Guy Named Joe

This is a work of fiction. It contains descriptions of graphic sex between men. The disclaimers apply: if you are too young or a repressive government does not permit you to read it, stop. You have been sternly admonished.

All right reserved. Comments welcome. Why else would we do this? Any_mouse2003@yahoo.com

A Guy Named Joe

There are times and there are people that are the pivot-points in life. You know from your own. There are the events you know from your own life. You are reading this here because you either came out or you didn't.

Either way, you wouldn't be reading it if you weren't queer.

You have either acted on it or not. If you did, you remember how, and who you did it with. If you haven't, in those moments when your eyes clench before the spunk boils up out of the cock you are stroking, you know who you would like to be fucking or whose dick you would like to be sucking.

So either way, you are here. You are queer. Get used to it.

I am not unlike you. I'm a queer of a certain age, but I forget that when I am not forced to look in a mirror. When I wake in the night I am the same as I have always been, young and lean, and with that chestnut brown hair with the bangs that flip up at the end.

Blue eyes like a mountain lake. Not rheumy and ringed with a pale yellow. A nice, solid cock, thick around and cut so the tip is proud and prominent, and it can spit fierce man-cum five times in an encounter.

I forget that when I rise and hobble the first few steps from the bed toward the bathroom. I don't wear my glasses when I am in front of the mirror. Sometimes it takes a while to remember to put them on. Only when I have to read something do I remember that I have to wear glasses at all.

But I am lucky to be alive, and that is where Joe comes in.

He was the first boy I had a crush on. He was in my band class. He was slight and a little dreamy. He wore straight-legged corduroy pants and tie-shoes, which was an epithet in those days. It meant that your parents would not trust you to dress yourself, or they were afraid you would grow pigeon-toes. He had fine sandy hair and he wore glasses with thick frames, but I could see the fine dark lashes that made his gaze sweeter than any of the girls.

He was shy and diffident and he held himself with this thin shoulders back. He usually wore a cardigan sweater, even when it was warm. I made me think that he was sheltering himself from something.

I couldn't tell him I had a crush on him. The whole thing confused me. Our middle school was just starting to pair off and date. We did that then, rather than what the kids do now, which is to run in a pack and hook-up when necessary.

We were much more linear in those days. I went on a couple dates because that is what we were supposed to do. I remember the new couples sneaking off to the furnace room to neck by the machinery at the first boy-girl parties, and I remember my first kiss from a girl.

It was exotic, that first brush with passion, that fumbling around. But what confused me was what I thought about when I masturbated in my bed at night. I tried to think of the girls at school naked, or of the Playboy women in the magazines we stole from the store because that is what was expected of us.

But I found myself thinking of little Joe, and what his cock might look like, and if it was as long and elegant as the fingers I saw him run up the neck of his violin in band class.

They said that Joe's dad had played professional football, that he was as rough and tough as they came. I heard that he came down to watch us practice on the football field in the fall, and I heard once that he made a comment about my aggressive press to cut to the head of the line in the hitting drills.

But I never knew precisely what he looked like, and I never could put a face to him.

I could not imagine that Joe's fair skin and delicate features came from a man that had played in Soldier Field on a Sunday.

The kids were not kind to kids who were different. They called Joe a sissy, and a homo, and other cruel things. Sometimes I thought I should defend him, but I could never figure out how to say it in a way that wouldn't have my big rough friends call me the same thing.

I could imagine it clearly: "Oh, so you like the little faggot? You a homo, too, Bob?"

I thought about a lot of things when I jerked off. But I always thought about Joe, one way or another in the days I waited to get my drivers license and start the road to being a grown-up.

I used to have a fantasy that I would consider as I waited for the drum part to begin in band class. I would be watching his fingers dance up the neck of his violin, and I imagined my cock being massaged by my fingers. It would get me hard in class, but I didn't care, since my snare drum blocked my crotch from view.

I wondered if I could write him an anonymous note, say that someone who cared about him was wearing some unique piece of clothing, maybe a tie or a particular color sweater. Then I would see him the next day in school, in the hall perhaps, and he would imagine me looking at him from the back of the band, or in the math class we shared.

