice on his uniform, and the look he gave my mother.

Dad was a 44 yearold bus driver who never went to college. He tried. There were many nights when mom and I ate alone because he was out in the suburbs looking for work. I'd say goodnight to him while he was sitting at the kitchen table, pecking slowly at the typewriter in a cloud of cigarette smoke. I'd lay awake, listening to the tap of the typewriter. So there were a few weeks of intense effort, but that was all he had. By the early spring, the phone stopped ringing and the typewriter was back up on the top shelf in the closet. He'd be sleeping in the morning when I left for school, he'd be asleep in the recliner when I got home.

They were desperate for money. My mother came home and said the car was gone, and when they made a few phone calls they learned that the finance company had taken it away. My mother went to work. She was even less employable than my father - the only job she could get was a ticket collector in a ancient movie palace on Broadway and 107th where she once took me to see the Sound of Music. That was a long time ago. The surest sign of their panic was that she swallowed her reticence and kept the job even after they started showing XXX movies.

Mom was working, and Dad sat home, floundering in some backwater of despair. He blamed the world for what happened to him, complaining that "none of them paid the fares." I had no doubt of that "they" referred to blacks. There was a puzzle though. I remember when I was small hearing him talk of his bus as if it was a fiefdom, how if there was any trouble, if anyone dared to sneak on, or smoke, he'd stop the bus and "take care of it." He didn't say what he did, all he said was that he "didn't need the cops to handle things." So I wondered when I heard him complain about "them" what had changed?

Whatever it was, it ate at him. When he stood up he seemed smaller to me, I'd look at the pictures of him in the hallway. There were a half dozen photos of him in fighter's poses, centered around a framed page from of the Daily News, showing the 1959 Golden Gloves standings and the proud circle around his name. "Bill Williams 11-1-4" He was a lot closer to the top then the bottom. The collage was completed by a picture of mom and Dad, she was leaning back into his rippling chest, his arms hung around her into his big shoulders. They met during that tournament because mom was a fight fan.

Each day I grew further from him; Age and the cruelty of economics was killing him drip by drip, while my 13 year old body was rabid with new life. I spent hours in my room masturbating, rubbing myself so often and with such intensity that my cock had red sores. Sex was all I thought about. Once a week I'd run up to a news stand, and continue running as I reached up and pulled the latest edition of Screw magazine from the top of the stand. I wanted it that bad, bad enough to risk being caught stealing. What an eye- opener Screw was! Not sex the way it was in library books, reduced to some bloodless diagrams, but sex the way people dreamed about it: crude and dirty. I wanted to know what people looked like down there, something in me reveled in the look of naked bodies, and the leer of Screw's attitude: Fuck morality, let's just get it on! The revolution of the sixties had receded from its political high water mark, but it was still cutting new channels within the uncharted Amazon of our desires.

There were no more walks in Riverside Park. We lived together, but the inner lives of the three of us had spun away from the close orbit of a few months before. Dad seemed to get weaker almost every day. I was growing stronger, hair was sprouting all over my balls, and while I still had the remnants of a child in my face, I had the hungry, devouring appetite of a leering adult man inside me. And mom? There was something changing in her as well. I was astonished that she kept the job in the movie theater when it switched to adult, XXX, only. Some day's I'd walk up to 107th street just to see it. I knew from my weekly Screw the story line from the marquee title. I knew from the review how good it was, whether it was a "one erection" dud or a "four erection" title that was so intense you could close your eyes and smell the accumulating arousal of the men in the theater. I don't know why I walked up there. I couldn't go inside, I would just stand there a few minutes, occasionally seeing one of the neighborhood men walk in or out.

She was changing. Sometimes while I was in my room I could hear Mom and Dad talking in the living room. Or rather her talking, and some polite grunts from him. And when I heard them I would stop masturbating, because sometimes I would hear an exchange that was extraordinary. She would mention the theater, as if what went on there was amusing, or I'd be laying there with my dick in my hand, hearing her tell him: "You know . . couples go there Bill . . . " There were long TV background silences, punctuated by mom's attempts to engage him. I'd hear scatterings of what she said. Sometimes she'd tell him about the movie, as if it was something funny, not to be taken seriously. But I knew one thing: if she mentioned it she took it very seriously indeed. She'd describe some of the men in the theatre, masturbating. That was enough for my father, he mumbled something, all I heard was ". . .Jigaboos. . ." The theatre was ten blocks uptown, so he knew what I had seen: all the men going inside were black.

You should have listened, Dad. Maybe then she wouldn't have needed Les.

She was different. She had always seemed a typical mother, someone who seemed above the animal feelings that were overwhelming me now. But the exposure of my father's weakness and the strange place she worked in must have shifted some fault line in her soul. I can see how it must have happened, how one day she must have given in to curiosity and used a lull in the flow of patrons to walk slowly up the balcony stairs; knowing as she did so she was about to see something sordid, something base. But while she expected something bad, she must have been completely unprepared for the shock of it, the dizziness she felt seeing the same screen that once featured Julie Andrews or Audrey Hepburn now with the beaming face of Marilyn Chambers while she was taking it right up the ass.

**

There was one, and only one bright spot in my father's life. During the preceding summer and fall I had started playing baseball. I was really good. Games I wasn't pitching I played short, and I could hit too. I was by far the best player on my team, and maybe even the best kid in my league. Neither one of us had been baseball fans before that. Boxing was my father's sport, but when he saw how good I was, when he heard the other parents speak of me with admiration, he seemed to find some purpose in this, at least. Several times during the winter he commented on my growth, saying I'd be even better in the spring. It was the only reference he ever made to my body changing.

I was in a serious league; we started practicing the first week of March, a full month before the other teams. My father came to watch me, and his hopes were fired. The ball was streaking off my bat; the cold stung my hands, but I didn't care - I was locked in, hammering almost every pitch with the clubhead. The extra inches were all strength. And when I stepped to the mound, I was amazed at the lightness of the ball, and the power I felt when the catcher ran back to the bench to get a sponge for his hand. This was going to be a great year.

My coach, Mr. Puglisi was a firemen who worked all his hours in three days, so we practiced after school Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. The third Saturday in March he arranged a scrimmage for us. "The real way to learn is game situations." His firehouse was in East Harlem, and one of the firemen there had a team as well. So early Saturday morning my father and I walked to Central Park for our game.

They were already on the field. They were all black or Latino - Mr. Puglisi hadn't said anything about that. I guess there was no reason to. But he should have told us how good they were. We were champions last year, but we were completely unprepared for a team like this. They gobbled up hard liner on one bounce, and flung the ball around the infield like it was a small pebble. They laughed, and had fun, trashing each other as they played. Their second baseman was unbelievable. I'd picked up his name from the kidding: Kyle. He had skin the color of rich, fertile earth. He was a few inches taller than me, and he wore a white T-shirt that clung tightly to his muscles. He was only a bit bigger than me, but I could see from across the diamond that he was much, much harder. I think his coach was showing off. He ended the practice by hitting three liners down to third as hard as he could: Screaming shots that brought blades of grass up where they skipped. Each one was picked, and rifled over to Kyle, who turned and threw so fast, and so quickly that it seemed like a ricochet, except that the ball gained speed in his hands; it flew into the first baseman's mitt with more sound, and more speed than the original line drive to third.

A handful of parents accompanied each team. We won the toss, so they batted first. My father liked to stand behind the backstop and watch, where he could study my mechanics and second guess the umpire. While I was warming up he said a few words of encouragement. A very tall, lanky black man with dreadlocks walked over and stood beside him. "Your son?" When my father told him he said, "He's got a pretty good arm."

Thus encouraged, the game started. I was a little off the first batter, I was too nervous so I was holding back a bit, and a few pitches kicked up some dust, falling short. I got it on the third pitch, I got my back and legs into it and it came in low and sailed up over the plate on the outside corner with a satisfying pop in the glove. "That's it!" my father said, and I was pumped. "Woooohh!" I heard from the other bench. They were laughing, kidding around. I did the same on the next pitch, but the batter, a little kid named Luis, was quick enough to pull it between short and first for a single.

The second batter was a short, stocky black kid that they called "Chops." I gave him some heat on the first pitch, busting him up and in, but the pitch turned into him and he backed off the plate and glared at me. "Hey!!" I looked over at the bench, and heard "fucker's throwing at us!" I had a bad feeling about this. I was used to supervised play, sportsmanship enforced by watchful parents, but this felt different. The next few pitches I eased off, trying to spot the ball carefully, and I would up walking him.

Then Kyle came up, and there was lots of yelling from their bench. He stood in the box and I studied him a moment. He had big cheekbones and long, full lips that were fringed with a hint of a mustache. I knew he could hit from the way he stood at the plate; he had that balance of tension and relaxation that can't be taught. "This one's easy Kyle," the man with the dreadlocks said. "No problem at all!" My father stared onto the field, uncertain. I started him off with my best, I wound and fired the ball using everything in my shoulder and back. I wanted this to be good. It was, but not nearly good enough. I heard the crack before my motion was even finished. He hit a rifle shot between center and left, far over both fielders' heads. Far enough far him to kick back and ease up his run as he rounded second. I was red faced as he did an exultant dance as he rounded third. His teammates waited at the plate. High fives and shouts. "That's it! You baaaaad!" his father said. Before Kyle got to the bench he turned and faced me, smiling as he pointed to me. I got you, man.

The rest of the inning was a horror. More runs than I'd ever given up. And with each run the other team grew more cocky, more arrogant. They started clowning around on the bases. When they were up by six runs, they started walking off the bases, daring us to try and pick them off, and when we did they'd take off for the next base like jaguars. Two kids walked themselves into a rundown, and then ran quickly enough to run out of it. Their bench though this was hilarious.

When we got back to our bench, we were silent. We thought we were good, but it took just a half inning with these kids to know better. "We'll get them back," Mr. Puglisi said to a very quiet bench.

And then Kyle walked out on the mound.

We knew we were in for it with the first warmup pitch. He started with a little jerky motion, and then released the ball like a slingshot. "Shit!" a kid next to me muttered. I had never seen anyone throw that hard, and the amazing thing was that aside from the initial little jerks in his windup, his throwing seemed effortless -- as if he wasn't even trying.

I was the third batter up. The first few batters had done nothing: they backed away from strikes, and swung weakly when they were down two strikes. I was determined to get him back for his homer. When he coiled into his windup, I was ready, I set myself according to the release point I picked up while I was watching from on deck. But I was closer now, and when he released the ball I was astonished at what I saw. It had liveliness, a hop, that you couldn't appreciate unless you were right there, in the box. Before I could even think of swinging, the ball whizzed past me for a strike. His father roared. "Yeah, that's it. Show him what uptown boys are like!"

Jesus. I turned and look back. His father was smiling, grinning over at my father. "He's somethin' else, huh?" My father had stepped away from his usual spot, he had drifted off to the side. I was on my own.

I stepped back into the box, determined to catch up with that unearthly speed. I started moving even before he released it, practically ripping my arms from their sockets as the ball bore down on me. I was still late, and even if I wasn't I couldn't have hit it, because it was up at the level of my forehead. I heard catcalls from the other bench, a tide of laughter was running along the line of kids like an electric charge.

I stayed in the box, and choked up on the bat slightly, a bit less than I would have liked, but I didn't want anyone to notice, to see I was giving in. I started even earlier, but when I the ball appeared my body froze. It was right on me! Suddenly, I was on the ground, fighting for breath. The ball had hit me with the hardness of a billiard ball, right in my upper ribs. Mr. Puglisi was rubbing my chest, trying to coax the breath back into my body. My breath did come back, but in the form of muffled tears.

The game was a nightmare. When I was pitching, I was distracted by the antics from their bench, and the thought of what my next at bat would be like. Mr. Puglisi ended half my misery by moving me to the outfield in the second inning. It was 11-0 -- I hadn't retired a single batter.

My heart was racing when I came up in the fourth. I stood in the box, and Kyle seemed to be smiling at me. I wondered if he noticed the shaking in my knees. Maybe not. But I knew he noticed the way my ass backed away from the plate as he threw the first two pitches. I wasn't going to hit anything. I knew it. He knew it, and his father knew it. "You the biggest badass!" So there was no need for what he did. The third pitch came in like a wasp, heading right for my temple. When I got up from the ground, and dusted myself off from the near miss I was hopeless. Kyle was smirking, because he could see it now. Their bench was rolling with laughter, because one of them, a little dark Latino, had grabbed a bat and took a stance just like mine, a comic mime of a batter with an uncontrollably shaking ass.

We ended the game early thank God, after Mr. Puglisi walked over to the other coach and apparently begged out. No mas. The only concession to sportsmanship they made after a morning of abuse us was to line up and shake our hands. "Good game," they all said, in a voice that let us know they didn't really mean it. When I approached Kyle in the line, though he had a different greeting for me. A special greeting. He smacked my hand and said, loud enough so my teammates could hear: "Pussy."

**

It was just a game, just one morning in a season of battering for my entire family. But like my father's layoff, and the strange inner odyssey of my long-gone mother it affected me deeply. I walked home in silence with Dad. He didn't even bother encouraging me, knowing that what happened was too blatant a demonstration of my limits.

The two of us came back to the apartment. He took up his station in the recliner, and flipped on the TV as I continued down the hall towards my room. I had something I needed to do. But I stopped for a moment, checking something that I thought of in the silence that hung around us during the walk home. I looked at the framed Daily News, at the line of standings that held my father's name a dozen lines from the top. I understood everything now. The names below him were names like O'Malley, Mancuso, Schmidt. And above were the fighters that no doubt continued in their careers. Ruiz, Robinson, Cleveland, and, at the very top: Joe Louis Johnson.

Like every other night, I spent the evening in my room, masturbating -- only this night something new was raging inside of me. I went back to an issue of Screw that was a few weeks old. There was a pictorial spread that was so primal, so base that it seemed to speak directly to some inner Neanderthal within my lower brain. Every other issue was spread out on my floor within a minute after my arrival in my room, but not this one. Once I opened it that spread, the grainy black and white pictures that made my heart start racing, I put it aside. This was sex mixed with something awesome, something dangerous, and so I put it aside that day.

Today, though, something had been taken from me. Kyle's complete and utter defeat of me, the look in his eyes as I lay on the ground, suffering from his first, deadly lesson in the way of things had ripped open something basic, and in it's absence feelings that once orbited in separate systems were now free to combine. I knew I was different during the walk home, and when I got to my room, I closed the door and looked for that issue, the one that was perfect for the feeling that was calling me. I pulled it out of the pile, and spread it open on the floor by the bed.

Just a few words: "White cum-buckets." A half dozen pictures of women, all of them white, and all of them teamed up with black men. Men with tight, athletic bodies, and the biggest pricks I had ever seen. I pulled my cock out of my pants, and I went to work on myself as my eyes danced around the tableau. There was a woman on her back, looking down along her body at the camera, a camera that was placed just for me, so I could watch her expression as the impossibly long black hammer was lowered into position right at the gates of her pussy. Women like dogs, hiking their ass up they could get more man than they ever had before.

