The Secret
in
Five Movements
by
D. V. Zomba
Copyright 1994
Contents
One: Average 3 Two: The Dream 14 Three: The First Time 25 Four: The Key 34 Five: The Sacrament 44
One -Average-
It has been stated more than once that "There are times that try men's souls." Phil Beyer had been tried.
His life had not been particularly hard nor particularly easy--merely normal, average, he supposed. He was born and raised in Wabasha, a small Minnesota town sprinkled with an assortment of houses that mirrored its history. White, storey-and-a-half, steeped roofed, Victorian houses--nondescript cracker box houses of the immigrants--an occasional brick home which belied a degree of wealth appropriate to this small town--an occasional large home, elegant manses of physicians or lawyers. All were nestled comfortably on the banks of the Mississippi, among its bluffs. Wabash sat high enough along the banks to avoid the Spring floods from the melting snow of winter. It was a safe town in all respects.
It was peopled with a variety of folk whose ancestry was mostly the reserved northern European and a sprinkling of the outgoing Mediterranean. Yet it was strangely homogeneous--there wasn't any great social rifts to speak of--a quiet town. Wabasha had its share of 'strange' people. There was old Mrs. Freemont who always wore blue sneakers, blue stockings and sailor-like top over a similar colored longish skirt. Her father had been a regionally famous, or possibly notorious doctor, but she was strange and a spinster. And, then there was poor Al Jamison, known to most by the politically 'un-correct' nomenclature: the village idiot. There were the 'advantaged.' A few wealthy farmers, of course the three doctors and the Bahadurs were considered 'rich.' The Bahadurs were probably the most noted family. They had a home in Wabasha which the frequented, rarely. It was rumored that, "They had money in South African gold mines." Usually they were seen only during the Spring--a time when Wabasha and the surrounding area literally and figuratively bloomed after the frigid imprisoning winter. Most of the folk in Wabasha were 'average.' Phil's family was, likewise, average.
His father had worked in a defense plant in nearby Minneapolis during The War. After, he took a job in Wabasha as a machinist for a local trucking firm that was expanding into an efficient inter-state fleet. His mother was, of course, a housewife. They regularly attended one of the local conservative churches--they were good members of the congregation. The Beyers were what has euphemistically been called, "solid citizens." They were also average, particularly in their conservatism, but then, with a few exceptions, so was everyone else in Wabasha. Or so it seemed.
Phil had spent his growing years going through the elementary and secondary school system of Wabasha, as did his younger brother, Mark, and sister, Ellen. His public school record was a bit above average. He excelled in no one thing, but was a good student. He was considered the second best cross-country runner at Wabash High. He was not 'popular' nor was he unpopular. Phil was in most respects considered a pleasant, average young man from a 'good family.'
During the weekends and the summers Phil's activities were normal for a small town boy. He liked the river, particularly in the Spring and Summer, wandering up and down its banks, luxuriating in the warm humid smell of his surrounding. He, alone or with his friends, would walk for miles along the west bank of the river 'exploring,' looking for 'adventure.' Sometimes, he (they) would climb up into the ravines, with their small streams, find a cool mossy area to eat a snack. Or, if hot, he (they) would strip to his swimming suit and swim off some sandy point of the river. Two or three times Phil and his friends even went skinny-dipping. That, too, was an adventure.
In the winter the bluffs offered great sport, particularly after one of the many snowfalls. The westerly wind would create great cornices of snow over the top overhangs. Precariously perched over the edge of the bluff's summit the snow cornices hung. He and his friends, or siblings, would run up to these overhangs in a line and jump at what they thought was the point of contact, setting off small snow-slides. They, of course called them 'avalanches.' Sometimes they would misjudge and tumble down the incline in the embrace of the cold, rolling snow. Great adventures, great fun!
During the time that he lived in Wabasha, Phil's physical make-up was also average. Average height. Average weight. He wondered whether he would ever get to six feet! He wondered whether he'd ever be more than 145 pounds! He wondered whether he'd ever be more than average!
Then, of course there were secrets. Everyone had secrets.
Secrets, too, were considered normal, average--family secrets, personal secrets. Phil had a secret. A secret which had developed from the most unexpected source when he was thirteen.
