Disclaimer: This story is fiction, and any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. It contains graphic descriptions of sex between and among young adult men, and anyone who finds this subject matter objectionable, or who is not of legal age in his or her political jurisdiction to read such material, must leave immediately. This story is being posted to the Nifty Archive for the amusement and entertainment or readers. It may not be posted or reprinted in any other medium without the written consent of its author.
Author's Preface: The character of Nick in this story is the same boy who has appeared in the first-person narratives I have recently posted to the Nifty Archive. This story is told from the point of view of a young man who was Nick's "buddy" for a time. I hope that this story, and subsequent ones told about him by his buddy, rounds out this remarkable young man's character.
My Adventures with Nick, Part One
The last class of the day was finally here, and I was ready for the day to be over. Not that I had any plans for the long weekend that passes for Spring Break at this school, but I wanted to be away from the people I'm surrounded by at this school. I've been here two weeks, and I probably haven't talked to more than two guys in all that time, even when I'm outside in the smoking area between classes or at lunch. They tell me I was lucky to be taken in by this school in the second semester of my senior year when we moved to New Orleans from Minneapolis because of my mom's job, and I guess they're right. But an all-boys private school where everybody has known one another since the seventh grade is pretty hard to break into socially.
When I walked into the physics lab for my last class, I wasn't surprised to see only a handful of students there. With such a short Spring Break--Thursday through Monday in the third week of April--a lot of people apparently decided to skip school today or have checked out early to get a start on trips and other activities. Even Mr. Blake, the regular teacher, was out, and I felt pretty sure the English teacher who had been buttonholed to babysit the class wasn't going to do much physics. The next fifty minutes were going to be torture, I thought; then I remembered that Nick Marshall was in this class.
I took my seat in my regular place, one row over and one seat back of Nick. I don't know what it is about this boy, but I can't keep my eyes off him. He's about 5'10" tall, has light brown hair, a lean muscular build, and a face to die for. More than once I've gotten slightly aroused looking at him, and two nights ago I dreamed he and I were jerking off together, or rather jerking each other off, in my bedroom. The first time I saw him I thought he looked familiar, like I'd seen his face a hundred times before somewhere, but I couldn't place it. That night when I was rumaging through the .jpg files I've downloaded on my computer in the last year or so, I realized why Nick looked like somebody I've known. Two of the contact sheets and sixteen of the individual shots in my files are of a guy that looks enough like him to be his brother, or even his twin. I've stared at that guy on my screen often, usually getting a hard-on and sometimes jerking off to his image. I'm not proud of this, but it's a fact.
Maybe I should clarify this last point. Yes, I'll admit it. I love the shape and form of a well-built male body, especially one as nicely proportioned and well-hung as the guy in the pictures. He's got the face of a model, the build of one of those mesomorphic athletes who's never heard of body fat, and the clear, hairless skin of a highly polished statue. The body hair he does have--under his arms and in his groin--looks groomed. While it's difficult to tell from a picture, his penis appears to be 5 1/2 to 6 inches long in the shots where it's soft, and 8 1/2 to 9 inches long in the shots where it's hard. Its circumference is in proportion to its length, and its shape is perfect. One of the contact sheets is entitled "18 and Horny." I'm eighteen and horney, too, but he looks older than that to me. Anyway, he turns me on.
And this, of course, leads me to questions about myself. Am I gay? Am I bisexual? Am I straight but with an eye for masculine beauty? Who knows? I sure don't. I've never been with a girl--sexually, I mean. Then again, I've never been with a guy that way, either. When I masturbate, I usually don't think about much of anything unless I'm looking at a picture, in which case I think about the male or female image before me. For at least the last three months, I've noticed guys out in public more often than I have girls, so I've begun to think I might be gay. The dream about Nick the other night has helped solidify this opinion. On the other hand, last night during a movie on HBO, I got so aroused watching a nude woman that I couldn't get my cock out of my jeans fast enough to jerk off. I honestly don't know.
Yesterday I decided to explore. When I got home from school, I posted a message to the alt.sex.masturbation newsgroup that read as follows: Horney virgin 18 YO WM in New Orleans ISO experienced JO Buddy near that age for JO or whatever. Then I gave my phone number and e-mail address. There was only one phone call last night, and the answering machine picked it up before I could get to it. No message. I checked my e-mail this morning, and there was nothing. Maybe this long weekend will yield some responses, and I'll be able to find out something about myself.
The tardy bell rang, and the substitute called the class to order. He called the roll, and only six of the thirteen students were present. He told us Mr. Blake had been called out of town unexpectedly (Who's Blake kidding?) but had left a lab assignment for us. When the sub passed out the lab assignment sheet, I realized right away this was a lab we had done the week before.
"Okay, it says here on Mr. Blake's instructions that you should get with your lab partner and get to work," the sub told us.
I looked around the room, and both of my lab partners were gone. A kid said, "My lab partner isn't here. What should I . . . "
Before he could finish the question, the sub said, "Just find somebody who is here to be your partner. And guys, please don't ask me for help. I know less about physics than you do."
There was a minor chuckle from the class. At that point, Nick turned to his left, looked at me, and said, "You want to be partners?"
I said, "Sure," and we walked to the lab tables in the back of the room.
"This shit sure looks familiar to me," Nick said when we got to our lab station and he looked at the assignment sheet.
"It ought to," I said; "we did this lab last week."
"Right. I knew that," he said.
Don't let Nick's comment mislead you. He's no dummy. I've picked up from overheard conversations in this status-conscious school that his rank in class is fourth (out of 101; I'm the hundred and first), and his only SAT score was 1560, with a perfect 800 on the verbal section, the harder of the two. I'm proud of my own score of 1500, but a 1560 is really awesome.