I rubbed feverishly, pulling myself into an ecstatic high as my mind switched back and forth between the pictures and what I had seen in my own life. I heard the sound of my father's bed, as my mother's black lover went to work on her. The sight of my mother's long fingers caressing the flanks of her new man. As the wave rose within me I settled on the picture I liked best: the half-page closeup of a women with an upturned face. Her lips were stretched by a rude black thing that was hard and muscled enough to sire a thoroughbred. A backflow of cum ran from the edge of her lips and was dripping down her chin, spilling onto her tits. Her eyes were looking up at him, marveling at him. The power that was inside him, in that wonderful strong body and the look on his face. A face that was arrogant, and the eyes that were bright and pitiless, the eyes of Kyle, the boy that had told me that I was a pussy.

**

There was nothing wrong with us; my mother, father and I had loved and cared for each other and so there was no fault in all this, no blemish that we shared the would rob the strength from my father, the dignity from my mother and all innocence from me. It was the times that was our undoing. In the mid seventies, any working class family like us that could afford to had left the city, fleeing the chaos and violence. We that remained lived like Japanese, huddling in their wooden houses listening to the approaching engines of the Third Air Force. Our doors were stainless steel barricades, fire escape windows were nailed shut in the calculation that it would be far better to be trapped by a fire than suffer the torments from those that would break in. But nothing, nothing, could keep out the times. Children like me hid Screw magazine under our covers, and what number of Sunday masses would it take to outweigh that?

Until that spring, at least my father and I still had the consolation of a "nice" building, meaning that almost all the residents were white. But no amount of Rent Control subsidies could keep the old residents there when the building was sold to new owners who let no scruple stand on the way of a quick, profitable turnover. In a stroke of luck for them, two adjacent apartments on the first floor had become vacant. And these owners knew just what to do. By the time the mover's lights disappeared down 96th Street, a team of workmen, one of whom was Les, my mother's lover, were hammering and sawing the two apartments into one grand suite. We were pawn in an economic chess game. The grand suite was a whorehouse, a running concern that more than paid for the necessary payments to officials, and one that was designed to send the old, white residents packing like refugees.

But we remained. We couldn't afford to move. And so we huddled in our apartment, my father hid in the television, and I stayed in my room, masturbating, and listening to Kiss. In the middle of March, I went to my first Kiss concert in the Beacon Theater, and I felt like a new world was opening for me. There was something thrilling about seeing grown men that celebrated their sexuality, men who had the same dirty little boy energy that I had. It was heaven for a confused 13 year old for me. I danced in the crowd, I was high on grass, and I was shaking my ass as the electric power of their music blew all my inhibitions away.

**

The final, irrevocable break inside me came in the last week of March. I had gone shopping at the A&P with my father. While we were waiting for the elevator in the lobby, a man and a boy came up behind us.

"Hey, how you doin!"

We turned around and saw a tall black man and a boy my age. It was Kyle and his father! The man held reached out and offered his hand to my father. "Good to see you man. Remember us? Our boys played ball against each other a few weeks ago - I'm Ken."

As if we could forget. My father was as stunned as I was. What were they doing here? Dad switched the grocery bags to free a hand to return the other man's handshake. "Hi," he grunted, looking up at Kyle's Dad as he did so. "I'm Bill."

I was looking at the two of them, feeling anxiety rise with me at the exchange. I avoided looking at Kyle, but I was focused on him nevertheless. He was wearing a white cotton tank top, dark purple nylon shorts that ended below his knee. He had a baseball cap turned backwards on his forehead, and I knew he was looking at me steadily.

We stepped into the elevator. I pushed our floor, and Ken said. "You guys live on 5? So do we, we just moved in on Thursday."

A weird feeling was rising in me, a mixture of panic and something else that was unfamiliar. As the elevator made it's slow climb I tried to tune out what was happening. Ken was acting real friendly, smiling at my father while he told him how happy he was to be in such a nice building. Something about the sound of Ken's voice made me feel uneasy. He was standing closer than he had to my father, leaning into him and smiling. It was too friendly, it felt like he was running some kind of game. I could tell my father was uneasy too, but he was forced to respond with politeness.

When the elevator stopped, Ken and Kyle got off first. I was still in the elevator, following my father out when Ken spoke to him again. Pointing to Dad's Gold's Gym T-shirt, he said: "You a fight fan, Bill?"

"Yeah, very much so." That was the first time he responded to Ken with more than a word.

"Should be a good one tonight, eh?" He glanced for just a brief moment at Kyle when he said this. Almost like he was saying: "Watch this."

Jees, Dad . . . no! I was saying no to something I couldn't even think about. C'mon Dad! I was screaming at him inside my head.

"Yeah, I'm looking forward to it." Dad was stiffening a bit, there was the slightest edge of sharpness in his voice.

"Yeah. Quarry-Norton should be a good one." I knew Ken didn't mention Ali-Wepner, the top of the card, on purpose to try to draw an opinion from my father. It was obvious to me, even as a thirteen year old, that ABC was using race to promote the fights. Wepner was the latest in a series of quick cash-in's that Ali had used in the year since regaining the heavyweight crown from George Foreman. Every three months or so he'd offer some white unknown a "title shot" so Ali could pocket another three million or so from ABC. Wepner was typical; a thirty-three year old liquor salesman, a big man slow man that could hit hard enough to gain a few knockouts over opponents that were even slower than they were. Each one of these fights had the effect of fanning the flickering hopes of millions of white fight fans who would grasp at any hope now to defeat Ali, their nemesis.

I was only thirteen; I had no investment in these things, but my father still spoke of Rocky Marciano with reverence. And he hated Muhammed Ali, enough to take a liking to Joe Frazier, because he was a man that beat Ali, and his because his style was close enough to Marciano's that it convinced my father that Rocky could have beaten him.

"Tell you what, Bill. . ." Ken smiled at my father. " . . . why don't you and your boy come down to our place tonight." He motioned down the hall. He and Kyle exchanged a quick glance. "Four of us can watch the fights tonight."

"Well, I don't know . . ," Dad said, looking down as if the excuse he needed was written on the dirty hallway tiles. Kyle was looking at me. I met his eyes and immediately looked away. Jesus, Dad. No. Kyle was smirking, the thin wispy hairs that formed a fringe around his upper lip made him look evil.

Now Ken stiffened. The smile was going quickly. "C'mon man. I'm just being friendly. We're neighbors. . ." He seemed to stand taller, harder.

"OK. OK. I guess we can come down."

Shit! Kyle was grinning now, daring me to look back at him. My eyes had nowhere to go, they kept getting caught on his torso, the white cotton stretched tight over his dark brown body, over a chest and abdomen that was hard, rock hard.

"OK, then," Ken said. He and Kyle turned, and he said over his shoulder" "Come by around 8:30. 5E"

We turned too, towards our apartment on the opposite side of the long hallway. When we got to our door, Dad fumbled with his bags, and started opening the locks. I looked back over my shoulder at them, the two of them still walking, laughing about something. But Kyle was looking back too. He was waiting for me to turn, and when he saw me he gave me the finger.

**

We didn't say a word about it. My father didn't want to admit he had been cornered, outmaneuvered by Ken's wily friendliness, a friendliness that only partially covered something malevolent underneath. I thought about telling him I wouldn't go, but he might challenge me - he might ask what I was afraid of - as if his fear wasn't apparent.

So at 8:30 we walked down the corridor like soldiers who'd rather take a bullet than admit even the most understandable fear before their comrades. We knocked on the door, and knocked again, louder so they would hear us over the Temptations. Their stereo was loud enough that we could hear the base as a pulse against the floor.

The door opened. Kyle didn't even look at my father, he bored in on me with his eyes, and didn't manage anything beyond a sullen "hey." We walked past him into a small entryway. The living room was off to the left, and a hallway led to the right. Kyle was behind me.

This was a man's home. While our apartment still had many of the outer niceties of my mother, clearly any female presence in their lives had left long, long ago. There was a small amount of furniture scattered on the hardwood floors, furniture with sharp, metallic angles covered with either polished glass or rich, black leather. The wall opposite the couch had an entertainment center with dozens of fine controls and flashing meters that reacted to the Motown beat. And right in front of it was a white, fluffy rug. Bearskin, and my mind formed an immediate and vivid picture of what it was used for.

Ken walked towards us from the hallway. "Hey, glad you came!" He smiled and shook my father's hand, and then he extended it to me. "You're Jamie, if I remember right?"

I said "Yeah, Jamie." When I returned his handshake I saw how big his hands were. His fingers were so long they reached halfway up my forearm. I looked down and saw that the edges of his fingers and the skin around his palm were almost as light as I was, but it quickly darkened around the surface towards his backhand. He was a bit darker than Kyle, more the color of cocoa beans than Kyle, who was, as I've said the color of rich topsoil. Still the hands were huge, but as I looked down at then and felt the warmth of his skin I was struck by the contrast between the hard ridges of his knuckles against the large, but seemingly sensitive fingers.

"Why don't you two go in and sit down."

I followed my father into the living room. He sat on the couch, perhaps because he didn't realize how low to the ground it was. He seemed to sink in. I sat in a leather rocker on his end of the couch, and was able to look down on him slightly. His eyes were expressionless, as if the strangeness of this, his presence in the home of some black people, his sitting on their couch listening to the Temptations, had caused some inner persona to flee.

After a minute Kyle and his Dad came in. Ken handed each of us a Colt 45, and I looked over at my father before accepting it. "C'mon Bill, no harm in this, eh?" Ken said. "Just boys havin' a drink with their Dads." My father surfaced and gave a slight nod.

I gulped it, knowing from some drinks I had already had that it would deaden me, make me more able to handle this. It was good, real good, stronger than the other beers I had had. I leaned back in the rocker, while Ken switched from the stereo to the TV. Kyle sat in the chair that matched mine over on the other side of the sofa. He took a pull from the beer, and gave me a wink.

Ken sat on the couch next to Dad. A lot of his additional height must have been in his legs; His head was a few inches above my fathers, but his knees were at eye level, so he had to spread them to see the TV. He was wearing red track shorts; I looked at the veined granite of his thighs and his hamstrings and I guessed he was a runner. He was younger than Dad, maybe his mid thirties, tops.

The beer tasted great, I settled back in my chair and listened to Howard Cossell. Quarry and Norton were in the ring, exchanging a flurry of punches. Querry was fighting for his professional career. A few years ago he lost to Frazier in a fight for the crown that Ali abandoned when he refused the draft. Since then he'd dropped rapidly in the rankings.

In the fourth round, Quarry developed a cut over his left eye. "That's it, fight's over." Ken said. He was bleeding badly enough that the referee stopped the fight a few times and brought a doctor in. "Norton's just gonna work on it."

As the bleeding accelerated, Quarry grew wilder and Norton more methodical, both man knowing that the cut changed the calculus of the fight, making it improbable that Quarry would last 15.

Ken downed his beer in a few quick gulps, I looked over and saw the muscles in his neck shiver as he brought the beer down. "These are going down good! Kyle, why don't you get another round. Looks like Jamie there is ready for another."

"Yeah," I said quickly, holding up the can. I had only finished two-thirds of it, but I figured I could down it while Kyle went for more. "How bout you, Bill?"

Dad held out the empty can. I hadn't realized he was the first one done. He was the same as I was, liking the buzz from the beer, the calming, restful drowse of it. I downed mine as Kyle took my father's can, so I was done as he came over to get mine. He took my empty and sauntered down the hall.

While he was down there, Norton connected with a flurry of punches. Quarry's chest was covered in blood now. "Hey Kyle, c'mere."

By the time he walked back with the beers the referee had stopped the fight again. "C'mon, man, let them fight!" Ken said.

Inexplicably, the ref let it go on. Maybe it was the TV schedule, but it was obvious to me that Quarry had no chance, he was just barely holding on, while Norton seemed fresh and strong.

Kyle handed my father a fresh Colt, he tossed one to his Dad, and he held mine out to me. When I reached for it, he pulled it away quickly, like a tease. I looked up at him, and he was grinning like a cat. I felt a jolt in my body. His father and my father were both watching us. I didn't reach again, knowing he'd just do the same thing. After an eternity, he handed it down to me, and it was then that I noticed that his hands were almost as big as his father's. I took it and gulped. He walked over to his chair, smiling at his father as he did so.

"Nice place you got here, Ken." My father said, trying to diffuse the tension.

"Got a bitch come in three times a week. Bitch cleans like you wouldn't believe." One thing about my parents - there was never any obscenity in our house, so it was strange hearing this kind of talk with Dad around. Ken kept on going though. "Real fine piece of ass too, right Kyle?"

"Shit yeah!" Kyle said, as he took a slug of beer. He was slumped back in the chair, one leg with was hiked up on the glass edge of the coffee table.

I took a long pull on my beer. I was slightly giddy from the beer, and the unreal situation around me. I knew Kyle wasn't any older than me, but he seemed so . . . confident, so sure of himself.

Cossel was carrying on about the fight, trying to make a romp seem like something dramatic.

Ken had been trying to engage my father in the discussion about the cleaning lady, leaning over making the leather groan as Ken bent down to him. My father seemed to sink deeper into the seat. "You got a woman in your place Bill?"

I took another drink, watching the two of them. The buzz I was feeling gave me a curious feeling of detachment. I saw the teasing beneath Ken's mock friendly demeanor.

"No." Dad turned to the side and looked up at Ken. "The two of us live alone."

"Just like us, eh? Just a couple of bachelors with nothin' holdin' us back." He straightened up a minute and looked at the TV. I could see him measuring something in his mind, timing something. I was folded back into the leather rocker. He turned towards Dad again. "Tell me Bill-" he dropped his voice a bit, but it was still easy to hear. Kyle looked away from the fight and turned over towards his father. "-You get lots of pussy?"

He was smiling, but the words came out like a challenge. Just how much of a man was he? Howard Cossel seemed very far away. "Yeah, I get my share." Dad said. I knew he was lying, and from the sound of his voice Ken knew it to.

Ken was about to follow up with something, when Kyle shouted. "Look at this." We looked over at the set. They were stopping the fight - Quarry couldn't take any more punishment. Norton was surrounded by an exultant mob.

"Why'd they stop it." Ken said. "Damn, Norton was just getting warmed up."

"Too much blood," Kyle said.

"Shit." And now that the distraction was over, now that the picture had shifted to Chuck Wepner's dressing room, Ken picked up where he left off with my father. But he had found another point of attack.

"Man, why do those white guys bleed so much, Bill?" Dad looked up from his Colt like he heard the sound of an approaching predator. "I mean, the fight just gets started, just a round or two, and these white guys, they start bleedin' like pigs on a spit. All of them."

"Marciano never got cut." Dad said it with surprising force, as if Ken had hit some tripwire. I could feel the anxiety bubble up within me from beneath the sudsy drowse of the beer.

"Marciano never fought men like this," Ken said, dismissively. If I was expecting some confrontation I was disappointed. Ken said: "Kyle, get us all another round." I was glad. My beer was empty, and I wanted another, because while Ken eased back a bit, I knew it wouldn't be long before he started picking at Dad's scabs again. This was just the early rounds -- I wanted another beer.

