Letters to Bill

Organization: The Denver Exchange, Inc.

Please check the header! The following story contains some form of gay sexual content describing purely fictional events. If this is "not your bag", do yourself and us all a favor and hit the "n" key NOW!

Readers under a "legal" age somewhere who happen to be reading this are used to being told to ignore the existence of this material. Doesn't seem logical to me, if they happen to like and enjoy it. As above, if they don't, they too can hit the "n" key and be done with it. Since I have no control whatever over who does or does not read this, I think this paragraph is silly. Some hot-shot lawyer said it has to be here. Enough said.

Now, on with the show! (Hi, there, Senators!)

Oh: permission to archive and/or re-post granted, so long as the author is credited. Otherwise, (c) Bruce Bramson 1995.

Bruce Bramson

S-------, California

June 1, 1966

Dear Bill,

It was good seeing you again after all these years, during the Christmas gathering at your home. I'd sort of lost track of you, though I'd heard you were involved in some sort of research at the University. Gloria said once in a letter that you found your work "stimulating", but the significance of her remark was lost on me until we discussed the subject of your research! I suppose it gets pretty "old-hat" for you, constantly studying sex as you do. But remember us on the outside who provide your material: it rarely gets "old-hat" for us!

Because of all the frantic family goings-on we didn't get much chance to delve into your subject very far. Your casual remark that I might recount some of my own experiences for you came back to me the other day, so I've decided to fill you in on some details of my life which might interest you. Whether you get anything out of it is for you to judge, but remember: YOU asked for it!

I was eleven years old when the folks met their tragic end and I was sent to live with Aunt Mattie. I've learned since what a trauma suddenly being deprived of parents at that tender age really was: but at the time it seemed like the most fortunate thing that could have happened. Parental authority was despicable, and Aunt Mattie was so decrepit that I could truly do anything I pleased. I was not with her for more than a few months when (as I believe you know) I got mixed up with a pretty tough bunch of kids at school. One of their pranks in which I was indirectly involved (I was the look-out) back-fired, and as a result of their snitching I too was rounded up. My "buddies", who had police records, all ended up in the County jail, but I was sent to the Preston School of Industry in Ione. A less aptly named place you can't think of, but a whole new education awaited me there, believe me!

The first week at Ione was spent in various interviews with "councilors", doctors, psychiatrists, taking tests and so forth. I was assigned to a bed in one of the dormitories, and began getting used to the routine. I was always so tired that first week that I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. One thing puzzled me, though, for nearly every morning something wet seemed to have been deposited in my socks sometime during the night. The requirement was that we left our shoes and socks by our beds at night, because we were supposed to put them on if we went to the john; we weren't supposed to creep noiselessly around, as that would make it appear we were "up to something".

Anyhow, like I said, every morning I'd find my socks had been used by someone to mop up something or other and I had no idea who was doing it, or what the stuff was. So one Saturday night I decided to stay awake and find out just what was going on. I went to bed along with everyone else at nine o'clock and pretended to go to sleep: but I stayed awake for a while and lay facing the side of the bed where my shoes and socks reposed on the floor.

I'm sure this was the first time I ever noticed how noisily people sleep. There were some ninety of us in this room -- the beds were in two rows along the walls, about 3 feet apart. There was a half-moon, so the room was not entirely dark and I could see pretty well when my eyes adapted to the dimness. But there was a lot of noise: beds squeaking, people tossing about, some snoring lightly, some breathing heavily and so on. It added up to quite a din. I wasn't making much noise myself, being intent on feigning sleep. I had not particularly noticed the fellow in the bed next to mine, but he was about all I could see clearly from my position: I thought he was asleep like the rest. Unexpectedly (I had almost drifted off in spite of myself) I saw him slowly push back the covers of his bed to a point around his knees; he slipped his shorts down to about the same spot and relaxed. He jumped violently as I rearranged myself for a better view, but as I kept my eyes closed I guess he figured I was just tossing, for when I cracked my eyes open after a few minutes he was busy at a task I had never before witnessed. Imagine my fascination as I saw him stroke his penis up and down in a rhythmic fashion with his fist. In the dim light I could see he had made it rigid, and its length I judged was about 6 inches, better than twice as long as I'd ever seen it in the showers. His body, very pale in the moonlight, was absolutely smooth and (like mine) devoid of any hair: we could not have been six-months apart in age. His stroking slowly gathered speed, and his body seemed tense and excited.

Suddenly there was a noise out in the hallway and it was clear that one of the night guards was making his rounds. My neighbor, electrified, yanked the covers up over his body and turned facing me pretending to sleep. I noticed quite a rustle of sounds in the room that suggested others making sudden re-arrangements and quieting down. In the excitement I forgot to close my eyes and when my neighbor opened his I could see by the look on his face that he realized I'd been watching him.

The guard entered, walked the length of the aisle between the beds, went back to the door, and out. It was a perfunctory visit of the sort he was required to make at unscheduled times. For about two minutes after he'd gone all was quiet; then the sound of rustling covers was heard again: people moved, beds squeaked. Again I opened my eyes and saw my neighbor looking at me. After a few minutes he rolled onto his back, tossed back his bedding and resumed his work as though there'd been no interruption. He did not seem to care that I was watching; at one point he turned and smiled at me, then resumed his activity with his eyes closed. I sensed he was enjoying what he was doing.

Again his actions soon gathered speed: his body once again took on a look of tenseness, and it seemed that some sort of climax was about to be reached, but once again a sound interrupted his operation. This time, however, the sound was in the room, someone getting out of bed. I heard no shoes being put on (against regulations!) but presently one of the older boys whose bed was nearer the door very quietly walked up to the opposite side of my neighbor's bed. My friend had not covered himself, but stopped his motions and seemed to be waiting for some action from his visitor. He did not wait long: the older chap sat down at once on the bed and without a word bent over and put his mouth on the tip of the younger boy's penis. My neighbor released his grip on his organ, which promptly disappeared from view into the other fellow's throat.

The fellator was, of course, naked, but I could see only his torso, bent down over my friend: his head moved up and down, duplicating the hand- motion I had been witnessing. Neither of them noticed that I raised myself up to get a better view, and I glanced around the room to discover that the scene before me was replicated in several other beds. Somewhere down the line someone was breathing very hard and moaning hoarsely. Just then my neighbor, whose body was now so tense it had assumed an arching position with his mid-section raised entirely above the mattress, began to breathe heavily and with a series of jerky motions reached whatever climax his assistant's activities were obviously intended to produce, and then relaxed limply back onto the bed.

The older boy then got up and knelt on the bed straddling the other's out-stretched legs, and grasping his own penis went through the same sort of hand-motions I'd observed earlier. He knew I was watching, for he looked directly at me and grinned. Then, he seemed temporarily transported away from us, and there issued from the end of his penis several powerfully propelled spurts of fluid which fell noiselessly on the smooth stomach beneath him. After a few moments to relax, and with a wink at me, he reached over the side of the cot and picked up MY socks, which he used rather ineffectively to mop up the wetness from his partner. Then he stood, tossed my socks atop my shoes, and returned to his bed.

Well, now I knew! I watched several similar scenes around the room for a time, most of which were over by the time the guard reappeared: this time as he made his rounds I fell asleep. I do not remember what I dreamed that night, but I was amazed the next morning to find evidence that something had happened beneath my bed-clothes while I slept. Recalling the scenes of the night, I could only picture someone kneeling over me stroking his penis, but I could not imagine such could take place without awakening me. I puzzled about this most of that day, and resolved to learn more by staying awake again that night, but fatigue caught up with me and for several nights I slept and saw nothing. No more spots appeared on my bedding, either.

During the next few weeks I did manage several nights to observe some of the goings-on in that dormitory. The curious thing (attributable to my age, I suppose) is that it did not immediately occur to me to try any of the activities I witnessed. I noticed others watching at times, but discovered that the subject of what was happening was never discussed during the day. Indeed, there was no discussion at night, either -- just myriad activities that were taken for granted by everyone there.

One night, I was watching a couple of kids fooling around in the bed across the aisle from mine. The activity was similar in nature to what I'd decided was the usual course of things. Presently, I became aware that the neighbor on my left was watching, too, and he was also watching me. We exchanged smiles (embarrassed ones, for my part) several times. After perhaps half-an-hour of this he quietly pushed aside his bedding (I instantly noticed he had no shorts on), swung his legs over the side of his bed and quietly slipped into mine, lying back with a calm smile on his lips. I could guess what he wanted to do, but didn't really want any part of it: but there he was, and I froze with fear when he silently gripped my wrist and guided my hand to his penis which was very hard and larger than my own. Instinctively my grip closed about him and I commenced the up-and-down motion that appeared to be so effective for all the others. He had some hair around the base of his penis and I guess he was perhaps a year older than I: we had never spoken during daylight hours, and although I felt this intrusion into my bed a bit presumptuous of him, I had to admit the sensation of holding his erect penis in my hand was not at all unpleasant!

I had not stroked him many times when he violently threw back the covers, and just in time, too: he grasped my wrist in a vice-like grip and stopped the motion of my hand. I squeezed his penis vigorously and with a great lunging motion white fluid shot from the head of his penis and landed high up on his chest here and there, some landing on the biceps of his left arm as well. I was startled by this, for I hadn't expected it to happen so quickly: he lay in a state of tension for several minutes following his eruption, then relaxed all at once and heaved a great sigh of relief. He reached over the bed-side and produced his own socks with which he did his best to mop up, and then slipped out of my bed as quietly as he had entered it. He gripped my shoulder for just a moment, looked me straight in the eye, and whispered huskily "Thanks, buddy". As I lay back mulling over these events it occurred to me that he was the first person to say "thanks" for anything I'd done since arriving at the "school".

Several more weeks of this sort of activity passed. My neighbor to my right who had accidently introduced me to all this was involved in something or other nearly every night, I discovered, while the neighbor on my left "dropped by" my bed every now and then. There weren't many variations in what went on, and through it all my involvement was only to the extent of watching or occasionally "jerking off" (as I soon learned it was called) a few of the others. Once at the far end of the room I heard a good deal of noise that seemed different from the usual, and judging from the sound someone was getting hurt in the process; but the light was too dim to discern just what was happening.

One Saturday night as we were all getting ready for bed I overheard some of the older fellows agitatedly discussing something near the door. I caught only phrases like "...son-of-a-bitch..." and "...his turn...", but could not fathom it. There was more tension than usual and although this was a Saturday night, usually the busiest of the week, this night no "activities" of any sort commenced after lights-out. About an hour passed and I was nearly asleep when I heard a loud "hssssssst" from someone near the door, and footsteps approaching. The door rattled, more quietly than as if being opened by a guard; for it was NOT a guard, but instead one of the Doctors I had seen around the infirmary. I did not know his name. In those days he seemed much older, but I suppose now he was perhaps in his thirties. He locked the door behind him and walked quietly down the aisle. No one stirred; this surprised me, for as I've said there would usually have been a lot of noise in the room.

The Doctor proceeded to the bed three to my left, and I turned to watch what might happen. He bent down and patted the fellow in the bed, who gave a little start and a sort of groan. Then the Doctor pulled back the bed-clothes, exposing the full length of the boy who had been sleeping there and who now lay shivering in the sudden cold. The Doctor then un- buckled his belt and dropped his trousers to the floor. He stepped out of them; he had on no shorts, and had a large hard-on. Without further ado, he rolled the chosen boy over onto his stomach and climbed on top of him in such a way that only one further thing could possibly happen. A quick glance 'round showed me that nearly everyone in the room was watching, though none seemed too pleased about it. The youth was groaning, and the Doctor was pushing his erect penis into the boy's behind. I shivered as I imagined what the poor boy must be enduring, but I realized unexpectedly that the moans I heard were not those of pain, but of pleasure instead! The Doctor was now moving up and down on the bed vigorously, and it was not long before the various signs of a climax I had come to recognize were heard from BOTH the boy and the Doctor, after which they lay quietly for a few moments. Then quickly and quietly, the Doctor stood, his organ limp between his legs; he pulled on his pants and walked briskly out of the room.

Immediately the door closed behind him, several guys got out of bed and went to the boy who'd just been the object of the Doctor's "therapy". All had hard-ons, and I was amazed at the dimensions some of them displayed. One by one, each took the same pleasure enjoyed by the Doctor, those awaiting their turn standing and watching, keeping themselves hard and occasionally groping each other. I was incredulous, for the boy "taking them on" that night (and who took on no less than seventeen guys after the Doctor) was obviously enjoying himself to the utmost. I could not imagine so much as a pencil being pushed up my behind without pain, yet here was a backside plugged repeatedly by very large "pencils" indeed, and all I heard were sighs of pleasure! It seemed odd to me at the time that although this orgy lasted several hours, no guards came in during the entire night.

You must agree with me, Bill, that the workings of adolescence are strange: nearly three months of this sort of thing took place before my watchful eyes before it occurred to me to see what my own penis was capable of, given the kind of attention most of the inmates were giving theirs. But one night after watching a good many episodes around the dorm, my neighbor on the left slipped into my bed in his characteristic way and I dutifully jacked him off: as always, it took only a few minutes, but during that time he had (absent-mindedly, or so it seemed) got his hand into my crotch and was fiddling with my tool as I worked on his. At the conclusion of his ejaculation I noticed my own hard-on, and that his hand upon it had a curiously pleasant feeling. In a flash I saw (or felt!) what all this feverish activity around me was all about!

I relaxed against my mattress, hoping my friend would not discontinue his efforts, and was not disappointed. He took his left hand and rubbed it over himself where his own effusion had landed then wrapped that hand around my penis and stroked it gently and fully from end to end. The warmth and wetness electrified me in a way I had never known, but which I recognized at once for having watched the symptoms in so many others. The feeling was indescribably delicious, and it was not long before I felt something welling up inside me which presently burst its bounds with such force that I, my friend, and much of the bed were heavily spotted with that juice so often to be found in that dorm at night. Both his socks and mine did little to effectively mop up the mess. As my friend prepared to return to his bed I gripped his shoulder as he had once done mine, and in a voice heavy with fatigue and wonder I said, "Thanks, buddy". As I drifted off to sleep it occurred to me that this was the first time I had said "thanks" to anyone since arriving at the "school".

Throughout the year I spent in reform school, Bill, I witnessed adolescent sex virtually every night, and from the point of my own "initiation" described above I engaged in it and indulged my own pubescent fancies to the limit. One of the greatest blessings of getting OUT of that place was the luxury of clean, dry socks for the first time in many months! You probably cannot imagine some of the scenes in that dormitory: they ran the gamut from individual jerking-off to various pairings and groupings right up to virtually the entire group of ninety all jacking-off at the same time (in unison, one might say), to the wildest sort of group activity in which individuality was totally lost in a confusion of fellation, masturbation, fetishism, sodomy and much more, all enjoyed immeasurably by each and every one of us. The Doctor was only one of several staff members who took his pleasure with us from time to time, though the group generally disapproved of such intrusions.