"So what do we do," I asked Nick.
"Why don't we just get to know each other. I'm Nick Marshall," he said, offering his hand for me to shake.
"Hi, Nick. I'm Brad Macmillan," I said, taking his hand.
"Where you from, Brad," Nick asked.
"Minneapolis," I said.
"It's cold up there, ain't it?"
"Only in the winter," I responded, thinking even as the words were coming out how stupid that must sound.
"Yeah," with a kind of polite chuckle. "So how do you like New Orleans," Nick asked, only pronouncing it the native way--Nuu Awlins.
"Well, to tell you the truth, I haven't seen much of the city yet. In fact, it's been school and home, home and school pretty much for me," I replied.
"Then how do you like Colton Academy," he asked.
"I went to one of Colton's 'sister schools' in Minneapolis. That's the only reason they accepted me this late in high school. So Colton isn't a whole lot different from what I'm used to."
"So who do you hang out with?"
"Well, that's kind of been a problem. You're the first guy who's said more than two words to me since I've been here."
"I know, man. Most of the pricks around this fucking place are so fucking stuck up you'd think they were born with a silver spoon stuck up their ass. The athletes are different, but you got to be an athlete to be accepted by them," he said.
"Are you an athlete," I returned.
"Yeah, you could say that. I've played quarterback on our football team since my sophomore year, and I've been known to hit a baseball or two," he said.
"Are you playing baseball now," I asked.
"Nah," he said. "My left shoulder got fucked up in our last football game, and the doctor says I've got to stay out this season. Hell, this is my last season, so I won't be playing no more baseball. At least not for this school."
"So what are your plans for Spring Break," I asked. Work full-time bagging groceries? I thought. This guy's speech was really making me wonder about him. Are his chisled face and sculptured body the product of the working class? The nine thousand bucks a year it cost to go here made me think otherwise, but . . . .
"I'm gonna go up to our country place and just hang out. I gotta work on my tan, so I'll probably spend the next five days bare-assed naked around the pool or down at the lake fishing or just walking up and down the creek that runs through the place. I don't have to work this weekend, and I'm all caught up on school shit, so this time is gravy to me."
Wow! I couldn't believe this guy, and I couldn't believe what he was saying. At this point you've got to know my dick was well on its way to poking through the buttons on my jeans. (That's another thing about this school. At my school in Minneapolis, the uniform was kahki-colored pants, navy blazer, white shirt, and school tie. Here it's navy blazer, white shirt, school tie, and jeans! Not only jeans, but 501's. I showed up the first day at this "sister school" in my old uniform--but with the proper tie--and felt completely out of place. Southern savages!)
"'Gravy?'" I asked.
"Yeah, you know. Like something extra I don't deserve. It's just a Southern way of saying things," he replied.
"And you're going to be naked for the next five days?" Am I really talking to this gorgeous guy, much less talking about his being naked for almost a week?
"Yeah. Working on my tan."
"Oh," I said, not really knowing how to respond.
"What about you? What are you gonna be doing," he asked.
"I'll probably just hang around the house," I said. "I thought about going to Atlanta to see a friend of mine who's in college there, but I talked to him last night, and he's going on a trip with his fraternity. So I'm not going anywhere. My mom's in Brazil and won't be back until Sunday."
"Your mom's in Brazil," he asked. "What the fuck she doing there?"
"She's setting up a computer network in the National Library in Rio. She's a computer consultant and has to travel a lot," I told him.
"Cool. Computers, huh?"
Oh, so he's heard of them.
"I've got a Pentium III 450 with 256 mgs of RAM and two 13 gb hard drives. Like my brother says, 'I bet my dick's bigger than your dick,'" he said.
At this I blushed, I'm almost sure.
"Wow," I said, again feeling stupid in front of this hunk. "If computer hardware equals dick size, then you've got me beat," I said. "I've got a measily Packard Bell Pentium 100 with 16 mgs of RAM and only one 1.2 gb hard drive."
"There ain't no shame in that, man. As I always say, it ain't the size of your tool; it's how you use it."
Jesus! Is this kid for real? Does he have any idea what he's doing to me?
Just then the substitue told us to get back to our regular seats because the bell was going to ring in a few minutes. I draped the assignment sheet in front of my crotch to conceal my raging erection and the wet spot it had produced, and started to go back to my seat.
"Hey, what are you doing after school," Nick asked.
"Nothing, really," I said.
"You wanna go shoot some pool," he asked.
"Yes," I said without thinking. I'll do anything with you, I thought.
"Where do you hang out," he replied.
"Hang out?"
"Yeah, you got a regular pool place you go to?"
"No. I'm new here, remember?" I said that like I'd ever have a regular pool place if I lived here a hundred years.
"Right. I forgot. So why don't we do this."
Nick outlined a plan. We would each go home and change into "normal" clothes, and he would pick me up at my house in half an hour. We negotiated where I lived and discovered we weren't more than two block away from each other, six blocks from the school, and about ten blocks from the pool hall.
By the time we got back to our seats, the Headmaster was on the intercom. We all were told to stand to sing the traditional Friday closing hymn, even though it was only Wednesday. We all stood up and a rather tinny-sounding tape of the school choir began the first verse of "Now Thank We All Our God." Nobody in the room uttered a sound, of course, but I could hear some rather awful renditions of the hymn coming from the freshman classes down the hall.
