Jay

DUNCAN DOWNS IT by janus znaiu

Pop pressed a ten-dollar bill in my hand. "Here. Go over to Meyer's and pick me up a half-kilo of paprika-- Spanish, not Hungarian."

"And don't forget to get a receipt," we said in unison.

I knew it was a make-work errand. He didn't need paprika; there was a big metal tin of it in the dry storage closet. Pop just needed to see everyone gainfully busy. That applied to me especially because he didn't want it said among the staff that he treated family differently than any other employee-- that ensured that he'd treat me differently. But there just wasn't anything pressing to be done. The lunch crowd had thinned out and the two women who looked after the steam table were nearly finished cleaning up. There wasn't much catering to prep for. Only a scattering of customers browsed the aisles. My mistake had been letting Pop see me in the office with my feet on his desk, reading a food-service trade publication. Even that, to my father, was a wholesale waste of time. In his typical, two-birds-with-one-stone approach, he read his trades on the toilet in the morning, though I never did understand how one could contemplate descriptions of new and exciting uses for gorgonzola cheese while seated on the throne like that. Pop not only could, he occasionally forgot himself and carried his mug of coffee in there with him.

"Taste it to see if it's fresh," he added, "The last paprika they sold me was like brickyard dust."

I didn't see any reason to take a vehicle. I'd been walking to Meyer's Wholesale Spices for my parents since I was a little kid. It was a short couple blocks to the park, a shady five minutes' stroll along a gravel path and at the end of it, you came within a few yards of the customer entrance next to Meyers' loading dock. It looked like it might rain, but it had looked like that all morning and afternoon; the late-summer air was still and thick with the promise of it. A few rumbles of thunder could be heard from the yellow-grey clouds in the distance, but I figured I'd be back in plenty of time to prevent a soaking. Just in case, I grabbed my jean jacket on my way out the door.

By the time I got to the edge of the park, it had begun to sprinkle a little, but I reckoned that if I stayed to the path and under the trees, I'd still make it to Meyer's before it got serious. I was wrong. As I followed the curve of the path where it wound around the little bandshell, the gravel suddenly turned several shades darker before my eyes, as a genuine August cloudburst unloaded. The only shelter, other than the bandshell itself, was a covered picnic area adjacent to the the building that housed the snack bar and the public restrooms. I made a run for it. There wasn't anyone around, so I just wandered about under the enclosure, wishing I'd taken my car or the panel truck after all.

Since the downpour had sent the Park's Board ladies who ran the snack bar packing, I wasn't really expecting the washrooms to be open, but I was grateful to see that they were. I stepped up to one of the two urinals and had a long, leisurely piss while reading the various bits of graffiti scrawled at eye level above the pissers: "Clapton is God", and "What are you looking up here for? The joke's in your hand". The hissing torrents of rain didn't show any sign of letting up soon. Crackles of lightning caught ground and boomed in great reverberating echoes off the buildings downtown. For lack of anything better to do, I poked around to see if there was any more funny graffitti in the toilet stall.

I was astonished to see so much scribbling and so many lewd drawings. Literally every flat surface, save for the tiled back wall, was covered with scribbled epithets and crude, stick-man pictures executed in every conceivable pen and marker. Most of the images were as primitive as they were unrealistic, but there was one, incongruous among the child-like renderings of spurting penises and clitless pussies. It was a felt-penned eye that looked like for all the world like the CBS logo. At the center of it was a small spot of light. I sat down on the can and discovered that the little hole was not only located conveniently at eye level, it gave one a perfect side view of anyone using the urinal. I felt myself start to get hard.

Two male voices emerged from the sizzle of rain. They came ever closer, hooting and laughing, running towards the open door with wet footslaps on the pavement outside. I leaned forward, closed the door to the stall and was just finished sliding the lock bolt home when they burst into the restroom."God DAMN, I hope there's some paper towels or something in here, I'm fuckin' soaked!" said one of the voices. He sure was. He stood close enough to my cubicle for me to make out a puddle forming at his sneakered feet. His sodden jeans, what I could see of them, shone in the glare of the caged lightbulb above us.

"Oh great! It's one of those cloth towel things," the other one said. There was a loud, wrenching sound. Seconds later, the curved cover of the towel dispenser bounced off the terrazzo and rattled to a halt against the wall near my cubicle door. The guys were obviously toughs, and drenched enough to forego the nicities of pulling the continuous towel along a foot or so at a time as the manufacturer intended. Through the crack of the cubicle door I could see flashes of the long white roll as they unfurled it to dry themselves. Reams of it fell to the floor, barely used, where it sopped up the drips they'd made.

"Any idea what time it is?" one voice asked the other, stepping to the urinal closest the stall.

"No idea. Must be after three." said the other, younger-sounding voice.

I heard the zip of the kid's fly and couldn't help shifting a bit so I was lined up with the lttle hole in the partition. I didn't press my eye to it, fearing that would be visible to anyone on the other side, but I could see well enough from a few inches back. The kid extracted an undistinguished, worm-like dick with a slim, tapered glans. Above it, a brillo pad of tawny pubes escaped the fly of his underpants. He made small-talk with his friend as he emptied his bladder into the porcelin bowl. When he was finished, as if reluctant to give it up, now that he had it out, he pinched the spongy dickhead and elongated his flaccid shaft by tugging on it a few times. A final drop of piss appeared at the tip and he daubed it with a fingertip, which disappeared from view (to his lips?) Then he put himself away, zipped up and returned to where the younger guy stood, still drying himself off.