Check Wepner was sitting on a bench in the training room, huddled over in concentration as his trainer worked on his shoulders, talking to his man. The TV announcer said: "Six month's ago he was a liquor salesman, and he got a phone call. . ." Building him up, encouraging people like my father to believe that fate and desire could somehow win over the gravity of talent.

Kyle was standing over me, holding a beer out. I reached up slowly; I wanted the beer, but I didn't want to be teased again. He didn't this time. He handed me the beer casually. I looked up and said "Thanks." He had that same smirk on his face, that same hard look in his eyes, but I felt different. For just a moment, fear was supplanted by . . . some other feeling, something strange. This boy had something I wanted, something I wished I had.

After a flurry of commercials, the windup to the bout began. Ali came in like a prince, surrounded by a huge entourage. The arena was electric with adoration. He tossed his robe away like a Sultan, and the hangers-on fell away like chariot dust. He started dancing around the ring, shadow boxing. "Damn, he looks good!" Kyle said.

"What a body. Damn he's ripped!" Ken and his son were joyful, watching the great Ali. "Ain't he pretty?" Ken said, and it was another departure from the world I knew. Two men free enough to talk about a man's body, the specifics of his build, and the way he carried himself. "Look at those hands, so quick," Ken said.

"Yeah, fast like a mutha, but big. Seven inch fists." Kyle said.

Dad and I were left out, feeling a bit like Chuck Wepner. He was standing still in the ring, another spectator to Ali's show. He was big, and covered with hair.

The fight was almost started. A beer commercial started, and I took a slug and looked at a wire frame clock on the wall. I wondered how long before we could leave, and get back home to a place that was familiar, safe.

Underneath, I knew I was frightened of something.

"So we were talking about pussy before, Bill," Ken said. "Tell me, any fine ones in the building?"

Oh God! Like my father would know. Like the women from the building came in and strutted around his LazyBoy. My father stayed motionless on the couch, he couldn't bring an answer up.

"Bet Jamie here knows some nice ones, eh?" Ken had a small grin on his face, as if he was trying to stop himself from laughing. "You like pussy, Jamie?"

It was almost funny. I went from fear at my father's paralysis to the playful realization that no adult had ever spoken to me like that before. Man to man. No bullshit about love and marriage. None of that shit about treating girls with respect. Just the plain, unadorned fact that all a man really wants deep down is to fuck. So I said it: "Hell yeah, I do."

Ken leaned back on the couch and laughed. Kyle almost spit his beer out on the table. This was funny! My father laughed too, he couldn't help himself from joining in.

"Bet you're just like my boy here." He was smiling at me, he seemed genuinely friendly; this had none of the guile of his other talk. He took a big gulp from his can. "Kyle, here, he's like his Daddy . . ."

He stopped because the fight had begun. Wepner came out like a bull, big and menacing. Ali met him in the center of the ring and started dancing, moving back towards his left as Wepner chased him. Chuck started throwing punches, but Ali slipped them easily. About two minutes had elapsed before Ali threw his first punch, connecting with a quick, stinging jab.

As the round was ending, Ken started in again. "I'll tell you Bill, Kyle here, he gets pussy like you wouldn't believe. Girls over here all the time. Some of them real sweet young things - look to be nice and tight."

"Shit yeah!" Kyle tipped his beer can up in acknowledgement.

Lots of kids my age bragged, but it was easy to see they were making stuff up; like me they had never done anything with a girl. I knew it was different with Kyle though. I knew the type of boys that girls liked, the type they'd open their legs for: boys like Kyle, boys who were cocky, and who looked like they could handle themselves. I remembered him from our ballgame, the way he looked out on the mound. Even laying back in his rocker, he looked strong and agile; his young black body was hard with tight muscles. He had deep set black eyes beneath long, sweeping eyebrows, eyes that were wide apart, and bright with animal attention. Yes, he looked like he had everything that girls looked for. He looked like he had balls.

"Gets it from me. See that rug there?" Ken pointed over to the white bearskin rug. "At least a couple of times a week I get me a new piece of tail down on that rug. Can't wait for my first score in my new place." He must have noticed my father's discomfort. Dad was sitting there, just staring off into space. Ken leaned back and stretched his long arms. "Damn, can't go more than a day or two without getting my dick wet."

"I think we're gonna get going," Dad said, sitting forward in the couch. I was surprised, I thought he was just going to sit there and listen silently all night.

"You wanna go?" Ken sat up too, and his expression changed in an instant. He drew his head back, as if recoiling from some insult. "What's the matter, you don't like it here?" Ken's eyes were like hot coals, and his body that was relaxed and fluid just a moment ago was now tense, ready for something, something that scared me.

"No . . ," my father looked up at him. "I-I-I umm . . ," he was looking for a way out. "I-I-I mean I just w-w-want to w- w-watch the fight." Then he settled back.

"OK, then," Ken said, and resumed his lazy recline on the sofa. He stretched his arms again, and placed one arm up on the shoulder of the couch, his big hand almost touching my father's neck. "Ok, then, Mr. Bill. We'll w-w-watch the fight." He grinned like a kid at Kyle as he mocked Dad's stutter.

We sat in silence, and watched the fight. Wepner was standing in the center of the ring, turning like a pinwheel as Ali circled around him. Every five seconds or so, Ali would fling a jab that shot from his body like the bite of a cobra. Wepner was holding his hands just a few inches below his face, but Ali's jab was so quick that he could fling a punch the few feet that separated them and land it squarely before Wepner could raise his hand to block it. Every time.

The silence remained for a round or two. I had to pee, badly, all the beer I had drunk was stretching my bladder painfully. But we just sat and watched, while Ali continued hammering Wepner. The silence broke when the ref called the doctor in. "Shit! Fucker's bleedin'," Kyle said.

"Damn! That shit again!" Ken said. He sat a minute and said some more. "Know how that works Bill?" He didn't wait for my father to ask; Ken moved over along the couch right next to Dad. Ken drew his right hand into a huge fist and said: "Ali hits like this. . ." Ken demonstrated the movement of a punch. "See, just as the punch lands, he turns his hand just a bit. . ." He pivoted his hand counterclockwise an inch or so. "Just a few punches with that little turn there cuts the motherfucker's eye open."

My father didn't move, and didn't acknowledge Ken's lesson in any way. He was shut down, hiding somewhere deep inside. Ken looked at him, waiting a long time for a reaction from Dad. I wondered if he was breathing. Then Ken stood up, and he said to Kyle: "Let's go in the kitchen and get some more beers."

When they left, I could hear them down there, laughing and giggling, and talking about something in low, basso whispers. Something was up, and I was becoming very frightened. I leaned over at Dad. "Dad, can't we just get out of here?"

He was frozen. Maybe he had the same fear I did; whatever it was though, he seemed pale and bloodless. "It's not going to last long . . . maybe another round or so."

I was about to tell him I wanted to go then, at that moment before something ugly happened. I was about to speak, but they had stopped laughing in the kitchen, and now they were speaking to each other low, deep whispers. I turned my head and strained to hear them over the TV, but I couldn't. All I could pick up was the feeling - they were planning something, something serious. I turned back to Dad. I started to tell him that I was going to go even if he wasn't, when I heard their footsteps in the hallway. Ken and Kyle sauntered back in, holding two beers each.

Kyle walked right over to me and stood by my chair.

"Hey Jamie, c'mon." I craned my neck and looked up at him. "C'mon, I want to show you my room." He wasn't smiling. His eyes were cold, but very bright - I couldn't look away. "C'mon man - I got somethin' I want to show you."

It was my turn.

**

The first thing I noticed when I walked into his room was the pictures: there were dozens of Hustler magazine centerfolds pinned to the wall. Girls from the front, girls from the rear and even underneath, but no matter the angle the thing of greatest interest was centered in each picture. Every girl was pulling her pussy lips apart, showing the damp pink skin that makes the blood rush to our cocks.

He was behind me, closing the door while I scanned the room. I was struck by the openness; my pornography was hidden in my closet. His was displayed proudly on the wall. Aside from that difference, the room was just like mine: an unmade bed, dirty clothes on the floor, and a stereo system on a small bench.

I turned and faced him. "Like my girls?" he said.

"Yeah."

He walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. "You done it yet?"

I felt awkward being so close to him. I wondered if his hand could sense my tension, my unease. "No." He would know if I lied.

"Man, what you waitin' for? I get pussy alla time. Whatsa matta wit you?"

I didn't like where this was going, I didn't like the sound of his voice, his closeness. I started to draw away, but the hand that was just resting on my shoulder grabbed hold of my shirt. I wasn't going anywhere. "I know whatsa matta with you" he said.

"W-w-w-what?" I said, almost choking.

He moved his face closer and growled in a low, cutting voice: "You a queer."

I was like a cornered animal, my heart was beating against the walls of my chest. I pulled away again, fighting his grip on my clothes. "Where you think you're goin?" His voice was low, almost a whisper, but every sound he made sliced into me like a hot knife. "I didn't show you what I brought you in for."

He relaxed his grip slowly. I might have run, but by then I knew there was no chance. He could handle anything I tried. He took his hand off me and put it down by his side. I looked down and watched what he was doing: pushing the front waistband of his sweatpants down, exposing the biggest, darkest thing I had ever seen. He pulled it up out of his pants and it hung there. I couldn't believe the size: not just the length, but the fatness of it. Before it tapered slightly at the end, it was as wide around as my wrist.

"What are you doing?" I said, still looking at the thing.

"You gonna suck me off."

Now I looked up at him. "No I'm not."

"Think again motherfucker. You either git down on yo knees or I kick yo ass so bad you be beggin to suck it."

The world stopped. I stood there, unbelieving, hearing the low noise of the traffic outside, and the wail of faraway police sirens. I looked towards the door, wondering if I could run outside to my father and Ken.

"He ain't helpin' you. He be too busy suckin' my Dad's dick."

I must have looked stunned, he must known he cut me good from the look on my face, because he added: "Yeah, that's right, you know it."

"My Dad wouldn't do that!" It was the first time I had raised my voice, he had said something so revolting I couldn't allow it to remain unchallenged.

"You Dad's a fuckin' faggot, just like you. 'Sides, when my Daddy needs some he just takes it. Don't matta who." He paused a moment, and I could see a thought develop by the way he started to smile. "Tell you what -" Oh! What an evil smile! " - you so sure about yo Daddy - if you walk outta here right now you can forget about suckin' my cock." His eyes were knowing and sure; he was happy with this new torment he discovered. "Go ahead. Open the door. Go see what's goin' on out there."

I just stood there. I looked at the door, and wondered what would see in the living room when I opened it; I looked back at Kyle, standing there with his hands on his hips, and that big black thing arching out of his pants.

I just stood there.

"Go ahead man." He stepped back a few feet to the side of his bed; his cock bounced as he walked. He stood next to the bed and pointed to the door. "Go ahead. I won't do nothin' to stop you. Walk right outta here."

A coldness rose up in me - stress was starting to make me shake inside. But I couldn't move.

"Last chance man." I watched his smile disappear and his jaw was clenching. And now I saw that look, that same pitiless look that I saw that day when he was standing on the mound getting ready to hurt me. "Now - " he pointed to the bed, and said with a voice that sounded like a growl. "Git yo self over here and sit down."

Nature has some graces. When an animal is defeated, when it has spent all its energy in an adrenaline-fueled fight against a superior opponent another chemical replaces adrenaline. A sedative, something that courses through the bloodstream healing wounds in the body, and calming synapses in the brain. So when the issue is settled, the defeated are reconciled to their new role.

I took a big breath, a huge gulp of air, and then I did what Kyle told me to. I walked over slowly and sat down, feeling the groan of his bed as my head was brought level with that thing of his just two or three feet away. He pushed his pants down to his ankles, and then crossed his hands over his stomach, grabbed the bottom of his T-shirt and pulled it up his torso and over his head. I watched the movements of his body; the dark brown skin of his, and the curl and play of dozens of hard, tight muscles. He moved towards me.

"Open your mouth."

I closed my eyes. I didn't want to look. I thought that if I closed my eyes it would be easier to face what I was about to do. I could smell him as he moved toward me, the deep sweaty odor of his balls. I waited for him, I waited for the feel of that thing on my lips.

"Stick your tongue out."

And then it happened. He touched me with that thing of his and I was changed forever. I knew I would never tell anyone else about this moment, about the feeling I had within me when he touched me with that . . . that . . . thing of his. He tasted of pee and precum, and I could feel the soft skin of his hood slide up along my tongue toward my lips.

"Open wider."

I don't know why I opened my eyes. I don't know why I opened my lips and looked at that thing, because I was gagging at the taste and feeling sick to my stomach. But I did. He was even bigger now, his head was extended out of the fold of his foreskin, and I could see the swollen veins bulging out of his skin. I opened up a little, and he began pushing himself inside my mouth.

"C'mon, open wide I said."

It was so fat I had to pull my tongue back inside to make room for it. He reached his hands down and grabbed my hair and held my face steady as he pushed further in.

"Fuck!"

Now my nose was just an inch or so from the base of his cock, just an inch or so from the crest of scratchy little hairs that surrounded his cock. I couldn't breathe through my mouth now, and so every panicked breath I pulled in with my nostrils filled my with his odor. He wasn't moving, but still I could feel movement inside my mouth. That thing was still growing.

"That's it."

He must have done this before. This must have been a very familiar feeling for him, because he seemed so cool, so unhurried about what he was doing to me. He began to move his body very slowly; I could feel the slide along my tongue, and the pulling and pushing on my lips.

"Shit, that feels so nice."

With each pull I took a breath, and with each push back inside I stretched my mouth wide open.

"That's it, keep your lips on it while I slide."

I could see his balls shake as he pulled away. He had big, heavy balls, and the skin that held them was rippled with little bumps. I knew from my own body that these bumps came from that shiver inside, the shudder that rises inside when you're about ready to blow yourself off. But like I said, he was in no hurry. His movements stopped with one long pull outside my mouth.

"Damn, you gonna be OK at this."

His thing was fully outside me now, about an inch from my mouth.

"Open up real wide, now motherfucker." I did as I was told. "Now stick your tongue out."

He put his hand around his balls, and used his thumb and forefinger to move the head of his cock all around my tongue.

"Look up at me."

And I did. I looked up along his body, up along the corded, anchor chain bends of his belly to his chest. Up along the hard, proud ridges of his shoulders. He looked down at me. His eyes were like suns.

"We gonna do this lotsa times."

He kept moving that thing on my tongue. I could see the almost imperceptible movements in his eyes, the tiny jump between my eyes and the place on my tongue where he touched me with his meat.

"Yeah, we gonna do this a lot. Gonna make you my own little cocksucker."

He started slapping my tongue with that thing. I kept looking up at him, hearing the soft, wet sounds of each slap.

"That's it, keep that tongue way out there. Yeah, that's it - you like this, motherfucker." He was grinning, and his eyes blazed. "See - I ain't holdin' you. You like this shit."