I recall with particular pleasure, however, one of the laundry employees whose fancy I seem to have captured: it was only by chance that he selected me one night as the object of his particular type of pleasure. When he came in no one was much alarmed for he'd been around before. At the moment, one of the other boys who had just finished sucking-off my neighbor was kneeling over me and jacking off while I played with his balls: he came just as the laundryman entered. Seeing this, the laundryman approached and requested we not clean up the mess right away. Instead, he arranged for several other horny fellows to follow the example of depositing their seed upon my person, each act of which the laundryman watched with growing excitement. After I had been suitably prepared in this way, he stripped off his clothes and lay down upon me, slithering here and there assisted by the ointment that had so willingly been supplied. He was a smallish fellow himself, around twenty I suppose, with what seemed to be an immense pecker. So excited did he become that only a few wiggles sent him writhing wetly over me as he added his own long-pent effusion to the lot. From all appearances, he'd stored it up for some time, for he ejected a quantity at least twice that already present. He then lay still briefly, and I began to fumble around for whatever socks I could find, but with a hand on my chest he directed me to lie quietly while he licked up every bit of that with which I had been anointed, and so exciting did I find this operation that as he reached my pubic area with his well-trained tongue I myself shot forth a steaming load which he expertly retrieved just in the nick of time by swallowing the whole of my penis at the critical moment.

This scene with the laundryman, with minor variations (pardon the pun) was repeated a number of times: I am sure there was a connection between the fact that as a laundryman he was always cleaning up and the fact that following these orgies with him there was never any reason for me to mop up afterwards, so perfectly had he collected whatever he arranged to be placed upon me!

At the conclusion of my year at Ione (I had been a model of good behavior, which is to say I'd not gotten caught at anything), I was returned to the custody of Aunt Mattie, who, if anything was even more decrepit than when I'd left her. I also returned to the public school where it occurred to me that the simple-minded amusements of the kind of thugs I had once run around with could not possibly measure up to the nocturnal amusements I had become so accustomed to expect. Indeed, the first month back was rather difficult because I did not know many of the kids around, and my only release, abetted by a multitude of fond memories and stimulated by scenes in the school gym, was by my own hand. I was now just past twelve, and ripening rapidly. Looking back, I'm sure I was considered precocious, and I have often wondered to what extent the many "hormone treatments" I received at Preston may have influenced this.

One afternoon in the lavatory at school I was doing my duty at the urinal and glanced longingly at the object held by the only other occupant doing his duty at the next urinal. He was an upper-classman, for he had a letter on his sweater. He was a powerfully constructed Negro, endowed with a more sizeable penis than I had theretofore seen. He saw my glance and I fancied that he arranged himself in such a way that I could not help staring unabashedly at his magnificence. Completing his urination and putting away his device for the purpose seemed to consume more time than necessary. He grinned at my hard-on, which I hadn't noticed until then myself for it was such an automatic reaction. But he turned at last and strutted out, leaving me to put myself back together as best I could and return to class.

It may, of course, be only a co-incidence that this same chap was walking in my direction on the way home from school that very afternoon, or... In any event he smiled when he saw me and began a conversation clearly intended to determine whether I was expected home at any particular time. I explained about Aunt Mattie, whereupon he invited me to his house, to which we repaired forthwith. This guy stood at least a foot taller than I, and his construction anatomically was (to me at any rate) phenomenal. His parents were away from the house, and although he spoke of a younger brother, he also was not present, so we had the place to ourselves. We went directly to a bedroom where, for lack of anything else, I sat on the bed. The fellow dropped his sweater in a corner, turned away from me and stripped off his Tee-shirt. As he turned around to face me I saw he had opened his pants: "My name is Lee", he said, "and you and I are going to have a little fun -- right now". So saying, he slipped his pants down slowly, taking his shorts with them to reveal not only that which I had observed earlier, but a pair of lithe, muscular legs and neatly formed balls that complemented his rapidly rising penis. I could not take my cue instantly, so riveted was my attention on his body, but after a few moments of awe I recovered sufficiently to shuck my own clothes as quickly as possible. Lee then moved directly toward me, his magnificent tool preceding him: slipping his broad hands behind my head he directed his cock into my mouth. But the position was bad and I choked up, violently moving back and away from him. I motioned him to lie down so I could kneel over him: this time with less effort I had soon devoured his erection in a way that seemed very satisfactory to him, and which sent a chill of excitement through my own being. "Baby! Where in hell did you learn to do that?" he asked incredulously. I took it to be a rhetorical question, for I was in no position to answer just then!

We horsed around a good deal that afternoon. Several times I thought Lee was ready to come, but each time he stopped whatever I was doing and relaxed briefly, during which times I gathered my breath and admired his gorgeous form. In the reform school (where indeed I'd learned to do these things and many more) I rarely had occasion to pay much attention to physiques, since our activities were entirely nocturnal. But here before me was a specimen of young manhood that defied my description, and under the circumstances, describing it was the farthest thing from my mind!

Our seance was, alas, interrupted by the arrival of Lee's brother, who I guessed was closer to my age but built like his brother and who (it was obvious) would be another magnificent stud in not so many months. When we heard the door close I reacted instinctively, but Lee calmed me at once. To my surprise, he called his brother into the bedroom, which shortly gave me the opportunity to make the observations just described. The brother seemed unconcerned by our situation, which was compromising to say the least and provocative to say the most. Lee, with a firm caress with his huge hand sent me back to work on his masterful erection which had not flagged once all afternoon, and it was while so engaged that a lurching of the bed indicated that we were being joined by the brother. I at once felt hands exploring my back and realized that, my position being what it was, only one thing could be expected to follow. It did, and soon I was enjoying the sensation of a well-proportioned penis gliding warmly in and out of my behind. Paul (for that was the brother's name) bent down over me, reached around and grasped me in the appropriate place. Our motions were tuned to a regular rhythm which grew faster, and by a happy coincidence we all reached our climaxes at nearly the same time. I received deep in my throat a burst of energy that flooded my gullet and brought me up gasping for air, only to have the weight of Paul's lunging press me deliriously back down on his brother's shaft, while these same lunges signified the deposit in my bowel of a torrent of warm fluids; only moments later Paul's hand (and certain other factors!) brought forth from me great spurts of thick whiteness that landed in that beautiful valley formed by Lee's muscular thighs, still tense and shaking with the ecstasy of his release.

++++++++++++++++++++++

[continued]

We collapsed into a dishevelled heap on the bed, a mass of panting, sweating, happy flesh still entwined in various ways, slowly recovering from our orgasmic delirium. With considerable effort Lee produced from beneath the bed a towel which he used to mop up himself and which Paul used to wipe first his diminishing tool then my behind. Lee said in a hoarse voice "Baby, that was the MOST!" "The most, man, the MOST", his brother rejoined enthusiastically. All I could say was "Wow", which I found myself repeating senselessly over and over.

The scene recounted above, with many variations, was re-enacted many times over the next months. Aunt Mattie worried at first that I was "up to no good" because I was constantly away from the house; but when no inquiries from school or police were forthcoming she finally decided whatever I was doing was OK, and worried less. At various times I participated in sexual activities with Lee and Paul together, and often with one or the other individually. I was almost a fixture in their house, although I never ever saw their parents. Our sessions were always grand, satisfying affairs. Though it was known at school that Lee and Paul knew me, neither they nor any of our classmates ever showed in public that they knew what was really going on.

Since my sexual desires were now being successfully met through Lee and Paul, I was able to attend to my studies to a greater extent than formerly. I took up an instrument in the Band (clarinet) and found to my surprise there was some musical talent in me: long acquaintance with blowing instruments of another sort gave me an edge on my classmates, for I had marvelous control of my embouchure!

So it was that I and the rest of the Band members went to Sacramento for the annual Band Competition . This was a week-long series of concerts at the conclusion of which the winners got trophies. Our group stayed in a rather seedy hotel near the waterfront, along with a Band from some other town. Of course, there were chaperons all over the place, and a strict series of rules was laid down about who went where in the hotel: floors 5 and 6 were reserved for the guys, and 4 and 7 for the girls.

The first night, of course, there was a lot of ribald talk of making secret arrangements with the girls to visit our floor or vice-versa. But with chaperons patrolling the hall there really wasn't much chance of it. (I know now that if any of the fellows actually had gotten upstairs, they -- and the girls -- would have been petrified!) But with all the excitement of the trip, most of the kids in our room and nearby (judging by the noise) were awake talking and exchanging tales. The man patrolling our floor demanded more quiet and finally, near midnight I guess, the din quieted down. I was not very sleepy myself and was lying there wishing Lee or Paul was at hand when suddenly I detected a sound I had not heard since leaving reform school, but which I instantly recognized as bedding being tossed aside; in the dimness of the room I saw the chap from the farthest bed (there were five of us) was moving quietly towards the door, which had a ventilation grill in it. He listened intently for a few minutes. I did not know what he was hearing, but as he got an erection almost at once I guessed it was stimulating. Consumed with curiosity, I slipped out of my own bed and, naked as the other, joined him at the door: he jumped when I lightly touched his shoulder, but he saw at once that I had things similar to his on my mind, so we both put our ears to the grill.

The sounds we heard came from the room directly across the hall. That room was larger, and as I recalled had eight or ten fellows in it. That an orgy of the sort I had earlier known was in progress was immediately evident by the wealth of bed-squeaks, heavy breathing, and other familiar sounds. Being nearest to it, I put my hand on our door-knob and edged the door open: the hall was deserted, so I pressed on, propelling my new friend ahead of me across the hall and entered the opposite room. How the scene that greeted us took me back! Everyone in the room was involved in something or other. Of course, our sudden appearance caused a few moments of panic, but our nakedness and the conditions of our organs made it evident at once we were there to join in, not to interrupt.

Having a bit more forethought than the others, I threw the bolt on the door, then moved into the room. My fancy was immediately struck by a tall brown boy who I'd admired in our Band but who had always been stand- offish at school, and I went directly to him. He smiled sheepishly as he recognized me, and I gripped his erect cock rather as one under more formal circumstances would have grasped his hand in greeting. A tinge of intense pleasure permeated me as his wand pulsated in my hand, my other hand found the firm flesh of his forearm which I squeezed affectionately. The boy warmed to me quickly, and taking me into an embrace planted a warm wet kiss directly on my mouth -- an experience that was, strangely, new to me at that time. I forgot altogether about the others in the room for a time, for the blissful sensation of this beautiful boy caressing my mouth with his tongue, rubbing his muscular legs against mine, and pushing his hot pole between my legs blotted out all other thoughts.

How long we amused ourselves in this fashion I don't remember, but presently someone began working with something warm and turgid in the vicinity of my backside. Glancing over my shoulder I found behind us a "daisy chain" of about seven others; willingly I backed up on the foremost member of the chain and gently rotated my partner around and in just a few moments he was comfortably impaled on my shaft. As I nibbled at the broad brown back before me and enjoyed the sensation of toying with his tumescent tool I could sense he was enjoying everything just as much as I: indeed, he reached a climax almost at once and writhed and squirmed with pleasure as I caught up his exudate and used it to lubricate and massage his organ. His intense motions soon induced much the same result in myself and I loosed into his interior several days' accumulation of my own lubricant. The orgasmic wave thus passed down the chain and one could, if familiar with the sounds, track its progress; my own intense ejaculation with its associated motion and tension brought on a violent ejaculation by the chap behind (and in) me, and his wild thrashing was accompanied by a somewhat less enthusiastic, but pleasurable I am sure, climax of his aft partner: so it went until the last chap in line, whose moans and groans we feared might arouse the hall-monitor, signalled his transport briefly into the all-consuming act of ejecting his load into the delighted boy in front of him.

As the chain broke up and exhausted boys flopped on their beds I found myself loathe to leave the lovely fellow from whom I was slowly withdrawing, and who was wiping himself with the window curtain. The boy who had come over with me was talking with another, and as I moved near to collect him he whispered he wanted to stay there for the night: I was delighted and returned to my friend at the window. He was tired and sleepy, almost "out on his feet" in fact, so did not complain as I propelled him across the hall to my room, where we slipped into bed together. There, warmly entangled, we were in dreamland within minutes. Somehow, before the chaperon pounded on doors to signal morning, everyone had once again found his assigned room and bed, but not before some fond leave-taking with the promise of future meetings.

The bed-switching occurred most nights of our stay in Sacramento, so when we were riding home on the bus I could relax and sleep peacefully knowing that I had found a new partner to help out when Lee and Paul were not available.

The remainder of that school year was one of the happiest of my life. My sexual activities were pretty evenly divided between Lee and Paul, and Oral, the chap I'd connected with on the excursion to Sacramento. The two relationships were very different, however: with Lee and Paul sex was our only objective. Although both these boys liked me, it was principally as a medium for their sexual release that I functioned in their lives. Both were athletes: Lee was the foot-ball hero of the school, single-handedly carrying the team to victory in the series that year. The only game our school lost was one which took place when I had broken the schedule of our sessions because of an attack of flu.

With Oral, there was a more genuine feeling of comradeship apart from the sexual pleasure we took in each other. Without Aunt Mattie ever being aware of it (she was becoming quite deaf) Oral slept with me several nights each week. He told his older brother he had a friend, and his brother (who I assumed took this to mean "girl-friend") helped cover his absences from home. The family did not seem to disapprove, really, and as long as Oral's studies did not suffer he was free to do whatever he felt was right. Needless to say whatever was right for him was entirely acceptable to me! I don't think he was ever aware of my activities with Lee and Paul, whom he knew only casually.

That summer, they both got jobs out of town, so the weight of keeping my appetite satisfied fell entirely on Oral. We saw each other constantly, and I was surprised to find the increasing intensity of our encounters, caused by a rapidly deepening emotional involvement, tended to compensate for the reduced frequency of my sexual excursions.

By this time I had become familiar to Oral's folks, and became almost a member of the family. Oral's mother, a large, wonderful warm woman, and a superb cook, was the closest thing to a real mother I ever had. Thus, it seemed only natural that when pneumonia finally carried off Aunt Mattie late that summer, I was nominally adopted into the Washburn household. Shortly after, the whole family helped me celebrate my thirteenth birthday, and a remarkable event took place. The party itself was a lavish affair with a few kids from the Band on hand. After glorious cake and ice-cream, and some gifts (a handsome sweater from Oral), we got together a group of diverse instruments and spent the afternoon in raucous music-making. About six, after still more food, everyone left. Oral's folks also went out for the evening, and his brother had a late date for which he was preparing.