I got up, arranged my turgid dick so that it wouldn't be quite so obvious and unlatched the cubicle door, holding my jacket in front of me. They both looked up at the creaking of the door. I only glanced at them, but they seemed to be about my age or so. The taller of the two, obvious owner of the tuft of pubes I'd seen, looked me up and down as I exited the stall.

"Hi," I said, nodding briefly and marching purposefully towards the rust-stained sink, refusing to acknowledge the snowdrift of unrolled institutional toweling on the floor.

"Hi," they both said back, without any great enthusiasm.

I finished washing my hands, wiped them on my jacket and quickly stepped outside.

"Faggot," I heard one them observe as I stood outside the open outer door, fumbling around for a cigarette. It was the one I'd seen pissing.

"How do you know that, man?" asked the other one.

"Check it out; there's nothing in the shitter. Did you hear the guy flush? Shit, homos come here all the time," said the kid, assuming the streetwise renegade role for his younger counterpart, clearly relishing it. "Didn't you even know that? What a fuckin' Gomer! Why do you think they call it 'Pecker Park'?"

I sat down at one of the picnic benches in the enclosure, smoking my cigarette, wishing the rain would stop. I was tense. It was something I'd read on the wall of the crapper. That, and what I'd overheard of the other guys' conversation, got me thinking. My cock wouldn't soften.

The boys came out of the restroom a few minutes after I did, laughing and shoving one another against the door jamb. The taller one spotted me having a butt and trotted over. "Got a spare smoke on ya'?" he asked, as if it was a foregone conclusion that I'd be giving him one. At least he didn't ask for a 'fag'.

The peachfuzz on his upper lip and his bubble-gum breath made me suddenly less sure about his being a tough. Despite the swagger and the vandalism, he was obviously still a mere cadet. What I had mistaken for a real tattoo on his forearm was, in fact, a smeared fake one of Spiderman. I decided to set the record straight, at least as far as he was concerned. His wanting one of my cigarettes gave me the leverage. I drew my pack out of my jacket pocket, made as if to pass it to him and stopped short, drawing the pack to my chest. "Take back what you told your buddy about me being a faggot. I just couldn't shit, smart guy."

"Sorry," he said, momentarily contrite. I offered him my cigarette pack. "Can I take one for my friend?" he ventured brightly, half-drawing a second butt from the flip-top box.

I chuckled at his chutzpah. "Yeah, I guess," I told him. Having safely re-established my claim on heterosexuality with counterfeit constipation, I decided to do some investigating. I put on a more steel-town, less counterculture tone than I usually spoke with, "No fuckin' queer better ever come on to me!" I boasted. "I'd be scrubbin' the toilet with his fairy head before he even got his dick out!" The kid lit one of the cigarettes off mine and shot me a quizzical look. "They come here, do they?" I asked, adding it like it had been an afterthought.

A real tough would have already fucked off with my smokes; he handed the pack back to me. "Mostly at night. The washrooms are locked up then, but it's really dark over there in the bushes behind the building; none of the lights from the path reach back that far. That's where they do it. Over behind the bandshell too. This place is hummin' after dark, man!"

"What about the cops? Don't they check it out?" I asked.

"What cops?" he chortled. "Once in a while they drive through, or they park over there on the corner to drink their coffee, but they don't really give a shit. There's nothin' here to steal or wreck." he told me, as if he hadn't just set the Parks Board budget back by one towel dispenser.

"Is there, like, a LOT of them? Fags, I mean."

"Not most of the... " he stopped himself. "How the fuck should I know?" he asked with a guarded, suddenly suspicious, expression. "I gotta go. Thanks for the smokes." The world was truly changing; I got a peace sign flashed at me by a would-be street punk.

The kid strutted over to where his buddy stood. I was glad to be alone with my thoughts again when, a minute later, they decided to make a run for it through the sheets of rain. I chainsmoked and stewed. By the time the rain began to let up a little, I'd made up my mind. I snuck into the toilet stall once more to make sure I had the information right. I threw my jean jacket on and jogged the few hundred meters to Meyer's back door. All the way there, I repeated the message to myself, over and over: "Thursday, 10pm. East side of the bandshell" the single, penciled line had read, "Show hard for suck. Steve."

I parked in the alley behind the deli and made my way the park on foot. My destination was the bandshell, but I made a point of passing by the snack bar first. I had little trouble seeing my way around, even far away from the lights of the path. The moon was almost full and the ambient light was substantial; hundreds of streetlights and thousands of signs relected off glass-fronted office towers. Everything appeared as though viewed through dark, grey-blue sunglasses-- distinct, but in monochrome.

I saw several shapes moving about in the shadows, but none were alone. Without staring or scanning the passing scene in any methodical way I counted at least a dozen men in twos and threes. The unmistakable silhouettes of men on their knees in front of other men and those of standing, jacking men emerged from the shadows like desert mirages-- too seductive to be real, but there they were. Flashes of white cotton encircled ankles in the gloom like the ripples of a moonlit pool. A grunt, or a moan and occasionally a quiet laugh, would punctuate the neon buzzing and traffic-rumble of the muggy summer night. I became aware of someone about thirty meters behind me. I headed across the open field towards the bandshell to see if he'd continue to follow. He didn't.