Two itinerant preachers, headquartered somewhere in Wisconsin, had been sponsored by the Beyer's church. They arrived in Wabasha one July in a large, old, tarpaulin-covered truck and a '38 Chevy coupe. The truck carried a large 'preaching tent,' a smaller 'living tent,' three foot lockers (one for each pastor's personal belongings and one containing a small two burner stove, pots and eating utensils), wooden folding chairs, a collapsible pulpit and a pedal organ. The 'living tent' was Army Surplus, maybe twelve by eighteen feet. The preaching tent was big enough to hold about seventy-five collapsible wooden chairs, pulpit and organ. Under a tarp attached to the front of the living tent was the food area. Actually the pastors didn't have to cook too much. Many of the members from the church's congregation brought the pair 'hot-dishes'--tuna casseroles, shepherd's pie, any thing that they could easily afford. After all it was the 'Lord's work.'
Paster Amund was the leader. He was the "preacher." Totally nondescript, he was somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, of course average. Pastor Richard, was second in command, an apprentice preacher in his mid-twenties. His charge was the music, the organ. He also got to prepare the meals and drove pastor Amund around. They were to be in Wabasha for ten days.
Of course, the Beyer's went to the opening services, en masse, on Wednesday night. The congregation was mostly from their church. There were more empty chairs than there were occupied ones. The services were long--lots of singing, lots of witnessing, lots of preaching and the 'call.' It was hot inside the tent. Perspiration ran down the necks of the men and arm-pits were moist. The ladies fanned themselves with the thin hymnals and dabbed their foreheads with scented handkerchiefs. The hot, big tent smelled of oiled canvas, cologne and perspiration. Phil was totally bored and squirmed as he felt rivulets of sweat meander down his side from the hairless armpits. He wasn't looking forward to ten days of this!
The Friday night service was interminably long, a few more people than the other two nights and just as hot. Afterwards Mr. and Mrs. Beyer stopped to talk to the pastors, telling Pastor Amund how inspired his message was--Phil thought, "Yeah, also long!"
Pastor Richard informed Phil's parents that we was going to Winona on Saturday. Winona was some distance down the river. He had to pick up new hymnals and wanted to know if Phil would like to go along for the ride. Mrs. Beyer said that would be nice and it was a break in the summer routine for Phil and asked Phil, "Would you like to go?" It was one of those questions which was not truly inquiring of Phil's preference, but one of those familial questions. Those questions between parents and children that the child instinctively knew demanded a positive response.
"Yeah, sure." Phil was noncommittal in the tone of his response. It would be a welcomed break, but he was rather shy and wasn't too sure of spending a couple of hours with a preacher. Trapped in a hot car, what would he talk about? "Jeeze," he hoped to himself that it wouldn't be religion! That was for old people.
The next morning Pastor Richard and Phil left at ten-thirty, it was hot, all the car windows were rolled down, the wings turned inward and the hot air blasted their sweaty faces. They talked, thankfully not about religion, but about Wabasha, the summer, summer vacations--just the average kind of talk. Phil was somewhat reticent in the company of Pastor Richard and also respectful. He was always that way with his elders, especially those whom he had recently met. He had been taught always to be respectful to his elders.
Pastor Richard collected the hymnals and the two were invited to share lunch with a local minister. The two ministers talked about the 'business of the Lord' and Phil, getting bored, quietly ate the egg-salad sandwiches and fruit-jello desert. After the mutual blessings and 'good-byes' they left.
If it had been hot on the way to Winona, it was even hotter on the return trip. The afternoon July sun can be unyielding, especially without wind in Minnesota. The temperature was nearing ninety-eight degrees and the humidity just as high. It was oppressive. Sweat beaded Phil face and he could feel it roll down his side from his arm pits.
About ten miles from Wabasha, Pastor Richard turned to Phil and asked if he'd like some lemonade. Phil nodded, "Yes."
The pastor turned off the two-lane paved road onto a narrow dirt track that led down to the river. The old Chevy coupe jounced over the narrow rutted, single lane road-trail, canopied with various trees and bushes until the sparkling river came into view. Walking a few yards down to the river bank, they sat on a thick willow trunk that bowed, almost horizontally, to the river. The willows offered a dappled parasol of shelter from the sun.