I was watching TV in the living room and Oral was washing dishes in the kitchen when his brother joined me on the divan. I was being effusive about the wonderful party, saying it had been the greatest (I could have said "only"!) one I'd ever had: Earl said he was happy I was pleased, and then said, "After all, anyone who makes my little brother as happy as you've made Oral deserves the best we can offer". I was alarmed: how much did he know about what Oral and I had been doing? We'd been sleeping together at his house out of necessity, but had tried not to be noisy with our activities.

Earl continued, "I was always afraid Oral was going to turn wild like so many of his friends, but since he met you he's settled down and none of us worries about him much any more: he loves you more than he himself is aware, and the effect you've had on him is really great. As a family we can't thank you enough and hope you like the set-up and will stick around. If you walked out on Oral, I'm afraid it would be very hard for him".

I was dumbfounded! Earl's matter-of-fact tone about it all, and especially his mention of "love", was totally unexpected. Clearly they all knew about us and were concerned from the standpoint of my effect on Oral's happiness. As Earl stood up to get on with preparations for his date he said, with a winning smile, "Besides, you two make a cute couple", -- and he walked out of the room leaving me speechless.

Oral soon finished up in the kitchen, and we went up to bed almost at once. With the house to ourselves we gave free reign to our passion. Throughout the night I kept hearing Earl's words, and some of Oral's reactions to me that night took on new significance. It had never occurred to me that "love" might be involved in our relationship; I knew next to nothing of the subject due to the various deprivations of my tender years. My own reactions to Oral took on a new light as I realized I WAS in love with him! As our knowledge of each other deepened, it became increasingly evident that lovers we were. And, as Earl had said, we did make a cute couple!

So it is, Bill, that at the tender age of thirteen, I had a lover. Some sage once said the first love is always the best and I must agree with him: the next few years were among the happiest I'd known. I was accepted into the Washburn family as a brother-in-law, in exactly the same warm wonderful way that Earl's wife, when he married a short time later, was welcomed as a daughter-in-law. Mr. and Mrs. Washburn were my second parents, doting on me and the others equally. My studies at school went smoothly enough, as did Oral's, and while neither of us made the Honors list, we were at least near the top of our graduating classes.

But the horizon began to cloud towards the end of the year Oral graduated (he was a year ahead of me). I suppose it was inevitable that anyone as wonderful as he would attract a female: just before leaving for boot- training in the Navy, Oral married the only girl he'd ever known through his high-school years. I was too young to feel very bitter about losing him, and the warmth and understanding extended me by his family helped reduce the hurt.

Thus, in my Senior year of High School, I was once again "on the prowl" so to speak and for a short time was without the sort of companionship and activity to which I was so accustomed: I felt the lack keenly and devoted no little time to correcting the situation. One night I went to a football game to pass some time (and do a bit of cruising!) and sat near a group of four guys I knew casually. We got to talking and after the game decided to get some hamburgers at the drive-in. Naturally, the talk got around to girls pretty quickly, and after a while someone remarked that I had dropped out of the conversation. I left to go to the john, and when I got back was informed the group had decided to drive out into the country for a while before going home. While I was a bit apprehensive about this, as I didn't know these guys all that well, I certainly knew what they had in mind!

Actually, we went only a mile or so and drove down an access lane in a vineyard: a six-pak of beer materialized, which we all shared. The talk was the usual thing -- girls -- and I once again had fallen silent when I noticed the chap sitting next to me rubbing his crotch suggestively and looking my way. I needed no further clue to what was on his mind; handing him my can of beer, I bent to the task of opening his fly. Then, rearranging myself on the seat, I moved down and took what I had exposed into my mouth. His cock was of ample proportions and very responsive to my attentions. The desired result was reached rapidly but the ecstatic, emotion-filled climax I'd been used to with Oral was replaced instead with only a little heavy breathing and a few muscle twitches. It was not awfully satisfying for me, but I had not long to worry about this because in rapid succession I was obliged to service each of the others. Only the last fellow seemed to really respond to my efforts, and though it took him longer to reach nirvana, when he did it was like an explosion: so stimulating was it to feel his vigorous thrusts deposit their effluent in my throat that with no assistance even from my own hand I experienced a warm emission in my pants.

Of that group I saw again only the one whose climax had so stimulated me. He picked me up in his car about a week later as I was leaving school and took me to his house, where he asked me to relieve him as I'd done before. When he stripped off his clothes there was revealed before me a very neatly assembled package of young manhood. His skin was a pale olive shade and every movement he made revealed the lithe muscular structure beneath it. He had a nicely formed hair-line that widened from its point just below his navel to a thicket of very straight, very black pubic hair: this hair ended abruptly at his groin and his legs below were incredibly smooth and well formed. Here was, I thought, something I could really work with, and as he stretched out on his bed I shed my clothes and wasted no time in joining him. He had developed an erection, as had I for that matter, but I was irresistibly drawn to other parts of his anatomy so began by licking him all over. As my tongue darted here and there over his handsome form he shook with delight: muscular contractions, most of them involuntary, rippled beneath his skin. At one point my excursions took me far down his leg, bringing about a tension that caused each muscle to be clearly outlined underneath that lovely skin so delightful to lick and touch. His pubic hair seemed strange in texture because it was so straight and fine. From it sprang his lovely erection, another delight for my tongue, and when I worked with it my friend writhed with delight. Further up, my hands had got busy with his nipples, and moans of pleasure signified that he found this agreeable, too. As the tension mounted and his excitement grew, my own body responded in a like way; he raised his trunk upwards as my mouth at last began to toy with his firm glans, and the tasty exudate I found there was another delight. His position now allowed me to lick further down below his balls, whereupon his excitement grew in intensity until I recognized the familiar symptoms of a frenzied climax close upon him: so I quickly buried all of his rock-hard penis deep in my throat. He cried out with pleasure and with a writhing jerky motion found the relief he'd begged of me while I, as before, found the intensity of his orgasmic pleasure so thrilling that I emitted a flood of semen accompanied by that singular feeling that is the more intense for having been achieved without real physical action. His orgasm lasted several minutes and I guessed he'd not had relief since our first encounter, for the volume of material he expelled was enormous! When at last I could "come up for air", I tongued him again as necessary to clean up the mess I had created. during which he continued to writhe and moan in the near-agony of his orgasm. When at last he relaxed, wholly spent, I laid down beside him and we both fell asleep.

His name was George, and I saw him regularly for the remainder of that last year at High School. Our sessions were almost always the same, and though there was no particular warmth towards me on his part, the pitch of excitement to which I could always raise him usually incited a climactic reaction in myself: hence I always enjoyed the many afternoons we were together. Through him I met, on much the same basis a number of his friends, and by the time school was over I was kept very busy taking care of them. On graduation night, George threw a "bash" for a bunch of his friends. Nearly everyone got too drunk, but not before I had relieved most of them in the privacy of the upstairs bathroom. I heard later I'd made myself very unpopular with the girls there, who felt they were losing out, which they certainly were.

As the school year ended, culminating as always in graduation, it became clear I should unburden the Washburns of my presence (although in truth I had been spending less and less time there as my sexual activities claimed more and more of my time); I also decided I should go to college, for I was really an orphan very much "on my own", and further education would be helpful. The questions I faced in order of importance were; first, how would I support such a venture, and second, what college should I attend? In a moment of respite between "tricks" I had applied to a small college in Southern California that offered a scholarship: to my surprise I won it. It was just a stipend, enough for books and tuition, and I would have to support myself as far as living expenses were concerned. So, early in the summer, most of my friends having scattered also, I decided to go to the college town to see what sort of work I might find. Taking leave of the Washburn's turned out to be heart- rending, and by the time I had arrived in S------- I was already homesick and lonely. Having had little experience travelling, I wasn't ready for uprooting myself so completely. But I spent the first few days familiarizing myself with the town, and then got down to the more serious task of finding work. This was no easy thing in a small college town in summer, with its surfeit of students needing work.

Such meals as I took in those lean days were eaten at a small hamburger joint a few doors away from the cheap hotel where I stayed. Adjacent was a service station, and I longed for experience in that field for the attendant usually on duty had not escaped my notice: he reminded me so much of Oral, though be was more fully built, darker, and somewhat older. He was a very rich, glowing dark-brown and was industrious and efficient -- but at the same time graceful -- as he went about his duties at the station. One day when I was feeling rather dejected after a fruitless morning of job-hunting, this chap came into the 'burger joint while I was there for lunch. I'd noticed he'd had a very busy morning, so I decided to ask if he might like some help, and after rather boldly managing to begin a conversation, I put the question to him. I shall never forget the result: our talk up to that point had been idle, the sort of thing any two strangers might say. But the overtones in his voice changed abruptly as he answered; it was as though he had "multiplexed" and come on loud and clear in Stereo! He turned full towards me, ran his deep brown eyes over me as if seeing me for the first time, and said, "It might be arranged: what can you do?"

You can bet I read both channels! As to what I might do (at the station) I mumbled something about washing cars and so forth: as to what I might do (at any other place he cared to choose!) I let a long, lingering look at his crotch serve as a temporary answer, and by the smile of approval that lit my face I signified my willingness to do my best for him. He replied in his former tone that he'd "see" about it, and told me to drop by the station about five that afternoon. I returned to my hotel for a nap: all thoughts of actual work were temporarily dispelled as I envisioned an encounter I felt sure would be terrific.

I got no job at the station, but from that evening forward I was "kept" by Albert, the attendant. We went from there to his apartment a short distance away. He fixed us both drinks, then disappeared into his bedroom saying he had to clean up after the day's work, and it was not long before I heard water running in the shower. Being un-used to alcohol, the drink rapidly had an effect on me and I was seized by an irresistible impulse. I shed my clothes right there in the living room and quietly sought out the bathroom where steam rose in great clouds from behind an opaque shower curtain. None too timidly, I pulled back a corner of the curtain: seeing Al's broad muscular back and a wall-dish with a bar of soap, I took up the latter and without a word applied it to the former. Al responded with a satisfied sort of sound and as the hot water splashed around us both I washed and massaged him with the fragrant soap. Feeling his smooth, dark skin beneath my fingers was very exciting, so I climbed into the tub and washed his back, as much of his chest as I could reach from behind him, and his marvelously sculptured arms. Then I put aside the soap and massaged the same areas again without its slippery benefits. Al made no move to turn around, but languished beneath the flowing water and uttered occasional sounds of intense relaxation. Next, I knelt behind him, moving my hands towards lower regions of his body, deliberately avoiding his private parts: I could not resist massaging each of his sturdy legs in turn, and found myself nibbling occasionally at the firm gluteus maximus directly before me. With gentle urging from my busy hands, he turned around so the hot water struck his back: there, erect before my anxiously waiting throat was a phallus of such perfect proportions that I began to exclaim over its loveliness. But before I could utter a sound Al grasped my head firmly but tenderly and thrust my mouth down over his magnificent erection. I had not realized how much I had excited him, for he ejaculated at once: his pubic hair commingled with the very warm water delighted me as it rubbed my face, and his balls, drawn up tightly against his penis felt hot as they rubbed my chin. His whole body was involved in this act: his hands gripped my head and synchronized its motion perfectly with each peristaltic contraction of that great organ buried in my throat, and my hands against his broad thighs felt the approach of each wave as the muscles worked harmoniously to effect the expulsion of his vital fluids. Suddenly, with a huge sigh of relief, he relaxed and gently pulled me up to stand before him: I at once buried my head between his breasts and my own erection between those powerful thighs. Hugging him to me at his waist, I exploded in a frenzied orgasm of pleasure, heightened by the sound of his still-rapid heartbeat and the manly fragrance that permeated my nostrils.

In this embrace, hot water flowing over us, we remained for some while after I had calmed down from the feverish excitement of the events just concluded. When at last I relaxed enough to look up into his eyes I knew at once I had found someone who would look out for me in this new town. Together we have achieved heights of passion exceeding even that just described, and which indeed defy adequate description.

Bill: I had no idea when I began this letter it would turn out more like a book!. I've got a class to catch in fifteen minutes, so I really have to close. As I said at the beginning, I hope you get something out of it!

Sincerely,

Fred

++++++++++++++++++++++

San Francisco, July 10, 1976

Dear Bill,

Your reply to my long letter has gathered dust among my things for several years now: I found it again while packing some stuff last week. Since you seem interested in learning more of my life and to have other escapades described, I'll oblige.

My first year in college was spent with Albert, or Alberto as I came to know him, for eventually I learned he was of Latin-American descent. It was a good year, marred only by a complete lack of direction to my studies: I had never once thought of how I might earn my way in life, for until this time I'd just never had to think about it! I dabbled in many subjects, but found little that turned me on. Alberto, on the other hand, definitely turned me on, regularly. He was a man of few words but of many talents: he was a pretty good cook, so as I neared my eighteenth birthday I had filled out some and was losing the boyish look that had gotten me along in life that far. Our life together -- Alberto's and mine -- was GREAT: I was not very expensive for him and he made a good living at the service station (he owned it, I learned). I puzzled for many months, though, about why such a desirable stud as he should be so content with me when he could have had his pick of any of the single guys (or gals!) among his customers.

One night after a long session in which we reached heights of rapture and passion that can't adequately be described, I got to thinking that Alberto knew as little of me, really, as I did of him. Nestled alongside his magnificent form I unburdened myself of just about the only thing I had left that he had not experienced: my past. Mainly I described for him some of my early years, some of the escapades I've described for you, and some doubts about my future. Al listened wordlessly, but when I happened to mention (though I'd not intended to) my old "Alma Mater" (the Preston School), he suddenly perked up and asked me to describe in great detail that period of my life. So I launched into a long reverie about those days. I was startled by the reaction from Al: despite our just having completed sex, I found him very excited by my tales, and it was not long before we were groping each other and working ourselves up to another round. Suddenly, as if I had turned on a tape recorder, Alberto began to unburden HIMself too, (exactly the effect I desired!) and I learned some interesting things.

Albert had completed college with a degree in some sort of social work, but after all his studies and efforts the only job he could find was as a guard at a southern California correctional institution for boys! This was a more modern facility than the one I'd attended, with smaller dorms, more doctors and technicians, and (I soon learned) far more "individualized" attention paid to the inmates. It seemed Albert had not expected this. A few months after he was hired, he was transferred from the day schedule of grounds patrol to the night crew of inside guards: and here, it seems, his real education in "social work" began.

I had not immediately perceived that this institution was not State-run like Preston, but was in fact a private organization. There were State inspectors around occasionally, but the place was run -- for profit -- by a group of Doctors. Courts could send offenders to this place when their parents could afford the fees.

Alberto's first discovery was that the dorms were all built in such a way that, unknown to any of the inmates, they could be observed in their quarters at all times through innocent-looking wall mirrors. His second discovery was that nearly all the observing done by the doctors of their "patients" was done at night: days were occupied mostly with fitness exercises and more-or-less routine school activities. Alberto also discovered that even the toilets could be surveyed, and that everything was "bugged" for sound as well. So the poor boys had no privacy whatsoever, and the night "guards" had precious little "guarding" to do, so spent most of their time watching, along with the doctors, the various carryings-on in the dormitories.