A tall man of about thirty with a barrel chest and the beginnings of a beer belly stood leaning against the back wall of the band shell. He wore the uniform of the industrial serf: flannel shirt, baggy, low-crotched jeans and workboots, laced only part of the way up so that their red flanneled tongues flopped forward, trapping the rolled cuffs of his pants. His belt hung undone and his top pants and shirt buttons were open, but he was otherwise fully dressed. I watched him for a couple of minutes, posing and smoking his cigarette like some Marlboro Man gone to seed. I knew he could see me, but he made no acknowledgement of my being there. I gulped hard and strode the few meters between us. "Are you Steve?" I asked.

He looked me up and down several times with a condescending, slightly amused expression. "Does it matter?" I could tell he'd been very good looking once. Hard time in the coke ovens had prematurely robbed him, but he'd apparently held on to the arrogance. "I asked you-- does it matter?"

"I guess not." I shuffled anxiously. My palms were sweaty, my temples throbbed and I suddenly felt like I'd piss myself if I relaxed, even for a second, the conscious grip I had on my bladder. I'd expected the other guy, who ever he turned out to be, to make a move on me. Instead, this guy seemed to be waiting for something.

"Well then?" he didn't move. His eyes locked with mine.

I remembered the scrawled message: "Show hard for suck." I stepped closer to the steelworker and unbuckled my pants. I let them drop to mid-thigh and began working my half-hard cock behind the pouch of my jockeys with a tembling hand. His face lit up as took a drag from his cigarette. I pulled my dick out the fly of my briefs, stroking it in the gloom. Letting it go, I tried to imagine it from my companion's point of view: starkly boinked against a field of white. That would have appealed to me in that light.

"Was I supposed to do something with 'that'?" the man asked incredulously in a gruff, mocking tone. He flicked my glans from below with a knuckle.

I was too crushed to answer him. I began hiking up my pants, my zipper scraping the underside of my dick. "I thought... " I started to say.

"Get over here and suck me, bitch. Quit wastin' my fuckin' time." he barked, reaching down into the front of his jeans.

I was unprepared enough for his taunting manner, but I recoiled at being called 'bitch'. I turned and left, buttoning up as I walked, sweat rolling down my back. The man remained standing against the wall, but his coarse, derisive chuckle seemed to follow me all the way back to my car.

There was a there was a cigar shop near our delicatessen that had a pool hall connected to it. Often, if I had a spare hour in the afternoon, I go there to shoot a couple solo racks of snooker. Entering the place was like stepping into the past. The old-folks radio station spilled from a fridge-sized radio. Multiple layers of chipped paint curled from the pressed tin ceiling tiles. Out-of-town hustlers in shiny suits and white shoes drank rye whiskey out of silver pocket flasks.

The owner was old Mr. Bujack, a brusque, cigar-chewing Pole, who dispensed billiard balls through one wicket of his raised, oak-paneled cage and sold cigarettes and Racing Forms from another one facing the shop. One day I summoned the nerve to buy a Playboy magazine from him. Soon I was buying them monthly. I liked the tittie pictures well enough but I actually DID enjoy the articles and interviews. Journals of pop culture were fewer then than today. Mr. Bujack never challanged the fact that I was only seventeen and looked even younger. I could have been a gorilla in a ballet costume for all he knew-- he rarely looked up from his portable TV set unless a fight broke out in the pool hall.

I'd bought a half dozen or so girlie magazines from him before I finally got up the nerve to buy a Muscleboy. The name conjures up oiled, buff, Joe Weider-type models, but most of the seminude guys depicted weren't that much older than me and they turned me on immensely, despite all the airbrushing and lycra-covered genitalia. Bujack's also sold a more expensive little mag called Model Quarterly, a collection of horny pictures masquerading as life studies for serious artists. It featured chunkier, older men-- guys in their thirties with frightening, ambiguous bulges in mesh posing straps and rear shots of beefy cats wearing cowboy hats and chaps and nothing else. I still bought my Playboys and Downbeats, but about every third or fourth visit, I'd pick up something with guys in it. Masturbating nightly with my memories of Barry became offset somewhat by regular daytime wanking to my magazines which I hid in a secret place in the barn. I'd always lay off on date nights, though, to be ready for Julie.

Julie and I were getting along splendidly, but we weren't seeing nearly as much of each other as I'd have liked. We both had summer jobs with conflicting schedules, but we connected every weekend and spoke on the phone a few times during the week. My parents, intially overwhelmed by her boistrous manner and her outspokeness, warmed up to her as the weeks went by. She joined us for many a Sunday dinner and soon wormed her way into my pop's heart when it became known that she could sing pretty much the whole Sarah Vaughn songbook by heart. Predictably, Nils and ratfaced Sheila hated her. They would have anyway, but she'd made no bones at all, on several occasions, that she thought organized religion to be state-sanctioned, emotional blackmail. "Tax the buggers!" she pronounced one night at dinner, horrifying Nils and causing Pop, a socialist and closet agnostic, to blow tea out his nose in a fit of self-conscious laughter. She had her own way about her, no doubt.