Pastor Richard had thoughtfully packed a thermos of lemonade in a small basket earlier that morning. Both drank the lemonade, savoring it refreshing flavor, and then a second glass was downed.
"That hit the spot." Pastor Richard said, mopping his forehead with a sweat dampened handkerchief. "I'm so hot!"
"Me, too," replied Phil.
"Let's go swimming and cool off."
"I didn't bring a swimming suit."
"That's okay, neither did I. We can skinny dip. Nobody's around. Nobody'll see us," Pastor Richard said as he unbuttoned his shirt and kicked off his shoes.
"I don't think so," Phil replied, nervously. He had gone `skinny dipping' before with his friends, but only at night. It had been an adventure, a little bit dangerous, or at least they had thought so. But, he had never gone skinny dipping with an adult, 'an old person' and certainly never a pastor!
"Suit yourself," Pastor Richard said as he stripped off his shirt and sox. He stood up and began to loosen his belt. Phil noticed his broad muscular chest, covered with short, flat laying hair and he self consciously glanced away. From the corner of his eye he could see Pastor Richard slide his pants down his thighs and step out of them.
"Are you sure you don't want to cool off . . . relax a bit?"
Phil glanced back, making sure only to look into the pastor's face and replied, "No, that's okay. I'm not so hot." That was a lie! But in that instant of visual contact he could feel his face begin to flush as his peripheral vision took in the form of the young pastor, clad only in his white briefs.
"Well, I'm hot!" Pastor Richard said with a smile, his eyes locked on to Phil's, hypnotically. At that instant of visual contact he hooked his thumbs under the band of his briefs and shoved them down.
Phil, peripherally, saw the dark, thick patch of pubic hair framing what seemed to him a large cock and equally large balls. He turned his head away and pretended to look at the river, the trees, anything but that image that seared itself into his brain. Pastor Richard crossed his field of vision as he waded into the water, causing outflowing rings to radiate from his legs. His back was to Phil and he self-consciously looked at the pastor's form, his shoulders, his back both tanned, his buttocks, muscular, firm and white. He was embarrassed. He wanted to look at the pastor's nakedness, but felt that it was wrong. Yet, there was still the desire to look, to see.
The cooling water was mid-thigh when Pastor Richard turned back to Phil. "You don't know what you're missing, " he said with a broad smile. Phil couldn't help but notice that the pastor's cock had noticeably lengthened, the tip skimming the water.
"Naw. That's okay," he smiled self consciously. He shrugged his shoulders and looked down, trying to find a stone to kick. His embarrassment was mounting. Pastor Richard smiled back, then dove into the water and languidly began to swim about.
Relieved, Phil returned to the willow trunk, straddled its broad, rough surface and glanced about, his mind racing back and forth over the past few minutes. "Why should I be so embarrassed?" he thought. He had seen nude bodies before, gym class, the showers and all. "Maybe because he's a pastor," he rationalized to himself. Yet, he wanted to look, he wanted to visually explore the pastor's nude form.
Having swum about for some ten minutes, Pastor Richard waded out of the river, stripping as much moisture as he could from his body with his hands. He walked over to the willow. "That felt really good. I was so hot," he stated smiling. He swung a leg over the trunk, facing Phil, not more that a yard away. Again Phil couldn't help notice that the pastor's position on the log had forced his large plum-sized balls forward and the equally large cock arched over the top, pointing his way. The pastor adjusted them, apparently absentmindedly and continued to smile.
Phil returned the smile, a tentative smile. It was expected, but again he could feel the flush again infuse his body as he forced his eyes to lock only on the pastor's eyes. His embarrassment was mounting. Again, he glanced away.
"You should have come in too," the pastor said and then added, "Have I embarrassed you by swimming nude?"
"No," came the reply, too quickly, too tentatively. Again he cast his gaze on the neutral river.
"I think I have," he said, lightly touching Phil's knee. The shock of that touch brought Phil's eyes back in contact with Pastor Richard's, "but don't be," he continued with a warm smile. "There's nothing wrong with it." At that Pastor Richard swung his leg over the trunk, slid off and slowly began dressing. Phil felt profoundly relieved. The short ride back to Wabasha went by quickly and quietly.