And it would not be until the end of the day that he would ask if it was me who sent the note. Sometimes in my fantasy I told him, and sometimes I was cruel.

The fantasy I liked was that I nodded and smiled and told him I thought he was handsome and would he like to walk home from school with me. When I was really hard, and ready to spew all over myself, I imagined what it would be like if we went to his house and it was empty and we could kiss and take our clothes off and rub our cocks together.

But I could never figure out how it got beyond that, or how I could live in the world I had to live in and be a part of his at the same time.

Reality in 1966 was a lot different than it is now.

I played football, hung around with my idiot buddies who joked at what I secretly desired. I would see Joe at the big high school where we went after middle school, but I dropped out of band and only saw him occasionally in my masterbatory imagination.

I got decent enough grades to get into IU and

As it turned out, the summer before college was the time I finally found a man like me, and became what I knew I was then, a practicing fucking homo.

Alexander brought me out and taught me how a man likes to have his cock sucked. He taught me how to fuck with abandon, and how to take a strong hard dick up my ass and writhe in passion, panting for more.

He was a man, though, and he waltzed off to his college without a backward glance. I was hurt, and homesick when I went to college. Having found real sex I did not want to live without it, but things were so new and so overwhelming that I was quite stunned by it all.

I saw a note on one of the bulletin boards for a Gay group on campus with a phone number. That was the first time I saw the word capitalized, and the first time I saw the words that seemed like there might be a way to be proud about being a homo.

I thought it was worth a try. I called from the phone in the hall of my dorm, and I wondered what my floor-mates would think if they knew what I was doing.

The phone rang three times and a soft voice came on. "Hello?"

"Hi. Are you, er, ah.." I stammered as one of my three assigned roommates from downstate walked by toward the common men's shower area.

"Part of the Gay Liberation Group? Why yes, I am. Can I be of assistance?"

"Uh, I think I am a homo and wanted to know if there was someone I could talk to about it."

"We don't say it like that. We are Gay. But yes, in answer to your question. You can come over and I can tell you come of the resources available to our community."

"Gee," I said. "That would be great." He gave me an address and a time the next day and I wrote it down on a piece of paper. I could have written it on the wall with all the other notes next to the phone, but I didn't think that was cool.

Once the lights were out and my roommates settled down, I thought of the voice. I became engorged and I thought of Alexander and his proud hard cock planted deep in me and I thought about Joe for the first time in a long time and I came in a sweet flood all over my hand and belly. In the darkness I licked it off my hand, and drew my index finger across the rich viscous pool on my belly.

The next day I showered early and went to my geology lab and the big Frosh English class. My appointment was at lunch. The address was off University Street in an apartment on the second floor of a battered Victorian house that had been subdivided from a single-family residence. It was not run-down, per se, but it clearly had been used by generations of IU students.

My heart was pounding as I knocked on the door. A voice from inside said "Hang on, I'm coming!" I waited there with my heart in my throat. I heard footsteps coming, and then the door opened on a chain. I saw dark eyes and dark hair.

"Are you Bob?" asked the voice from the phone. I nodded. "OK then, come on in."

The door closed and I heard the chain slide off and the door opened wide.

In the frame was a tall slim man who I thought might be in his early twenties. He looked like a grad student, or maybe a teaching assistant. He had a wispy dark beard and fair skin and dark hair that reached down to his shoulders. He wore a T-shirt that said, "Stop the War" and faded jeans. He looked like a guy that my football coach would have called "Sleeping Jesus" which was his term for the hippies in town.

"Hi" he said, sticking out his hand. "My name is Steve. I am a volunteer for the Gay Pride."

I shook his hand, thinking that his fingers were long like Alexander's had been. I made the connection between the length and dimension of the fingers and the penis, and would have blushed if he had not ushered me through the door.

"It is like a Pride of lions, get it? The Gay Pride."

"Yeah," I said. "I got it." Though frankly I did not have a clue.

Steve gave me all the clues. He sat me down at a tiny table in a sun-lit kitchenette. He gave me an instant cup of coffee and he talked like he was on speed.