And he wasn't holding me. He had taken his hands away a few moments before. There I was, straining to keep my tongue way out. I realized that I had my hands on his ass, feeling the round, full cheeks and the tiny hairs on them with my fingertips.

"Yeah, you a little faggot." He started rubbing the head of his thing on the outer surface of my lips. "Get ready, motherfucker. Gonna shoot my jizz right on your ugly white face."

I knew it was coming. He started rubbing himself, snarling with pleasure as he pulled his hand all along that cock of his. He was so strong! So alive! So proud of the power he had in those big black balls of his. Yes, I knew Kyle would unload any minute; the stuff would flood out of him and spatter all over my face. He would mark my soul with that stuff the way an animal marks newly won territory. His strength and his hardness had broken me completely. But it was not the break of death. No, it was like the break of a shell, and with the break a new person peered out from inside me. A new person whose first sight was that hard, black cock of his. A new person who spoke for the first time: "Please . . ." The words burst out of me with a sob. ". . . Please . . . call me a pussy again!"

**

When he was done, I wiped my face in silence, and then Kyle took me outside. He opened the door and walked outside, and I followed him into the living room. My father was gone. His father was on the couch, listening to Ali talk about his victory. I was walking towards the apartment door. Ken stood up and headed me off before I got to it.

"You have a good time Jamie?" he asked. He leaned down and looked closely at my face, his eyes were like lasers beneath his drooping dreadlocks. He was studying my soul, as if he could see all the nuances of my humiliation written on my face. When he saw what he needed he straightened up and looked over me at his boy. A loud, wild laugh rose up in him. "I'll bet we'll be seeing a lot of you!" he said. I hung my head and walked past him through the door. I could still hear them laughing as I walked down the hallway to my apartment.

**

They did see a lot of me. When Kyle was in the mood, he would wait downstairs in the lobby and meet me when I got home from school. He would take me up to his place. We'd go inside and would head straight to his room. Ken was always there -- he and Kyle would high-five each other as we passed him on the way to his room.

I would suck Kyle off, and then head home with the taste of him still in my mouth. I'd go into my room and masturbate, thinking of his cock, the way its big head probed my throat while my lips were stretched. I'd rub myself, and think of his voice; I'd linger on the dirty things he said to me, and feel the thrill that made me shiver at the sound of that hiss in his voice.

For weeks we were like that. I was a cocksucker now. He was in the full rush of boyhood, he needed to empty himself out almost every day, and so it was every day that he'd be down in the lobby, smoking a cigarette, waiting for me. When you spend that much time with someone's cock in your mouth an intimacy grows. I began to notice that I could control his sensations with subtle movements within my mouth. I'd look up at him, and see the reaction in his eyes to the way I pursed my lips. I'd shift the shape of my tongue and my hands would feel a little shake in his ass.

But for all my conceit of control, he was the one that was calling the shots. He was the one that laughed at me with contempt; he was the one that called me a motherfucker as he rubbed his cum around my nose. He was the one that decided it would be fun to do me in my own apartment, and so one day when I made a right off the elevator he grabbed my arm, spun me around and pushed me down the hall the other way, to my apartment. This so I could see the look in my father's face when he saw us at the door; this so my Dad could listen at the closed door of my room and wonder what was happening in the silence.

He was insatiable. I don't think any 13 year old boy ever had what he had won: a little white cocksucker all his own just a few doors away. But he wanted more; it wasn't enough that he had broken me - he kept looking for more torments, for new undefiled parts of me that he could stomp on. And so there came a day when he wasn't alone downstairs. I pushed open the lobby door and he was standing there with another boy, one of the crowd of foul-mouthed toughs he smoked grass with on the corner. The kid was tall and skinny and much blacker than Kyle; He had big, wide lips and a huge afro with his comb propped up in the back. Maybe they were just talking, I hoped -- maybe Kyle wasn't waiting for me. So I walked past them, until I heard: "Where the fuck you think you're going?"

Kyle took me into the stairwell. He wanted to do me right there, right in front of his friend, and never mind that the stairs were used frequently by residents. Kyle unzipped himself while his friend watched. His friend kept looking at the door, seeming as uncertain, as unsure about this as I did -- at least until he saw me start in on Kyle. Once he saw that, once he saw Kyle stuff that black thing into my mouth the boy's look of hesitation disappeared and it was replaced by a lecherous grin. "Jesus . . ." the boy said and he reached into his pants and pulled his thing out. I looked at it out of the corner of my eye. It was a sleek, jet black hammer with a huge, very pink head, and he started rubbing it even before it was completely out of his pants. Kyle took his time. He always did, but now he seemed almost . . . lazy about it. Cool about it, like he was, well . . . entitled to this. But this other kid -- he was like a rabid animal, so excited at what he was seeing, so charged with the thought of really putting his meat to a white boy that he couldn't hold back. I was sliding my lips up and down Kyle's prick even as I knew this other kid wouldn't be able to wait. I flicked my eyes up to his face, and I recognized the glassy, distracted look of a boy that was about to shoot -- by then I knew the signs quite well. Sure enough, he unloaded on me - a thick streamer of seed flew across my face and into my eyes. "Oh, Fuck!" he said. And Kyle, so cool, so casual up to now got carried away himself - thrilled with the way I winced when that stuff flew into my eyes. Suddenly he grabbed my face with both hands, he gave a big long heave into me, and blew himself off in the back of my throat.

And so I was a cocksucker, a faggot that looked at other boys with sneaky, furtive eyes. I'd walk in my neighborhood and sneak peeks at the shirtless black kids in basketball courts, watching the way the sun and sweat highlighted their tight, athletic bodies. I watched the way they moved, and most of all I watched their eyes, looking for the signs of what I liked - a boy with big balls. And there were so many of them! I'd walk past a crowd of them hanging out in the street. They'd curse at me as a walked by. I'd hear: "white cocksucker" or "c'mere, shit face" and the cutting words would send a shiver inside me, a shiver I'd feel again when I jerked of later.

Sometimes I'd see a boy that had that look, that big-ball arrogance in his eyes, and I'd think of walking up to him. "Wanna b-b-b-low job?" Just the thought of saying that to one of them, just the thought of the way they'd look at me, the leering smile that would break on their face would fill me with a manic excitement. I came close to doing it a few times, but I couldn't get past the fear.

I wasn't quite there yet. I knew I had changed, I was a cocksucker, but I still had other lessons to learn.

**

It was an evening in early June when I heard my fathers knock on my door. I put my cock back in my pants and said "What?"

"Kyle and his Dad are here for you." I could hear the disgust in his voice through the door.

Jesus!

I opened the door and asked my father what they wanted.

"I don't know." He said this and looked behind him, as if he was wondering if they could hear him. He lowered his voice. "Something about showing you something."

We just stood there looking at each other, and I had no doubt that my father remembered that phrase from the night of the fight. I wasn't afraid of Kyle, it was his father that scared me. Lately his comments when Kyle took me back to their place had seemed cruder. There was meanness about him. Kyle had that same meanness, but for all his threats, for all the cruel things he said to me, he had never actually hurt me. But his father - from what I had seen so far, he seemed like someone who would get off on pain. Someone who would hurt you, just for kicks.

"I'm not going." I said.

My father took a deep breath. "OK," he said. He stood there a moment, as if he was trying to gather something together inside of himself. "OK. I'll tell them."

I looked across him at the framed photos, and thought of the Golden Gloves standings. What would happen when he told Ken no? Dad seemed resigned to something as he turned away. "Never mind," I said. One way or another I knew I was going, and I didn't want to leave seeing Dad spitting blood and teeth on the floor. "Never mind, I'll go with them." I said. He tried to hide the relief he was feeling, and I walked past him, grateful for the effort.

They didn't smile, or say hello. They were all business as they turned and started walking. I followed, wondering what was going to happen.

We walked into their apartment, and continued, as I expected, down the hallway to Kyle's room. Ken walked over to his bed, and picked up a couple of pillows and stacked them in the center of the bed. "Take your pants off."

For all the shame of the things Kyle made me do, I had never been naked in front of him. I unbuttoned my waistband and pushed my jeans down and kicked them away. "Those too," he said, pointing to my underwear. When I pulled then down, they started laughing.

"Shit, look at that sorry-ass little thang!" Ken said.

"Can't hardly see it." Kyle said.

My cheeks were burning. I reached down and pulled my briefs off, glancing at myself as I did so. Yes it was small, nothing like the fleshy shanks and ballsacs I had seen on Kyle and his friends. The anxiety I was feeling, and the blood in my cheeks had left it smaller still. Now it was just a tiny knob just barely visible within the wisps of my hair. I pulled my briefs off and threw them on top of my jeans.

"Get down on top of those pillows." Ken said.

I climbed up on the bed, knowing without being told that I was to lay face down, and that I should position myself so my ass rode high on the pillows. I lay down, feeling the press of Kyle's pillow against my cock, and feeling their eyes on my ass. I drew my arms up by my head, and I buried my face in the bend of my elbow. I wanted to hide in darkness.

"I wannns get sucked off first," Kyle said.

"No, none of that now. Here, take some of this." Ken said.

"What's that stuff?"

"Grab a bunch and rub it on his asshole." Kyle must have given him some sort of look, because Ken got impatient. "Hey, you wanna do this or not?"

"Alright."

After a moment I felt something cold and wet on my asshole. He started rubbing, I could feel the pressure of his index finger on my opening.

"Put some more on your finger and push it inside him."

"My finger? I ain't pushing my finger inside his ass!"

"Fuck you then - you wanna be a baby then get the fuck outside. I'll do it. Fucking kid's a cherry, you asshole. That shit is for you, so you go in easier."

I felt him push inside me; I could feel my butt tighten around his finger, and when he pulled it out, I could feel it close again, slowly.

"Alright then. Go for it, boy."

I closed my eyes and pushed my face deeper into my elbow. I heard the bed shift from his weight, I could feel him plant his hands on either side of me. And then I felt it. It was like a clenched fist, pushing at me. I could feel the flesh around my asshole pull together, and the muscles of my butt tighten up.

"It ain't goin' in." Kyle said.

"Just push boy." I felt the pressure increase, sharp, cutting pain started to burn inside me. "C'mon, c'mon put ya ass into it, son!" I started to make a sound, I could feel myself tightening against Kyle. I couldn't help it, my body fought on it's own, tightening against the invasion even though I knew in my head my resistance was what was making it hurt so much.

I think I was starting to cry.

"C'mon, bust 'em up boy!"

I felt Kyle draw back slightly, pull himself up just a bit, and then he really let me have it. Something broke, I felt a tearing back there, and he was inside me. "Oh, damn!" Kyle said.

"Yeah that's it!"

"Christ, this fucker is . . . tight!" Kyle was breathless with excitement, with the thrill of breaking into me with that hard black thing of his.

"Didn't I tell you?. They all tight like motherfuckers the first time."

"Damn! This . . . is better than pussy!"

I was bawling now, my arm was wet with tears.

"Ok, now you gotta push in some more. You wanna push alla way in."

I felt the bed creak as Kyle shifted his weight, and then he leaned into me again, driving that thing deeper. I felt like I was tearing inside. "Please . . . p-p-p-please . . . stop!!" I cried out.

"Stop ya damn cryin'!!" Ken said. "Just shut your fuckin' mouth." Then he said to Kyle: "Don't let that baby shit stop you. . ."

"Damn right, I won't." And he wasn't - he grabbed my shoulders, digging his fingers into me. So he could pull, add his pulling to the weight of him. It seemed like my crying, my pleading had only made him more thrilled with what he was doing. "Gonna push me alla way inside your pussy ass!"

"That's it, boy! Tell him you gonna do it!"

I had stopped crying. Now I was numb, feeling dead inside. There was no place to hide, I felt like he had driven a stake through my soul with that thing. But it was all the way in now - I could tell because I felt the scratch of his hair on the sensitive skin between my cheeks. I had to struggle for breath - he seemed so heavy, so big on top of me. He pressed his belly down on my back. I could feel him close. I could feel his hot breath on the back of my neck, the hot blast jets of some snorting bull.

"Dad . . ." He caught his breath. "Dad, this feels . . .so . . .fuckin' . . .good!"

"I tole you. Nothin' like puttin' it to some white fucker."

And when he pulled enough air back into him he pushed his torso up off me, he shifted his legs and pulled back out. He hovered there a moment with just his head inside me. And then quick, hard, all the way back in, making me cry out with the shock of it. And then all over again. He did this slow at first, experimenting with the motion. With every downward stab the springs would groan, and the mattress would recoil, so that as he pulled up my ass would follow behind him. He would pull way, way back, high enough that I could feel the head of his cock actually pull my asslips back. He'd pause there a minute, waiting for the bed to settle down. And then quick, suddenly, he'd hammer me down into the bed again. Each time he did this his downward thrust became harder, more viscous. He repeated this cycle a few times, and then he going faster. The bed was moving continuously now.

"That's it, enjoy yourself boy!"

Now he was really into it; he was timing it so that his breath, my shriek and the heave of the bedsprings ran all together like some obscene dance.

"That's it. Slam that motherfucker!"

So this was what girls felt like. This was what it was like to have a boy on top of you, pillaging your soul with that thing, that long hard thing that hurt you with its strength. This was what it was like to feel him change from a boy you thought you knew into something else, into some wild demon that feeds on your tears.

"P-P-P-Please . . ." I picked my head up, I turned around and looked at Kyle through my tears. "P-P-Please!!" His face was twisted with pleasure - he didn't even pause, he just looked back at me and kept on fucking. I looked over at Ken then. If he cared about my pain he didn't show it. He came towards me, he reached into his pants and pulled out the biggest, blackest prick I had ever seen. He climbed up onto the bed.

"Want him to stop?" He kneeled by my head. "Want him to stop, you little white piece a shit?" He pushed it against my cheeks. "Tell you what. He'll stop when you swallow my load!" They both laughed, they thought this was funny. "You bring me off like this - else when he finishes I'm gonna tear your little sissy ass open."

I had him in my mouth before he even finished. While Kyle continued hammering himself inside me I took as much of him as I could in my mouth. I could only get less than half of it in, it was so big, so wide. I wasn't on the pillow anymore - I had to push myself up off the bed so I could reach him. Kyle stopped while I did this, he held himself deep inside me. Once I got Ken in my mouth he started in again. He grabbed my belly and started doing me like a dog. With every pump, he drove me forward and my lips would slide along his father's cock. My balls were swinging loose. My body felt like an electric wire between them, charged at both ends with their hard, driving power.

Oh they were having a good time! They talked to each other while they got themselves off. They talked like I wasn't even there.

"Oh, fuck Dad. You were right, this is . . . dynamite!"

"Best part is you know the little shit ain't ever gonna forget this. Till the day he dies, he ain't ever gonna think of sex without thinking of you."

His father came first. He made a moaning sound, threw his head back and let himself go. I held him in my throat, feeling that head of his jump and a stream of warm stuff fill my mouth. He had so much seed that I almost choked, I stretched my lips slightly and it came running out the side of my mouth, even as still more of the stuff came pumping out of him.

