SCRATCHING AN ITCH By Jimmy TenEyes September 2001
"Shit!"
I glanced up from my book. Frank's expletive was the first word either of us had uttered in almost an hour. Even though it was Friday, we were out of school -- one of those rare teacher-training days. That was the good news; the bad was that it had been pouring rain since early morning, so if you were 16 and flat broke, as we both were that day, there weren't a whole lot of options. Frank and I were best friends -- had been since sixth grade, so driving over in the rain to hang out with him was what I would do anyway, but fortunately, it was also something I could do without laying out any money. Frank's mom was at work (his dad had died the same year we met), and with his sister Marlene away at UC Santa Barbara, we had the house to ourselves. With nothing better to do, we'd each latched onto a book and stretched out on opposite ends of the couch to read.
"What?" I asked, responding to his outburst.
"Arrgh!" he growled in annoyance and began to thrash around noisily.
"What is your problem, Dude?"
"Itchy ass!" he mumbled, and began pulling at his jeans, apparently to free them from his butt crack. "You know I can't stand that," he said.
I just shook my head and went back to my book. Both Frank and I were proud of the fact that we could confide these kinds of silly, childish intimacies to each other, no matter how much they might make more mature people wrinkle up their noses in disgust. We both took it as a badge of the depth of our friendship that we could engage in graphic discussions about our respective pimples, or complain to each other about jock itch (or "itchy ass") and know that we wouldn't shock or gross each other out. At least that was true up to a point.
See, I could easily tell Frank if I were worried I might have B.O., or confide to him weakness for occasional (sure, right!) masturbation, but I could never, ever tell him about my most vivid sex fantasies -- the one's that involved me and Frank together. Yeah, I was hopelessly in lust over him, but I knew it was just that: hopeless. Frank was straight as a string, and we were both products of our strict, Catholic upbringing. As much time as I spent fantasizing about sex with my best friend, I spent just as much time and effort trying to resist temptation and keep my thoughts pure. Quaint? I suppose so.
Pathetic? Maybe, but we were part of a culture and a generation that viewed "The Exorcist" as a documentary. Of course that doesn't mean we were particularly successful at avoiding the wiles of Satan. As a teenager it sometimes seemed like I spent every minute of my free time masturbating like crazy -- a mortal sin every time I did it. There had also been those occasions when Frank and I had spent the night together and I'd feigned sleep for hours until I worked up the courage to reach out and explore as much of his sleeping form as I could get to without waking him. Afterwards, I would be consumed with guilt, but Frank never caught me, so of course I did it again. And again. And while I continued to hold my book in front of my face, Frank's complaint about his itch had diverted my attention away from my novel and focused it on my bud's bottom and what I'd like to do with it.
So it was that when Frank jumped up a few minutes later, and again started pulling at the crotch of his jeans, I heard myself talking without ever consciously meaning to do it.
"Man, are you still having a problem?"
"Are you kidding, Jimmy? It's driving me crazy."
"Well, if you want to do something about it instead of just whining, I could fix it for you in a hurry."
"What are you talking about?"
"Your itchy ass, Man. I know what causes it; I get it myself. If you want, I'll clean it up for you and put some stuff on it to stop the itch. In three minutes you're good as new." Was this really me? If I'd had time to think about it, I probably would have left for home, but Frank's response was just non-committal enough to make me keep pursuing it.
"You? You clean my ass? I'm not letting somebody touch my ass. What do you think I am? Besides, my ass isn't dirty; it's just itchy." Probably like most boys who are somewhat bookish, and who spend a lot of time with a particular friend, Frank and I had been accused of being gay before either of us even knew what it meant. Over the years, we'd learned not to let that kind of crap get us down, but Frank's way of dealing with it was to go overboard the other way. I was more likely to be touched by one of the nuns at school than I was by Frank. And if I happened to brush against him, he would pull away as if burnt. He didn't mean anything by it; it was just his way of showing the world -- and me -- that he was straight. Sometimes, when I could force myself to do it, I did the same thing.