"O.K., the first thing you need to do is raise your consciousness. This is not about sex, although of course it is, but it is mostly about the politics of Straight Calhoun County. The pigs are out there, enforcing antiquated sodomy laws, busting us. We have got to stop the war and we have got to stop the war against us."

I blinked. I had thought about the war hardly at all at home, except to register for the draft and get my 2-S student deferment. I wasn't going anywhere, as far as I knew, and certainly not to Vietnam. I had come over here to investigate finding other young men who liked each other. Not to join the war on war.

But he was a fascinating man, very intense. His fingers were elegant and I found my self watching them intently as he drew them across his cheeks and gestured with them as he described the injustice of things.

He explained that there was a social activity at the local Unitarian Church that Saturday, one of the first mixers of the season, and that there would be a lot of the right people, activists, Gay thinkers and maybe some music.

I realized this was not the place to find a joint and a joint to suck. This was a hub of activist politics. I was interested by the energy, quite swept away by it. He told me which bathrooms on campus were hot to cruise, a notion I found curious. Going to a public toilet to find sex? It didn't sound very romantic, I said, and he responded that in anonymity was power, and a way to get to the straight guys and let them experience the power of cock-suckers and their own latent Gay sides.

He was still in mid-sentence an hour later when someone knocked at the door. He went over and removed the chain. I realized that there was a little paranoia in the air. A tall woman entered. She was black as night and she wore her hair in a vast corona of an Afro. She looked at me cooly.

"Who's the frat boy?" she asked.

"Oh, this is Rob. He called me on the hot line. I think he is Gay, he just doesn't know how yet."

"I know how it works," I said quietly.

"Honey, you don't know the half of it," she said, and gave me a thin smile. "C'mon, Steve. We need to get to the meeting." He shrugged and looked at me.

"Listen, that is what is going on here. Remember the Social this week. If you have any questions, give me a call. Maybe we can have coffee some time."

"I'd like that," I said, realizing Steve was going to be too busy stopping the war and injustice to slow down for me. "And thanks for your time."

I walked to the door and let myself out as they began to talk about strategy, and how the Black Lesbians needed support and how The Man would be watching everything they were doing. They didn't pay any attention at all to my going.

I confess I looked over my shoulder as I walked away. The Pigs could be watching everything, after all.

The Unitarians

I had been to a Unitarian service one time. I went to a nice Presbyterian Church and one of the Sunday School activities was to go to other churches and discuss them from a theological perspective.

I wasn't here this Saturday night to discuss secular humanism, though. I was here to meet other homos- Gays, I corrected myself, and maybe find a friend.

The Church was a long low building and didn't look much like a traditional place of worship. It looked like it could be a union hall.

I had walked by the place a couple times, looking over my shoulder to be sure I was not followed.

It was pretty crazy. I had been to fraternity Rush the night before, visiting several of the more popular houses on campus. I liked the Lamdas and the Dekes, and they seemed eager to hand out the beers and get me to like them. Rush would go on for another week or so, and I thought I might find a group of people to hang out with.

But there was this Gay thing to deal with. I was so horny, and all I wanted was someone like Alexander to fill me up. Of course, he had been Black, even if his skin was almost as light as mine, and the politics of that were something I didn't fully understand in this very political campus.

The frat houses didn't even seem to be aware of the war, just the necessity of staying in school and away from the draft.

I finally screwed up my nerve in the darkness and walked up to the double door on the lobby. I went in and there was an easel set up that said "Gay Pride Mixer in Activities Room" with an arrow pointing to the corridor on the right. I walked down the hall toward the sound of voices.

There was an open door and a smooth-shaven guy with his hair in a long neat ponytail sitting at a card table. He had a coffee can with a sign that said "Donations."

"Hi" I said. "Is this the Gay thing?"

"Yes it is," he said and smiled broadly. "I'm Greg and I suck cock. Two bucks in the recommended donation."

I fished my wallet out of my slacks and found two wrinkled bills. "I'm Bob, and I do, too." I said weakly. I didn't have much cash and wouldn't until I got a bank account set up in town so I could get at my summer money. I dropped the bills into the can and Greg smiled again. "Thanks" he said. "Hope I see you inside." He looked me up and down and didn't seem to mind what he saw. I swallowed and walked in.