"Damn, you taught him good!" Ken said. "Whata fuckin' sweet mouth!"

He grabbed my head and pulled me off his dick. He pushed my face down into the mattress and held it steady there with his hand on my neck. I could smell his cum, as my nose mashed it into the sheet, and I could feel more cum drip from his prick onto the back of my head. "You ready boy?"

"Yeah, Dad . . . I'm ready."

"Don't rush, though. You can do this all night if you want. Take your time, boy."

"No, it's OK. I . . . wanna . . . cum now." He was breathless, overcome with the thrill of all this.

Ken held me still - his fingers held the back of my head like a vice. All of my senses were pinned back in my ass. I could feel every ridge and muscle of his son's cock as it rode up and down the raw, sensitive channel inside of me. Now that I had my ass way up like that, now that his father was holding my body still, Kyle was really coming deep inside, and he was making strange, low noises. Suddenly his movement slowed, and his father saw the signs: "There, that's it boy!! Let him have it." He was straining, he just pushed as deep as he could inside me. He held himself there, as deep as he could go. "Ohhhhhh fuck!!" His knees started shaking, and I felt a tickle inside me as he shot off, a strange, inner sensation that was like nothing I've ever felt, before or since. He kept shooting inside as the bed shook. I could feel his shudder as he continued to pump his spunk into me - he was in so hard and so deep I could feel the hair on his scrotum rubbing against the underside of my balls.

When he was done, he climbed off the bed, leaving me there to catch my breath while the two of them talked about what they had done. Kyle told his father what my ass had felt like in a voice that was shaking with excitement. He spoke of the tightness of my clenched muscles and the rush he felt when he forced himself in. "That's the hardest I've ever been, Dad." And he said something else - how when I started crying something happened inside him. Something thrilling.

Ken understood. He told Kyle about his first time. Many years before he and his friend liked to burglarize houses. One time they hit a suburban house, and found out that the place wasn't empty - there was a family at home, a married couple with a couple of kids. They overpowered the husband, and they were about to rape the wife, when the husband said something to Ken. "Man, he got me so pissed off we forgot all about the wife. I fucked that sucker good - had him cryin' like a little girl with his wife watching." That was when he discovered what a kick it was to put it to a white guy: "Couldn't believe how good it felt. What a fuckin' rush! And the best part is, me and my friend realized they'd never call the cops after that. No fuckin' way! After that we start lookin' for houses where there are people at home."

There was a message in his father's story, a message I understood even though it wasn't meant for me. He was telling his boy that he wasn't a child anymore - he had won his manhood. I lay there silent, listening. I knew I was the arena for a moment of dark intimacy between them, when Ken used me to show his son a secret truth that some men sense but only the strongest explore - the thrilling truth that rushes up inside you when you mix sex and aggression.

**

My father and I had our moment too. When I came back to the apartment, he got up from his recliner and met me by the door. I just stood there, and he put his arms around me and pulled me close to him.

He hadn't hugged me in years.

"How are you, Jamie?"

"My ass hurts."

I felt him stiffen, and I knew he didn't want to hear any more. He held me close. He comforted me in the only way he could.

I lay against his chest, listening to the sound of his breath, remembering the smell and embracing warmth I felt when I lay on him as a child. But I was a child no longer, and I knew because of what they did to me that I would never, ever be a man.

"There was nothing you could do," he said. "They're just different. They're . . . ummm. . . stronger than we are."

He sounded so strange when he said that, and so I wondered again what had happened to him that night with Ken. There wasn't any anger at all in his voice, he sounded resigned, helpless, even weak. And there was some other feeling, something strange. I replayed it in my mind: ". . . they're stronger than we are." Yes, there it was - there was an unconscious sound of admiration, even jealousy deep down in his voice. I lay against him a few minutes more, until I got up the nerve. "Dad, did you suck Ken's dick?"

I pulled away from him and looked up at him. He wouldn't look me in the eyes. I was afraid he would turn away, and so now I was the strong one. "It's OK Dad . . ." -- he looked down at the floor, I knew if I said the wrong thing the chasm between us would never close -- "It's OK . . . I mean . . . I did too."

He looked at me, and I realized how deep the gulf between us really was. I remembered the shock of what Kyle did to me, the feeling I had that first time a black dick slid into my mouth. I was young and my sexuality was unformed, and in the weeks since then I had reconciled myself to my new role, the way a domesticated animal bonds to it's master, no matter how brutal it's treatment had been. But my father had a fully formed manhood, he had a lifetime of settled attitudes and I knew the effect on him must have been far more wounding.

"Yeah . . . but it wasn't just once. . ." he said.

"I know Dad . . . I know." Now I was comforting, I wanted him to know it was OK, that he wasn't less of a father in my eyes because he sucked black cock. "I've done Kyle lots of times, too."

"It's like they . . . they . . . they want it all the time," he said. He was nervous, distracted. He scratched his armpit and he seemed short of breath. We stood still there, in the hallway near his fight pictures. We were on a precipice, there was a secret here, something even more shameful than what had happened to each of us.

"You know, Dad . . ." My heart was beating wildly, I needed to tell him something else. "Dad, I, I . . ." I had to force the words out. "I umm. . . you know . . ." He looked at me closely. "I . . . like it . . . I like sucking Kyle's dick."

He took a deep breath, a breath that seemed to soothe him. The tension in his body was gone. "What's he . . . like?" He said it softly, like a whisper, and he moved slightly closer to me.

"He's really built. Really long, Dad." This seemed so strange, talking like this to my father. About other boys - - what their bodies were like. "His body is all muscles. No wonder he throws so hard."

"Ken's like that too . . . really, really tight."

"I know. I saw him tonight. Couldn't believe how big his cock was."

"They're all like that - believe me."

"You did others? Before Ken?"

"No -- not before Ken. But I used to see them in the gym, in the showers. I mean, I'm a good size myself, but nothing like them."

"What's it like to fight one of them?"

He looked over at his pictures, remembering. "God, it was unbelievable. You can't believe how tough they are. And so quick. It's like you feel helpless. I thought I was pretty good, and I was." He pointed to the pictures. "I mean I thought I might even be city champ. Then they matched me against this guy. Cleveland. Earl Cleveland . . ." He ran his fingers down the yellowed standings, and found his name. "Guy had a jab like a rocket. Couldn't even see it coming. Plus he had a mouth on him." The story was coming out of him like a flood, and I knew he had never told anyone this. Maybe the facts of the fight, but not what it really felt like deep down inside. "Started calling me names . . . white boy . . . queer . . . pussy ass."

Pussy. That was the word for me. I jumped in. "Kyle calls me that. Pussy. When he's about to shoot."

"I think it was his mouth, more than his jabs, that beat me. Once Earl started mouthin' off like that - I started feeling weak, scared." So strange - my father was describing a beating he'd received, and I could feel myself becoming aroused. "It's like they know how to get to you. They're so cocky, so . . . mean."

So it had happened to him too. I could hear it in his voice, that same feeling I had. I knew listening to him that he had turned that long ago beating, and Ken's humiliation into something sexual.

"I've done Kyle, too," he said. Now he was smiling. "It was that day you and him went into your room and closed the door. . ."

"Did you hear us?" I whispered. We were standing close to each other, speaking very softly. These were secret things that we said. "I wondered if you could hear us . . . if you could hear the noises and the things he was saying to me."

"I listened at the door. I heard every word. . ." That was the day Kyle got off my telling me my Dad was a sissy. "Remember I went out later that day? I met him on the elevator. Just him and me. And he started telling me about you. He just stood there, slouching against the wall, saying what a good little cocksucker you were. . ."

I stood there, wondering if he was as hard as I was. He had that look in his eyes, that milky distraction that I'd seen in Ken, Kyle and the others. I wanted to reach into my pants.

"God that kid had nerve! Slouching there, saying that about you. What a pair he had. . . smirking up at me . . ."

I did it. I reached down and felt myself. My cock was hard, it had poked out of the side of my underwear and it had pushed its way down my pants leg. Everything around me just dissolved, except for the sound of Dad's voice . . .

"We got off the elevator and he said: 'Come with me." Just like that, like there was no question. We went into the stairwell."

Jesus. This was like a dream. I felt my cock in my pants - - it was throbbing.

"God, that kid is built!" Dad was doing the same thing; he had his hand on his crotch too. "I hadn't seen a black kid that age since I was a freshman in high school . . ." He sounded like he was in a trance - I don't think he was even aware that we both had our hands on our cocks. "I mean they were big then, bigger than us. But Jesus, not like this . . ."

I pictured it in my mind, remembering the light in the stairwell, and look Kyle gets when he pulls his thing out. So proud . . . I started to rub myself, and then stopped suddenly. There was a knock on the door. My father and I came back to reality, and looked at each other. We knew what it meant.

The two of them were back. They wanted more.

**

The time I remember most vividly was about six weeks after that. It was late May. Our apartment windows are open against the heat, and the noises from outside fill the air: Boom boxes and shouts, a burglar alarm that rings unheeded, far away.

I'm sitting on the couch watching Kyle and his friends work Dad over. They're standing around his recliner. One of the boys is the one I did in the stairwell with Kyle - I'd seen him a few times since then, enough to know his name: Reed. The other kid is older than Kyle or Reed. He's a tall, dark brown kid who looked to be about sixteen. Lionel was his name, he had a short, close cropped Afro, and he had gold all over him: a half dozen thick chains around his neck, a bracelet on his wrist with "Badass" in big, block letters, and a couple of rings on each hand, rings with short, sharp spikes designed to cut skin in a fight. He had wide shoulders and a lean, hard belly, and there were tattoos running down both of his arms.

I liked that boy.

The three of them were having a wild time. Lionel was a coke dealer; I'd seen him around the neighborhood leaning against his white Lincoln Continental, and Kyle and Reed had taken him up to our place to score some free coke, and get in good with him. Now the three of them stood around my father with their backs to me. Dad had the recliner in the upright position, so he could lean forward and take turns sucking off each of the boys.

God it was beautiful! So hot to see those young black boys. >From the couch I could see their shiny black asses bump and shake as Dad went down on them. I loved the electricity of this, the smell of rank, dirty sex that seemed to rise off their bodies. I loved the sound of them, their laughter, the wild animal looks that shot out from their eyes.

And most of all I loved what was happening to me. I was naked on the couch, naked and snuggled up to Ken. He had his long arms around me, I rested my hand on his thigh, and I traced tiny circles there with the tips of my fingers, keeping him excited because I loved that huge, black Johnson of his.

I was his now. When the three boys first came into the apartment, they looked at me, their eyes streaked across my body. Me, Dad and Ken watched them do the coke, and when they were done, Reed started for me. Ken stopped him dead in his tracks. "This one's mine," he said, and that was the end of it. He was like that all the time, now. He'd taken a special liking to me, and no one, not even Kyle, touched me anymore.

And that was fine, just fine with me. Ken had proved far different than I had supposed.

**

Ken had scared me since that first night, the night of the fight. Kyle was mean, but Ken seemed almost evil. I remembered him leaning over Dad on the couch, using his big fist to show Dad how Ali cut an opponent. Ken looked like a man who liked to hurt people, like he enjoyed inflicting pain. That first night with Kyle he was mean, sadistic and brutal. For the first few days, Ken just watched me with Kyle. He didn't even make me suck his dick again, all he did when the four of us were together was make Dad lick his ass. But I knew it was coming. Even though he kept away from me there was a feeling I got from him, a look he had when he and Dad were watching me suck Kyle off. Yes, I knew it was coming - sooner or later he was going to put that big thing of his right up my ass. I'd heard Dad's screams, I'd watched Dad limp down the hallway after an hour at their place and I knew. One way or another, Ken would get himself all the way inside me, even if it meant killing me.

But no, it didn't happen that way at all.

Kyle met me downstairs one day, but when we got to his apartment, his father told him to go to his room and leave the two of us alone. Kyle looked shocked. He became sullen, he started to say something but Ken stopped him with a low growl: "Get the fuck in your room." I was terrified -- I started shaking while Ken sauntered lazily over to the entertainment center and put a tape on. What was he going to do? I forgot completely about his fucking me. No, there was something he was going to do that was so ugly that it couldn't be seen. He turned back and started towards me, and I started to gag. I looked down as he approached.

Then I felt his big hand on my neck. An electric jolt ripped through my body as I started to jump away. But his other hand leaped like a stinger, closing around my shoulders and he pulled me hard against him.

"Please." I sobbed. I thought he was going to strangle me. I fought to get away, both of my hands were pushing against his belly but it was futile - one of his long arms was coiled around my back, keeping me tight against him.

And his other hand was still on the back of my neck, pulling my face against his chest. I knew that hand was big enough to close full around my neck. A scream welled up inside me, but my body had no breath to release it.

And then his fingers started moving on my neck. Slowly, softly they moved.

"Sssssssh," he said.

He was sliding the tips of his fingers along the skin beneath my ear, leaving a wake of warmth as they moved.

"Sssssssh," he said. "Be still, boy."

My body was stretched between two extreme sensations: his right arm pulled me tight, but those fingers were still rubbing the skin on my neck softly. The tape started playing, the soft deep sounds of "Sexual Healing"

"I won't hurt you, boy." I could feel the vibrations of his deep voice in his chest.

And then he released the pressure on my back. I could feel the muscles in his arm relax, and as he did so I pulled a huge gulp of air into my lungs.

"That's it . . . relax." His hand started moving behind me, moving slowly around the base of my back while I continued breathing. "Relax . . . I won't hurt my sweet boy . . ." His big, warm hand continued up and down my back. Continued what I knew now was a . . . a caress. "I won't hurt my sweet, pretty boy."

And then he did the most erotic thing I've ever felt. He leaned his head down and planted a kiss on the top of my head.

When I felt that kiss all the tension that was surging in my body rose up in me; it welled out in the first sound I made since he had started: "Ohhhh." It was a soft sound, for all its power. I don't know if he heard it. He kissed me again, and then drew his upper body away. He put his big hand under my chin, and raised my head up so I could look at him.

"I won't ever hurt you, sweet boy."

His face was beaming down at me. I had my hands on his hips, the palm of his big, black hand covered my ear, and tiny fingers - so long, so, so gentle! - played with my hair sending shivers of delight pulsing though my body.

He leaned down closer to me, his face was just a few inches above me. I looked up at him, aware of the feeling against my lower belly. I was pressed against him there, and I could feel that long, hard thing of his against my skin.

"You gonna be mine now."

I was hard, my cock was straining against my pants, and I felt like it was reaching upward, upward to him.

"You gonna let Daddy inside that sweet, pretty ass of yours?"

"Yes!" I thought my heart was breaking open. "Oh yes!"

There were tears in my eyes, I had to blink so I could keep looking up at him. And Oh! He pushed me away slightly. Oh! He touched me - he touched me down there! I started to sob as I felt that big, black, hand of his on my cock. "Oh, yes, Daddy!" He unbuttoned my pants and pushed then down, and - OH! Jesus! - I felt his finger on my balls!