When the final bell rang, we all went to our lockers as usual and got out of the building as quickly as possible. As I walked to my locker, I held my bookbag in front of me to hide the signs of my sexual hysteria. I bumped into several boys as I navigated the hall, but I hardly noticed. I couldn't fully process the fact that I was about to spend the afternoon shooting pool with Nick Marshall, who, I was now convinced, was the perfect object of sexual fantasy. I was gay. I just knew it. He wasn't, of course, being a football player and all, but maybe he'd let me play with his dick and pretend I was a girl doing it.
After stowing most of my books and grabbing the novel I had to read for English class, I moved to the parking lot and got in my car. I immediately fired up a Marlboro, thinking it might be my only one for some time, knowing that Nick, an athlete, didn't smoke. There was the usual after-school jam of people trying to get out of the lot, but the pride I always took in my Trans-Am in such situations was overshadowed by my thoughts of Nick's coming to my house and our playing pool at a place where he "hangs out."
It only took me a few minutes to get home after I finally got out of the parking lot. I instinctively picked up the mail when I got inside and looked through it for a letter for me--from a friend, perhaps, or maybe even from my dad out in Tuscon. Nothing.
I went upstairs and thought about what to do. What to wear. My impulse was to go into my bathroom and jerk off. By this time I had issued so much fluid that the front of my jeans were quite obviously wet, and there was no way to hide it. After taking off my coat and tie, I did go into my bathroom, pulled off my jeans, and tossed myself off into the sink. This didn't take more than a few seconds, and I honestly don't remember what my orgasm felt like. Its purpose was purely mechanical: to get my penis to go down. After washing the cum out of my sink, I went in search of something to wear. I changed my briefs and decided on a fresh pair of 501's and the Tommy Hilfiger shirt my mother gave me for my birthday last January.
But shoes? These had to be right, too.
I rejected the Weejuns I had worn to school as not being "normal." What does a football-baseball jock wear? I hit on a pair of Nikes that were probably too white and too new-looking, but I couldn't do any better.
When I looked at my watch, I saw that thirty minutes were almost up. I quickly combed my hair, brushed my teeth, and splashed on some Polo aftershave. I felt that I was ready for what I guess I subconsciously hoped would be a "date."
And none too soon, as it happend. Just as I put my bottle of aftershave away, I heard a horn honk in the driveway. I slapped the lights off and raced down stairs, remembering, I think, to lock the front door as I flew out.
Nick's car, frankly, wasn't all that impressive. It was a Honda Accord LX, white, with a sunroof. I had read somewhere that a man's car was a symbolic replica of his penis (or was it a symbol of the penis he wanted to project to the rest of the world?), and if that were the case, Nick's penis came across as rather ordinary, wholesome even. Of course, I had the empirical evidence of the bulge in his jeans to contradict that notion.
"Hey, man," he said, as I got in the shotgun side. He stuck his hand out for me to shake, and I did so with gusto to match his. "How's it hanging?" he asked.
Well, frankly, at that moment it wasn't hanging. As soon as I opened the door of the car and saw him, I started to swell. Was he doing this to me on purpose? Did he know what was happening to me under the demin and trying his best to induce my arrousal? No, I couldn't think so. At least I was dressed right, though. Nick had on the same kind of clothes I did, down to the longsleeved Tommy. His Nikes were worn and skuffed; his 501's were old, faded, and very tight; and he was wearing a well-thumbed baseball cap. There was a black leather jacket, which he quickly tossed into the back seat, on the passenger side.
Both of us were silent, me ostensibly concentrating on the deep bass of the stereo, during the five minutes or so that it took us to get to the pool hall. And what a place it was! It looked like something out of "The Godfather." It had about a dozen pool tables, a bar with lots of bar stools, a big-screen TV tuned to ESPN, and maybe fifteen black tables with paper napkin holders, salt and pepper shakers, and laminated menus wedged into clamps on the sides of the napkin holders. Every pool table had a wire above it with lots of wooden beads that were new to me. "Those beads are a way to keep score in certain games," Nick later explained.
God, this place was masculinity personified, I thought.
The bartender, a heavy man of maybe forty-five, greeted Nick by name with genuine friendliness in his voice when we went in. Then he said, "I see you brung your hustle with you today," and smiled. Nick responded, "Shut up, you dumb fuck. This ain't no hustle; this is my friend Brad." They both laughed. I warmed inwardly. He called me a friend. "Brad, this is Chubby Manale. Chubby thinks he runs this place. The fact is, he's a dumb fuck, a hell of a nice guy, and a very, very good friend."
I couldn't get over the way Nick talked to him.
Chubby stuck out his hand for me to shake. "How ya doin', Brad. Don't listen to this jerk off, this asshole, this . . . I don't kow what the hell he is. Anyway, good to meet you."
"Hi," I said, "good to meet you." Nick stood there grinning.
Chubby immediately took a rack of pool balls from under the bar. How did he know we weren't there for a sandwich, a po-boy, as the sign said. Then I remembered this was Nick's "hangout," and I figured he only came here to play pool. Then Chubby popped the caps on two Budwisers and passed them over with the pool balls.
Nick selected a table in the far back corner. Walking there I envied the easy and natural interaction between Chubby and Nick. It was as though Chubby accepted Nick as an equal, and Nick had the self-confidence to respond the way a grown man would.
Nick racked the balls on the table, we lagged for first shot, and I lost. Nick called "Eight Ball," which was fine with me, since I'd actually played it a time or two. We didn't talk much during that first game. Nick played like the natural athlete I thought he probably was, and I played like I'd never seen a pool table before.
After he racked the balls a second time, he asked if I wanted another beer.
"Let me get this round," I said. I'd drunk beer before but never after school at four o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon.