"Hey, it's up to you, Frank. I'm not exactly dying to get next to your brown eye, you know," (more like panting with desire), "I'm just tellin' you, if it's really bothering you, it can be fixed."
"Hmmph!"
Frank picked up his book and appeared to be having some trouble finding his place. So was I. Truth is, I was scared shitless that I'd let the cat out of the bag. I could feel the heat of a gigantic blush on my cheeks, and I could feel as much as hear the pounding of my heart in my ears. What I certainly didn't expect in that situation was the throb of a hard-on in my pants, but there it was. I was trying to decide whether or not to leave, when Frank made the next move.
"Jimmy?" He spoke about as softly as you can and not have it be a whisper.
"What."
"Would it really only take three minutes?"
I put my book down and looked straight at Frank. "About that. Yeah."
"How do you know about this? Did somebody do it for you?"
"Yeah," I was blushing again. "Yeah, they did."
"Who? Your mom?"
"Yes, if you must know." I was lying. It had actually been Tess, my older sister, and it was a long time ago, when I was about 10 or 11 and she was about 16. At the time, I just considered it a variant of "playing doctor" as Tess and I had done as far back as I could remember. I was always her willing "patient" but those sessions were especially memorable.
"Well, it's really driving me nuts. If I let you try it, would you swear never to tell anyone else?"
"C'mon, Frank, get real. Who would I tell? You think I don't know what would happen to me if I did?"
"Well, okay then. What do I do?"
It took a few seconds to sink in, but it finally dawned on me that Frank had actually agreed! What had started out as in impulsive lapse of judgment on my part was about to end up with me getting up close and personal with Frank Petersen's warm, fragrant, beautiful, ass. "Uh, well, uh, just go in your bedroom and drop your pants and your underpants, and, uh, lie down on your bed. On your stomach. I'll get the stuff, and be there in a second."
As Frank got up and headed for his room, my eyes were fixed on his crotch, but if he had any wood in there, it wasn't showing. I waited until he was ahead of me, because I wasn't looking quite so inconspicuous. I first went to the kitchen and grabbed a stainless steel mixing bowl, then I ducked into Frank's mom's bathroom where I collected a wash cloth, a hand towel, some Q-tips, and a jar of Vaseline. I filled the mixing bowl with warm water, dropped a bar of soap into it, and went to meet Frank.
I don't know what I expected to find, but Frank had taken my instructions to drop his pants literally. When I found him, he was lying crosswise across his bed. He was still wearing his t-shirt, and hadn't even bothered to take off his shoes and socks. His jeans and the pair of white Towncraft peter-pincher briefs he'd been wearing were bunched up around his ankles. I couldn't help it -- I burst out laughing.
"What's so funny, dammit?" He half rolled over and looked at me, obviously annoyed. "If this is all just some kinda trick or joke, Jimmy, I swear, I'll--"
"Calm down, Man. I'm sorry. It's just that the way you were lying there with your shoes on and your pants down, you looked like a naughty boy who'd been sent to wait for a spanking." But hey -- did I mention that besides wanting Frank's cute bod, I also loved him? I guess that's one of those things that, like they say, goes without saying.
"Okay. Just hurry up and get it over with. And you better hope it works!"
I set my supplies down next to the bed and swished the washcloth in the warm soapy water. I sat down next to Frank on the bed with my own butt wedged against the side of his torso and my back to his head. His little bottom was shining at me like two halves of an immature honeydew melon, smooth and perfectly white. I was so excited I could scarcely breathe, but I still had to smile when it struck me that I was literally looking at that place "where the sun don't shine." I could just see the back side of his scrotum and the thick tufts of soft blond hair that stuck out from the area where his scrotal sac met his inner thighs.
He was lying on his dick, so I couldn't see it, but it excited me just to know it was so near. With my right forearm across the small of his back, I laid my palm on Frank's bottom. It was warm, hairless, and as smooth and hard as alabaster. It was obvious he was tense, so I resolved to move quickly lest he get the idea that I was up to any funny business. Without further preamble, I used my thumb and index finger to spread his cheeks.