"Take your clothes off and lay down on my rug."

I stepped out of my pants, and pulled my shirt off. I lay face up on his rug, feeling the exquisite softness of the white fur against my ass. I lay there watching him undress, watching him pull first his shirt, then his pants off. I couldn't believe his body - it was a perfectly tight, perfectly shaped engine that was built for combat, and for sex. He had the wide, hard chest and thin torso of a fighter, and his cock filled me with fear again. Laying there, looking up at the sheer length of him, the fatness of that proud, black hammer all I could think of was pain.

He bent down and planted his arms on either side of my chest, and I lay there, eclipsed under the sheer size, the sheer bulk of him. He bent down and whispered into my ear: "You so pretty." I reached my hands up and felt the sides of his belly, running my hands along his shanks. He kept whispering in my ear. "So, so pretty." And each time he did I felt a shudder, I felt a tingle run down through my body into my cock, and as I hardened I could feel the tip of it touch his cock. "Pretty, pretty boy." Oh, the sounds of his deep voice! The thick, raspy lick of it spoke a language deeper than words, a language of pure erotic sound that something to some secret self that lived deep inside me.

And then he moved, he shifted his body lower down and nuzzled his face into my crotch, kissing the tip of my cock. I thought I would die, so electric was the sensation, the joy of that feeling. No one had ever done this, I felt like I would explode with sensation, the softness of those lips. This was why he wanted to be alone with me - not to hurt me, but to make . . . to make . . . love to me!

When he straightened up again, and brought his face back above my own, I threw my arms around his shoulders. I thought I knew what girls felt like when Kyle did me, when he used his boycock as a cruel, selfish instrument of his own pleasure. But this was the other side of being a girl. The feeling that rose in you when you lay underneath a strong, powerful man and you feel yourself . . . melt. Melt, that was the word for what was happening inside me, because all the tension inside me was gone. My asshole was open, wide open for my man.

"You gonna let me inside you, sweet boy?"

"Yes, . . . oh yes!" I was sobbing.

"Put your legs up on my shoulders."

I loved the look in his eyes, the film that came over them as I swung my legs up over his shoulders, and I held my boybutt up there for him. I kept watching his eyes, seeing the feeling that he got as he pushed the head of his thing against my lips. I felt a sharp pain as he pushed inside me, but a pain that was distant, nothing against the fireballs of pleasure that flared up in his eyes.

"Sweet, sweet pussy ass."

God, he was big! It wasn't in more that an inch or so, but it was so thick, so wide that I knew I couldn't take much more. Especially because his thing was wider still near its center. The pain from even just that inch was incredible. He was so, so tender though, just holding himself there, holding that thing still inside me so I could adjust, so I could relax, and take more.

"God, you're so . . . so big!" I gasped.

And he loved it! I watched him smile, and knew he liked it when I acted like a girl. He took a deep breath, and I could see him start to push in some more; I had my hands on his lower back, and I could feel the bug muscles hardening. "Oh, J-J-Jesus!" I cried as I felt the pressure.

"Sssssh," he said softly, and he bent his head down and kissed me on the ear. "Good girl - Daddy's gonna go real slow. Real slow."

And he did. It must have taken him an hour, it seemed like an eternity that I lay there beneath him, watching him work me patiently, pushing me to the edge of screaming, and then calming me with those deep, secret whispers. All so I could take more than I ever thought possible. Almost half of it, almost up to that fat, middle part.

Finally, when he was satisfied that I couldn't take anymore he anchored his arms and asked me: "You ready for your ride now?"

"Yes . . . Yes, Daddy!" I started to cry, not ashamed at all to let him see what a little pussy I was. I wanted him to see, because it seemed to make him feel good. I began the session with him thinking I would die, but by the time I was finished I felt I had died. Died and gone to heaven beneath this strong, dark lover who stretched my insides so. I was hard beneath him, my tiny knob arched upwards towards his belly, and my balls shook with each rock of his lovely, hard body. I wanted to come, but I knew I couldn't - not until I had done my duty. So I lay there beneath him, watching his muscles dance, hypnotized by the glitter of the gold chains that hunk loosely down from his neck.

When he was done, I lay there in his arms, feeling the heave of his chest as he caught his breath. He reached down and started to rub me, thrilling me with the tease of his long, graceful fingers. For all the sex I had had, no one had ever brought me off. Oh! It felt so good! So fuckin' good to lay in his arms and feel the thrill of his touch. Just before I shot off I moved my head up and whispered: "Please . . . please Daddy - tell me I'm pretty again!"

**

So I was his now. During the weeks since that awakening he had had me many times. It was like I was some little love project of his. I knew he still had his girls - there were times when I lay down on his rug and I could smell the perfume of the girl he had just had. I didn't care - he was so much man there was always plenty for me no matter how many whores he had on the side -- and I knew there were thrills I gave him that no girl could. No girl could be as tight as I was, no girl could make him feel as big, and as hard as he felt inside my tiny punk ass.

So I knew I was special to him. He always did me in secret, and I felt good knowing he was somehow ashamed of showing tenderness and affection. I loved the looks Kyle gave me, the jealousy in his eyes as he looked back at me after his father sent him to his room. I could see the questioning on his face: what was I giving his Dad? What was so secret about me that his Dad wouldn't let him watch. I was secretive about it too. When I would get home, I'd tell my father it was Kyle that had me, making up stories to satisfy his prurient interest.

**

So that was how I came to be on that couch, laying like a lover in Ken's big arms while we watch the three boys romp all over Dad. They weren't paying any attention to us - Dad was such a good cocksucker now. He kept moving from one boy to the next, sometimes trailing a string of precum from one boys cock to the other. He kept them all hard. "Damn, this fucka's goooooood!" Reed said. They were so intent on what they were doing that Ken felt free enough to reach his big, black hand over and rub my little knob. Oh, what a feeling! I felt so safe, so special. I had the biggest, blackest badass of them all, all to myself.

Ken was getting ready. His thing was rock hard, excited by the combination of my caress on his inner thigh and the sight of his boy in action. My face lay against his chest. I felt his heart jump as I moved my hands down to his balls. Oh! It was so hot! His fingers stopped rubbing my cock, he knew I was about to shoot off, he knew I was right on the edge, suspended over that tingly precipice where just the slightest additional sensation, just a touch, or even a breath, would make me spasm with unstoppable delight. I moved my head and nuzzled into his ear. "I'm gonna take you all in this time, Daddy."

He brought his head down and nibbled my ear. "Let's you and me go inside and be alone."

I started to go, but something happened inside me. I remembered something my father said once; he said it softly, hesitantly during one of those moments of discovery between us, when we learned how much we shared in our attitude towards blacks. It was something dark, maybe ugly maybe even shameful, but something that also gave me a shiver inside when he said it softly, with downcast eyes. Yes, I wanted to see that. So I nuzzled onto Ken's ear again and whispered, and after leaning back and giving me a quizzical look - man you white cats are . . . strange! - he called Kyle over.

Kyle didn't act surprised at all. Kyle just grinned, as if he knew just how sorry white people were all along. He passed the message to his buddies, and I watched what happened like I was in a movie - a dirty movie, a movie where you look around the dark theatre and see all the other men in the theatre jerking off -- and you're glad. Glad because you feel free to reach into your own pants and do what you want. Kyle started it off - Dad was licking Reed's balls when Kyle turned sideways, grabbed his cock, and started peeing, releasing a slow, arching stream at first, and then relaxing into a full-throated flood that shot right onto Dad's face. Dad sat upright and tried to avoid the stream; the three of them started shrieking and laughing. "Oh, fuck!" Reed reached down and grabbed Dad by the shoulder, and Dad started swiveling his head to avoid the line of Kyle's pee. He'd move it to the left, and Kyle would find his face again. "Gotcha!" Oh, they thought that was funny! Then Lionel pushed Reed aside and grabbed Dad by the hair. He grabbed him with both arms, and while Kyle let him have it from the side, Lionel started unloading from the front - right into Dad's eyes. The pee splattered from his eyes all over the recliner. Dad fought with Lionel, his neck muscles strained against Lionel's hands. But then Lionel started pulling his hair; I could see the tendons in his tattood forearms bulge and Dad's face turn beet red. Finally, Dad gave up, he sat still and took the flood of Lionel's pee right in his face.

When they were done, Dad was soaking wet, and the recliner was spattered with pee. Ken didn't want to wait anymore - he got up and motioned me to follow. As I got up and followed I turned behind me and saw Dad start in on the boys again, leaning forward and taking Malcolm in his mouth, even while piss still dripped from his chin. I was as excited as I have ever been. I followed Ken into my father's bedroom, feeling my cock bounce as I walked, and watching the wonderful cheeks of Ken's ass dance. I went into the bedroom and assumed my position on my parent's bed, holding my legs up high so they could meet Ken's shoulders as he bent down on top of me.

He wasn't slow. He wasn't soft. He wasn't gentle at all as he looked down at me and watched my face clench in pain. He was too excited, too loaded to be patient. He didn't stop when he was halfway in, where he was as deep as he ever was inside me before. He just kept pushing. I think I screamed, but if I did I don't remember. What I do remember is that look in his eyes, the same white, pitiless glare his son has when he's taking what he wants. What he needs. Strange, though - for all the pain, for all the surprise in his manner I was still hard, there was still pleasure even in this. Pleasure in the strength, the glory of his hard black body that drilled into me from above like a spider.

"You such a tight, tight, pussy ass!"

"Oh, Daddy!" I fought for breath. "Oh, Daddy, I love your big balls."

"My big black balls!"

"Yes, Daddy, I love your big black balls!"

And with that he started doing it, pushing and pulling inside of me. Getting himself off. I had to time my breaths between his thrusts. I could feel the bed creek, and I knew my mother's picture was behind me somewhere.

I kept my promise - he did get all the way in. Far enough that our bellies touched; far enough I had trouble breathing, for that thing of his seemed to drive all the air from my lungs as it pushed inside. Far enough that I came myself, from the rhythmic contact of his belly on my cock as he thrust into me.

When he was done, he rolled off me, and lay beside me to catch his breath. I slid over and placed myself in his arms, but when I lay on his chest he felt different. He wasn't really touching me. He felt so different that I picked my head up and looked at him. He was looking up at the ceiling.

"Now I wanna watch them do you," he said, still not looking at me.

And then, once again, I knew what girls felt like. How they felt when they gave in to a man, when they let the sweet talk and the whispered secrets soften them for the hard cock that always followed. And how it was afterwards with them, when they realize that the intimacy they thought they won was an illusion - they're just one more pussy.

But I wasn't a girl. I was a boy, and like all boys the only thing that really matters deep down inside is sex. Just sex.

"So send them in here, then."

**

So that was the spring that formed me. That was the spring when I learned who I was, and what I wanted deep down inside. Not that I was gay - no, I never did stop loving pussy. If anything, my experiences with black men made me more sensitive to women - I understood their perspective. I'm married now; I live with my wife and my two children in a leafy Westchester acre. I spend my weekdays in the city and Lori and I spend weekends on the ball fields, watching Christina play soccer or Anthony play football.

But I have never stopped wanting black cock. There's something about big-balled black boys, they have such animal fire in their eyes, and they saunter along the streets, strutting their stuff like young lions. Since those days in the seventies, their sexuality has become even bolder. It's like they're built for sex, and I have no doubt that over time the human race will turn darker, yielding to the cumulative pressure of longer, harder dicks and seed that is far more potent.

So in the years since that spring I've sucked hundred, maybe thousands of black cocks. I've stayed in the city after work, spending hours in the bathrooms of City College where the young bloods know to expect me. One after another they come in, they know the times I'm there -- sometimes I'm doing one when I hear another one bang on the stall door: 'C'mon, don't take all day." I've had black grandfathers, and boys as young as fourteen. It's dangerous, I know. I know that the day will come when I'll take a terrible beating, one of these days when I solicit a boy I'll make a mistake. When I do that it's because something in their manner, some arrogant smirk on their face and the promise of a lean, hard body makes me fight the fear, makes me approach them even though I feel like I'm going to pee in my pants. They're always good, always they have huge, fat johnsons in their pants. It's like I can smell that about a boy, it's like the raw animal power in their loins expresses itself in subtle signals, that only the attentive pick up. But I know that same power will come out another way someday. Someday I'll pick a boy and he'll beat me near to death.

But I won't stop doing this.

Lori likes blacks too. She was always a highly sexed girl, I loved the fiery Italian passion in her. She didn't mind my near obsession with sex. No, she seemed to delight in it. For years we made it a regular practice to rent X-rated videos. Once a week I brought home an armful, and we'd spent some wonderful Friday nights working ourselves into an unbearable passion, and then spend the rest of the night, and most of Saturday morning feeding on it. That was important enough to us that we continued doing that even after Christina was born. Lori thought nothing of breastfeeding her while watching a gangbang compilation.

But she must have sensed something different about me. Maybe it was the number of fight tapes I rented - she must have thought it was strange that I sat up nights watching white guys take the beatings of their lives at the hands of Tommy Hearns, Sugar Ray or Mike Tyson. Or maybe it was the number of interracial videos I rented for us. Every night there was always at least one, and sometimes two or three. She sensed something though, and she had the appetite to use it to her advantage. So one night we were watching a Anabolic tape, watching Sean Michaels giving it to some faceless girl, and Lori said: "You know . . . I wouldn't mind some of that."

I tried to be cool, I tried to act amused. Unaffected. I didn't want her to know how thrilling the idea was - she might wonder at my eagerness, she might even wonder what I did those nights I told her I was "working late" - in the bathrooms of City College. So I didn't say anything at first, but I . . . well adjusted. Soon every single tape I brought home was interracial, we'd spend all night Friday watching white lips stretched by the biggest, longest black cocks the industry could find. We both started doing ourselves right there while the tape was on. We used to watch, and then turn the set off and go into the bedroom. Not any more. Now I would finger her while she watched Sean, or Jack Napier. Sometimes she'd grab the remote, and replay a facial cum shot from one of these monsters in slow motion. Finally, I couldn't wait. "Lori . . . you know, there are couples. . . " She looked at me with those dark Sicilian eyes. " . . . where they have black guys come in. And the husband just . . . watches."

She didn't even try to act disinterested. Once I said that any lingering reserve was gone, and all I heard for the next few weeks was: "Did you get any answers yet?". That was before the internet, back in the days when Screw magazine personals were the only way to meet, well, unusual needs. It took almost two months before we were sitting in the Rio Diner in New Jersey, having lunch with Henry, a young black man in his early twenties who'd driven up from Philadelphia. He was perfect - about 6'4" with wide shoulders, clothes that hung loose around his thin waist, and a shaved head. Just perfect, and I had a practiced eye indeed. Perfect because he had something more than just a physical presence - he had that look, that attitude. Yes, he knew just how to treat me - with cool, dismissive contempt. But what I thought didn't matter -- once he stepped into the diner Lori completely ignored me. She looked up at him like he was a Sun God. After a few minutes of small talk she got up from my side of the booth and slid over to his side, and they started making out. God, that was hot! I was sitting there, stirring my coffee, watching him work on her, working that Italian romanticism of hers. He nuzzled her ears, and whispered dirty things to her. Her face was turned towards me - she was looking blankly over the top of my head because she was listening attentively to everything he said. She liked it -- she was beaming.