"Don't worry about it," he said. "We'll settle up when we're done."
He came back to the table with two more longnecks and handed one to me. He set his on the side of the table and reached into his shirt pocket for a fresh pack of Marlboro Reds. He slapped the box on the palm of his left hand to pack the cigarettes the way I'd seen other guys do, pealed off the celophane, opened the box, and jabbed a smoke into the righthand corner of his mouth. I pulled my slightly crumpled box of the same brand out of the back pocket of my jeans, got one out, and then felt my pockets for my lighter, which I'd apparently left at home in my haste to get ready.
Nick inched something out of his righthand jeans pocket from the outside until a chrome Zippo popped out of the top. He flipped it open and fired it up. After he lit his cigarette, he noticed mine dangling unlit from my lips. He took a couple of steps in my direction, landing much too close within my comfort space. He held the flame up for me. I took a puff and said thanks. He grinned but didn't move, so I stepped back a little as my partial erection stirred.
"I didn't know you smoked. I never see you smoking at school," I said to fill the void.
"I don't smoke at school. I been on ball teams since I started there, and athletes aren't supposed to smoke. I'd catch hell from the coaches and even the other players, although I know most of them smoke. But I been smoking since I was twelve years old. I learned how to smoke the same day I learned how to jerk off. Same guy taught me how to do both."
"Oh, yeah," I said. Duh!
"Yeah. When did you start," he wanted to know.
Nick, don't do this to me, I thought, as I filled up more of my jeans. I could feel the wetness starting. I didn't say anything for several awkward moments, and he grinned again.
"That's a trick question, man, like, 'When did you stop beating your wife.' You're fucked either way you answer it," he said.
"Oh, yeah," I responded. What else do you say to that?
Nick walked to the head of the table and leaned over to take the first shot. His cigarette was back in the corner of his mouth, and he squinted slightly through the smoke as he rammed his stick into the cue ball. God he looked sexy doing that. He hit a glancing shot, and the cue ball barely disturbed the rack at the end of the table. He said "shit" rather louder than he might have and walked to the side of the table opposite me. I looked around to see if anyone had heard him, but the place was almost empty. Then I realized that this was his hangout and he knew the etiquette.
I got in position to take my shot then realized my cigarette was in my way. I tucked it into the corner of my mouth as Nick had done, but the smoke from the end bothered me too much for me to shoot. I looked around and saw a little round plastic ashtray that was almost black with encrusted ashes and stuck the cigarette into one of the holders. I looked at Nick to check out his reaction to make sure I wasn't being hopelessly uncool, but he wasn't looking at me. Instead, he was carefully applying chalk to the end of his cuestick, which was wedged between his legs and sticking up at the angle of an erect . . . .
Stop it! I said to myself. Take your shot and make it good.
I leaned over the table and aimed at the striped ball that was in the best position on the table. I took a deep breath to settle myself down and took my shot. To my amazement and pleasure, the ball went into the pocket. Nick noticed and said "Good shot."
I shot again, and again sank my ball. I looked at Nick. He still had the cue stick between his legs at the same angle, only now he was absentmindedly stroking it up and down with his left hand. The stick was pushing his package into a more prominent position in the front of his jeans, and I could see the outline of his dick pressing against the slightly more faded spot to the right of his fly. At this sight my penis rose to its full extension, and I once again became conscious of the moistness of my crotch. I took what should have been an easy shot, but my stroke of the cue stick was much too hard. I sent the cue ball flying over the bank of the table on the side where Nick was standing. His hand shot out and grabbed the ball in mid-air. He took the last drag from his cigarette and ground the butt out on the floor.
"Tough break," he said as he took one of my two sunken balls from its pocket and spotted it. He must have read puzzlement on my face because he said, "You scratched, so you gotta spot one of your balls."
"Oh, yeah," I said, wondering who wrote my last few brilliant lines.
Nick spotted the cue ball at the opposite end of the table, leaned over to get ready to shoot, and turned his head to his right, the side I was standing on. He looked at me for a few seconds, no doubt noticing my straining erection just at his eye level. He smiled as he looked directly into my eyes and adjusted his crotch with his right hand. He shot the cue ball down the full length of the table but didn't sink the solid ball he was aiming at. It was a hard shot, and I'm sure he knew it, but it was his only one.
"Goddamnit!" he said, again much too loudly. "I should have made that fuckin' shot." He wasn't angry, but his tone of voice made it clear he didn't like missing the shot. Then he proped his cue stick against the wall behind him and said, "I gotta take a piss. You want to?"
When I look back on that moment from the perspective of the last two years, I am utterly amazed how innocent and naive I was then. This whole afternoon had all the markings of a classic seduction of me by Nick: the hyper-masculine environment of the pool hall, the beers, the suggestive comments, the knowing smiles, and now the invitation for a trip to the bathroom. At the time, though, all I could think of was my erection and how it would give me away if I went with him to urinate. I shook my head "no," and he turned and walked off without comment.
Nick came back in a few minutes with a small wet spot in the faded area of denim that covered the head of his penis, no doubt from the last few drops of urine that leaked out after he finished shaking himself dry. I felt a little self-conscious looking, but I had to know if he was as aroused as I was, and the answer to that question seemed to be "no." I noticed he had only half buttoned one of the buttons on his fly, and I caught myself before I told him about it. He'd probably make some kind of joke about what was I doing, checking out his package or something, and the embarrassment would have been too acute to stand.
I took my shot and sank an easy one into the side pocket. In my next shot I only nicked the cue ball, and it went sputtering across the table without hitting anything. Nick had been watching me, and, when I turned to indicate it was his turn, he shook his head.