These held just ten boys each, but assignments were changed frequently -- every week, in fact -- the doctors' idea apparently being that "therapy" consisted mainly of mixing the boys very thoroughly together. Al eventually realized that the frequent dorm changes actually hinged on the doctors' desires to see as many different kinds of action as they could. And from Alberto's accounts, they were never disappointed. Now I knew why my descriptions of the scenes at Preston found such a ready listener in Alberto, for he had an endless fund of similar tales about the things he'd seen. For the next few months we were to regale each other with tale after tale, usually as a prelude to our own sexual activities. Poor Alberto: he had spent many months watching, but never participating. He had a favorite dorm he nearly always watched, and he told me when he left the institution the wall of that observation room was encrusted in cum where he'd repeatedly sprayed his load after watching hours of juvenile antics.

Eventually, Alberto decided sex was not a spectator sport, and, disillusioned by the unconventional therapeutic methods, he quit his work as a guard. He bought the gas station where I'd met him and had been in business for himself ever since. Who knows what forces were at work that cast me his way, but it seems I was the first boy he'd ever had, and he was enjoying it immensely. And it was a near-perfect set-up for me as well. Yet, as the months went by, I began to realize there was something missing in our relationship: variety. I sensed that Alberto, too, might wish for some occasional different fling.

One afternoon at school my rear-end reacted to Alberto's zeal of the night before, and I went to the nearest john I could find which happened to be upstairs in the Art-wing. Here I encountered my first glory-hole -- I was mystified by it at first, but as I completed my business I realized there was someone watching me from the next booth. On impulse, I limbered up my tool a bit, and when I noticed that lips had replaced the eyes behind that hole I saw how handy it was. Without further ado I plugged the hole and the warm throat beyond and had my first blow-job in a public toilet. At the middle of my 18th year I never seemed to lack a good load when the occasion demanded it, so without much effort but with quite a thrill because of the newness of the technique I presently pumped forth a goodly wad, relaxed briefly, put myself back together and departed.

The upshot of this experience was that I spent more and more of my "off" time at school in the Art-wing john, sucking cock at a great rate. The impersonal aspect of it appealed at the time, possibly because of the intensely personal nature of my activities with Alberto. And, my, there were some real beauties around that school! I got so I could recognize a cock as soon as it poked through the hole, and I made it a point to remember which of the various techniques now in my repertoire each responded to best. I did some strange things along about this time, too: for example one day I spent four hours in that cubicle (I cut a couple of classes). Instead of blowing the cocks that presented themselves, though, I jerked each one off, doing my best to get each load deposited on my body. After four hours there I was literally drenched in cum -- I'd given close to thirty hand-jobs -- and finally after spreading all that around and especially down into my crotch I jerked myself off and actually shot a spurt clean over the top of the toilet divider! How I wished my friend the laundryman from Preston had been there to clean me up. As it was I emptied the TP dispenser in the attempt, but finally had to go home and take a shower.

That day was really my undoing at home, though, for Alberto saw me arrive earlier than usual; he closed his station briefly and surprised me in the shower. With the unmistakable odor of cum permeating the bathroom, he could tell immediately I'd been up to something. Al was a gentle soul, so I had no real fear of telling him just what I'd done: and he became so turned on by my recounting the tale that he climbed into the shower with me with his clothes on, whipped out his throbbing tool and threw a fuck into me unlike any he'd ever done before. His gentle brutality coupled with the extraordinary sensation of his soaked Levis slapping my buns and legs worked me into a frenzy as well, so when with a lunge that pinned me to the wall Alberto exploded in my interior, I shot my own wad yet again.

The end of the school year was approaching and Al asked me one night if I had any summer plans. I'd not given it any thought, so he asked if I wanted to work in his gas station. I couldn't imagine myself doing anything really useful there, so I said, "doing what?" -- and he replied with a sly smile, "you'll see". So it was that a month or so later Alberto gave me a white uniform with my name embroidered on the pocket. These were coveralls of a sort, but not at all baggy. In fact, I found I could not wear them over other clothes as intended, but instead had to slip into them with only my underclothes on. The effect was nice, and I dimly perceived that I looked rather good in the outfit. When, as I examined myself in the mirror I realized that I even showed a basket, I began to understand (or so I thought!) the purpose I was to serve at the station. "Business must be bad", I thought, and Al wants to pick things up a little.

So on my first day at the new "job", I was really gung-ho, washing windshields and so forth, all the time under Alberto's watchful eye. Now, as an independent dealer, Al always closed his station for lunch. Sometimes he ate at the hamburger joint, but he also had a little office in back he could go into and eat sandwiches brought from home. So on that first day we repaired to his office for lunch. Naturally, I asked how I was doing, and again with a sly smile he replied, "Fine, but I didn't really put you on here to wash windshields and fill batteries". Surprised, I asked what he wanted me to do, and so Al unfolded his plan for me -- and Boy, was it a beaut!

Though it had but three pumps, Al's station had a lot of parking space around it. And, as I was about to discover, he'd had a few changes made in the mensroom. He'd equipped it with two nicely closed toilet stalls AND had carefully included a glory-hole between them. And (shades of his days at the "correctional" institution!) he'd put in a one-way mirror from his little office, that gave a full view of the interior of the john. His plan was beautiful and simple: when either of us spotted a horny-looking fellow alone, we'd suggest they park and check out the john. Al had decided he wanted some action -- some variety -- and this would be his method of getting it. Still a gorgeous hunk himself, and with me running around in coveralls (that didn't quite cover all!) he figured we couldn't fail to attract some action: of course, he was absolutely right.

Nothing happened right away: the word had to "get around" about that glory-hole. So I busied myself learning the business of selling gas, making change and so forth, so that if Al were to be "away" from the job for a while, I could manage. And as luck would have it, he was the first to score in his new facilities. We'd worked out a set of signals, so when he gave a particular whistle, I knew he was going to disappear. And his first trick turned out to be quite a winner by any standards: a tall, lanky youth with longish blond hair, a beach-boy face and complexion to match, and an astonishingly long tool that found both the glory-hole and Al's waiting throat just the ticket. After filling a tank, I got to the one-way mirror just in time to see this fellow, pants around his knees and hands gripping the top of the partition practically push it over flat as he thrust his tool and shot his load into Al's fiery throat!. Back at my place at the pumps, this fellow gave me an appreciative glance and a winning smile of relief as he walked back to his car. Al's radiant smile when he came out of the john told me (as if I didn't know!) he'd enjoyed that score very much.

A couple of days later a snazzy convertible drove in with a fellow driving I'd swear was too young to have a license: sure enough, there was a learner's permit on the windshield. He ordered a dollar's worth of gas and when he handed me the buck gave me a convincing, if nervous cruise. I responded with a smile, a quick grope of my crotch, and a glance first at the john door and then at the parking area. Then, whistling casually (but meaningfully!) I sauntered into the john myself, where, not unexpectedly, I was soon joined by the young man. He was bold, despite his youthfulness, and walked directly into the same booth I occupied: no glory-hole nonsense for this chap! In anticipation of just such an event as this I had forsaken wearing anything under my coveralls, so when he gripped the zipper and pulled it slowly down, the cloth parted to reveal me in whatever naked glory I then possessed. Apparently it was glorious enough for him, for his pants bulged forth, and it was with some difficulty that I, responding to his opening gambit, managed to open his fly and withdraw a really sporting cock. ["Boy, Alberto, I hope you're watching this", I thought]. Feeling my friend was over-dressed for the occasion, I proceeded to complete the removal of his clothes as far as was necessary at any rate, for the task at hand. There ensued such groping, pawing, feeling and stroking -- it seemed neither of us could simply feel enough of the other! This fellow was HOT, and he wanted foreplay -- with a capital P. I was happy to oblige, for he had, as I said, a very nice pecker and a nice smooth youthful bod from which it sprang with all sorts of ripply muscles that felt really good under my fingers. Of course, he was warming me up to match his own mood: to my surprise, he bent over and sucked me a little, rather inexpertly, before I had a chance to try that on him. Then it was my turn to suck his gorgeous tool, which I did (more expertly, I'm sure), but he did not seem to want to come that way, and after a few moments he pulled me back upright, commenced nibbling at my nipples, licking my arms, and generally carrying on in a way guaranteed to work me up to a feverish pitch of excitement. But he saved his real surprise for last, and when he sensed that if he went much further I'd drop my load before he was ready for it, he spun around, bent over slightly and slipped my dick up his ass as one might sheath a sword. I decided this guy was not as inexperienced as I'd first thought, and I was right on: with my cock buried in his behind, he commenced "working with it" in a way I had never previously experienced. There was no in-and-out motion, but his whole rear-end seemed to be made of muscles he could contract at will. It was an extraordinary sensation! He pushed me back against the wall, and I realized he was watching our reflection in the mirror (THE mirror!) so I knew (or hoped) Al was getting a great view. Not wishing to miss out, I reached around and grasped the erect tool I saw reflected, but my hand was pushed away. There ensued a most amazing experience. Picture it: I, my back against the wall with my entire cock buried in this amazing asshole, and my friend, without any noticeable exterior motion was working me over such that I would come at any moment. His hands gripped my buns, assuring that I remained impaled to the hilt and preventing either himself or me from touching his pulsating tool. Unavoidably, inevitably, I suddenly yielded to these astonishing actions and began what seemed at the time one of the longest ejaculations I'd ever had. Simultaneously, my friend climaxed as well, without so much as touching his own penis. It was so perfectly synchronized that each time I shot my wad, it seemed to emanate from his dick, and in wave-after-wave of physical ejection we spent, my seed appearing to go right through him and out on to the opposite wall!

To this day, I have never had an exactly similar experience! Our bodies eventually calmed down and parted, clothes got put back on, dishevelment rearranged, and too quickly my friend was gone. Neither of us had spoken a word since he'd ordered his "dollar's-worth" -- I only hope he felt he'd gotten top value! I was exhausted, and although Al was pumping gas when I made my reappearance, a glance at the wall below THE mirror told me he'd been pumping something else -- so it was a unanimous experience.

Well, Bill, we really had a thing going at that gas station, believe me. The word got around quickly; there were just dozens of horny students, many without work and little to do, who enjoyed our services. Al re-named the place the "service station", and towards the end of summer even put up a sign calling it a "full service" station, as if nearly every guy in town didn't already know it. We had a lot of repeat business, though to my annoyance the boy with the "educated asshole" (as we nick-named him) never came in again; he must just have been passing through.

But all good things come to an end, of course. While at first our little game enhanced my relationship with Al, it eventually supplanted our activities together -- mostly, I guess, as things really got going we were just too tired to do anything together most of the time. The wall under THE mirror really got funky. One day I cleaned off the innumerable loads Al and I had shot there as we watched each other carrying-on, and somehow that little act seemed to signify the end of a good thing. And then, with the kind of timing I'm beginning to think is pre-arranged, the most amazing thing happened: I stepped up to a car window, leaned down to inquire what was wanted, and found myself staring right into the face of my beloved Oral Washburn!

We were both struck dumb by this event, so utterly unexpected by either of us. When I finally found my voice, I could only softly speak his name, and then tears clouded my vision, for before me was my first real lover, even more handsome than when I'd seen him last. Sniffing back my tears, I said, "What will you have, Sir", and his reply was the sweetest word I'd ever heard. With that radiant smile I'd never forgotten. he said, simply, "You", and with a flick of his head indicated I should get into his car, which is exactly what I did. As Oral drove out on to the boulevard, I collapsed in his lap and bawled with joy at seeing him. His free hand -- that gorgeously sculpted hand I remembered so well -- stroked my hair and soothed me.

We drove what seemed like hours; eventually I fell asleep, my head in Oral's lap and my feet tucked up on the seat cushion. The motor's quiet hum and Oral's soothing hand worked magic and I slept a long, deep, dreamless, rehabilitating kind of sleep I had not known for a long time. When I awoke in a motel room, I was clinging to my lover's sleeping form as though I could never let go. But Oral was not asleep, and when he sensed I'd wakened, he asked me what I was doing there in that gas station. I told him I was ashamed to tell him some of what I'd been doing, but that I really did push gas sometimes. Then Oral asked if I could forgive him for walking out on me, for marrying a girl, and for dropping all contact with me. Of course I could -- and did -- forgive him all these things. He said the marriage had lasted only a short time, he'd realized it was a big mistake, but that when he went back to look for me I had disappeared. The folks knew I had gone to College, so whenever he could get away from work he would visit the town in hopes of finding me. The College authorities had refused to give him my address. Then he heard some guys talking at a drive-in about the full-service gas station, and lonely, discouraged and horny, he'd driven in to see what might happen.

What happened, of course, I've already explained. What happened next was simply fantastic. Oral and I stayed at the motel a week, during which time he saw to it I ate well and put back a little of the weight I'd lost in those frantic orgies at the full-service station. We shopped for a new wardrobe, since I'd left the station with only the coveralls I was wearing -- Oral wouldn't let me throw those away, though. There seemed no good reason to go back to Al's to pick up the few thing I had there, so I abandoned them, and wrote Al a letter explaining my disappearance. But I did not put on a return address: I felt that was a chapter of a book best left closed. Although Oral and I slept together that whole week in the motel, we had no sex. I just seemed to be all played out, and patient, gentle Oral seemed content just to hold me at night. So I slept and slept and slept, ate well, and by the end of the week was in fine spirits.

Oral had said nothing whatever of future plans, but one day told me to pack my things, so I guessed we were moving on, but he would not say where we were going. Seemingly, when we got on the road we were just out for a drive, vaguely northward, but on back roads and up into the hills a bit. But late in the afternoon I realized we were actually headed home, and sure enough, about six that August evening, with just a touch of Fall in the air, we pulled up in front of the old Washburn place, which hadn't changed a bit. But I was unprepared for what I found when we went inside: there was a banner with "WELCOME HOME FREDDIE" stretched across the dining-room doorway, the living room was festooned with streamers and balloons, the dining table was piled high with food, and as I took in the scene the whole damn family, led by Mom in her apron, burst from the kitchen singing, dancing, whooping and carrying-on. Mom embraced me, literally taking me off my feet, then dissolved in tears of joy; Dad grasped my hand warmly and huskily wished me welcome home; there was Earl, with Margaret on his arm, all smiles of joy; somewhere a baby was wailing, and I guessed it was theirs. Amid all this din and confusion Oral pulled me to him and with both of us now in tears he said, "Welcome home!" and kissed me full on the mouth as the whole family whooped and hollered some more. I heard Earl exclaim, "By golly, they still make a cute couple", and Dad's rejoinder, "Shucks, Son, you'd think they was gettin' married or something"; Mom, stifling a great sob of joy said, "Well, I surely hope they do this time: I can't stand seeing Oral pinin' the way he's been".

