Mandy Rose

Mandy Rose

Mandy Rose
By John Yager

This is a story about two guys and a boat. If you shouldn't be reading it, don't. You know the rules. If you didn't like stories about two guys and a boat you wouldn't be looking here anyway, right?

Andrew, thank you again for so much help, for good advice, for proofing and editing and, most of all, for making me look so much better than I am.

This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be reproduced in any form without specific written permission from the author. It is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submission agreement but it may not be copied or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author.
jvoyager@hotmail.com

It's true, there is a "High School Culture." Parents and even teachers, who see it in operation every day try to deny it, but something happened about 1985 and everybody born after that date is genetically different from everybody born even a year or two earlier. The further back you go, the greater the difference, so that by the time you get back to people our folks' age, you might just as well be dealing with another species.

Me and some friends came up with a name for it, this difference between generations, I mean. We call it "Gloners," or the "Gloner Factor." I'll leave it to you to figure that out.

So we are different from our parents, different even from our older brothers and sisters, the ones born on the other side of the "Great Divide." We know it. They all know it too, if they'd admit it or even take a serious look.
Mandy blames it on radiation. Not atomic or cosmic, but cultural. Cultural radiation, cultural overload, cultural back off leave me alone I don't give a shit radiation.

Mandy is my bud. He is Mandy, Emanuel Rose. I'm Tike Johnson and we look like our names. Mandy has dark brown hair.  When you look close, and I have, it contains a bunch of different colors but over-all it's brown.   His skin gets tanned before anyone else's and stays tanned until after the rest of us have the winter grays. He has eyes like the sky. I don't just mean blue. I mean blue and gray and black and blue again. Like the sky. It changes and you know there is rain on the way. Mandy's eyes go from blue to gray and you know there's a storm coming. They go black and you want to get the hell out of there.

I'm Tike, Paul Martin Johnson, youngest son, youngest kid of Nordic parents, Nathan and Doris Svenson Johnson, blond, known to tan briefly in late July and blue eyes that never look like anything but blue. Boring.

So Mandy and I are buds. Have been since third grade. Our folks are friends, our dads work together. But all that changed two years ago when we were fifteen and my dad bought the boat.

That was also the summer our folks decided we were old enough to make up our own minds about what we wanted to do on Friday night and Sunday morning. We both agreed what we wanted to do was say thanks, but no thanks, and head out on our own.

With no commitments we had our weekends free and my dad agreed to get us both checked out for water safety certificates. He did, we passed and from then on, we were the official crew. If anybody else wanted to go out on the lake they checked with us. We had the boat ready. But most weekends, despite my dad's intentions of using it a lot, we had it to ourselves.

The boat, by the way, is a 30 foot cabin cruiser with twin 215 horse power Cobra engines. She, he or it, is called the "Cornucopia," a corny name if there ever was one. Blame mom. Mandy and I have our name for the boat, but I'll get to that later.

We had a great little 18 foot ski boat before dad bought the cruiser and he kept it too. We have them in the same over-size slip at a marina about six miles from our house.  Sometimes we tow the ski boat behind the cruiser and head for some really remote places nobody else seems to know.

On skis, Mandy and I are about as hot as it gets around here.  We both love water skiing and usually take all the prizes we go for.  I love to watch Mandy ski.  He seems to be made for it.  Well, that and other things.

I guess I could write a whole story about the boats and how Mandy and I took the class to get certified to drive the cruiser and how we aced the test. My dad said we never studied so hard for any class at school. We do fine in school, thank you. I guess Mandy is the smartest guy in our class.  Maybe I'm second, but probably third.  But that stuff isn't why you're reading this story, so I'll skip it. The important thing is that my dad spent a bundle buying this great boat and Mandy and I are the ones who get the most use out of it.

My two older brothers come home from college and want to use the boat. They have visions of taking babes to some secluded cove and doing the dirty with them, anchored securely in a private place. But there is justice in the world! They aren't certified, so the best they can hope for is a couple of hours tied up securely (the boat, that is) in the marina with a mob of people roaming around.

The Marina is a busy place. On weekdays it is full of boat owners and workmen, well into the evening. On weekends it is mobbed with families and kids, noisy as hell and always a couple of loud parties going on. Not exactly the nookie nest my brothers dream of.  Sad.

Hanging at the marina is great though for Mandy and me. Everybody knows us. Everybody's friendly. When we are more or less living on the boat from early spring `till late fall, we couldn't give a shit that it's noisy and crowded. It's like living in the middle of a carnival or a fair. It does quiet down at night, if you wait late enough. And on weekends, we just head out. We can find those secluded coves my brothers dream about, and anchor there.