"No, man, take that one over. Look, you're not standing right," he said. He turned me toward the table, put his left leg between my legs to get me to widen my stance, and then he bent down and put his hand on the front of my right thigh to get me to move my right foot back a little. With that I almost lost it and ejaculated in my pants.
Without so much as a "by your leave," I turned and headed for the bathroom. I locked the door, took a deep breath, and faced the mirror above the grimy sink. I was trembling all over. I started to pull out my dick and let it explode, but I thought that if Nick had noticed my hard-on, as I thought he had, and he sees me without one when I come back out, he'll know what I was up to in here. Today this logic still baffles me. Remember, I'm the guy who had just announced to the world via the Internet that I wanted a jerk-off buddy in New Orleans and please call me at this number if you're interested. The jerk-off buddy of my fantasies had just been feeling me up as I groaned mentally under the weight of a dripping hard-on, so I run off to the bathroom and won't relieve myself for fear he'll think I'm in there jerking off. Well, I guess we all have to start somewhere, but even a five-year-old would have been able to read the situation better than I did. I turned on the water and splashed it in my face. I took more deep breaths, and eventually the trembling subsided. My dick began to soften a bit, and I thought I almost had myself under control.
After several more minutes of trying to regain my composure, somebody grabbed the doorknob and twisted it to come in. It's Nick, I thought, but I didn't say anything and the guy went away. Two minutes later, he was back, this time really pulling at the doorknob. "Come on, man, I gotta take a shit," the voice, not Nick's, said.
"All right," I called. I unlocked the door, opened it, and a guy a year or two older than I was charged passed me.
He smiled and said, "I'm sorry to rush you, but I'm in a bad way."
I smiled back but didn't respond. Feeling more in control of myself, I walked back to our table. I had no idea how long I had been gone, but by this time the place had started filling up. I glanced at my watch and saw it was 5:15. Nick greeted me with one of his big grins.
"You all right," he asked. "You were gone so long I thought you might have fallen in." He laughed at that remark, and I laughed with him.
I said, "Nick, it's 5:15, and my mom usually calls at 5:30, when she can get through. I haven't talked to her since Sunday, and I'd like to go home in case she calls."
"Sure, man," he said. "I'll drop you off. I'm a little tired of this place, anyway. Besides, I'm starting to get hungry, but I don't want a po-boy, and that's all they got here."
We gathered up our rack of balls, put away our cue sticks, and headed for the register on the bar to settle up. I asked Nick what my half would be, and he said something like, "Nah, don't worry about it."
Nick put the balls on the bar and asked Chubby how much he owed.
Chubby made a pretend-angry face and said, "Get the fuck outta here. You know your goddamn money ain't no good in this place. And tell them ugly brothers of yours to get their asses in here to see me."
"Thanks, Chub. See ya," Nick called as we walked out of place. I waved and said thanks, too.
"What was that all about," I asked.
"It's kinda a long story. I'll tell you about it sometime, but it ain't all that interesting," Nick said. "Well, I guess it ain't all that long," he said, reconsidering. "Chubby and my dad were best friends, and my dad set him up in this place. Chubby's repaying us for that, I guess. Plus, he's still a good friend to me and my brothers."
I noticed he said Chubby and his dad were best friends, not are. I didn't follow up on this, but I wanted to later, if there were to be a "later."
When Nick sat behind the wheel, the half-buttoned button on his fly pulled open and revealed a puff of pubic hair. He's not wearing underwear, I thought, and my then-soft penis began to stir again. He saw me looking, probably with my mouth open and drool forming on my lips. He casually stuck a finger in the opening, wiggled it around as though scratching himself, and then--Christ in heaven! I thought--put the finger to his nose to smell it.
"Almost time for a shower," he said, and he looked at me and laughed.
Well, this last antic was even enough for me to comprehend. With a good deal of self-consciousness, I reached down and adjusted my fully-extended erection in my jeans. Nick's bulge was a little bigger now than it had been a few seconds ago.
"You still got a hard-on, man? I thought you had taken care of that in the shitter," he said with characteristic refinement.
I barked a nervous laugh. "What's up with that," I said in a joking tone. "Have you been checking me out, or something?"
"Hell, yeah. I check out every guy's basket. Just like you and every other guy I know does. Ain't no shame in that. Matter of fact," he said, "I'm getting the boner you've been looking for all afternoon right now just looking at yours."
I was too confused to speak. On one hand I was more than a little embarrassed even talking about this kind of thing, and I couldn't begin to imagine having this conversation with any of my friends in Minneapolis. On the other hand, this talk excited me more, as it seemed to excite Nick, and I wanted him to go on with it. Just then we got to my house, and Nick pulled the car into the driveway but didn't turn off the engine.
"You're coming in, aren't you?" I asked.
"Can I?"
"Yeah, of course. This will only take a few minutes, and then we can go get something to eat." Hell, no, you're not getting away from me, I thought.
With that he grinned and turned off the engine. He grunted getting out on his side, and he walked slightly bent over.
"Your back stiff" I asked. I thought maybe a football injury or something.
"Nah, this fucking hard-on you've given me won't let me straighten up." He undid another button on his fly and stuck his left hand in. Standing in the middle of my driveway, in front of me, God, and the neighbors, he adjusted his erection until it pointed upward, making a tent of the tight denim of his jeans slightly to the right of the opening. With some effort he got the second open button fastened but ignored the one that had worked loose on its own.
"That feels a lot better," he said, smiling.