And the best of her was mine. We always balled on our weekend dates, but very soon after we started keeping regular company she began to drop hints that she might be interested in seeing one or two other guys we knew, as well as me. I already knew she'd been hanging out with one mutual friend through the week and she was quite frank about her interest in bedding another. I didn't blame her one bit; he was a knockout. I couldn't seem to summon any of the text-book reactions, though. I could have been crestfallen and sulked or wept, begging her not to-- for what sake, I couldn't imagine. I could have gotten angry, sought out the guys she liked and threatened them-- with what, I couldn't imagine. I could have dumped her and looked for another like her. That was the problem. I knew perfectly well that there wasn't another like her. She suggested I see other girls, made a point of stressing it several times. "We're going to end up as kissy-face as Shelly and Jay if we're not careful," she said. "Before we start calling each other 'babykins' and 'pookie' too, let's give ourselves some elbow room." I could see the wisdom in that; she was no 'babykins'. What I did was become ever more appreciative that I was the one she went out with on Saturday nights, the one she lied to her parents about and stayed overnight with whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Mutual masturbation with Jay ought to have become a nice, discreet outlet for my queer side, but it left me unfulfilled and it happened far less frequently than I'd hoped. I was partly to blame for that-- I was always so careful never to be the one to initiate it. If the opportunity arose without Jay grasping the moment, I would drop hints that I might be inclined. But even when he picked up on them, I found myself frustrated by our self-imposed barriers. My problem with wanking with him lay in the fact that I kept wanting more of him, wanted to actually make out with him.

It wasn't at all like the urges I'd felt with Barry. I wasn't motivated by affection towards a lover nearly so much as by simple adolescent lust. I didn't want to convey devotion nearly so much as I wanted to feel that magic twitching and swelling of a spunking glans in my mouth. It would have been so easy just to lean over and clamp my lips on it. But I knew Jay's comfort level only too well. The official rules of circle jerking seemed to have changed very little since I was a hairless sprat whacking off in the woods with my grammar school buddies.

Jay made a special point of verbally acknowledging the normalness of what we did together every time we jacked off. It was as if he needed constant reconvincing that we were still 'real guys'. Often, with our dicks in each others' fists, both of us flogging away like berserkers, he'd go into filthy, ultra-heterosexual monologues that I found most distracting, however hot or reassuring Jay might have intended them to be. Possibly as a result of the sense of incompleteness I felt from wanking with him, Jay began to invade my nightime romps with the ghost of Barry, and we readily made room for him. Soon others began joining Barry and me-- faceless men with out-sized genitalia, other guys I knew from school and the men from the pages of my Muscleboy and Model Quarterly magazines. Sometimes I imagined just me and them, with Barry absent from the dream entirely. I knew I had to find a another guy to be with and soon-- someone to blow and be blown by, certainly, but also one to caress, to hold, to blend scents with. I just didn't know how one went about it. My haughty reception in Pecker Park scared me enough not to go back there any time soon, but I thought about it all the time. I'd lay in my bed at night, knowing that only a few miles away men were meeting and coupling in the dark, wishing I could summon the courage to roam among them. Jay's cousin Kevin would have been the logical person to seek out, since he'd often expressed a certain interest, but I was terrified of the repercussions if Jay found out.

I stood on the Katz' porch, trying hard not to look like somebody casing the place for a daytime robbery. I rang the doorbell one last time and turned to go. There seemed to be nobody around despite the fact that Jay's car was in the driveway and his bike was chained to the porch railing. He had to be home. His summer job at the record store precluded any vacation for him; his family had gone to the World's Fair in Montreal and left him to look after the place. Figuring he must be napping or showering, I decided to grab a sandwich nearby and come back a little later. Just as I was going to get into my car, the door clicked behind me and Jay appeared on the stoop, barefoot and shirtless in a pair of jeans, their top button undone, revealing the waistband of his underwear. It looked as though I had indeed awakened him from a nap; his hair, usually meticulously combed, was dissheveled and he looked a little out-of-it.

"Hiya Jens, what's shakin'?" he greeted me in mid-stretch, rubbing his concave, sucked-in belly.

"Oh, I was just in the neighborhood; wanna shoot some pool?"

"Not right this minute I don't, but come on in."

"Whatever," I said, hoping for the best, trying not to sound too eager. Playing on Jay's dad's snooker table had been a pretext. More than any pool cue, I wanted Jay's dick in my hand, wanted his hand around mine-- if nothing else. Being alone in the house with him, without any fear of interruption from his family, would leave the door wide open for him to suggest it. That Jay showed no desire to shoot pool led me to deduce he'd be well disposed to shooting something messier.

We passed through the kitchen and he got three bottles of Coke out of the fridge. I looked at him quizzically. "For my buddy, Duncan," Jay explained. "He's downstairs,"

"Listen, if you've got company, I can come back another time... "

"Naw, it's okay. You'll like Duncan."