My dad has a license to sail it but he never has the time to do much more than take a few friends out for an hour on the water, a few sandwiches and a couple of drinks. In fact, I don't think he really likes driving the boat. It's more the idea of having it, being able to afford it, being able to show it off, that gets my dad going. To each his own.

So most nights and all weekends from early spring to late fall, Mandy and I are on the boat. How do we occupy all that time? Need you ask?

I guess most boys talk about sex. My friends and I did, even before we could do anything about it. I think by nine or ten we had almost everything figured out. We knew what guys did with girls and we knew what guys did with guys. What girls did with girls was still a bit of a mystery, not because we couldn't figure it out, but because we really didn't want to.

What guys did with girls was interesting, I guess, but there was one big problem. We didn't have any girls willing to do it. What guys did with guys was a little easier to understand. We had the equipment and we`d sure figured out how it worked. We also had each other. I don't just mean Mandy and me. Sure, we had each other. We were best friends. But there as a whole bunch of us, friends from school, sports, scouts, and we were all very willing.

By the time we were fifteen, the summer dad bought the boat, we had figured most of it out and tried a good bit with one another. Mandy and I both did it with a bunch of other guys. One night, lying in bed together, we got to counting and figured we'd each had sex with ten or twelve other guys.

But Mandy is my bud, my bro. We might head out for some hot fun with a friend, but when it was all done and the mess cleaned up, we headed back to each other. Magnetism, physical attraction, love? All of the above - I don't know.

Mandy has a great body and he is so fucking cute. No wonder I keep coming back for more. He feels the same about me. So by the end of that summer dad bought the boat, we were a couple. We knew it and everybody else seemed to know it, too.

"Just a phase," my dad would say.

"No, Paul, no phase about it. The boys bond," Sid would say. Sid is Mandy's dad and we've always called each other's folks by their first names.

But either way, everybody was cool. We sure as hell hadn't figured it out and didn't bother trying.

The guys we hung with, about six or eight of us, were all cool, too. We got together after workouts, for a movie or just hanging at the mall. Just a gang of easy going guys, nobody giving a fuck about who was doing who or what.

One night at a Friday night party at the school the gang of us were in our corner just hanging, doing our own thing. This senior who figured he was a stud, came over and started giving Mandy and me shit.

"You guys are giving the school a bad name," he said.

"Yeah?" I chimed up.

"Yeah, fucker," he says. "If you can't bring a real date..."

"Got one," I said.

"A girl, dweeb," he comes back. "At least don't hang out together like a bunch of queers."

"Got a problem with queers?"

"Yeah, punk, I do. They upset my girl. They upset me."

"Your problem, man."

"No, man, your problem."

At that point Tommy stood up. Tommy sitting down is impressive. Standing, he's a fucking mountain. "I say it's your problem, man," Tommy joins in. "Nobody's asking you what you do with your dick. Where you put it's your own business. Just don't go trying to tell anybody else where to put theirs."

The senior stud type turned and left. End of incident.

But you get the picture. We figured later that the guy was definitely pre-Gloners. Poor fucker probably just missed the Great Divide. So pay attention here - that's probably the main point of this story.

For real Gloners, genuine Gloners, labels just don't work. The labels are meaningless and you better forget you ever knew them. They're holdovers from before the Great Divide.

That isn't to say they can't still be used in a sort of joking, humorous say. But if you use them, man, you better be sure everybody's in on the joke.

So it was later, maybe midnight, Mandy and me were alone on the boat. We'd gotten in the shower together, which on the Cornucopia is a bit of a job. It isn't nearly as big as showers in a house, but hey, if we didn't like being close, we wouldn't be doing half the things we do, right? It's so nice getting Mandy clean. His body is a major turn-on and the hygienic business of showering together is only a minor part of the fun. Then my guy washes me real good, does my dick, does my bung. Does it deep, getting me clean and oh, so hot. I know what's coming when he does that and the thought of it makes me purr.

Then it's just Mandy and me in the big v-shaped queen size bed - yeah, I know - in the bow of the boat. We've been just snuggling, kissing, for quite a while. We both really get off on that. We both really get off on each other, but I told you that.

But the time came for more. We both knew it without having to say it. Mandy flipped me over and goes down on my ass. I love it when he does that. I'm spreading my legs, humping my ass, moaning like a banshee, wanting all he's got. By the time he finishes eating me out my ass is winking, slippery and wide. You could put a fire plug up there.

He flips me again. He knows I like it on my back, like my ankles on is shoulders, my ass open wide. He knows I like being able to look deep into his eyes, see him looking deep into mine.

"Yeah," I whisper.

"Yeah, bro."