Bill, that was a night I'll never forget. We ate, we drank, we sang, we cried, we ate more, we drank more, and we sang more. It was the greatest outpouring of love I'd ever received. Amidst it all I perceived at last that it was a home-coming for Oral as well, for he'd not been living at home since his divorce, but was now moving back in -- with me there to share his home, his family, his bed, his joys, and eventually his sorrows. I guess he'd tipped off Mom by phone, because she had his old room all done up, clean as a whistle, the bed turned down and -- ever thoughtful -- a stack of towels beside the bed.

So when, in the wee hours of the morning Oral and I fell into that bed, after Earl and Maggie and baby Mike had gone home, and Mom and Dad had cleaned up some of the dishes then quietly hugged us both goodnight and gone off to their room -- when we fell into that bed we fell as well into each other. We re-wrote the book of sex techniques that night, or morning, rather, and converted the stack of towels into a limp pile of laundry before tumbling off to sleep just as the sun was rising.

The rest of that summer Oral and I were inseparable. I found to my delight I could still work him up to such a pitch of excitement that his vigorous and enthusiastic climaxes could often induce a voluntary ejaculation from me; I never tired of spraying my copious loads over his smooth olive skin. Once in a while he would drag out my old coveralls and make me wear them around the house for a day: that night we would re- enact our miraculous re-uniting and go on from there to new heights of passion. I never ceased to be amazed at Oral's inventive capacity in bed, and when some new idea struck him and we found it further elevated our levels of passion we would both exclaim later that there could seemingly be nothing left to make sex any better.

Oral and I both returned to the local Junior College, he a year ahead of me still. Somehow the contentment, the family loyalty and the sheer joy of living combined, and I found I had interests in things other than sex, though truthfully, sex was certainly my first love and greatest talent. I found my career in my third year at college, when I enrolled in a photography class: the endless possibilities of photography amazed me, and it seemed I had the right combination of "eye" and other attributes. That third summer I bought a cheap camera and used up dozens of rolls of film photographing all sorts of things -- I even sold one shot to the local newspaper, and got a couple of honorable-mentions in some contests I sent things to.

But of course it was Oral who was first to see how I should best combine my new-found interest with my natural inclinations. Where he got the money to buy me a Polaroid camera (they were expensive in those days!) I'll never know, but buy it he did, and I quickly built up an album of photographs of him. I have the album still, all that remains of my first great love. After exhausting the possibilities photographing Oral, he began shooting me, and when I scraped together a few bucks and got the add-on time-release gadget, we photographed ourselves together doing what we liked best in every possible way. I'm lucky to have those photos now, and they're still some of by best work, though out of respect for Oral, the family, and the special nature of our relationship I've never published any of them.

• Bruce Bramson, 1992

++++++++++++++++++++++

[continued]

Oral was drafted into the Army as soon as he graduated, and after boot- camp was sent to Korea. Like many others, he never returned. We had tearfully agreed when we parted that he was not to waste his beautiful body "waiting" for me, so I have some choice letters from him describing some of his experiences in detail. It seems he found young Korean boys very much to his liking. I used to read and re-read those letters, imagining every vivid detail, until my balls ached as much as my lonely heart, and a few quick strokes would send my pent-up load out over the empty bed beside me -- my imagination had to fill that space with my lover's image. Oral's last letter describes a male brothel he found in Seoul, where he carried on a whole night with several dozen young Koreans, and he described each one in such exquisite detail that I could virtually spend the whole night there with him. Soon after that last letter came the notice from the Army: "Missing in Action", it said. I've always believed the Army was deceived and that Oral went "over the hill" with a Korean cutie: my mind simply cannot cope with the notion that his gorgeous body was wasted and destroyed in that stupid war, so Oral lives on in my memory tumbling in and out of bed with a succession of sexy boys: truly, "missing -- in action!"

So I spent my fourth year of college the way I'd spent my fourth year of high school: without a lover. The Washburn household was plunged into gloom at the news of Oral's demise. For the first time in many years I actually went without any sexual contact with others for months, though I confess I did have some rather weird private sessions, using my books of photos and long letters from Oral to kindle my fantasies. But life is for the living, time heals all wounds, and eventually some sort of normalcy returned to our lives. With few distractions my studies went well and I had no reason for shame when I graduated (as far as grades were concerned). As far as sex was concerned, however, about mid-year I chanced to meet one of the college "star" athletes: he lived not far from the Washburn place, and although I'd never noticed him at all when Oral was around, I did realize one afternoon that he was a very well set-up fellow. His specialty was pole-vaulting, but he played many other sports depending on the season. His name was Art Pederson, a very blond Swede, about as opposite in appearance to Oral as anyone could be.

Art drove me home from campus many afternoons. Although ruggedly handsome, with clothes on he was not particularly striking. But one day I chanced to cross the athletic field and was startled to be greeted by a God-like specimen of young manhood wearing only training briefs: it was Art, and I saw at once how singularly appropriate his name was! I suppose everyone forms an image of "the perfect body", and here before me was the closest person to that image I'd ever seen. Every ounce of him was muscle -- but not the gross, over-built muscle of the body-builder -- just good, old-fashioned healthy male muscle. His skin was nearly transparent: as I watched him running towards the pit for a vault, I could detect the rhythmic flexing of every individual muscle in his body. He ran with the grace of a greyhound, made every motion count as he let his pole flip him up and over the bar, and fell into the sawdust pile with a boyish grin of pleasure and accomplishment.

But my first thoughts of Art were not as a sex-object, but as a photographic model: I thought, "This near-perfect male MUST be captured on film!" My mind raced for days, considering lighting and background details I thought might be suitable: it would be tricky, I knew, to capture that pale skin in a way that would not look unreal or washed-out. So, when some of my ideas had crystallized, I decided to ask Art to pose for some figure-studies I needed for a photography class (I didn't tell him I'd completed the class the year before!) He was not too keen on the idea at first, but I was able to flatter his athletic ego sufficiently to persuade him to have at least one session. I told him we'd work with the Polaroid at first, just to explore the possibilities (but didn't tell him I owned no other camera at the time). To further secure his agreement I suggested we take the first shots in his "natural" setting -- the athletic field -- early one Sunday morning.

Well, the results of that first session were, photographically, simply awful! I couldn't control the lighting or the background; Art moved too fast; I couldn't get close enough with the camera to capture just HIM without all sorts of other stuff; everything came out badly exposed, or fuzzy, or he was just a speck in a great blur. Nothing worked right. Just ONE of the dozens of shots I took that morning succeeded, and that was entirely by accident. I was lying on my back in the sawdust, the idea being to get Art just as he cleared the bar. But I was too late with the shutter, and the result was a perfect shot looking right up Art's leg to his bulging jock-strap. Since he was on his descent, his shorts caught in the wind and were carried up and away from his crotch, so there was "everything he had" (cupped in elastic) captured forever on film.

When at last I ran out of film we drove to Art's place to view the results. I was miserable: the pictures were really bad. So I begged him to try some "studio" work the following weekend, and he finally agreed, mainly I think because he saw how badly I felt about the results so far. Of course, the "studio" had to be my bedroom, as there was no other place.

The following Sunday, with the folks away at church, Art came over for his first studio session -- the first of many, as it turned out. He was quite unabashed about changing out of his street clothes into his trunks right on the spot, and I missed many a good shot of that, not wishing to do anything to put him off. But with better control of all the variables, I did manage to get some better shots of him, although neither of us really knew a whole lot about proper posing. To my surprise, the attention of the lens being paid to him and his body had an interesting effect: he kept getting a hard-on, which he tried his best to conceal and I to capture on film. I never said a word about it through the whole session, until down to my last piece of film, at which point (mainly joking) I said, "OK: on this last shot, pull your jock aside and let that gorgeous hard show through your shorts". Having reacted dutifully to my commands all morning, he automatically did just as I bid and I clicked the shutter before he quite realized what I'd said -- and he'd done. So, a minute later, there it was, the head exposed just below the seam of his shorts and every inch of the shaft outlined in the snowy whiteness of the flimsy cloth. Realizing what had happened, he good-naturedly tried to snatch the finished photo away, but I quickly shuffled it into the pile with the others, and in the ensuing friendly tug-of-war I myself quickly developed a hard-on. Teasing him, I unzipped my fly and flipped out my tool, to discover from his reaction that our "session" was only about to begin. In a trice Art shed his shorts, flopped on the bed and began jacking-off. Still feigning interest in photography, I said, "You would do that AFTER I've run out of film", and jumped all around the room with the empty camera snapping imaginary shots from every possible angle of him jerking himself off. Then I said, "I've even got the delay gadget that will get us both in the picture", and I put the camera on the book- case, shed my pants and hopped on to the bed with Art. Alas, it was all too much for him: before I could try anything he shot his wad all over the place. All I could do was lick up that sweet cum, which stirred him up again and before I was finished he quickly jerked himself off again and sprayed his load in my hair! Then he fell asleep, leaving me blue- balled and unrelieved.

These Sunday sessions were to continue through the end of the year. God, what a frustrating time it was! I have since learned a lot about the typical athletic ego-trip, but in those days I was mystified by Art, who never had the slightest interest in ME. Over the months I built up a portfolio of him from every conceivable angle; I eventually got the series I wanted of him undressing; finally I got him to pose nude, both flaccid and erect, and even got the shots I wanted of him squirting his loads all over himself. Once, he "broke training" and had a couple of beers, and I got the photos I wanted of us together, and in this way introduced him to getting his cock sucked, which he clearly enjoyed. But through the entire period of our association he never once touched me. After he'd gotten his rocks off a couple of times it was the end of the day's session, so after he left I had to work by myself, spraying my pent-up frustration out of the end of my cock. The huge collection of Polaroid shots of Art I'd accumulated helped, but there really is NO substitute for response and attention from another body.

Near the end of that year a bunch of bureaucratic red-tape unravelled and I learned that Oral had made me beneficiary of his Army life insurance policy: I received the sum of $25,000, and naturally immediately fancied myself as rich. Only the Washburns' wise counsel prevented me from going on a spree. I had learned at school of something called the West Coast Institute of Photography, and I decided to enroll there. This would take me to the big city - San Francisco - for the first time in my life. So, once again there were tearful farewells from all the Washburns and I took a bus to what I was soon calling "the City" as everyone else did. While looking for a place near the institute, I stayed at the YMCA, and was amazed to find glory-holes in nearly every john on the 7th floor, and plenty of activity. I spent an entire Saturday in one john, and bettered my previous record for hand-jobs by quite a margin. As usual, the black cocks, of which there were quite a few, drew my best efforts. Tricks would come into the booth next to mine, look through the hole and see me rubbing cum all over myself, and the sight (and smell) would bring them instantly to life; so all day long there poked through that hole a succession of peckers of every size, type and description: I got a load out of each and every one.

One day as I rounded a turn in the hallway I literally bumped into a nice-looking black fellow who had a camera strapped around his neck. We struck up a conversation. His name was George, and he was on his way to a pool party; he invited me to come along. The party was somewhere in Marin County, and as we drove over I learned that George planned to go also to the Institute ("Going to the WC", as he referred to it) so we discussed the possibility of getting a place together. Of course I didn't know this guy from Adam, but then he didn't know me either. But the more we talked the more we seemed to have in common, and the more I saw of him, the more interested I became in his body which appeared to be very neatly put together. Somewhere along the way I realized I had no bathing-suit along, but George didn't appear to have one either, unless he was already wearing it.

It was a perfect afternoon for a pool party in Marin, warm and sunny, but I was quite unprepared for it. Perhaps a dozen cars were parked in the cul-de-sac at the end of which, somewhat apart from the other houses was a typical ranch-style home. We were greeted enthusiastically at the door by a fellow in a terry-cloth robe and ushered directly to a pool-side dressing-room. This was festooned with clothing, to which we added our own. I was just going to ask George if they had any bathing-suits to spare when, buck naked, he disappeared through a door and a splash moments later told me he'd hit the water. Fired by my brief glance at his bare backside, I went through the same door and found myself beside a large pool, in and around which were about twenty guys, all nude, and a quick glance revealed a few couples making-out here and there. Well, I felt right at home and plunged into the pool, almost forgetting that I'm a lousy swimmer! George surfaced near me, and with an unmistakable and delicious grope under water said, "Welcome to the club!" and while I was not quite sure what he meant, his busy hands convincingly conveyed the warmth of his welcome and were certainly welcome to me, so long had it been that anyone had seemed much interested in me.

What an afternoon that was! George knew everyone there, and introduced me around. To most of them he introduced me as his new lover (to my astonishment!), and as if to prove it, presently threw me onto a centrally-placed mattress in the yard and turned me on: he knew just how to do it, and while it was my first virtually public display of sex, I soon forgot the spectators and concentrated on making George really appreciate what he'd found. It was one of the grander orgies of my life, for George was an experienced and skillful partner: together we put on a performance which (I was told later) held the attention of the entire group for more than an hour, and the conclusion of which ignited numerous other orgies around the pool. Exhausted, we slept through them all.

George and I became fast friends, room-mates, and fellow students at the "WC", but alas, we did not become lovers. He was the first "one-shot" I'd ever met, so it puzzled me at first. His thrill was in the conquest, and once that was made, he was off seeking another. But I valued his friendship and through him met many very nice people and learned a lot about the more-or-less "underground" gay life in San Francisco at that time. George and I used each other as models when we both took a figure- studies class at the WCIP, carefully turning in to the instructor the shots we managed to get (with some effort!) that were not pornographic: those that were, I cherish yet.

The roof fell in at the end of our first year. Our final exam in that same figure-studies class required us to present a portfolio of what we considered our best work. George was convinced the instructor was gay (he was right!) so without telling me, he slipped three of my most lascivious shots of himself into MY portfolio before turning both of them in. As luck would have it, the instructor got sick and gave the task of grading the work to another -- a woman who had neither a sense of humor nor of fair play. I was summarily expelled from school. Poor George! It fell upon him to explain to me what had happened; he, too was expelled, a more serious matter for him because he had very little money. But when we both began to picture the outraged uproar the woman instructor must have created when she found those pictures, we got to laughing and shrieking almost hysterically, and turned our despair into endless mirth. George made up for his prank in the only way he could: he slept with me exclusively for a week, and as far as I know I remain the only person in the world to have had him more than once.

George returned to his family somewhere back east, and I found myself with time on my hands, no firm plans for the summer, and a larger apartment than I needed, so I was really at loose ends. That summer's events developed unexpectedly...