I recognized him instantly as a handsome tenth-grader I'd occasionally seen Jay speaking with at school. He worked as a stockboy and box packer at the supermarket we went to. Duncan looked up from the thumbful of forty-five rpm records he was flipping through when Jay and I entered the rec room. Dressed only in jeans, as Jay was, Duncan was a reedy lad with a rippled ribcage and smooth, narrow hips. His longish hair hung straight, framing his narrow, freckled face and Modigliani neck with verticals of flaming amber. His torso was less defined than mine or Jay's, but, belying his youthful appearance, he had a scanty dusting of nearly invisible carrot-colored hair in the valley between his tits. A slightly heavier trail of it ran downwards from his navel, growing coarser as it disappeared into the front of his jeans. His zipper was partially open. Privately, I thrilled at the flash of wiry, henna-colored pubes it revealed.

The smell of cock was everywhere in the windowless room. Duncan shook me a manly hand and we all sat down, Jay and Duncan on the edge of the daybed and me in the basket chair beside it. Furtively, amid the small-talk, I did a Sherlock Holmes on the scene. The tally of evidence was damning, even without the tell-tale scent Duncan left on my hand when he shook it: a Playboy magazine peeked out from under a pillow and the floor was littered with their socks and shirts. A balled-up pair of white boxers lay at my feet-- Duncan's, judging from the profusion of pubic hair that continued to poke out of his fly, even after he sat down. But the most telling testimonial to the fact that a two-man jackoff had occured there, and recently, was the handful of damp, crumpled tissues in the over-sized ashtray. They formed clouds under the cast-aluminum DC-3 that flew over the fake alabaster.

There was an obvious tension between Jay and Duncan, as though Jay were having a joke at Duncan's expense. Jay kept smiling and looking back and forth at us as we chattered, shifting rapid glances between my eyes and Duncan's. Jay had no stealth; you could always tell when he was hatching something.

"So... you guys up to anything special this afternoon?" I asked, trying to be general, but hoping they'd be honest with me and admit they'd been messing around.

"Not much, Jens," Jay piped up, "I was just saying to Duncan how much I'd like to dink Miss September here," He pulled the centerfold out of the Playboy and hung it like a banner about a foot from my face. I couldn't see Jay's expression behind it, but I could see that Duncan was clearly giving him some kind of signal. I pushed the picture aside to see Duncan looking questioningly at Jay and pantomiming the act of jacking off in the air in front of his pants.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about Jens, Dunc. He's cool." Jay turned to me, grinning. "You scared us shitless when you rang the bell, man. We were just getting some wood up for round two." Duncan blushed, smiled shyly and cast his eyes floorward when our gaze met. "You wanna?" Jay stared at me, bobbing his eyebrows, Groucho-style, and rubbing his out-thrust crotch like a beefcake model.

I nodded eagerly. Did I want to? This was turning out even better than I'd hoped. I was a tad unnerved that we had a third partner-- one I didn't know, except to see him around-- but I was nevertheless very turned on by him. At school he just seemed like just another goofy sophomore, cuter than most, but there wasn't enough about him to disturb me down there. I was suddenly very curious to see what Jay's handsome young friend looked like naked, what his face looked like when he spunked.

"I don't know about me, Jay," Duncan said, making as if to go, "I should be getting to work," Maybe I gave off a vibe or two of the disappointment I was feeling, because he was looking right at me when he said, "Aw, what the fuck. Why not?"

Jay placed the open magazine between Duncan and himself and they started undoing their pants. Jay slid his completely off and I could see the familiar outline of his semi-hard cock behind the pouch of his low-rise underwear. Duncan took his time. I couldn't tell if his hesitation was brought on by shyness or whether he wanted to check me out first. He was handling himself through the fly of his jeans, alternating glances between the magazine and the progress of my disrobing, but made no move to get naked himself. I stood between them in my briefs and socks, pretending to be interested in the magazine as well, knowing both boys were checking out my pouch to see the lay of my dick. It was just a little fatter than usual for a softie when I finished peeling my jockeys off, but by the time it completed its inevitable ascent to the vertical a few seconds later, both Duncan and Jay were staring at it, the magazine forgotten. It wasn't that I was particularly well-hung, but whenever my dick took it in its head to fill with blood, it did so with amazing speed and fanfare, usually pumping to full boink in three or four bobbing pulses. I found out, early on, that by contracting certain muscles I could make my cock bounce at will. That day I bounced it at Jay and Duncan.

Jay tossed the Playboy aside and made room for me between them. As soon as I sat down, Duncan got up and stepped out of his jeans, his back to us. Jay's cock was still in his jockeys but it wasn't lonesome; both his hands were keeping it company. He hooked his briefs behind his bag and worked himself up to size watching me skin myself. But I was watching Duncan's downy ass. Asses didn't usually turn me on. Duncan's did. His butt was so pale against his tanned legs and back; it was as if he were wearing a translucent swimsuit. When he turned around, he revealed a slim, cut dick of modest length that stuck straight out from his rusty pubes like a fleshy, bobbing popsicle. He resumed his seat next to me and we all reclined into the bank of cushions and bolsters behind us. I closed my eyes and four hands explored my genitals. I dry-jacked them both at once until Jay's precum began to flow and he took over for himself.