As Phil was helping the pastor unload the hymnals, his family's car pulled up to the tent. Phil's father stepped out walked over to them.
"Grandma Beyer isn't feeling well. Mother, the kids and I are driving over to Prescott to see her. You can come along, if you want. Nothing serious, but we'll probably be late." Then, turning to Pastor Richard and Pastor Amund who just had walked up from his trailer, he added, "We'll miss the evening service."
"I understand," Pastor Amund said.
"Why doesn't Phil stay here, if he wants. We've got plenty," Pastor Richard said. Then he added, as an afterthought, "He could spend the night with us."
"I don't want to trouble you," Phil's father said. "I th...."
Before he could go on, "No trouble at all. Besides, Phil can pass out the hymnals and take the collection for us," Pastor Richard stated. Pastor Amund nodded his concurrence.
"Well, if it's no problem...."
"No problem at all. We'll drive back now with you so Phil can pick up his tooth brush and things. I'll deliver him back tomorrow after breakfast in time for your church services," Pastor Richard stated with a broad smile.
"Okay with you?" Phil's dad asked him.
"Yeah, sure," Phil replied a bit tentatively. He was caught between a rock and a hard place. He didn't want to have to endure the drive to Prescott, and he didn't want to sit through another long revival service. He was a little surprised at his reply--it was almost subconscious--his affirmative reply.
He rode home with his father, collected a change of clothes, his toothbrush, and a towel placing them all in a paper bag. On returning to the campground, Pastor Richard said, "you can put your things in the tent and help me with supper."
Phil went to the 'living tent.' lifted the flap and saw a double bed with it's head against the back wall. At its foot was a single bed. There were two double-sectioned orange crates--one beside the double bed, one beside the single bed. They contained personal items, well worn Bibles and a wind-up alarm clock. He also saw two foot lockers that appeared to double as chairs (this he deduced since there were no chairs present). He put his things on the single bed and went out to help the paster.
That evening produced another long, hot, boring service. Again, mostly only the members of his churches congregation were in attendance. And, again there was 'the call.' "How many times do you have to be 'saved?'" Phil thought.
He had to explain to the inquisitive, well-meaning members of the congregation why his family was not in attendance. What a bore!
Darkness had come. Pastor Amund had gone into the living tent. After he had collected the hymnals from the chair seats and depositing them on the small table inside the tent entrance Phil straightened the rows of folding chairs. Then Pastor Richard announced, "It's time for bed."
They walked to the living tent. Phil thought that he'd probably be given the single bed to sleep in, but as they entered the tent Phil saw the pajama clad Pastor Amund raise from his knees and slip under the coverlet of the single bed.
"Good night," Pastor Amund murmured.
"Good night, brother,"replied Pastor Richard. He reached up and turned down the Coleman lantern to a dull glow and began to undress calmly. Phil's mind was racing--he didn't know what to do--images of that afternoon raced through his mind.
"Get your pajamas on," Pastor Richard said to Phil in a light, off handed manner. The young pastor stood nude in the half light, facing Phil. The light played across his form, emphasizing the muscle masses and he nonchalantly scratched his balls before donning his pajamas. All the time his eyes were on Phil's, searching.
Phil, reached for the paper bag into which he had placed his pajama, tooth brush and tooth paste, and a change of cloths for the next day. The bag had been placed on the double bed. He began to change, all the while keeping his back to the watching pastor.
He quickly donned his pajamas, top first, to cover his nakedness. He was nervous. A nervousness that grew out of his inherent shyness. He sat on the edge of the bed as Pastor Richard began folded his clothes and placed them on his footlocker-chair.
"Time for your prayers, Phil," the pastor said as he sank to his knees at the side of the bed.
Phil quickly followed the example of the pastor. Generally, he did say his prayers, nearly every evening, but not on his knees, only after he had crawled into bed, and then always in silence, mouthing his petitions. It was expected, his mother had taught him that's all he could remember. But, he really didn't know why.
Pastor Richard's prayers were barely audible and extemporaneously lengthy. After he had finished he glanced at Phil, smiled warmly and said. "Now it's your turn."
Phil simply wasn't prepared for this! So he began with the rote prayer he had been taught as a young child and ended with a sentence or two of disjointed, unrehearsed, unpracticed supplications and a quick, "Amen."