George and I had gotten to know rather well a family living in the same building, Tom and Susan Li. Susan was a rather plain mid-westerner and had met -- then married -- Tom, who was Indonesian/Chinese. This unusual combination was great, and they liked George and myself I guess in part because we, too were something of a mixture. They were sorry to see George leave (as was I). Susan shocked me to the core shortly thereafter by saying casually over coffee one morning, "You don't seem very broken up about losing your lover". I'd had no idea that's what they thought, but hastened to explain that such was not the case and went on to regale her with the real truth about why we were out of school. We both had a good laugh over it. The Li's had only one child, a lovely youth of (I'd judged) 12 or so, very quiet and introspective. So retiring was he that I don't suppose I'd spoken thirty words to this fellow: not that he was unfriendly, just withdrawn and busy with his own things.

A couple of weeks later I had dinner with the Li's, and over coffee they unfolded for me a fantastic plan, one that flattered, intrigued, but also scared me a little. They were anxious, it seemed, to take a second honeymoon, and plainly didn't want their son along. They said they'd also been informed by the school and others that all available evidence suggested their son would be homosexual. This prospect did not bother either of them, except that, as they put it, they wanted his first experiences along these lines to be with a good, warm, loving and not- too-much-older person. Their proposal was that Tommy (Junior) would stay the summer with me while they went to Indonesia, and my instructions were to use my own best judgement as to how best, and when, to" bring him out". I was surprised to learn he was actually 15, instead of the 12 I'd guessed. They had, they said, already discussed the matter (up to a point...) with Junior, and he had not seemed adverse to the arrangement.

Thus, in the summer of my 20th year, I became mentor to this budding young man. While the arrangements were being made I saw more of Junior, and realized the prospect of working with his was not at all unpleasant: he was, I suddenly noticed, a very beautiful boy, slightly built and small, combining agreeably all the best features of his parents. Still, I had some doubts: he was not effete, and never said anything about sex, girls, boys, or anything that made me think he had any predilections; would I really do him a favor by bringing him out, or was this just some weird trip his parents were on? And, as one who had simply found the gay life rather accidently and stayed with it, I realized I had little useful knowledge about how to go about my appointed task. As we became better acquainted, I could not imagine Tommy initiating anything, so I figured the first moves would be up to me, but what these might be I was not sure. A week or so later, Tom and Susan departed, Tommy was ensconced in my spare bedroom with his familiar things, and the next moves were, indeed, up to me.

We spent the first week or so getting to know each other better, went to a couple of movies, and played a lot of canasta, Tommy's favorite card game. He was good at it, and usually won. Towards the end of July we had a few days of hot weather, and one evening as we played cards Tommy disappeared briefly and returned with only his shorts on -- and I nearly came unglued! He wasn't just beautiful, he was spectacularly lovely, a miniature man in bronze with doll-like proportions and absolutely smooth skin. How I longed to scoop him up in my arms and throw him into bed! But I didn't, and I'm almost ashamed to tell you what I DID do. After losing badly at cards the rest of the evening, we finally decided it was time for sleep, and toddled off to our respective beds. I, however, slept little: the vision of that beautiful, beautiful boy in the next room swam through ny mind and sleep would not come -- though something else nearly did as I played with myself. About midnight I got up to pee and glanced into Tommy's open room as I passed the door. There, stretched out on the bed with neither clothes nor covers was Tommy, sleeping as only the young do, the scene illuminated by moonlight. I told myself there was a chill creeping in and he should be covered: but it was not a chill, but I who crept in, with the intention of putting at least a sheet over him. But when I got to the bed, I simply could not resist touching that exquisite form. I swept the hair back from his eyes, gently kissed his cheek, then let my fingers roam at will over that sensuous body, the sensation sending chills up my spine. Watching for signs I might be awakening him, I ran a hand across his tight, youthful belly, down along one hip and thigh, and back up towards his crotch. There was neither a stir nor an eye-lid flicker from him, yet when my hand instinctively found his penis, it was erect like my own. Though his was small, it was proportionate to the rest of him, so its size seemed completely unimportant. I held it a few moments, and, satisfied that Tommy was sound asleep, I bent over and took his cock in my mouth, experiencing quite a thrill as it pulsed rhythmically in response to his heartbeat. But Tommy remained asleep, and after a few moments I decided it would be more fun to get another sort of response, which I resolved to get soon! So I dropped a sheet gently over him, fascinated by the little tent his still-erect penis made, and returned to my room. Within seconds I had sprayed my load all over myself, mopped it up, and dropped into fitful sleep.

I repeated these nocturnal visits to Tommy's bedroom for several nights; there was never any indication that he consciously knew of them. My dissatisfaction with the arrangement grew. Then the weather turned cool again and I no longer had an excuse to "visit". One evening a few days later we had watched TV for a while. Tommy had been unusually quiet all day, almost morose, and suddenly as we sat on the sofa together he moved over to me and unexpectedly burst into tears! I realized at once he was missing his parents, so put my arm around him and drew him close. Through his sobs I learned he thought his folks had abandoned him, so I had to reassure him that they were indeed scheduled to return, but that for the summer I had to take their place. Knowing how lonely he felt, I suggested we could sleep together in my big bed that night: Tommy agreed without comment, so a while later we both prepared for bed.

Tommy got ready for bed in his room as I did in mine; I was already in bed, nude as usual, when he came in wearing pajamas. I could see he was still feeling lonely and sad, so when he slipped into bed with me I turned off the lamp, put my arm beneath his neck and pulled him against me. He rolled, threw his arm across my chest and discovered to his evident amazement that I had nothing on. "Why no pee-jays?" he inquired. "I don't like them", I replied. "I don't really like them, either", he said: "So, take yours off, then", I suggested. Tommy complied, then settled back against me. "Doesn't it feel better without them?" I asked. His reply was a sleepy sort of "hmmmmm", and I feared he would drift right off to sleep, so I began stroking his back with the hand I had free in that area, and reached across my chest to push his hear back from his forehead, which I kissed. His response was to begin some tentative stroking of my chest with the hand he had tossed across it. Of course, I was on FIRE!. "It"s now or never", I thought to myself.

We explored each other gently for a while, and it became very warm beneath the covers; these I presently threw back a ways, not so far as to expose us below the waist, for I was still not certain what Tommy's reaction would be if I explored that area. But I made no effort to hide the large mound made in the covers by my erection, and it was plainly visible in the pale moonlight. But Tommy was relaxed and had his eyes closed: only his slowly moving hands told me he was not asleep. Then I noticed, with a distinct elevation in the degree of my own excitement, that unmistakable throb as his penis began to swell against my side! So I let my own busy hands roam a little farther, and presently, by stretching a little, I was able to run my hand down over his hip to the inside of his thigh and back up to his stomach, very near his crotch: and whereas when he'd been sleeping on previous nights this had brought no visible reaction, now there was a real twinge of pleasure from him, and he pressed his now-rigid pecker harder against me. Then, apparently emboldened by my suggestive excursion, his own hand made a slow pass down my stomach, past my crotch and along the inside of my thigh, then more slowly and hesitatingly up inside my crotch. His delicate hand cupped my balls for a moment, then his fingers wrapped themselves around my wand. He seemed unsure of what to do with his handful, played with it just a few moments, then brought his hand back up to my chest.

And then, Mother Nature took over! There is a rutting instinct in us all, waiting only for the right moment to burst out and guide our bodies to sexual Nirvana. Without a word, but with a quiet smile and relaxed expression, Tommy stirred, rolled over and on top of me. Clumsily, but with the sure guidance of instinct, he slipped my cock into the space between his thighs and began to hump my stomach in a slow but steady rhythm. He laid his head on my chest and I ran my fingers through his fine, straight black hair, moved his arms around behind my neck, stroked his back and generally met his movements with appropriate moves of my own. Then I lifted his lips to mine and received his first, fumbling kiss: but from that moment on I knew his parents and others had been right, for his tongue, after a few tentative explorations, plunged into my mouth and he drove his hips against my groin and entered into this new activity with obvious joy and enthusiasm.

And as we kissed, and kissed, and kissed again, his lithe hips wrought their magic on my cock, and his ever-deepening and somewhat more rapid thrusts against my stomach told me his first orgasm was approaching. Suddenly he gasped with pleasure, pushed against me with all his weight, became rigid, and I felt wave after wave of muscular contractions as his sweet boy-essence flowed copiously out between our mated stomachs. So excited was I by this that my own seed spewed forth, landing on his perfectly-shaped buttocks and on his back as I returned his rigid thrust, locked in his embrace.

We relaxed slowly and without words, drifting into sleep without changing position. Yet, within a couple of hours we were awake again: Tommy was already aroused a second time, and although my cum had dried or dripped away from his back, his own first load was still fairly moist, trapped between our flesh. I gently rolled Tommy off me on to his back, and went to work with my tongue, gathering up his generous exudate and working him up to a new pitch of excitement. There was more moonlight in the room now, so I could see his lithe little body glistening here and there, and I could see the wonder in his face as each new sensation exploded in his consciousness. Before long I had enveloped his rigid pecker in my mouth, and this time with but little effort was rewarded by a fresh ejaculation of his sweet cum, accompanied by moans of pleasure. Once again we fell asleep...

..for a while! Ah, youth! In a couple of hours Tommy was awake yet again, as was I. He needed no prompting when after some preliminary fondling, I presented my backside to his protruding tool. Once again, instinct took over and I found him inside me very quickly. The thrill and excitement of "something new" expressed itself in his wild, if occasionally uncoordinated fucking. Driven by Nature, he nibbled at my neck, put his arms around me and hugged me tight then reached beneath my belly and gripped my cock, obviously relishing his new experiences as he ground his hips against my willing butt. This time his youthful shouts as he triumphantly shot another load excited me, too, and when he had calmed only a little I rolled us over quickly so I was on top of him with his still-throbbing pecker buried in my ass. I took his right hand in mine and quickly taught him the requisite motion as I closed his fingers around my turgid penis, and within moments we both moaned with pleasure as his flying fist brought forth another eruption from my plumbing.

Any lingering doubts I might have had about Tommy's willingness to participate in sex were dispelled in the wee hours of the morning when, after a few more hours of sleep, I awoke to the pleasant sensation of Tommy playing with my cock, which quickly rose to the occasion. When he saw I was awake, he rolled over and presented his backside to me! But I deliberately let my cock slip too low and go between his legs and told him we should leave that for another time. "I want to know how it feels", he said, so I wet my finger and began working it into his behind: "It feels sort of like this, only bigger", I said, and I could tell he was not so comfortable as he'd expected. "And maybe tonight, after some rest, we'll try it", I said, "but not now". I felt him relax, then; I gave his hard little pecker an affectionate squeeze, and told him to get more sleep. He curled up contentedly in my arms, I nuzzled his cheek, and we slept.

Well, Bill, I won't bore you with further details of my summer with Tommy. Suffice to say I taught him everything I knew, that he was an eager learner, that his parents felt I'd done my job well, and that Tommy has gone on to "bigger and better things"; we're still in touch, and I'm sure he could write you a letter as long as this one about his experiences.

But I've got work to do, so will close, and perhaps down the line will continue this narrative for you.

Sincerely,

Freddie

[continued]

(c) Bruce Bramson - 1992

++++++++++++++++++++++

Manila, October 1986

Dear Bill,

When you wrote that ten years have passed since you heard from me, I was startled: time does seem to fly by. But as I never throw anything away, I was able to find a copy of my last letter to you, and you're right! So I'll pick up where that letter left off...

I appealed my expulsion from the WCIP; the instructor who'd caused the ruckus had retired, and since George had confessed that the prank was entirely his idea, I was allowed to return. Here my career took another turn, for I got very interested in video. Thanks to the Japanese, the technology was advancing rapidly, and it was clear to at least a few visionaries that videotapes ("X"-rated and otherwise) would soon be a huge industry.

Classes at the "WC" were fun and captured my interest. So did the instructor who taught the only class in video technology - how to repair cameras and players - and we became first good friends, and eventually steady pals. Although I was also going to a local electronics school to learn much more about the "nuts and bolts" of video, I found enough time to squeeze in Frank's "nuts AND bolt" fairly regularly. Still, there were lots of times we'd go out drinking together and go our separate ways with other dates: that's how it was in the late 70s.

Following Commencement at the WCIP, I took stock, and found I had (a) not much money left; (b) a passable portfolio of camera and video footage that was NOT pornographic; and (c) a much larger collection of stuff that was! The latter got me a series of jobs as a photographer or videographer at some of the porn studios that sprang up like mushrooms (and as quickly disappeared) around town. At first this was all exciting and fun, and since I was not exactly a troglodyte myself as I approached thirty, I "got it on" with more than a few of the studs that passed before my lenses. I even appeared in a few short takes. But it was a crass business: as soon as a "star" developed the slightest blemish or showed a wrinkle in the wrong place, he was unceremoniously "dumped" from the studio's stable. I stuck with it for a year or so, becoming increasingly disillusioned but fairly well-off financially, as I didn't spend much money.

I abandoned this work when I was offered a job with a company that made travelogues. My first assignment was in Quito, Ecuador, so I polished up my high-school Spanish and joined a motley crew of writers, "artists" and directors. We travelled by ship, because we had a lot of heavy equipment, and because it was cheaper than flying. I soon found that I was far from being the only gay guy aboard: among our company, the few other passengers, and especially the crew, I found an interesting "assortment". This was my first experience with a ship registered in Liberia, a crew that was almost entirely from Hong Kong, plying a route along the west coast of South America, and carrying mostly "gringo" passengers (and some freight). It seemed an odd combination. Being averse to mixing "business with pleasure", I had little to do (except professionally) with our group, and I found most of the passengers seemed more charmed by the "glitter" of a TV crew; but my interest in mechanical things soon found me down in the bowels of the ship examining huge engines, and it was scarcely the flick of a wrist before I was examining a few other things! Despite their origins, most of the crew spoke at least some english, but still it was through "sign language" that we communicated most clearly. I had no idea how long it might have been since these fellows had been ashore, but judging by the degree of horniness among them, it must have been some time. So, having a new "bod" around to experiment with brought out the best in them. The only problem was that the engine rooms were very hot, and there was always grease, oil or dirt around. The crew spent most of their time stripped to bathing-suits, and often less; to avoid ruining the small wardrobe I'd brought along, I was reduced to doing the same. And of course there was NO privacy to be had, so whenever the notion of having sex arose (and it arose often), it was "Johnny on the spot" (except in this case it should be "Xiang on the spot"). There WERE a few straight members of the crew, but they seemed quite indifferent to what was going on around them; when, years later, I visited Hong Kong, I could begin to understand how people come to disregard privacy when it is simply not available. My favorite in the ship's crew was Lin, who was a "stoker", except that since this was a diesel-driven vessel, his job seemed unnecessary (I guess the merchant-marine unions "featherbed", too). He always had time for me, and we spent many long hours slithering around sweatily in his minuscule bunk. But his fetish turned out to be getting off sitting astride the rocker-arm covers of the huge diesel engine that powered our progress. With a willing partner - myself, for this trip anyway - he would reach wild orgasms as the throbbing engine stirred his innards, my busy hands stirred his externals, and his own flying fist brought forth huge loads of cum. Great gobs of it would "fry" instantly on the hot exhaust manifolds, and the odor, commingled with that of fuel, oil and sweat, is one I shall never forget.