He puts the head of his cock against my pulsing ass and does this little snap. I've been with a few other guys. I told you that. So a few other guys have fucked my ass and I can tell you, nobody but Mandy does his snap. It's like one second his cock is at my door. Then, snap. He pushes forward fast, but not like he's trying to ram his whole cock in. It's just this quick, short thrust and the head of his cock is past my ring, just resting there, in but not buried. I just love Mandy's snap!

So he's in and it hasn't hurt at all. Then he's just holding it, waiting, looking deep into my eyes. He says he can tell when I'm ready for more by the way my eyes dilate. Whatever it is, he knows.

Then it starts, and he's right, I'm ready. He leans in, slowly coming in, the full length of his cock, moving in, penetrating me, filling me, making me complete. Oh, man, I love the guy.  I really feel like we are one when he's in me like that. My body responds, like I've been filled up with joy, like I was ready to just explode with joy, with love.

Now he's in and the dance begins. We know the rhythm, know the moves. It is amazing really. Like the primal dance, the eternal dance. It's in our genes and we don't need to be taught. We knew the moves before we were born, knew the rhythm like our heart knew its.

He's pulling back, moving in. He's leaning forward, pressing his chest against mine, my legs slipped over his shoulders now, my knees up against my ears.

Have I told you about Mandy's shoulders. They are the embodiment of sex. A year and a half ago he and I both weighed in at one-fifty. Okay, but not built. Then we started working out together, pushing each other, keeping the pressure on. Now, eighteen months later, we both weigh one-seventy and that's a gain of at least twenty pounds of hard muscle.

Genetics are really strange. My greatest gain was in my chest and arms, Mandy's in his shoulders. Not that we didn't build muscle everywhere, our legs, or butts, but now Mandy has these shoulders that look like a wide horizontal ridge with a cannon ball on either side. Everybody notices it. Girls love Mandy anyway but his shoulders make him some sort of god in their eyes. Like I said, his shoulders are the embodiment of sheer, hot, male sex!

I's really odd.  When I think of a really hot guy I don't think first of his shoulders.  But with Mandy shoulders are definitely sexual equipment, especially when my legs are resting on them!

So he's sliding into me, then slowly pulling out.  My legs are wrapped over his shoulders, his chest is pressed against mine. Mandy's lips find mine and his tongue begins to move back and forth across my closed lips. I know he wants in, but I make him work for it. I open just a crack and his tongue is in like lightning, moving slowly over the front of my teeth. There's like electricity there. I moan and open my mouth wide to his invasion. His tongue plunges in. His tongue is as deep in my mouth as it can go, pressing into my throat, fucking my mouth as powerfully as his cock is fucking my ass. I close my lips around it and suck. I love sucking Mandy's tongue. It's almost as good as sucking his cock. When he comes his tongue pulses like his cock - it just doesn't shoot.

We are in high gear now. The rhythm of our sex is rocking the boat. I can hear little waves splash against the hull. I feel Mandy tense and I tense with him. I feel his cock explode deep in my gut and I explode, sending my seed up along our bellies, sticky, hot.

Mandy collapses onto me and we lie together in a daze. I love his weight on me, I feel so full, so warm, so right. I love him so. At some point Mandy rolls to my left and we slump into a fitful sleep. My spunk has dried, gluing us together. We roll over again. Still half asleep, we groan as my skin pulls away from his. I find myself behind Mandy, my cock is still hard and pressed into his crack, spooned together. We sleep again, my arm around his chest.

Toward morning, still naked in the early dawn, Mandy moves back against me, gets me hard, my cock spreading my stuff up and down his crack. I prod his ass and he pushes back again. I'm in him, just the head of my cock, but in.

"Yeah," He moans, still half asleep.

My free hand moves over his chest, so hard, so chiseled, so very fine.

"Yeah," he moans again and I push in. I'm all the way in now, all of me in him.

"Yeah, bro," he's saying now. "Yeah, fuck me, lover, fuck me hard."

I pull out a little and push in more. I feel my body pressed against him and know I'm in all the way. With my hand on his chest I pull him to me, feel his heat, feel the hard, honed strength of his body. "I love you, man," I say and mean it. I do love him so.

The rhythm begins, we move together, knowing it won't last long. They never do, our morning fucks. I feel it build in me and know my Mandy feels it too. His body goes rigid in my arms and then explodes. His ass clinches around my ass and I load blast deep into his gut.

Oh, yeah, so fucking good! I love him so, my Mandy Rose.

So there we are, together doing our own thing. Loving, being loved. Another day!

Two things - we call the boat The Horn, our private joke.

The other thing is this - the old names don't work, guys. So don't let some homophobic bastard try to label you. Just remember what Tommy said, "Where you put your dick is your own business. Just don't go trying to tell anybody else where to put theirs." I'd add, where you put your dick is not the basis of what you are. It shouldn't be the basis of the label you wear.

Hang in.