Lori and I had game-planned this, of course. On the way to the diner we told each other that this was just a lunch, and that afterwards we would talk it over, and decide together if he was the right man. Some of this was her fear. Some of it was my fear, and the rest of it was my conviction that I could tell what a black man had just by looking at him -- and I wanted someone really good for this first time. But once Henry started in on her all the planning was for nothing. She asked him to drive home with us even before the main course had arrived.

That was fine by me. Her intuitive sense as a woman was every bit good as all my years experience. Henry was a stud. I've had lots of sexual thrills in my life, but moving a kitchen chair into my own bedroom, so I could watch Henry with my wife was the most intense erotic rush I've ever experienced. So much came together for me there: the sight of my mother and her black lover; the fact that she was my wife, and the force of his manhood was about to shatter the fortress of our sacred vows. And finally, the sounds of his voice, the natural sensuality of black men - these were things I knew firsthand. So while she lay down on our bed and he climbed over her, I positioned my chair at the foot of the bed. I sat down and immediately leaned far forward so I could peer underneath him. I wanted to see the actual moment of contact. I wanted to see when the very tip of his shaft touched the black hair of Lori's pussy. The stillness was electric. I watched unblinking as he touched her down there, and then he started rocking slightly, the head of his cock brushed slowly along the thicket of her hair. He was searching for her lips. When he found them, he shifted his weight, and the long, hard muscles of his legs started stretching. I was transfixed by what was happening there right in front of my eyes. The veined, black, impossibly long love muscle of his had begun it's long descent into her.

It had taken months for me to make her Lori cry during sex, and tears were the payoff for me. I knew from Ken what tears meant during sex, and I never felt I really had a woman until I made her cry while I was inside her. But for all Lori's sexual drive, for all her physical energy during sex, there was an emotional distance those first few months. So I watched her while I tried different strokes, different rhythms on her body. I listened to her breathing for the signs of arousal. I studied her eyes, and watched them flicker when I said different things. And I remembered everything, I strove to make every bout with her better than the last. But it was months before that special day, the day when I looked down and saw what I had wanted all along: tears in her eyes, and then, and only then, I knew she was mine.

But there she was now, as Henry drove himself into her she was making strange little noises, high pitched shudders that I had never, in all the years I'd loved her, ever heard before. And he wasn't even all the way in! No I leaned forward and saw there was still plenty of room between his big balls and her hair. Room enough that I could look further up under his body, up along the ribbed archway of his torso, and I could see her face. Lori had her arms up over his shoulders, she was looking up at him, and yes, yes, her lips were quivering. There were trails of hot tears running down her cheeks.

**

He was the first of many. Lori and I still care for each other, we still make love with tenderness and real affection. Every night we lay in each other's arms and settle asleep, warm and safe in a love that will last forever. In fact, we love each other more since we've had all these young stallions -- it's like the erotic drive I was satisfying in the stalls of City College was brought back home. I didn't do that anymore, because these frequent adventures with Lori and these black strangers had become far more thrilling for me.

Every few weeks we have a new one. Another black steed gets to blow his love juice off in our marriage bed. Now I go down on them, now Lori watches while I kneel down and mouth her new lover-to-be, I work him like a trainer, getting him ready for the main bout with her pussy. And she has dark needs of her own, needs that are unspoken but known well by me. She likes to tell the men that she's never had anal sex. Ever. But she's curious. She want's them to talk her into it. Persuade her. Tell her they'll be gentle. And she turns over and lets them in. Just a bit though, just enough to get them started, and then she says: "No. Please, stop. You're too big." She knows just when to say it, she waits long enough that she knows they won't stop. She's refined this game of hers over the years, she's worked on her timing, her tone of voice, her body language. All so she can draw the man into the exact scene she wants - she wants to be taken, she wants to feel his raw, dominant power as he forces himself all the way inside her.

And she's had, and I've accepted, the most secret desire of all satisfied. I don't know which one it was. Whether it was the Franklin K. Lane High School Senior; the high jumper who was good enough to later make it to the Olympic trials; the police Lieutenant from Newark who told us he had fathered 23 children, and we believed him. There were so many of them, impossible to tell which.

But one of these men was the father of our boy, Tony.

She never asked me if she could, she never told me before he was born. She knew she didn't need to. She was sure enough of my reaction that she gave me a bright, fearless smile in the delivery room. And I smiled too, because when I saw little Anthony, when I saw his glorious dark color I felt - awed. His skin was as black as night; in all our scrutiny of these men, all our care to select only the finest, only the sexiest of that wonderful breed we had chosen well. Whoever his father was his bloodline rode through Lori clear and undefiled.

I had loved so many black men, and now I would love one as a father.

**

Anthony is 13 now. We get looks from people. I'm a pale blond, Lori is a dark Italian. Christina is 15, and she has my coloring. While her eyes are brown and she has Lori's olive complexion, her long hair is almost as blonde as mine. But Anthony is as black as any pure African.

So everyone looks and wonders, but they say nothing. We see the way they look at him, but we don't care. We know we are all different. Lori and I look back at them, knowing we have a deep refreshing arena of sexual kicks those safe, conventional couples couldn't even imagine. So the questioning looks of other have only drawn the bonds of our family tighter.

Christina knows that I am not his father. She knows because she's grown up with all this; as a small child she grew accustomed to waking up every few Saturdays and finding a new, always black "friend" enjoying breakfast with us. There must be memories of those times when she woke with a nightmare, and came into our room to find Lori nestled in the embrace of a muscular black man. When she was old enough to ask questions, we never hid what was going on. We told her that Lori slept with these "friends" because we want to share her love, and that satisfied her enough that she never commented on the loud noises Lori made, the shouts and screams of one of the dramas she evoked.

Christina is 15 now, and so we've had to make one adjustment to our romps. She's just too pretty, she has all of Lori's fiery promise in a body that still has the freshness of a child. She's just too tempting for these men. Once we saw her start to flirt with them around the dinner table, and when we sensed the electricity start to build between Christina and our lovers, Lori and I decided to avoid those dangerous, though intriguing, waters. She was too small, too young to handle these men, and we knew that all of our men were too tough to be restrained once they decided they would do her. So now we always send her off when our lovers arrive. She pouts and sulks, even tough we've explained to her that there's nothing wrong with wanting a black man - when she's old enough to handle them. So while we have our fun, Christina spends the night with my father.

Anthony, though stays with us. We want him to see - not what we do in private. Rather we want him to see and know the proud, strong black men that we love. I think of Anthony like a son, I care for him and advise him on many things in life. But there is no denying the importance of his blackness, and I could never be a model for the type of man he should become. So when we sit around the table with these men, he sees how a real man carries himself. He gets to see the signals and looks when sex is anticipated, and the closeness between Lori and her new lover during breakfast.

And we'll continue to do this, even as he continues to grow sexually. It's already started. He's only just turned 13, his black cock is still nearly hairless, but it's huge for a boy that age, it hangs long and fat. I wonder when I look at him if he's bigger erect than I am. In just a few short years, he'll be unbelievable. He's very, very interested in sex. We're comfortable enough with each other that he asks me lots of questions, in a way that Christina isn't. Boys want to know all the details. He's fascinated with blond woman - a few times now he's asked me: "Are they that color down there too?" No matter how many times I tell him yes, a few weeks or a month later he asks me again. He has this distant look in his eyes, I don't think he remembers asking me before. It's as if he wants some reassurance that some image of perfection in his mind is really attainable. Yes, already he's thinking long and hard about pussy.

He's all boy. He plays football like a demon. I don't think there's a single kid in all of white Westchester that can catch him when he finds an opening in a line and kicks it into gear. I watch him dance and strut in the end zone after another touchdown and I think of that long ago baseball game with Kyle, when he beat me under the measuring eyes of our fathers. Now it's my turn. Now I get to be the father of the stud. I know what all the other parents are thinking: I should talk to him, tell him to tone it down, tell him that it's not right to humiliate a boy once he's beaten him. Sportsmanship, that's the word I hear under their breath, and to me it's just a word for losers. Why should he hide his fire? Why shouldn't he exult in his power? As far as I am concerned, the other boys should just learn to deal with it -- they can deal with it the way I did.

**

I have been to Africa. I took Anthony there just a few months ago - I wanted him to see where his people came from. We spent three wonderful weeks in the jungles, plains and cities of East Africa. I had never been there myself, I had never been anywhere in the tropics, and it affected me deeply. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the power of a sun that burned with an equatorial brilliance. Or maybe it was the shock of arriving in Nairobi, the sudden realization that since I didn't go to Harlem anymore, I had never been in such a concentrated mass of black people. And they were spectacular. Men of every shape, more shades of black than I had ever seen, and almost all of them radiated sex in an almost casual way. I came close to indulging myself, I wanted nothing more that to make inquiries at the hotel, to find out where I might go to find a suitable man. But I refrained -- Anthony was with me, and I wanted this trip to be for him, not me.

I took him to some museums in Nairobi, hoping he'd be impressed with the archaic history of the area, its place of singular prominence in the history of mankind. He was uninterested, though. While I walked among the display cases, studying skull fragments from earlier humanity, he wandered around listlessly, listening to rap CD's on his earphones.

Then we joined a long safari, and he was thrilled. He loved the freedom, the adventure of it, the wildness of spending all day in a muddy, shaking jeep that leaped when it crested a hill as we chased through herds of Zebras and Gazelles. Sometimes we saw lions licking each other in the noonday sun. We had planned on doing this for just a few days, but we both loved it so much we did it for more than a week. Anthony would stand up in the jeep, holding onto the gun racks, and he was always the first to spot a new type of animal in the high grass. We slept in camps under the open skies with other groups of tourists, traveling to every park in Kenya and Tanzania.

We got to meet people from all over the world. Vehicles from different safaris would pull into a campsite, and the visitors from different parks and savannas would mix together. Every night there were stories in many languages around the campfire, we'd sit there beneath the stars and talk about the animals we'd seen, and we'd laugh about the style of our drivers. People everywhere were drawn to this place. There were overdressed Japanese that kept to themselves; travel-jaded Australians that spent all their time talking about other places they'd been, and were planning to go. But mostly Europeans, drawn because of the closeness of Africa. Europe had been stripped of its wild forests a millennia ago, but people everywhere are fascinated by brute, roaring nature, and so they came here.

After a few nights, some of these people began asking about Anthony and me. I found it almost refreshing to find people that weren't inhibited by correctness, people that just asked directly: "How do you come to have a black son?" I knew these were passing friends, people I'd never see again, and so I answered honestly -- I said that my wife likes black men. I'd answer the question, and a sort of hush would fall over the campfire. Other conversations would pause as their groups heard what I said. There were a few people that glanced at each other in amazement, and some, as a few more details came out, drifted off to their tents shaking their heads in puzzlement. But many were untroubled -- Europeans especially pride themselves on their sophisticated, adult views about sex, and so I had some very interested listeners.

There was a general turnover of people around the campsites each night as different safaris followed their own routes. But there were many people that I saw almost every night. And after a few nights, in a sort of selection process, there was a small group of French and Germans that I noticed always sat near Anthony and I, hoping to hear more about us.

Anthony would say goodnight to me around 11, and a few minutes after he left for the tent someone new would ask about him. Once I answered, the Europeans that sat around me always followed up with new questions, seeking to learn more about what Lori and I did than they learned the night before. Michelle and Claude, a French couple, were part of our safari, I saw them almost every night, and they seemed very interested indeed. Claude was a college professor from Orleans. He was a thin, balding middle aged man with bright eyes that reflected the campfire despite a pair of small but thick wire framed glassed. He listened intently, and when he asked a question he did so in slow, careful English. Questions like: "Which of you . . . chooses the men?"

He had an obvious pride in his young wife. Michelle lay in his arms each night. She said little, her English was poor, she just lay there watching the flames. Claude had reason to be proud. Michelle was an exquisite prize, she had long brown hair that was dense with curls, but never seemed unkempt even after a full day in the tropical sun. She dressed very casually, with short cutoffs, sandals and thin cotton blouses that were tied across her chest. She showed a lot of skin, she had dark, buttery flesh that attracted the steady stares of all the native jeep drivers. I knew Anthony liked her - I saw him looking at her body, and we joked about her every morning.

After a few nights, I noticed that they always sat by me around the fire. She was so beautiful laying next to him by the fire, the light of the flames dancing on her face. And he seemed so happy to have her, as if the touch of her young flesh was something he cherished. Soon we became friends. I learned that he was a professor of anthropology, and she had been one of his students. He had been to Africa many times. In fact he had been all over the world, he'd lived for months among hunter-gatherers in the Amazon and the remote outer islands of the Philippines.

As interested as he was in the story of how Anthony came to be, I was interested in his knowledge. I was fascinated by some of the things I had seen in the museums; I would have stayed longer if Anthony wasn't so restless. The history of this place was Claude's field, and so I asked him some of the things that puzzled me. The museums had charts that showed that humanity actually came out of Africa three separate times. In the last million years, there were three major migrations from Africa. Each time brought a new type of humanity onto the steppes of Asia or the forests of Europe, and each time they supplanted the local people, the descendents of the prior migration. Why, I asked him, why here, each time.

"Because there is . . . more . . . how to say?" searching for the word. "Diversity. Here, there were always more people, more types of people."

I thought about what her said, but I didn't understand. He continued explaining. Even though Africans look alike, they are actually more different genetically from each other and any other people on earth. "Forget the color." He said, rubbing his dry skin. "All we see if their color, but blacks are really . . . very different from each other. Very different."

I had had so many of them. I sat in silence, looking up at the quarter moon and listening to the crack of the fire. Yes, there were all different, so many body types, so many ways of looking at me, while . . . Then I realized - I had never done many white men, so I had no reference.

"What happened to the earlier people," I asked. "Were they just . . . wiped out."

"Probably," he said. "That's been the way it's always been when different people meet. Native Americans. Jews." The point was clear. "Think of why people migrate, why they move. Usually, it's fear. They're afraid."

So that was the reason why man spread over the earth. I thought of people on reed boats that were sinking under their owners. The few lucky ones found refuge on a small Polynesian island before the boat gave out. Or people with bleeding feet walking on the ice across the Bering Strait. Not adventure, not a thirst for new places, but a need for safety, to find some faraway niche, away from the stronger ones that were always there just over the horizon when they looked behind.

I must have looked troubled, because he said something else. "It may not have been all violence, all killing. Men fight but women . . . " -- he glanced at Michelle, I had the feeling she was listening, that she understood English better than she spoke it - "women . . . adapt."

I looked at him, not understanding.