Once in the house, we went upstairs to my room. The house was very large for just Mom and me, but it was the only thing I really liked about our move south. It was an older house, and over the years various owners had made changes to it. My room, for instance, was huge, and Mom and I figure it must have once been two rooms the size of the two other bedrooms across the hall. It had a gigantic walk-in closet and its own bathroom. Mom used the large "master suite" downstairs, so I had all the privacy I needed, even when she was home. My room had a double bed and the other usual bedroom furniture at the end with the bathroom, and a sofa, love seat, recliner, coffee table, and entertainment center with all the gadgets at the other end. Between the two areas were my desk, a bookcase, and my computer. When we got into my room, I checked my watch again and saw that it was almost 5:30. I checked for messages on my answering machine, just in case she had called earlier, but there was only the one call from last night with no message.
My computer was already on, so I connected with my Internet server to check my e-mail. Even if she couldn't call, she tried to get an e-mail message to me every day. Yep, there it was. I retrieved the message and read it. She was sorry she wouldn't be able to call, but her project was getting hairier and hairier by the hour. Even though she speaks Spanish, she said, it doesn't do her as much good in Brazil as she had hoped it might, since Brazilians speak Portuguese. She went on to say how much she loves me and misses me, but the bottom line on this matter is that she won't see me for at least two more weeks. Enjoy my days off, she said, and if I decide to go out of town (We had briefly discussed my driving to Atlanta to see my friend before I knew he was going to be out of town.) to be careful. She would assume, she said, I had decided to go if she didn't hear from me.
I decided not to reply right away. I was still unsure of what would happen with Nick, and I wanted to keep my options open. I appreciated the confidence my mother had in me, which seemed to have been boosted considerably when I turned eighteen.
"So what's up," Nick asked.
I gave him the gist of my message, but he didn't say anything. By then the two beers from earlier had both worked their way into my bladder, and I had to pee. Nick had been looking around my room at my books and other junk, and I told him to make himself at home (as if he wouldn't anyway) and that I'd be back in a few minutes. I closed and locked the bathroom door as I always do, even when I'm in the house by myself. My erection was still at full staff, and I knew I wouldn't be able to get it out of my briefs comfortably to urinate. So I opened my fly all the way, pulled down my briefs, and stood at the toilet trying to pee. When I finally started to pee, the angle it was coming from caused me to splash urine all over the place, so, with great effort, I cut off the stream, turned around, and sat down on the toilet. I had to hunch myself over forward to make it into the bowl, but finally, with more effort than it should have taken, I relieved myself. This caused my dick to soften a little.
I thought about taking a shower, but I hadn't brought any clothes in the bathroom with me, and that would have meant parading naked across the room in front of Nick to get some when I was finished. Even a towel wrapped around my waist didn't make that very appealing. Instead, I opted for a quick clean-up. I washed the head and shaft of my penis to flush away the pre-cum that had been accumulating there since mid-afternoon. I took off my shirt, which still seemed reasonably fresh, washed my armpits, and applied fresh deodorant. Then I had to figure out what to do about my underwear and jeans. My briefs had taken the worst of my afternoon ooze-a-thon, and I didn't want to put them back on. It occurred to me to just go without any. Then I remembered there was a pair in the dirty clothes hamper that I'd only worn for a couple of hours after a shower and before I'd gone to bed a few nights ago, so I got them out and suited up. My jeans were quite dry, but I didn't like the dried white spot where the moisture had been. I dabbed at the spot with a damp washcloth, and the spot disappeared without really wetting the material. With that done, I felt presentable once again.
All of this took ten minutes or so, and, when I went back into my bedroom, Nick was at the computer. Computer files can be pretty incriminating in the wrong hands, and the hundreds of triple-X rated pictures of men I'd downloaded since I got on the 'Net were no exception, including the ones of the guy who looked like Nick. I wasn't terribly worried, though. It had taken me a couple of hours to figure out how to operate the viewer, and, since it wasn't one that was widely used, I figured there was no way he had gotten into it in the short time I was gone. When I got to the computer desk, he was looking at my list of subscribed Usenet newsgroups. I use Netscape for that, so it didn't take a genius to figure out how to get into them.
"Hey, dude. You and me subscribe to a lot of the same newsgroups," he said. I noted his use of "dude." Usually he, like most people here, said "Hey, man."
"Oh, yeah," I said again, for what must have been the hundredth time this afternoon, only this time as a question. My rapier-like repartee made me know it was time to fire my writers.
"Yeah. So how do I get to the gifs?"
"I don't have any." Why did I lie that way? This could have been an opening for what I hoped would develop.
"Bullshit. I looked at Explorer, and you must have a thousand. Come on. Don't fuck around with me." He grinned at me.
"Okay, you caught me in that one. But if you're so smart, figure it out. I'll give you five minutes and no hints." All my xxx-files were hidden, and some were even protected by passwords in zipped files.
He went to work with the mouse. Clicking here, double clicking there. This guy had obviously spent some time in front of a computer screen.
I kept an eye on my watch and finally said, "Okay, your time is up. Some stud you are, Mr. Pentium 450 with 256 mgs of RAM and two humongous hard drives."
He laughed and punched me on the arm. "All right, you fucker. You got me. So show me how to get into them."
"No," I said.
"All right. But let me show you something I came across last night."
He clicked back to Netscape, opened the newsgroups, and got into alt.sex.masturbation. Where's this going, I wondered.
He scrolled down the list of articles until almost the very end, and there it was: my post. He clicked it open to get to the text.
"You see this. Some guy in this neighborhood is looking for a j-o buddy."
"New Orleans is a big city," I said. "How do you know he lives in this neighborhood?"
"He gave his phone number, and the three digits after the area code are the same as my phone number. They assign those by neighborhoods, so he's got to be around here somewhere. I bet I know this fucker. Let's call him up."