There were about forty people standing around in little clusters. The lights were half on, in an attempt to create an intimate atmosphere. There was a table that had big jugs of soft drinks on it, and big bowls of potato chips and napkins.

There didn't seem to be anything to do except stand there awkwardly, so I went over to the table and poured a Coke and munched on a handful of chips. I was thinking this might be one of the larger mistakes of my life when a young man with dirty blonde hair left one of the knots of people and walked over to me. He extended a hand and took mine and held it a second or two longer than I was used to. His hand was soft and his skin was moist. He cheeks were full and so were his lips.

"Glad to see you here tonight," he said. "My name is Rob. We are going to have some music in a minute, as soon as the band gets set up, and I hope you will save a dance for me. I'm with Student Coalition."

"Coalition for what?" I asked. "And my name is Robert, too, though they call me Bob."

"Well, Bobby," he said, suddenly conspiratorial, "It is a coalition to oppose just about everything." Then he laughed. "And have a little fun in the process of overthrowing the Old Order." He grinned an infectious grin.

I smiled back a little uncertainly. I hadn't come to overthrow the Government. I had just come to meet some others homos. But at least some of the people here sucked cock, so that was a start. And they say the longest journeys start with a single step.

We chatted for a moment about the latest developments on campus, the riots elsewhere and when we might expect something to get going at IU. I heard the squeal of an amplifier and some first brisk chords being strummed on an electric guitar. Rob excused himself, and walked over and tapped the top of a microphone. It went pop-pop and was live. He took it off the stand and asked everyone to come up close.

"We want everyone to dance tonight, and we want to make some good noise. And we want some solidarity tonight, proud that we are Gay and Lesbian!" There was a murmur as people walked up and formed a broad semicircle around him and the band. "Tonight we are going to do some political dancing with The Pride Band! Get down, brothers and sisters!"

He handed the mike to an emaciated woman in a tank top. She had small breasts with large nipples and nothing between them and the thin cotton. He hair was straggly and she had a ring in her nose and eyes as dark as the bottom of a coal mine. Lead guitar was a white guy with an afro and a black man with big hair and elephant bell pants slung low on his hips was holding a Fender Jazz Bass. A kid with a hank of blonde hair and a blank gaze looked like he was threatening to play rhythm.

There was a sharp rap on a snare drum and a thickset guy with sunglasses and a ponytail started to rap out a drum riff.

The band stumbled into some muddy song, way too loud for the acoustics in the room. The woman started into something that sounded a little like "G-L-O-R-I-A" but the words were different. I decided I didn't care. It was too loud to talk to anyone, and I sipped my Coke and tried to make sense out of the crowd.

There were couples, male and female ones. Most were hippies, but there were a couple older guys in rumpled sport coats and chinos. They were clearly academics. I was scrutinizing the crowd and hoping to find someone who looked like they needed a friend. The cutest was the black guy playing bass, and I think he looked back at me with a cool gaze, but it could be that is how he looked at everyone.

I like men of color. Alexander set me up that way, I guess. I wondered what he would be doing later, and what it would be like if he made me his bitch for the semester. That would cause a stir back at the dorm. Or maybe it wouldn't. This was an altogether new world.

I felt a little flustered and then I felt someone tug on my sleeve. It was Greg. He shouted at me over the music. I think he asked me to dance. I nodded, since there was no point in trying to talk over the noise of the band. I finished my Coke with a gulp, turned and began to shake with him, not touching.

It was the first time I danced with another guy. It seemed perfectly natural, just like the casual way he had announced that he sucked cock.

Dancing then was mostly just standing in one place and gyrating at one another. We did that for a while, and the band lurched into something else, and we kept dancing through the rest of the set. When the chords rose and crashed and ended mostly at the same time the silence was deafening.

We got something to drink, more soft drinks, from the table. "Is there anything more fun to drink?" I asked, my voice sounding peculiarly loud. Greg smiled and I noticed he had a dimple on his chin a little like Kirk Douglas.

I also noticed that his hair was full and the same color as mine. He eyes were set a little close together and his teeth were radiantly white. Maybe that is what set my heart beating a little quicker.