Duncan's hand hadn't left my dick, nor mine his. I concentrated on milking some preseminal fluid out of him, but nothing came. Jay settled back into the cushions at the opposite end of the daybed to watch us. Surprising me with his familiarity, Duncan threw a leg over mine and nestled his cheek against my armpit. He began palming my belly and the inside of my thigh with his spare hand. Our new position made his cock difficult to jack, so I let it go and settled back, letting my new friend have his way with my package. I could hear the smacking of Jay's assault on his own dick behind me; my arm felt the regular tightening and relaxing of his thigh muscles as he built up steam. Jay always seemed to have to work very hard for his second wad in a row, a quirk Shelly no doubt appreciated, since his first climax tended to be a sprint for the finish line.

Duncan's hand on my cock was picking up speed too and his warm roving palm made me shudder every time it passed over one of my erect nipples. Duncan took my stickshift another gear higher and I started to pitch and moan. "Stand back when he creams, Dunc'-- unless you want a shower," the voice behind me warned, between excited puffs of breath. Jay's wisecrack broke my concentration; but thanks to Duncan's determined, unbroken onslaught, I was just as quick to get it back. Then a phone rang somewhere upstairs.

"Fuck!" Jay swore, jumping to his feet. His glistening knob stuck out of his clenched fist.

"Just ignore it," suggested Duncan, slowing down on his flogging of my dick, but not stopping altogether. He traded hands to wipe some of my excess precum onto his cockhead, taking advantage of the interruption to wank himself at the same easy tempo he was treating me to.

"Aw, I can't. I'm supposed to take messages for my old man. Besides, it could be Shelly." Jay stuffed himself into his drawers and ran out the door. "You guys go ahead, I'll catch up when I get back," he shouted over his shoulder. His footfalls thundered all the way up the stairs and along the hall to his dad's office. Then the distant ringing stopped.

Duncan still had my dick in his hand. He was stroking it slowly and lightly, barely holding it at all. He looked me in the eye, as if trying to read me. A little uncomfortable with the constant eye contact, I complimented him, "You sure know how to stroke a righteous bone, man." I cupped my bag and our fingers met. I grasped the hand that encircled my shaft to show him the pressure and speed I liked. "Here. Step up a little, like before. Like this..." I suggested, in my friendliest tone.

Duncan let go of my cock, smiled at me beatifically and dragged a lazy knuckle along my torso from my armpit to the ridge of my pelvic bone. I suddenly wanted to kiss him in the worst way. Slipping off the couch, once again skinning my pole, he knelt on the floor between my knees and started slow-jacking me underhand. I was a little put out that his cute, compact dick was out of sight now, as well as out of reach, but I easily gave myself over to pleasure. His delicate fingers made my cock look fatter, I was noting, when he suddenly reached over to the lamp on the table next to us and clicked it off. By the meager light that came in from the door, I saw the silhouette of Duncan's head come forward. In the half-light I watched his lips curl inward, forming a choirboy O. Presently, half my dick disappeared into his mouth.

On contact, I felt my cum near the boiling point. I knew I wouldn't be able to enjoy much of this. I clamped my eyes shut so that the sight of Duncan's face on my crotch couldn't set me off, but the image's afterburn persisted. He swirled his tongue around my glans for a few sloppy swipes before diving on the length of me. Reeling from the sudden heat around my whole organ, I rolled my head from side to side in a vain attempt to release some of the pent-up energy. Humming his enjoyment into my pubic patch, Duncan repeatedly impaled himself on my prick, tip to root. I felt the warm, humid exhalation from his nostrils bathe my crotch on every plunging downstroke. Both his hands roamed my chest and thighs. Finally, he grabbed me by the plums and tugged on them, hard. That caused me to start losing my wad before he even got a decent sucking rhythm established. I felt my dick swell. I grabbed the back of his head and involuntarily fucked his face, the springs of the daybed creaking with each lunge. He choked on my first couple blasts, but his hands grabbed my hips, forcing them down onto the mattress. I eased off the thrusting. He took the rest of my load purring, gently toothing the rumpled collar my retracted foreskin made behind the ridge of my palpitating glans.

When he finally stood up, he came up wanking. Instinctively, I reached over to turn the lamp back on. Backlit as he was, I couldn't see him pumping very well. And I HAD to see him spew. He stepped between my splayed knees, grinning with cum-swashed lips and jacking like a maniac. For an instant it looked like he might be offering me his dick, in case I wanted to return the favor. Of course I did, but the fear of Jay walking in on that kind of scene made me drop back into the pillows to remove any ambition Duncan might have had for sticking it in my mouth. I tried to jack it for him with an outstretched hand, but he seemed intent on doing it himself. I kept one hand on my three-quarters bone and played with Duncan's smallish, but low-slung nuts while he brought himself off, his eyebrows raised and his eyes closed. Most of it sailed past me because he tightened himself up, standing in a half-crouch when the arcing jets started. That sent his jizz off to one side, onto some cushions and a folded afghan several feet away. His projectile blasts eventually diminished and one nice warm squirt, near the end of his climax, caught me across the wrist and hung there like slim, wet bracelet. I longed to lick it off. I was just about to, since Duncan had collapsed, eyes shut, next to me on the daybed. But just then Jay walked through the door.

"Looks like I just missed the best part!" Jay said stepping out of his underpants. He was already at full erection. He gazed down at Duncan's huffing form, then at me. "He cums just like you, eh Jens? A regular friggin' howitzer! You should have seen the one Dunc shot off before. I swear, one day I'm going to start measuring you guys for distance."