This guy must be as smart as his SAT score said he was. I hadn't thought about being able to localize the phone number from the exchange.
"Why do you want to do that? Are you interested," I asked a bit coyly.
"Yeah, I might be. Come on."
He jumped across the room to my desk, where two phones sat. We had three lines coming into the house: one for the computer, one for my mom, and one for me. Her line had an extension in my room so I could answer it when she was gone without having to race downstairs. That was the phone he picked up and started punching numbers into. After a few seconds the answering machine on my line came on. "Hi, this is Brad. Leave a message," the machine squawed.
"Hi, Brad, you little fucker. This is Nick, and I'm fixin' to get up, walk over there, and kick your young ass."
At that I almost soiled my pants. With his size and apparent strength, he could have easily kick my young ass. When he turned toward me, though, he had another of his grins on his face, and his erection was almost popping the buttons on his jeans. He crossed the room to where I was standing, wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug, and picked me up off the floor.
"So does this mean you're interested," I asked coyly.
"Fuckin' aye it means I'm interested," he said. He was still holding me tight, although he had put me down on my feet again. As he squeezed me, I could feel his taut penis pressing into my groin. My own responded in kind, and I took pleasure in my hard-on for the first time that afternoon as he rubbed against me.
"So what do we do now," I asked in genuine innocence. "I've never done anything like this before. I wanted somebody with experience to teach me. Are you experienced?"
"Very," he said. The tone of confidence in his voice let me know he wasn't exaggerating.
"So, what's next," I asked.
"Get a towel so we don't get our cum all over the sheets. And if you have some lotion or KY or something, get that, too. I'll wait here for you."
This boy knew what he was doing. I went into the bathroom for the stuff he told me to get, and in about two minutes I came back into the bedroom to find him fully naked with the biggest erection I had ever seen. Actually, it was the only one I'd ever seen except for my own, but I did have a hard drive full of gifs.
"Come here, buddy" he said, and I obeyed. He had already pulled back the bedspread and top sheet on the bed, and he motioned for me to put the towel and tube of KY on the bed. Then he started on the buttons of my shirt. He carefully undid each one and helped me take it off. He dropped it in the pile of his clothes that were on the floor. I expected him to start on my jeans next, but instead he put both hands on my chest and started rubbing gently. My nipples are rather sensitive, and Nick seemed to know that intuitively. He pinched them gently and stroked them with the backs of his hands, and I responded immediately. He looked deeply into my eyes and smiled softly, not the big grin he usually flashes. I had the sense he was enjoying giving me pleasure as much as I was enjoying receiving it at his hands.
"Put your hand on my cock and rub it," he said. I did as he directed, covering first the head with my palm and then sliding down, and then up, the shaft. It was really quite warm, and the skin felt silky over its turgid core. A drop of clear fluid rose from inside him, and I thought maybe I should taste it like the characters in the countless pornographic stories on the Internet do.
Nick then unbuckled my belt and started undoing the buttons of my fly. As each one popped open, my excitement grew. On the next to last button I shivered.
"You're nervous, aren't you," he asked. "Remember, having sex is supposed to be fun, and if it ain't, we'll stop any time." There was a gentleness in his voice that I hadn't heard before, and it made a wave of affection for this guy sweep over me and almost make me sob. "We ain't twelve-year-olds. We can control ourselves, and we can enjoy each other a hell of a lot more without all that wild bullshit you see in pornos."
I was afraid to speak for fear I'd start crying. God, I wanted to do this, and the excitement I felt was almost overpowering. At the same time, I was scared--anxious, really--of what I was doing and of what it might mean about me.
Nick finished with the buttons and pushed my jeans down to my ankles. I kicked off my shoes without untying them and stepped out of my jeans. He spread the towel out on the bed and started to pull down my briefs. I shook my head "no." I don't know why I did that. My anxiety, I guess. He led me to the bed and we sat down on the edge, his erection pointing straight up and grazing his stomach, mine straining against the fabric of my briefs. He was to my left, and he put his right arm round my shoulders the way I'd seen guys hold their girls. By now I felt calm enough to risk talking.
"What happens now," I asked.
"I'd like to kiss you, if you'll let me," he replied.
I turned my head to him by way of reply, and he pressed his lips on mine. In a few seconds he opened his mouth, and I let my tongue slide in. He reciprocated, and for several moments he clenched me as I soaked in the wonderful feeling of being intimate with another human being for the first time in my life. He moved closer to me. He shifted his arm from my shoulder to my nipple by slipping his hand under my right arm. At the same time he moved his left hand to the spot where the bottom of my briefs met my left thigh. I could feel the pressure of his having his hand there on my penis. With no more warning than that, he wrapped his hand around my erection on top of my underwear. He started stroking my nipple and kneeding my penis at the same time, and in two or three seconds I shot off. I moaned softly when it happened and pulled my mouth away from his to catch my breath and to concentrate on the shudders passing over the lower half of my torso.
When I opened my eyes a few seconds later, Nick was staring at my face, grinning broadly.
"Pop goes the cherry," he said, and we both laughed as though that were the funniest line we'd ever heard.
When we finished laughing, he tugged my briefs off me and used them to wipe up the semen that had dripped down the shaft of my dick and onto my balls. I smiled my thanks to him for that act of kindness and for so much more.
I didn't feel shy or inhibited any more. I was no longer a virgin, at least in a manner of speaking, and my dick was still rock hard. I reached for Nick, clutched his shaft, and started stroking as I have always stroked myself. Compared to my five or so inches, Nick's penis seemed gigantic. He let me stroke it a few times, clearly enjoying my work, but then he told me to stop. What was I doing wrong? Didn't he like the feel of my hand? Didn't he want me to bring him off? Weren't we buddies?