It was true that I'd occasionally experienced the same symptoms that Frank was experiencing, but there was another reason that I knew what was causing his itchy ass. To be nice about it, when he went to the bathroom, Frank wasn't always as careful as he should have been when it came time to wipe himself. I knew this because I had recently taken the opportunity to liberate a pair of his dirty, skid- marked underwear from the Petersens' bathroom hamper. Sitting on the toilet, I held the dirty crotch to my nose and inhaled the heady aroma that Frank had left in his underwear, sweat and urine -- and poop -- while I masturbated. I realize that some people -- most people -- would think that was disgusting, but to me, if something came out of Frank it was part of him and smelling it -- or even tasting it -- made me feel closer to him.
Anyway, I knew his butt was going to be dirty, so it didn't surprise me to see the dark-brown flecks of dried fecal material that clung to the area surrounding his little pink anus. There were three larger slivers of the stuff that were clinging to the crevices, and that were probably the real source of his discomfort. Although my hands were beginning to shake, I gently rubbed and wiped him clean with the warm washcloth. Then I rinsed the cloth and wiped away the soap.
"Is that it? Are you done?" he asked.
"Not quite. That was just to get the general clean-up. I'm gonna put something on it." I picked up a Q-tip swab and dipped one end of it into the petroleum jelly. Then, spreading Frank's cheeks wider, I bent over for a closer look. Using the swab, I brushed the creases of Frank's anus, and once, very tentatively, pressed it straight against his puckered hole. When I did, I could feel his gluteals contract, and I even thought I could see his anal ring tighten. At that point I set the Q-tip down and reached for the jar of Vaseline.
"It'll take forever if I do it this way," I muttered, as if to myself. Then, scooping a thick dollop of jelly onto my forefinger, I pressed it firmly against the tightly closed aperture of Frank's asshole.
"Jimmy! What the fuck are you doing to me?" He was twisting, as if to roll away from me, but I leaned on his back and was easily able to hold him still. It was only later that it occurred to me that maybe he wasn't trying very hard to get away.
"Relax, Frank. I gotta get this stuff on you to where it will do you some good." I didn't know what that meant any more than you do, but that's what I told him and he seemed to buy it, because he stopped struggling. Using my finger, I spread the goop with a rhythmic circular motion, but each time I passed directly over the opening, I pressed down a little harder. After a few seconds, his breathing started to sound sort of raspy-like, but at the same time, I could feel him begin to relax beneath my finger. In a few more seconds, my greasy finger slipped past the anal ring and I was virtually inside of him. I didn't press in any further, as I knew that would freak him out for sure. Instead, I withdrew, scooped up more Vaseline, and pressed it into him again. I did that three more times -- all that I dared. Frank was making little grunting noises and I wasn't sure if I was hurting him or what. Finally, I grabbed a couple of Kleenex, folded them in half, and wedged them between his ass cheeks like a bandage. "Leave that Kleenex where I put it, okay? It will keep the goop off your clothes. That's it!" I got up, picked up the stuff I had brought into his room, and left Frank lying on his bed.
I had already found my place and was pretending to read by the time Frank came back out. I waited for him to say something else, but he just picked up his own book and we both lapsed back into silence. Every couple of minutes I made as if to scratch my nose, but of course I was really inhaling the residual earthy fragrance from my unwashed finger. It was a good ten or fifteen minutes before he finally spoke again.
"Jimmy."
"What?"
"You were right."
"Huh?"
"It worked; the itch is gone."
"Oh, that. I knew it would."
"One thing, though -- that was no three minutes."
"Well, a little longer." I looked at my watch and quickly calculated that it had taken just over a half hour from the time Frank gave his tentative okay.
About three weeks later, Frank was again suffering from itchy ass. That time, though, the "procedure" took over two hours and changed everything for us. But that's a story for another time.