"We . . . Anthropologists . . . call it 'Sexy Sons.' Men will fight other men for their women, but women want to mate with . . . sexy men. And the newer, stronger men were always more attractive. So even while the men fought, the women . . . desired the other men." Yes, I understood now. Yes, this was something I knew. "You see, it's called sexual selection. Women want strong, virile sons, so their genes live on."

Yes, I knew. The men may have been driving across the desert, or hacking through a new jungle trying to get away, but their women were looking back -- with desire. I thought of the pictures in my hallway as I grew up. My mother's happiness when Dad held her. He was a young, strong fighter then. And then I though of what I had seen in their bedroom, the way she sounded with that black man on top of her, the strength of his muscles, the clench of his black ass as he took her.

"You know this, no?" Claude was looking at me. "Your wife . . . Lori? . . . she had her sexy son." He smiled slightly. Michelle smiled too, she shifter closer to him.

"Yes." It was all I could think to say. I was overwhelmed with what I learned. I knew more than he suspected. I knew from the inside how women felt, what they might see in men like Kyle and Ken. And soon Anthony. I decided to risk it. "Is it only women . . . " I started, not quite sure how to say it. ". . . Only women who . . . submit."

"No." he spoke without hesitation, as if he was prepared for just that question. "You see men allow themselves to be taken too. See there are many way to survive. One way, the usual way in contest, is to fight and risk losing. That is to risk everything, though." He spoke like a scientist, the English was precise and crisp now. I don't think he realized that he was stroking Michelle's hair while he spoke "Nature is very subtle, though. There are many strategies for survival. You don't have to fight to the death. You can allow the stronger ones to use you, perhaps enslave you. Let them have your women. But when your master's back is turned, maybe when he's fighting someone else, you can sneak in and take their woman. Mix your seed with theirs, and one of your children may survive."

"Like the African slaves." I said.

We sat in silence for a while. We could hear the sounds of the African night. The wind streamed through the waving high grass, and every few minutes there was the sound of some animal in the distance. The full moon was surrounded by bright stars.

"They are sexy." I said.

"Are you . . . you are attracted to them too." He said.

I remained silent a moment. "Yes," I said. "Ever since I was a kid, I've had this . . . this fascination with them. There's something about the way they act. So sexual."

"Tell me . . . " his voice lowered - there was no one else around us, the tents were far way, and most of them were dark - his quiet tone was an invitation to deeper intimacy. "You're wife . . . what's it like to . . . watch her?"

The reserve was gone. He wanted to know something that was terribly important to him. "It's like I'm watching her actually . . . become a woman . . . for the first time. Like something different comes alive in her." Michelle swung her eyes over towards me.

"It was her choice . . . to have him."

"Yes. She didn't tell me. I'm not even sure she knows which one it was."

"Oh, she knows. A woman always knows," he said quickly. I wondered if this came from scientific analysis, or some personal experience on his part. He moved on. "Your son . . . has he had sex yet?"

"No, I'm pretty sure he hasn't. He's dying to, though, I know he wants it."

Michelle picked her head up. She whispered something in Claude's ear, and then settled down and looked at the fire again. The fire was dying, I could feel the cold spreading on my back. Claude said: "She wants to know . . . " -- he gave a little laugh -- "if he's . . . how you say . . . built?"

I felt the chance of something, a prospect for Anthony in the question. Michelle was looking at me as I spoke. "Yes. All of the men we chose were very big. After a while we discovered we had a sense of how big a man was just by watching him. So he's big, very big for his age. Bigger than me."

"But he has not had a woman yet . . . no?" Claude asked again. When I shook my head he bent down and nuzzled Michelle. He might have said something to her, I wasn't close enough to hear. She pushed herself up, she gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. "Good night." She said to me.

We watched her walk across the camp to their tent. We saw her go inside the tent and light and light the flashlight, seeing the dark outline of her body on the canvas as she undressed. When her tent went dark, I said to him. "She's very beautiful."

"Yes . . . yes she is." The fire was almost completely out. He was hunched over in the cold, seeming diminished by her absence. "I am so happy. We are only married two years."

"You're very lucky, I said."

He changed in her absence, as if when she was away he doubted that he did indeed have someone so young, so thrilling. "But I feel old, sometime. Sometimes I wonder . . ." He paused, looking at the moon. "I wonder if she is satisfied. She looks at other men. . ." I didn't know what to say, jealousy was something I never could relate to. ". . . she likes black men."

Countless men had sat like this, lingering around dying fires in a frightening world. Wondering what their women were dreaming about, what that strange look in their eyes meant. Men like us, who knew there were other men approaching, men that were better in every way.

"You asked me before what it was like to watch my wife?" I said. "So you . . . thought of this."

"Yes," he said. "I know she'll do it anyway. She's young and passionate. And I do want to . . . see them. To watch her, the way she responds . . ."

That I understood. I may have had some feeling of jealousy, but if I did they were submerged under a foaming sea of voyeuristic thrills. I thought of his young wife, wondering if she'd be like Lori her first time. Just the thought of it aroused me. I told him about things, wanting to share the extraordinary thrill of it with someone who seemed to share my views. I told him about how Lori acted, I described the faraway look in her eyes, the way her face contorted when she pulled a man into one of her strange rape dramas.

He stared at me, his eyes were bright, and yes, I could see him grow excited. "I wonder . . ." he was choosing his words, his voice was hesitant. ". . . she's mentioned your boy."

Yes. He needn't have hesitated, it was such a thrilling idea. I knew he'd need no encouragement - all Anthony thought about now was pussy, and I'd seen him glancing at Michelle. Yes.

"Would he do it?" he asked.

"Do you remember how you were when you were thirteen?" I asked, astonished at such a question from a student of humanity.

**

Through all the wild, spontaneous meandering of our safari, we never lost sight of Mount Kilamanjaro. It was always there, looming above us like an approaching weather front. The day after Claude and I had our long talk, we were almost at the base. This would be our last day among the animals. Tomorrow Anthony and I would climb it. We'd begin our four day walk up into the clouds.

Claude and Michelle made arrangement to join our vehicle. Claude had taken me aside and said he spoke to Michelle that morning, and yes, she wanted the boy. She didn't take his word for it, though. I felt a hand on my elbow as I was loading my bags onto the jeep.

"Your boy . . . " -- she spoke softly as I turned to her, he was approaching us from the tent -- ". . . you know I like him?"

I couldn't speak for a moment. She had lovely brown eyes, the spill of her hair held the morning sun like a halo. Her hand was still on my elbow, I could feel her warmth, and I was overwhelmed with the idea that all her beauty might be his today.

"It's OK? That I like him?" Words that were like a signpost, pointing to her meaning.

"Yes." I said. "Yes. It's all right."

Once I said that she sprang into motion. She grabbed the gunrack and slid quickly into the front seat, getting there just as Anthony approached. She smiled at him and patted the seat beside her. He didn't even look at me, so quickly did he take her offer.

All day long she worked him. She sat close to him, and spoke to him with a thick, fragrant French accent. She asked him about American life. School. His friends. Surprisingly, she even knew his music, she was able to mimic lyrics from some of the Gangsta Rap songs he liked; they laughed as she sang the ghetto lyrics with her French accent.

By the late morning she had her hands on his leg, we drove in silence as I watched her teasing caress. I knew he was on fire. It would have thought it was cruel if I didn't know she'd give herself to him today.

It wasn't a good day for seeing animals. We stopped and waited at watering holes, we sat in the jeep while it was parked on a mill overlooking a mile wide sea of high grass. We saw a few elephants; we saw a single giraffe pulling at a faraway tree; we saw a herd of zebra, their stark colors dancing in the shimmering air. But these were all things we had seen before, and the rising heat between Michelle and Anthony was far more interesting.

We stopped at noon. We parked in the shade of some trees, and ate lunch while we were sheltered from the blast of the sun. We talked about Mount Kilamanjaro while we ate. Claude and our driver had done the climb. But the conversation was just filler, something to cover our interest in Anthony and Michelle. Anthony was becoming more active now; he was feeling her breasts and kissing the base of her neck. There was a huge bulge in his shorts. The two of them were unashamed. I had spoken to Anthony that morning, I had told him about Michelle and I could see his eagerness. We talked it over - he wanted her, even if it meant being watched.

Our driver was a young man from British Colombia, whose skin was creased and leathery from years in the sun. He sat there like Claude and myself, watching our two young lovers with his sharp hunter's eyes. The driver was used to things like this. During the days we had spent with him, he had told me stories about what people did on safari, so I knew that what was happening was not all that unusual. Something about this place, something about the sight of so many animals seemed to fire the lust in people. He told me that most safaris ended the way ours did - people realized they were going home, they knew they would never see such a wild, vibrant place again, and so they spent the last few days coupling like beasts in the grass.

Anthony began pushing his hand under her top, reaching upwards so he could feel the bare skin of her tits. I glanced over at Claude. He was pale, his head was down, and he was picking nervously at his fingers. I knew he was sorry he had started this. He had the same wishes I had, the thought of his young wife being filled with black cock may have been exciting to him, but there were other fears, other doubts that rose up unexpectedly. It was too threatening for him. But he couldn't do anything, there was a momentum of energy between the two of them.

Anthony's hand roamed over her tits. I could sense his delight as his thumb and forefinger played with the nipples. I remembered the first time I touched a girl's tits, the amazement I felt that skin can feel so wonderful, so soft. He bent and started kissing her chest just above the open cotton of her top, adding her scent to the mix of his senses. He sat up and started to pull at the knot of her shirt. Michelle's eyes flashed at Claude. When she saw the fear in his aspect, she became troubled - she gently pushed Anthony's hands away. We all watched intently as she sat up, drew her knees up against her chest, and folded her arms, gathering herself for a moment of reflection. Our world beneath this shady tree hung still on the precipice of her inner thoughts. She looked at her husband; she looked at Anthony. Calm, measuring looks, comparing her husband with the young, hard boy that stared back at her with hungry eyes.

"This was your idea," she said to him.

"I know," he looked at her, and then looked down as he continued. "I didn't realize how I'd feel . . ."

She considered that for a moment. She was looking back at him when Anthony did something extraordinary. He reached over and put his black hand on her thigh and began caressing her, reminding her of what she might have.

She stood up and held out her hand to Anthony. "Let's take a walk," she said. He got up; he took her hand and walked with her into the sunlight. They headed towards a line of bushes about a hundred miles away. We all watched them as they walked away. Claude looked sad; for all his study of people and cultures, he had miscalculated his own response to the situation he wanted to happen. I had no such reservations. I wanted to see my son; I wanted to see him feel the rush of his manhood in the glory of his first fuck.

They stayed in the bushes for a long time. When they came out, happiness seemed to radiate from him as he approached. None of us said anything, as if our inner feelings about what had happened between them in the bushes were too deep, too jagged to fit together into words we could share.

**

He told me about it the next morning, during the daybreak as we walked up the slopes of Mount Kilamanjaro. He told me how he felt when she lay back and he saw her naked body beneath him in the grass. How stirring it was, how his cock seemed to be controlled by the look in her eyes. And how once he saw her, his hesitation, his boyish uncertainty disappeared in the upwelling tide of desire.

I listened and said little. We climbed and watched the sun burn the haze away, and studied the farther reaches of the plains as more of the region became visible. She was smart enough to pace him, knowing that the feeling was too new for him to control it. Rather than have him explode in a quick, passionate release, she held him off. She let him mount her, she gave him a feel of the inside of her pussy. She lay beneath him and let him all the way in, and allowed him some initial strokes. But then she asked him to lay down himself, and then she took over. She kneeled down over him, holding her pussy a foot or two over her face, and she told him to look closely at it, to feel around inside it with his fingers. She told him how to touch her, she showed him the secret switches of a women's anatomy.

He told me a lot, but I also knew there were things unsaid. He said nothing about what they said to each other, but I knew from the way he spoke of her, the way he said her name, that they became truly intimate. And something else was clear - when I saw them walk out of the bushes, there was a look in her eyes. She was in control on the way in, she had held his hand and led the way. But she was changed utterly when she came out. She discovered something about him, some wildness that surprised her.

But it wouldn't have surprised me. I had close and intimate knowledge of his stock.

**

We had a good climb. We spent the rest of that day and most of the next walking in silence. He had come into his own, he was leading the way, and I was tiring. During the second afternoon, when we got so high we could see the Indian Ocean in the far distance, I became weak and dizzy from the altitude. He slowed for a while, hoping I would recover. But the air was too thin for me.

I didn't want to hold him back. He seemed so much older now, so energized, now that he had taken his first pussy. And so I said: "You go on." He looked at me thankfully, I knew how badly he wanted to make the climb.

I stood there a while, watching him climb until he disappeared in the mist. I spent the rest of the afternoon, climbing further down into better air, feeling joyful for my son, and glad we had made this trip. I felt close to him that night, even though he was at least a mile above me. With the thicker air, I drifted off into a seep, settling sleep, imagining the coupling of my son and Michelle.

It waited on the slopes all afternoon, it was a clear day with a sea of clouds beneath me, and I studied the land, imagining the birth of human history in the great savannas below. Finally, I could see him in the distance, and I could tell by the way he walked that he had, indeed, made it all the way to the top.

We embraced on the slope, and when we pulled apart he told me all about his climb. How steep it became as the summit drew near, and how he had to draw on some inner reserves to make it all the way up. He was thrilled, he was so young and strong.

We stayed on the slope, not wanting to go down. We sat there on the spot where I waited, and watched darkness descend. We spoke of many things. He knew the facts of what Lori and I did, but not the meaning. "Why do you do that?" he asked, as if his experience of lovemaking made him question why anyone would ever share. I told him everything, honestly. I told him I had always loved black men, I described the feeling I got in their presence, the sense of hyper-masculinity that seemed to ooze from their hard bodies. He looked at me, and he understood.

**

Everything was different after that trip. A couple of times a week now he has a new girl over, they head right for his room and close the door. Lori and I look at each other with pride. We love the sounds they make upstairs, and we love to see the change in those girls when they come downstairs after a few hours with him. It started with the cheerleaders, the trashy little cupcakes that dance on the sidelines and flash their panties at the boys they like -- once he did a few of them the girls burned op the phone wires talking about him: this boy will give you the ride of your life.

This is the way it should be. These girls are his due, his right. And it isn't just them. There's a charge growing between him and Christina. His sister goes to the same school, and so she's heard what's been said about him, and I can see some of Lori's fire, her adventurousness in the flash of Christina's eyes. So many nights I lay awake, and when it's quiet I go walking in the still house. Always I stop and listen at their doors. I know it will happen, I know that one night soon I'll hear the sounds, I'll hear her muffled sobs as he slides into my daughter's pussy.

Yes, I want that. I want to be there, listening when it happens, because then I'll know that I've won what I've wanted all along. My seed will fuse with his in the profane sacrament of their coupling. He will have sons as strong and as ravenous as he, and a tiny part of me will ride forever within the lustful stampede of all his sons.

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I'd love to here from you, no matter what you thought of my story. Comments and story ideas are welcome at: Pervitron@Hotmail.com http://www.asstr.org/~Pervitron #######################################################