"You can't do that any more until we perform the official jerk-off buddy ritual," he said with a grin. "This is what we do. Sit up here away from the side of the bed facing me. Open your legs enough for me to get my ass between them."
I did what he said.
"Now I'll get my ass up as close to your balls as I can, like so."
He scooted up into the V of my legs and rested his thighs on top of mine. Our dicks were less than a hair's breadth apart, his towering over mine by at least three inches, and I was physically closer to Nick in this position than I had ever been to anybody.
"Now we got to officially introduce our cocks to one another. What's your full name--first, middle, last?"
"Bradley Stewart Macmillan," I said.
"Okay, here goes. Nicholas Eliot Marshall, meet Mr. Bradley Stewart Macmillan. Okay, your turn."
I felt stupid doing this, but having Nick this close to me felt really good, so I went along.
"Bradley Stewart Macmillan, meet Mr. Nicholas Eliot Marshall," I said.
"All right, cocks, shake hands."
Nick took his penis in hand at its base and began rubbing it against mine.
"Come on, do it with yours," he said, and I complied.
Wow! What a feeling! It was as though he were masturbating me, and I him, at the same time. After a couple of minutes of this, Nick started rubbing my right nipple with his left hand, and the sensation was fantastic. I took his cue and did the same to him. With all this going on, I didn't know where to concentrate. Our scrotums were mashed together, and I could feel his tightening. And, of course, mine was, too. As I applied more pressure to the base of my penis, the head seemed to expand and darken. My nipple stung a little as Nick rubbed it, but it wasn't so much pain as a pleasure I hadn't discovered on my own. Just then Nick jerked, and I thought he was about to ejaculate. Instead, he moved even closer to me and pulled his legs around me tighter, crossing his ankles behind me so that our chests were touching. He put his head on my right shoulder and started licking my ear. God, that felt good.
In a few seconds he whispered, "I gonna come."
"Me, too," I gasped.
With that Nick grabbed both of our penises, held them together, and started thrusting upward. In an instant I started doing the same thing, and, after five or six thrusts like this, he made an audible groan.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhh."
"Ahhhhhhhhhhh," I responded.
With his groan, Nick's whole body started an upward, rhythmic jerking, and he seemed lost in a kind of ectasy. I've read somewhere since then that a lot of men, myself included, suppress the instinctual body jerk when they have an orgasm, but not my guy. With every jerk, a spurt of semen issued forth from the head of his penis. I did the same, and in a few second we collapsed onto each other.
After about a minute, we separated. Nick pulled me to him again and kissed me wetly, but not passionately.
He pulled back and rested his forehead on mine. He looked into my eyes and said with a tone of deep feeling in his voice, "That was good, buddy. Very, very fucking good." He was grinning again, and this time I joined him.
After a couple of minutes in this position, Nick did something that sounds gross as hell but that I think was an act of real tenderness. He scooped up as much semen from both of us as he could and then rubbed it around in his hand. He brought it to his mouth and licked about half of it onto his tongue and swallowed it. Then he offered his hand to me, saying, "Come on. It's part of the ritual." I accepted his offer and swallowed some as quickly as I could, praying I wouldn't gag. Nick then wiped his hand on his chest and then on mine. "Now we're part of each other forever," he said and hugged me tight.
After a few seconds he said, "Let's have a smoke. You fold up the towel to get rid of the wet spot."
He got up and went to the pile of clothes on the floor. He found his shirt and took the pack of cigarettes from the pocket. Then he found his jeans and extracted his lighter. He turned to me and asked if I had an ashtray. I told him there was one on my desk, and he got it and came back to the bed. I had crossed my legs Indian style, but when he got back in bed he said, "Unh, unh. Back to like we were before." I did what he said, and he siddled up into his position between my legs. By now our penises were only half hard, and when they touched again I felt an small electric charge run through me.
Nick took two cigarettes out of the box, stuck one in my mouth and the other in his own, and struck a flame on his Zippo for both of us. He inhaled deeply, hungrily, like an inveterate smoker, obviously enjoying the sensuous experience of the act. My cigarette tasted as good to me as any had, and I reflected on how smoking seemed to be the natural follow-up to what we had just done.
We finished our smokes and sat there a few moments.
Finally, Nick said, "Is your cock getting hard again, because mine damn sure is."
I nodded "yes."
He disentangled us and gently pushed me down on my back onto the bed. He got on top of me so that his dick and mine were wedged between our abdomens. He pulled me down so that my feet, like his, were on the floor, and he began humping. I caught his rhythm and humped with him. He planted his mouth on mine, and this time we competed with each other to see who could suck each other's tongue into his mouth the more. In a few moments his mouth was on my left nipple, sucking, kneeding, tonguing. I couldn't respond in kind, but I put my two hands between us and began massaging his nipples. He groaned.
We didn't announce our orgasms this time, but come they did. Once again, Nick started jerking and bucking, this time on top of me. I let myself get carried up into his movements, and I, too, jerked and bucked to fulfillment. When we were spent, Nick smeared our cum on both of our chests, our abdomans, and our legs. Then he rolled off me in deep contentment. We repositioned ourselves in the bed, with our heads on the pillows. We didn't speak. In a few minutes Nick reached down and took my flaccid penis in his hand, and in another minute I heard his breathing signal sleep. I lay there encased in his hand trying to figure out what I felt about all of this. In a few more moments I drifted off myself, our juices drying all over us.