Too soon, we arrived in Guayaquil, Ecuador's only port of consequence. At sea-level of course, and just a few kilometers south of the equator, Guayaquil is a really pestilential place with little to recommend it. We were soon loaded into a rented bus with all our gear and off on a wild trip up and over the coastal Andean range to Quito. It was a two-day trip, staying over night in Riobamba, where I had a foretaste of things to come, (or "things THAT come", to be more precise). A rough-and-tumble mountain town, Riobamba has a certain charm, but few "restaurants" we "northerners" would find to our liking. Indeed, the closest thing to one was - of all things - a chinese restaurant, and a pretty decent one at that. In this far-off place, I learned two things: one was that ethnic chinese have emigrated from China to all the corners of the globe; the second was that though the chinese don't often inter-marry with "the locals", when they DO, the results can sometimes be spectacular! The waiter in this place "came on" to me in no uncertain terms, and I was certainly not one to pass him by: he was (I discovered) half Chinese and half Indio, with a quintessential Spanish name: Carlos! He had some of the stockiness of the Indios, and many facial features harking back to the Maya, but his glabrous, blemish-free skin belied his Chinese half. He claimed to be over 18, which I doubted, and he LOVED to be fucked, which I attributed to an older relative. All this I found out when I returned to the restaurant at closing time (10 O'clock) and found him waiting for me as promised. He grabbed my hand and led me down a dingy alley to an abandoned shed (I gathered it was his regular trysting-place, since there were yellowed cloths and wads of paper strewn all around, and an old mattress). Despite my fear of (bugs), I tumbled onto the mattress with Carlos who was soon sitting on my erection. Watching and feeling his leg muscles work as they raised him up and down on my pole helped me reach a climax rapidly, the effect of which was that Carlos shot his wad across my stomach and chest without either of us touching his pulsating wand: apparently he had a sensitive prostate to match his other "sensitive" features. So spectacular did I find this experience with Carlos that I returned to Riobamba more than once, and repeated the performances, which were always the same. But for this occasion it was necessary to "move on", as our bus left the next day to carry us to Quito and our work.

Now, Quito, by contrast with Guayaquil, is a beautiful place. Even closer to the equator, its elevation (9500 ft) and location in the valley formed by the two Andes ranges combine fortuitously. The weather is spring-like all year; the lengths of days and nights vary no more than a few minutes. Gorgeous perpetually snow-clad peaks are visible in all directions, and the volcanic Cotapaxi near Quito is one of the world's most perfect mountains. All of this, and MUCH more, we videographed over the course of the next two months. This was, of course, mostly day-time work, with only a few nights taken up with "Quito by night" drivel. The REAL "Quito by night" I found on my own...

There is a large park in the northern part of Quito called El Ejido. Ordinarily, it is quite well lit at night. However, that year, Quito was experiencing a shortage of electricity due to a drought - something to do with the "El Nino". So, every other night, the park was left un-lit, with fairly predictable results. The park is situated on a bee-line between the local Catholic boys'-school, and the upper-class part of town where most of them live. So when the word got around that there were nights when the park wasn't lit, THOSE nights the park filled up with horny, frustrated, perfectly normal boys doing what boys DO! Yours truly was there to help in any way possible! It remains my only real experience with "sex in the bush", so to speak, but for the time and place it was appropriate and very delightful. Many of the fellows enjoyed the novelty of getting blown or otherwise satisfied by a "yanqui", but there was endless carrying-on in the bushes among themselves as well. There were ALSO a few straight couples to be found screwing here and there, and they were either oblivious to or entirely tolerant of the predominantly homosexual goings-on. By some tacit agreement, the police NEVER set foot in the place, the sole exception to which (in my brief experience there) occurred one night when the park WAS lit, and so nothing of consequence was happening. On such nights I often sat on the base of Eloy Alfaro's statue, just enjoying the balmy weather and "people-watching". I was startled when the policeman came around from behind the statue - I had not heard anyone approaching - but his polite introduction quickly put me at ease, and his frantic groping of his crotch meant either that he was horny or that he had a case of crabs! I was willing to learn which was the case, but in the brightly lit area where we were, this seemed an unlikely possibility. Oddly, it was the weather which provided the opportunity, for a sudden dense fog drifted in (I had seen this phenomenon occur before), and within a few moments visibility (despite the lights) was reduced to a few feet! Quite possibly I had been described to this man, for he wasted no time with formalities: he ripped open his fly and whipped out his cock, and I just as quickly went down on it right then-and-there. I didn't find any crabs, but I did find a very horny cop! He shot a copious load almost at once, put himself back together quickly and with a lilting "Gracias, Senor" disappeared into the fog: by the time that wafted away a few minutes later, he was nowhere to be seen!

Those two months in Quito FLEW by! We got endless hours of tape for the travelogue, and I had seemingly endless wild nights in El Ejido park! I really hated to leave Ecuador, and hope one day to return. But, our work finished, we re-traced our steps back to Guayaquil. Here we had an unexpected lay-over: our ship was late putting in to port, and all we could do was wait. I discovered the incredible narrow-gauge railroad that still ran some steam trains from Duran (across the river from Guayaquil) to Riobamba, and amused myself by riding them (and Carlos!) several times. All too soon, the inappropriately named MS Flying Goose arrived, and we were northward-bound for home. Once again I found the ship's crew compatible, and there had been enough changes to make it interesting. The stoker I'd met on the trip down had been replaced with a "straight" guy, but an oiler I met was ruggedly handsome, even if seemingly always "up- to-his-armpits" in grease. I introduced him to the special thrill of being "massaged" by the diesel engine, and I expect he plays what he dubbed "widem-cowboy" to this day!

My "big break" came early in 1983: through some connections I was hired by one of the TV networks to assist in covering the Olympic Games in Seoul. This time I was not to be behind the cameras, but with the crews that did the daily routine maintenance and equipment checks. It was with considerable anticipation that I envisioned a few "equipment checks" of another sort, and the notion that I might run into Oral Washburn DID cross my mind, though of course that did not occur. The trip to Korea would be my second excursion out of the USA: I decided I liked to travel!

Stepping off the plane and going through the airport routine in Seoul was almost a case of : so vivid had been Oral's descriptions that I had the definite feeling I'd been there before! And it certainly took no time at all to realize why he'd found the place so exciting (even with a war on!) With a population close to half of which was younger than myself, Korea was paradise for me, rapidly becoming a confirmed "chicken hawk" as I grew older. As if this surfeit of gorgeous guys wasn't stimulation enough (I found myself with an almost perpetual hard-on!) the Olympic Village was yet another turn-on, populated by male athletes of every size, type, kind, and description! I was glad I had brought along a video camera of my own, for with my Press-Pass I could go almost anywhere in the village. For some reason (!) I found myself particularly attracted to the gymnasts, many of whom turned out to be very nice guys, apart from being exceedingly healthy, exceedingly gor-jeeesus to behold, and (as I was to discover) exceedingly horny as well. None seemed much interested in the women, housed elsewhere in the village.

Shades of my experience back in Sacramento those many years ago! Despite there being chaperons and trainers and reporters and all the rest around the village in hoards, there WERE quite a few places where the participants could "get away from it all", and with a little pull here and there bring a friend along. And whereas I had always had the impression that sexual activity would be frowned-upon ("sapping one's strength"), in fact the opposite was true: getting "it" out of their system was one way the athletes had of psyching themselves up. With bodies by God himself, they were so vain that only the slightest attention - a pat here, a stroke there, or the "ready-light" of a video camera - had them ready to go. On camera or off, those guys were beating off in one corner or another seemingly every few minutes, and few of them had any compunction about helping - or being helped - with it. Though I shot loads of footage (and footage of loads!) NO ONE could be induced to sign a release, so all those delicious scenes are still "in the can".

Although I had a hotel room outside of the village, the fact is I used it only one night during the games. By day I'd manage to "connect" with someone or other and get the necessary invitation to "stay over" with (in some cases) individuals and (in other cases) whole teams. Not that I had sex with ALL of these guys, but nights were generally pretty busy. Besides the gymnasts, there were swimmers, runners, boxers and all the rest, but the Chinese especially turned me on. We had to use sign- language most of the time, but body functions are (happily) universal, and although the Chinese gave the appearance of being stand-off-ish, they could be VERY aggressive in making known their taste for sex! The memory that sticks most firmly in my mind is of an all-night orgy with four Chinese (two swimmers, a gymnast, and a runner) who found an unused room for the five of us and proceeded to show ME more than a few tricks. One was the first-ever guy I'd met who was so lithe he could suck the entirety of his own cock, though it was clear he preferred to have that done by others.

The strength of these men was astounding; any one of them could have wrung my neck like a chicken if so inclined. One of the gymnasts picked up a partner who held his body stiff as a board horizontally while the other "went up" on his cock, rather than "going down" in the more conventional way. Another for a brief time held me upside-down as we did a "69" standing up! One of the gymnasts stood on his hands, which afforded me the opportunity of sucking on his surprisingly massive erection - again, a new position. Their stamina was equally amazing: they could drop two or three loads in the course of a few hours, then rush out and compete in trials and meets with energy to spare. It was all I could do to drag myself around to adjust cameras and recorders and generators and cables - I was like a zombie most of the time! By the end of the games, I was exhausted, and when the whole shebang was over as suddenly as it had begun, was abruptly cut loose (we got two weeks of vacation in- country as part of our contracts) with only Koreans and a gaggle of American hangers-on left.

A few days' rest, however, and I was ready to explore Seoul more widely, and the more widely I explored Seoul, the more widely I wanted to explore Koreans! I found this was not really difficult, so long as one was discrete and polite. The only real problem was to determine their age: I'm sure I carried on with some who were probably well under 18, yet how was I to know? Identity documents, when I got to see them, were meaningless to me! Not that I am complaining, you comprehend: my fondness for young men was instilled back in reform school, and has never left me: (surely a case of arrested development). And although I tried to find the male brothel Oral had described so well, the passage of so many years had long since obliterated it; if I was successful in finding the location from memory, there is now a huge office-building there, a giant phallic- symbol marking the spot.

It was not difficult to locate some of the gay bars in Seoul, and I was scarcely surprised to find a good many Americans in them. My two-week vacation flashed by in a series of romps in the hay which were nearly always great fun. There were too few who spoke much English, though, so there weren't many deep philosophical discussions - just a blur of "quickie" couplings in seedy "short-time" hotels. Many of the tricks were as fascinated by my slightly furry exterior as I was by their almost uniform lack of body hair except in the usual spots. But after weeks of marathon sex with olympic superstuds, the Koreans were, for the most part, rather tame. I realized one day with a start that I was becoming "jaded" - and a little bit homesick.

Hence, my return to San Francisco was as anti-climatic as it could possibly be. I'd been gone almost a year, had given up my apartment, and had lost track of many friends. Tommy Li, seeking his roots, was in Indonesia. Once again I found myself back at the Y for a brief stay, but even it was "down at the heels" and no longer the "fun" place to be that I had known previously. The only bright spot was that I had a very healthy bank account, so I was in no great hurry to find a job.

I don't know why my next "binge" was for "trade" (or "rent", as the British put it). Perhaps I was just "getting older", or perhaps I was beginning to realize that I would probably never find another "love" to equal my affair with Oral. At any rate, one day I found a run-down old pair of flats not far from the Y and the waterfront, and on some weird impulse, I bought the place. During the closing, I discovered it was in a proposed "redevelopment zone", and would probably be demolished, but that would be some years in the future. The place was, however, cheap, because it was such a mess. I began at once to transform it, when an idea struck that formed the basis for my activities for the next couple of years.

I left the exterior of the place just as it was, derelict and all but collapsing. Then I built a hidden staircase in the rear from a pantry on the main floor up to the second. The lower flat I left pretty much as was; just swept out the trash and scattered around enough second-hand furniture to give the place a "lived in" look. But the upstairs flat I converted into a palace! Many of my tricks were from the freighters and Navy ships that still put in to San Francisco in those days, and they'd be in town only a few days. But they'd be horny as the dickens after weeks at sea! All of them knew me by different names, so when they phoned I knew just who was coming over, and of course they ALL thought I lived downstairs in this dumpy flat and wasn't worth trying to hit up for more than a drink or pack of ciggies after I'd sucked them dry. Naturally, when I wasn't sucking cock, I was living UPstairs in my palatial quarters! It was a perfect setup, and I even wired the place and scattered several cameras around so I could tape the action without any of my tricks knowing about it. Since I still had royalties coming in from some of my early video work, money was not really a problem. But boredom, especially during the day definitely WAS, because (for whatever reason) men seem to be horny mostly at night.

So I dug out my old notes from the WCIP, built myself a darkroom and began printing and preserving collections of old photographs. I soon found that there were other photographers around town, both professional and amateur, who were willing to have good work done in a private lab with "no questions asked". Pretty soon my days were filled, spent mostly in the darkroom, and my nights were also filled, servicing "doorbell trade" in my wretched flat downstairs. It goes without saying that I kept copies of a lot of the photos I processed - copies I used to amuse myself and a few of my "tricks".

Once again, I was soon making quite a lot of money! In my usual way I salted this away in the bank, the "overhead" of this whole operation being so ridiculously low. Every now and then I'd get a call from one of the networks wanting me to go on some assignment or other, but I turned them all down: I did not think any such work could compare with my experience is Seoul. Then one day about a year into this operation, an event occurred that was to change my life forever. I was shopping mid- morning at Safeway, in the meat department (appropriately!) when a small voice behind me said, "Hello, Daddy..." I did not respond at all, since I had ample reason to believe I was no one's "Daddy". But the voice repeated the phrase a couple more times, and finally my attention was caught, and I turned to find a VERY pretty and (seemingly) VERY young Filipino gazing up at and speaking to me! "I really don't think I'm your Daddy", I said, perhaps with a tinge of regret in my voice.

"Oh, I'm only WISHING: of course you're not my Daddy", he replied, "I don't HAVE a Daddy..." his voice trailed off rather wistfully.

I was confronted with a dilemma. It was not beyond my imagination that I was being propositioned, but I thought I knew jail-bait when I saw it, so I resolved to be very firm and reject this approach. On the other hand, I'd always had a penchant for brown eyes, black hair, fair skin... I was not sure how to proceed (a rare situation for me)! But of course I made the fatal mistake: I asked, "What's your name?"

"It's Jun - that's short for Junior - Santos", he said; and I already know your name is Fred. I asked at the check-out counter, where I've seen you before".