"Yes there is, but we can't have it here. The cops would bust the place if we had a keg. I have some vodka back at the apartment. I am only committed here until the next break. Maybe we could go over to my house and smoke a joint and have a couple drinks?"

"That sounds great," I said. And then the band was sawing at some Bad Moon Rising, and we were dancing again. They even tried a slow version of something. I honestly couldn't tell what it was, but it gave me an opportunity to move closer to Greg and he put his arms around me.

I felt a electricity as his arms closed around me, and I put my head on his shoulder as we swayed on the floor of the Unitarian Assembly Room.

After the next set he took my hand and we slipped out the door, back down the hall and out into the cool evening. We could hear those dissonant tones for a block or more as we walked along under the green canopy of trees.

Greg lived in another one of the old houses converted to student apartments. The stairwell smelled like cat urine and old carpet, but his apartment on the third floor was brightly painted. There were posters on the wall, an old tattered Oriental rug on the floor and a battered couch that faced a small portable TV.

"It's not much" he said. "But it's home."

"I like it better than the dorm," I responded. "It is nice."

He smiled and I realized how nice that was when he showed those teeth. "The couch doubles as a bed" he said and he smiled again and I felt a tightening in my groin. He went into a kitchen that was about the size of a closet and I heard the clink of glass and the opening of a refrigerator.

"Here," I said. "Let me help." There was barely room to turn around, and he handed me an ice-cube tray. It had one of those handles that flipped up to crack the ice loose and I pulled it. It was still frozen solid, so he took it from me and ran some warm water over it in the little sink. The he turned and faced me with it and I found myself kissing that handsome mouth and touching those beautiful teeth with an eager tongue.

We made out for a while and I got as hard as a rock. He reached down and cupped my balls through the tent in my slacks. I sighed against his mouth and I heard the ice cube tray rattle into the sink. He put his arms around me and drew me to him and I felt his cock hard against mine.

We never did get the drinks.

We stumbled back into the main room and we fumbled madly with our clothes. Our eyes were locked as shirts and slacks and jeans tumbled into a heap on the floor. He stood as watched as I skinned off my boxer shorts, and he flipped the waistband of his Jockeys, drawing them down over a cock of impressive size and girth. I licked my lips and drew a ragged breath. When he kicked off the underpants he stood proudly with his cock waving toward me. I stepped over to him and placed my eager cock next to his, side to side. They were nearly comparable, pale flesh engorged, erupting from a thick patch of dense pubic hair. A little trail lead up to his navel, but otherwise he was smooth and hairless.

We caressed each other, gently stroking, the sides of our erections touching. It was electric. I wanted that cock in my mouth so bad. He stopped touching me and took me by the arm and we walked to the couch. He grabbed the front and raised it to it slid down into a flat surface. He rose and he kissed me again, and then said:

"We both claimed to suck cock. Let's see how well we do."

And that is how I found myself on my side, head between his legs, with the rich smell of his sex in my nose and his warm cock buried in my mouth, tonguing him and suckling on him as he did me. It was incredible, almost like sucking myself.

He had a wonderful taste, musky and slippery. I tried to mimic the movement of his lips and his soft palate, and when he took me deep into his throat, I ignored the gap reflex and impaled myself on him.

God, he tasted good. Eventually, he moaned and I knew he was going to erupt in my mouth. I wasn't going to miss a drop, and his ecstasy made my gorge rise and thrust and when his hot jets of jism hit the back of my throat I shuddered and shot right back into him.

We drained each other, mouths warm and sucking on softening cocks.

It was a while before we stirred. Greg got up and got a joint and we smoked it on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to naked thigh. Then we were at each other again, sucking like mad.

Greg was one hell of a cocksucker. I blushed when he said the same about me.

It made me feel as warm as his semen in my belly. When we slept, we slept with our heads buried in each other's crotches, breathing the smell of sex and cum.

We got hard again in the night, and I remember shooting another load into his warm soft mouth, just as he did for me. Then there was just sleep.

When I awoke, the first thing I did, the very first thing, was take his soft penis in my lips and gently kiss it good morning.

I had a feeling I might get lucky.

@ 2004 Any_mouse@yahoo.com