Duncan and I glanced at each other, a little shyly. He licked his lips and I smiled at him, in spite of myself. Then I gave him a wink Jay couldn't see. God, I was being flirty with a guy three years younger than me-- and with my best friend sitting not two feet away!

"That was Kevin on the phone. He's just back from California,"

"Kevin?" Duncan sat upright, looking past me at Jay. "Is he coming here?" He left no doubt he fervently wished that to be so.

"Not till tomorrow night," Jay told him. Duncan's hopeful expression fell. "But he says hi--" he looked at me, "to both of you wankers."

I tended not to be around very often when Kevin was. It wasn't that I avoided him, but I worked and dated and went to school. Kevin didn't seem to do any of those things. He went away for on trips for long periods of time, but when he was around he was, via Jay, my main connection for pot and hash. It made me a little nervous to be in his company though, especially because Jay or others were always present. I knew he could see past my facade of heterosexuality and he made insinuating remarks that always forced me to take on a pose that was too butch by half, forced me to spout heterosexist trash that made me cringe even as I spoke. What I couldn't retaliate with in kind were the looks he gave me when nobody was paying attention to us. I suppose he aimed those looks at Duncan too.

Duncan wasn't to be put off with a simple 'hi'. "Kevin is SO fuckin' cool! Did he say when he was coming? I'd kind of like to be here..."

"I'll bet you would," Jay said, almost to himself. "Did you get off?" he asked, poking me in the ribs with his jacking elbow.

"Did I? Oh yeah! Dun--" I certainly wasn't going to mention the blowjob, but I felt Duncan's hand touch my thigh, felt his anxious look without seeing it. I said no more.

"Well you must have been neat about it, for once" Jay said, applying fresh spit to his bone. "Didn't I tell ya' Jens pumps a wild load, Dunc'?"

"He sure does, Jay." Duncan looked at his watch and got up to reach for his pants. "I REALLY gotta go," he said, treating us to another look at his trim, soft butt as he stepped into them. Socks and sneakers followed, then his white shirt with the fake bow-tie and name tag clamped to the pocket. He seemed to have forgotten his boxers. I was going to ask about them when he stepped over to where Jay was energetically pounding his meat. "You want me to take care of that for you before I go?" he asked.

Jay gazed up at Duncan, a little edgy by the look of it, but didn't let up on his dick. "NO! I mean, it's-- okay," he gasped, "I'm-- almost--"

Duncan spread Jay's outstretched legs and knelt between them. Jay went white, but he was too close to heaven to stop. Duncan calmly pulled Jay's blurring fist off his cock and replaced it with his own. "No, Dunc'! You don't have to--" he glanced over at me, obviously distressed at my being there at that moment. He tried to push him away, but Duncan kept right on smiling and pumping, his face ever closer to the tip of Jay's bone. All at once Jay's head flew backwards and he gasped. Weak, but ample spurts ejected from his dick, none of them powerful enough to make it to Duncan's face.

Duncan grinned a private grin in my direction and I grinned it back while Jay lay whimpering. He worked the slime of Jay's final drops along his deflating shaft and mouthed some words at me I didn't understand. Abruptly, he stood up, chuckling to himself and grinning at Jay. Now it seemed, it was he who was having a joke at Jay's expense. He patted Jay on the outer thigh a couple times and grabbed a few kleenex for his sticky fingers. He exchanged one more winking glance with Jay. "Real nice meeting you Jens. Catch you guys later!" he said brightly and was gone.

"Again?" I asked Jay, sliding next to him and tugging on our cocks is unison.

"I better not, Jens. Shelly's staying over tonight." he said. Much sooner than was his usual habit on these occasions, Jay seemed bent on getting mobile. He went to take a quick shower, time I used to drink Duncan's scent out of his boxers. I'd have gladly squeezed off another load, lying on the floor like that, with Duncan's drawers on my face. Too soon, Jay turned the shower spray off and rejoined me in the rec room.

Jay still seemed a bit distracted later on, when we went for a burger. We sat at the drive-in, finished with our meal but still swilling the remains of our Cokes. The name Duncan came up. "So, Jay," I teased him, "that makes it one down and two to go, I guess."

"Wha?"

"You told me there were three other guys you wanked with. Duncan's one. That leaves two I don't know about, right?" I wondered who they could be. All the time.

Jay chuckled. "You still don't know who the three are. Duncan's sorta new." he chuckled again.

"Horny bastard!" I had to give him credit.

"So, Jens, when you guys were beatin' off? When I was on the phone back there?" Jay asked without asking anything.

"Yeah?"

"Well, did Dunc' try to-- like-- " d-d-did he-- "

"Spit it out, for chrissakes. You sound like Porky Pig."

"Did he-- Aw, forget it."

"Take a drink of your soda Jay," I told him. I'd rarely seen him at a loss for words. The problem was usually one of getting him to shut up.

"Did he try to suck your dick while I was upstairs?" Jay asked, in a hushed, skittish tone.

"No!" I lied, not missing a beat. "Would he DO that?"

"Well, yeah... Like, he did it to me the first time we ever beat off together and now he wants to do it all the time." Jay looked out the window, the one he'd just rolled up despite the heat, just in case the people in the next car could overhear us.