"How old are you, Jun?" I asked. With a hearty and knowing chuckle he whipped out his wallet and proffered a Green Card, and a quick bit of arithmetic showed he was 19, though I could scarcely believe it.

[continued]

• Bruce Bramson, 1992

++++++++++++++++++++++ [concluded]

Now, clearly, this guy had done his homework! And for whatever reason, he was "coming on" to me in one BIG way. Satisfied that he was "of age", I decided to see where it would lead, so gave him my business-card and suggested he call me. He assured me he would; what's more, he did, that very afternoon, and within an hour he was in my flat. He confessed surprise at the run-down exterior of my place and the contrast with the inside; thinking it would put him off, I explained about my "arrangement" and the flat downstairs. Jun immediately concluded I was doing all this trade simply to avoid loneliness, and that if HE were around, it would not be necessary. And with that pronouncement, he insisted he would move in and be my "boy". To prove his sincerity, he raped me (to the extent, at any rate that the willing CAN be raped) on the spot! Any misgivings I had - and there were many - evaporated as I held him in my arms and relaxed after an evening of passionate and reciprocated love-making.

Life suddenly became MUCH too complicated! Jun was running away from a very strict Mother (his Dad had passed away). At first I thought he was just using me as "safe haven", but since he insisted on sleeping with me, and having GREAT sex with me, and calling me "lover", it began to dawn on me that perhaps he was at least infatuated, and possibly even "in love" with me. But this put one heck of a crimp in the lifestyle I'd been living, and I had to quickly make some changes! A friend who had always envied my situation was very ready to take over my downstairs "apartment" and ALL that went with it; some quick changes in the 'phone numbers routed my callers directly to Joe, and I found myself a "father" at the ripe old age of 32!

Jun still calls me "Daddy". I expect you, Bill, know far more than I about the "surrogate father" syndrome, and I confess that there seems something "not quite right" about a "father and son" sleeping and having sex together; but of course we AREN'T "father and son" - indeed, there's no way we could be related, and could not be more disparate in appearance. Still, in just about every other way we ARE father and son, and lovers as well, and very happy. We now run a "business" (of sorts!) together, but about that, more later.

With Jun enrolled in City College and I kept busy with my dark-room work and Joe kept busy downstairs taking care of the doorbell trade (I confess that both Jun and I sometimes watched on the closed-circuit TV that Joe didn't know about!) our situation seemed perfect. Alas, too perfect: all of a sudden, the Redevelopment Agency moved into the area to buy up everything in sight for some new convention center or the like. There was really no point in arguing with the "urban removal" folks, so after a bit of negotiation, I sold out at a pretty handsome profit. As luck would have it, however, I had before me an offer to go with a team that was doing a documentary on the Philippines, which I agreed to join with the proviso that I could take Jun with me.

This time out I was behind the camera and doubled at some preliminary editing. I don't think I ever saw the finished product, because it was heavily edited again back in the states. But when it comes to beautiful young men, I found Manila the closest I've yet been to paradise, and most of my editing amounted to erasing yards of tape where I'd allowed the camera to linger far too long on some cutie in the crowd. (Of course, I transferred this footage to a tape of my own before deleting it from our production runs!) Despite the various impositions of "Martial Law", Manila was a fascinating city. There were more beautiful people per square yard there than any place I'd been. During the monsoons, youngsters shuck their clothes and romp in the rain, their sleek wet bodies driving ME (and many others, I expect) crazy with desire. And, (unlike Seoul) most Filipinos speak passable English, so the language barrier isn't so much of a problem. Of course, Jun was there to translate when necessary. I "pulled some strings" and got him a job as a gaffer, so we were never far apart even when working. I suppose there were some on the crew who knew we were lovers, but nobody seemed to care. Jun was a bright young man: he knew perfectly well how attracted I was to so many of the gorgeous guys one cannot help but meet in the course of any given day. But our relationship was so new to us both that he clearly was averse to the idea of sharing me with any of his compatriots, and (quite frankly) with Jun taking very good care of my physical and emotional needs, I was content to watch and occasionally "use my imagination"...

..that is, until we met Raul! I say "we" because our first encounter with him was as we were shopping together in Harrison Plaza, and because when we met, I could see at once a physical desire arise in Jun that, until then, he had reserved for me: it was clear he was struggling with his conscience! As for Raul, while he was not the most handsome man I'd ever seen, he WAS one of the "sexiest". I've met a few others like him, who for some reason, "exude" SEX! Perhaps it's a pheromone, who knows? He was just one of those persons with "bedroom eyes" whose glance was enough to start the juices flowing. He saw through my relationship with Jun at once, but I guess the notion of a three-way didn't bother him - he blatantly followed us out to the rented car and asked for "a ride". Jun and I were headed for our hotel, of course, so that is where "the ride" ended - and where another long association began!

These events took place as we were nearing the end of our assignment with the documentary team, and Jun and I had already discussed the possibility of remaining in Manila: I had money enough to start some sort of business and he could continue his studies at the University. We'd even looked around for a house to rent, but as soon as the landlords saw me, they smelled "money" and costs escalated alarmingly. While reasonably "well- off" as a single man, I was certainly not "wealthy", as everyone seemed to think. Eventually, it was Raul who solved the problem - but again I'm getting ahead of myself...

Raul first made himself indispensable by becoming a live-in cook, maid, cleaner, and general factotum around the house-keeping hotel in which we were ensconced. To my surprise, and (I later learned) to Jun's annoyance, he did not immediately put the make on either of us. Our generous hotel suite did have two bedrooms, and I gave him the spare in return for all the "TLC" he was giving us. But along about the end of his first month in our "employ", when I came out of the "comfort room" one night, I found Jun peeping through the keyhole into Raul's room. Caught in the act, Jun was chagrinned, but I gave him a hug and asked, "Do you want to have sex with him?"

Jun stammered his reply, "Could he have sex with US, do you think?"

"Do you think he WANTS to do it with US, or just with you?" I asked.

"I don't know," Jun replied, "but I want him to have sex with US, if that's all right with you."

"Then, why don't you ask him over for a San Miguel, and see what happens," I said.

The old adage "if some is good, more is better" usually doesn't apply, but in this instance, it certainly did! Raul had never been invited into our bedroom past the hour of ten, and never to drink beer with us. Hence, he must have known what Jun had in mind; and that this was just what Raul had had in mind from the beginning soon became apparent, for his reaction when Jun (using an age-old ploy) "spilled" beer in Raul's lap was exactly as intended: he shucked his trousers, and while helping mop up beer from the floor managed to engage Jun in a little horse-play. Watching them naturally got ME (horny), and when the boys noticed the outline of my hard-on in my pants, the free-for-all began! Within minutes, we were all down to our birthday suits, romping on the bed. I must admit, it was with a touch of sadness mixed with curiosity that I watched my lover explore another's body. I'd have had to credit him with VERY good taste, if he had been the one to select Raul, but since Raul had instead selected us, it was perhaps he whose taste was to be congratulated. But these thoughts were soon dispelled as Jun drew me into the fray and our pent-up fascination with Raul displayed itself for both of us to recognize in each other. And who would not have been fascinated with Raul? He was the very essence of Filipino maleness physically, with an underlying femininity and playfulness that was absolutely irresistible. I was grateful that this first (of many) three-ways occurred on a Saturday, for it lasted most of the night. And sex or not, the spare bedroom became just that once again: Raul slept with us regularly thereafter, though he was astute enough never to place himself between Jun and me. He slept along-side one or the other of us instead.

Not long after this first episode, our contracts ran out with the documentary crew, so some decisions HAD to be made. I was suddenly the sole support of TWO young men, one of whom I knew intimately. Of the other I knew little, but he seemed determined to be part of our lives. Raul knew his future was in the balance: if Jun and I returned to the States, he'd be left behind and on his own "hook", whereas if we remained in Manila, presumably he could make himself useful enough to be kept (or at least kept around...) So, the day I cashed in the return tickets I held for myself and Jun, Raul was ecstatic. My first step was to see about getting them both enrolled in school. For Jun, this was no problem, as his credits were transferable from the States and he could enter UP as a freshman. But Raul? I was soon to discover just how remarkable this fellow was! He had come to Manila from Mindanao at the age of ten, because, as the eldest of eight children, there simply was not enough food to go around. Until meeting us, Raul had earned his keep in Manila primarily as a prostitute, sending home what spare cash he could. But he had NO formal education past about the sixth-grade; everything beyond that was self-taught. He really WAS bright, and all he needed was some intensive tutoring in the "three Rs", so I arranged for a retired teacher from the American University to take him "under his wing" during the day for some intensive "boning up".

These practical matters out of the way, the next item was to establish myself with some sort of income-producing enterprise, and to find a place to live. Although Jun and Raul could do some of the looking, they were too young to be able to negotiate prices for me, and as soon as my name came up, prices skyrocketed! I was comfortable enough that this matter did not have to be rushed, but as one always used to "doing something", I needed to be busy. There seemed to be a surfeit of photographers already in Manila, and every shop sold VCRs and all the latest widgets from Japan. I knew there was a small market for pornographic stuff, but doubted my ability to deal with all the regulations (and ways around them) to get the stuff imported, not to mention any kind of distribution network. Neither being nor speaking Pilipino would not serve me well in THAT business - or any other, when I got right down to it. I needed Filipino partners...

..and (as I mentioned earlier) it was Raul who put together the winning package. During a discussion of "our futures together" one night, I'd pointed out my need for partners, and HE pointed out that I already HAD two partners - why should I need any more? I couldn't argue his point! It was then that he began formulating a plan that at first seemed utterly ridiculous, but the practicality of which became clearer as the three of us discussed it. During his nearly ten years on the streets of Manila, most of those spent in the notorious Ermita district with its glitzy "massage" parlors, bars (both gay and straight) and out-right whore- houses, Raul had identified a certain "lack" which he alone could not fulfill: there were no male brothels. He felt sure that with me as a "silent partner", he with his "street contacts" and Jun with rapidly developing business skills, we could establish a "high-class" place catering to those local and foreign men whose taste ran to other men and boys and who would find the average massage parlor (with its token masseur or two) uninviting.

Raul's logic was unassailable, but there were certain practical matters (I knew) that would have to be dealt with, like the law! Nooooo problem! Raul had tricked with a local lawyer who surely would not want that fact known to his family: so, a little polite blackmail got us a well-placed lawyer to handle such things as buying property; finding out who had to be paid off "under the table"; which of the myriad "private security agencies" were reliable, and similar considerations. Another matter would be that of obtaining "workers" (both those to satisfy the customers, and others to maintain the property). Again, Nooooo problem! Raul knew dozens of guys working independently who would gladly trade independence for some TLC, a roof over their heads, decent grub and a steady income. (The supply, incidently, has been inexhaustible). And so it went: everything I perceived as an "obstacle", Raul saw as either a "piece of cake" or a challenge, and either way disposed of the matter.

We formed a Corporation; I as President, Jun as Financial Officer, and Raul as CEO. The problem Raul found most difficult was finding a suitable place in which to carry on the business; it had to be in or very near Ermita, or else it had to be in some completely unexpected place - one of the suburbs. We finally agreed the latter was preferable, since the clientele we wanted to attract might well be put off by the crass commercialism of Ermita. In the end, we bought what had begun life as a large motel in Quezon City (QC as it is universally known here), but which had fallen on hard times, and of which its owner was anxious to be rid. The location was perfect: on a commercial corridor, not in a residential district, and with ample off-street parking. We agonized for weeks about whether or not to have a name for the place, and how to advertize. On paper, we were "FJR Enterprises, PC", but that didn't seem appropriate. Finally, to give the place some semblance of respectability, we settled on "FJR Motel", but made the sign so small and inconspicuous that no one would see it and mistake us for a legitimate motel. Then came the question of advertizing. After more long discussions, we chose a simple approach. We had match-books printed with our telephone number on the outside, and a simple line-drawing of a handsome young man's face on the inside. These we put in every gay bar, and any other place that would take them, throughout Ermita. Raul spread them liberally around the tourist hotels, too.

What had once been a restaurant in the motel compound we turned into a lounge, and what had been a stock-room next to the kitchen became a mess- hall for our workers. The manager's quarters became home for the three of us, and the rooms, arranged in two levels around the parking lot became the "entertainment suites" for our "guests". Needless to say, I installed some elaborate CCTV and other surveillance devices!

Though some minor operational changes have been made over the years, our basic arrangement was that those we called "staff" wore an assigned number-tag whenever they were in the lounge and "on duty". There, too, our "clients" gathered (refreshments were available, but no alcohol!) to select from the staff, which they did by telling the hostess (yes, a real "she") the number of their selection. The hostess then gave the client a room key, and sent the chosen staff member to the same room. A schedule of fees was posted in each room: the client paid based on what the staff reported to the hostess at the conclusion of the transaction; clients could stay as long or as short a time as they liked, have as many tricks as they wanted, and always paid in cash. Among the maintenance crew there were enough very large and tough-looking guys to assure that no clients made trouble; for further insurance, we held the keys to the clients' cars until they had paid and were ready to leave.

The boys "pooled" 10 percent of their earnings, from which fund "equalization pay" (as we called it) was given to those who (for whatever reason) didn't make as much in a month as the average for the "stable". Staff members kept any tips they were given. Forty percent of their earnings went to "the house" (that was us), and we picked up the tab for meals, up-keep, laundry, basic clothing, medical exams, inoculations, maintenance, payoffs, and all the rest. With 80 rooms, and a staff of 70 to 100 guys at any one time, believe it or not, we made MONEY hand-over- fist.

We recruited only by word of mouth; there was always a waiting list. Our "boys" ranged in age from 18 (well, maybe once in a while a little shy of that...) on up. The turn-over was high, because the "johns" kept stealing our staff! And while there were a few occasions when I, Jun or Raul (or some combination thereof!) "got it on" with one of the staff, this did not happen often: I still preferred not to mix business with pleasure.

Well, Bill, you know how long "too much of a good thing" lasts, and while we had a "perfect" setup in many respects, we were brought down in the end by several factors. One was imitation and competition: several similar places opened up as the word spread of our success. There was also some resentment of me as a "round-eye" making so much money, though I never took any of it out of the country. But as the Marcos regime started to fall apart, resentment of americans in general began to set in, and the business climate for us went quite sour. So when that buy-out "offer" came that we couldn't refuse, we sold out. Raul took his third of the proceeds and returned to Mindanao: I've often wondered what he told his family there as to how he'd made what was (for him at his age) a sizable fortune!

Jun and I live a quiet life of semi-retirement. As a graduate of UP in Business, Jun has a quite respectable job now, and I? Well, let's just say for the moment that I'm "betwixt and between", waiting for opportunity to knock, waiting to see what the future holds. When I find out, you'll be the first to know!

Sincerely,

Fred

(c) Bruce Bramson, 1992