"And you let him?" I'd have gladly joined Duncan on his knees in front of Jay.

"No! Just that one time, honest! I don't think Dunc' takes it up the ass or anything like a pure-D fag, but he's sure a bugger to suck dick!"

"No shit. I guess that's not as queer as it would be if you sucked him back," I said trying to reassure him. "You didn't, did you?"

"Fuck off! I don't do that!" he said, bristling in exagerrated offence. Sorry Jay. Had to ask. "You saw how he perked up when I mentioned Kevin. Before Kev left for the coast this last time Duncan and him were hanging out a fair bit. I think maybe Kev's turned him queer or something."

"So, is he any good? Duncan, I mean. Does he give good head?" I sure didn't know very well. The shock of actually having another guy's mouth on my cock after wanting it for so long had given me scant opportunity to be objective.

"Oh fuck, yeah! Shelly only does that for me if it's my birthday or if she's had too much lemon gin. And frankly she's pretty shitty at it, compared to Duncan. But it ain't that, man. It's just real hard to refuse him 'cause he's such a nice kid otherwise and 'cause he seems to like it so much. He always looks kinda sad when I tell him no. I tell ya' Jens, that time he did me? He got me off three times in a row without pullin' off my cock once. Musta been blowin' me steady for the better part of an hour!"

"Fuck! I'll say he likes it," I knew exactly why he liked it too, but I wasn't saying. I envied him just the opportunity for an hour of Jay's cock in his mouth-- three creamy Jay-loads seemed almost an extravagant bonus. "You told me you messed around with Kevin a few times to prove to him that you weren't queer, right?"

"Well, yeah. Only a couple of times and you gotta understand I was pretty wrecked both times. You know. We smoked up and started out just giving each other handjobs, but Kevin kind of moved in on me. I guess things just... "

"Got out of hand?" I offered.

He smiled at that. "I guess they did. I didn't really get off on him kissing me or pawing my butt and all that, but I really liked it when he sucked my cock." Jay palmed himself abstractedly and stared out the window. "I guess a guy can do it better cause he knows how everything feels."

"Did you try it on him? Just to check it out, I mean."

Jay squirmed a bit. I knew he couldn't lie, that he wouldn't. I also knew that he was acutely uncomfortable with the truth just then. "For a few minutes, I guess. I didn't really like the taste of his dick and doin' it made me feel creepy. I was probably terrible at it. Mostly Kev wanted to fuck me. I put the kibosh on that without even tryin' it. In the end, both times, we just went back to jackin' off like we always do. He understands now."

"So what made you pick Duncan to mess around with? I mean, when a guy sees some hubba-hubba chick on the street, he says to himself: 'now there's a filly I'd like to fuck!'. How is it with jacking off? Do you see some guy at school and say to yourself: 'now there's a cat I'd like to swap handjobs with'?"

Jay laughed. "Shit, I've thought that about almost every guy we know at one time or another. You got to be so careful who you come on to though. It can take a long time. Like it did with you."

"That's my point, Jay. And once you go to all the lengths of sussing a person out and finally getting loose with them, well, I can't see why you'd be surprised or upset if it turns out they'd be interested in doing more than that. If Shelly doesn't like to give head and one of your jackoff buddies does, I don't see where you've got a problem. When Duncan was sucking you off that time, did he make like he expected you to do him back?"

"He never mentioned it and I sure didn't offer. He jacked himself off most of the time he was blowin' me, or I did."

My mind took a hard left onto What-If Street. "See?" I told him, "And yet he stayed on you long enough to get three loads out of you. Sounds to me like he was getting what he wanted-- I say let 'im, and be glad." If Jay could get his head around that, there might be a chance for me to nose-dive him too. Or at the very least, if fate allowed a repeat of that afternoon's play, I'd be able to enjoy a blowjob from Duncan without worrying so much about what Jay would think of me.

It was unusual for Jay and I to go that long in a conversation without making eye-contact. "You sure he didn't put any moves on you?" he asked again. I was glad he wasn't looking at me.

"Nope, just a good ol' handjob," I'd like to think I lied because I didn't want Duncan to seem like a slut, but I really didn't know why I couldn't be upfront with Jay. He'd just admitted to me that he'd sucked his cousin's cock-- twice. He'd been embarrassed about it, but his telling me that demonstrated enormous trust. Yet I just couldn't bring myself to tell him I'd done it too. If I did, I'd have to tell him with whom, and how often, and for how long. And that I'd liked it. And that I'd been in love with the guy I did it with. I knew the lack of any evidence of my ejaculation that afternoon was vexing him. "Duncan's a mean stroker," I told him, "but I hardly came at all. Guess I put the pickle to Julie a few too many times last night," A shameless boast, but I was suddenly eager change the topic and happy to get mention of our girls to the fore. I draped my napkin over the hardon snaking along my inner thigh. I'm still hyped from this afternoon," I told him, "Julie's in for a ragged dinkin'."

"Fuck, I hope I'm squishy again when Shelly comes over later," Jay mused. "I read someplace that oysters are supposed to bone you right up. Maybe I should pick some up on the way home," I filled him in on just what was required for the preparation oysters. "Fuck that!" he said. "By the time I did all that shit I'd have another load or two ready anyways..."

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