The pastor pulled back the light coverlet and said, "In ya go!"
Phil scooted to the far side of the bed, next to the canvas wall and the gauze 'window.' Nervously hoped that he could go right to sleep. The the Coleman was turned off. He felt Pastor Richard slide into the bed.
"Good night,"
"'Night," Phil whispered.
The gray twilight of pre-sleep began to lower itself on Phil's unquiet mind. He breath deepened and slowed. Sweet sleep was about to be his.
Just on the edge of slumber he was instantly brought back to full, adrenalin-prodded wakefulness. There was, he thought, a touch to his thigh. He stiffened, held his breath and wondered whether he had dreamt it.
Again, a touch, this time light, as light as the first. He had not dreamed it. It seemed tentative, a mere brush. He continued to hold his breath.
"It must have been an accident," he thought, trying to dampen his panic.
Then he felt a hand come to rest upon his thigh. This was no mistake! His heart raced. The hand slowly, lightly began to move up his pajama covered thigh. It began to insinuate itself into the front opening. His mind raced faster than his heart. He pretended to be asleep.
He was panicked. He felt fingers seek out and begin to manipulate his penis. He fought against its stiffening. It was a losing battle as his pubescent cock grew and hardened.
"What if Pastor Amund sees?" Phil's mind screamed out, silently.
His mind raced even faster as it again screamed silently, "WHY!"
Everything became disjointed--his mind from his body, the pleasurable sensations that he felt from what he had been taught. The fingers continued to manipulate his now erect boy-penis. Images of an irate Pastor Amund, of penis draped balls on a log, white buttocks over glistening water, Pastor Richard standing nude in the half light of the Coleman--all these raced through his mind as the cock-centered pleasure began to rise. His mind raced.
His thought processes became fragmented, irrational as they sped at supersonic speed. During instants of lucidity-- "This isn't right!" The fingers were still working,expertly, bring feelings, pleasurable sensations that Phil himself had been able to create over the past few months. But, then, that was his hand, not someone else, like now! Somehow this wasn't right he thought, but his body conversely reveled in the sensations. It was a time of indescribable turmoil,
Then the spasms--the miniature dry eruptions came and infused his body. He silently gasped. The sensations of the hot fingers wrapped around his cock became strangely painful, intolerable. Phil had the sense, the need to push the hand away. This he did. The fingers removed themselves from his lessening erection and closed around Phil's wrist.
He felt his hand being moved and placed on a hot, hard, quaking tube. It was the pastor's turgid cock!
"What if Pastor Amund. . . .?" Phil's mind again screamed out. He let his hand lay on the pulsing organ. Then the fingers closed again around his hand, causing it to encircle the hot, velvet covered thing. Slowly up and down his hand was directed. He passively allowed the action, the direction.
Phil was stunned. He felt some interest in the feel of the pastor's organ, but it was wrong. And, besides pastor Amund was so close. The cock under his encased, guided fingers began to swell. Or, at least, he thought so. Then it too began to spasm and Phil felt a warm, sticky substance spill over his fingers. They were now released and Phil quickly pulled his hand back, wiping it on the sheet as he did. He didn't fall asleep until the wee hours of the morning. His racing mind wouldn't allow it.
That was his secret.
"But, then," he thought, "so does every body else have secrets." He wondered whether their secrets were like his. He pushed it to the back of his mind. He had felt guilt. Strangely enough not because of the act, but guilt brought about by the pleasure he had felt. The pleasure of some man, other than himself, bringing him to orgasm. But, it was his secret. The secret of a thirteen year old!
The summer of his high school graduation he got a job working in a Le Sueur canning factory. It was hard physical work, long hours. Many of the young people from Wabasha worked there. They stayed in barely adequate 'company dorms.' Actually they were open-bayed, army-surplus quonset huts. But, to the young, it was a great adventure and the small bathroom-toilet-shower was merely an inconvenience, as were the army cots. They were on their own, many for the first time. That included Phil.
The camaraderie was exhilarating. Phil liked it. Besides, the long hours brought good money. He would need it. He was to enter Winona State that Fall. In addition, there were other benefits. Phil had grown to a full six feet and the hard work plus the relatively nutritious food that the company provided had aided in upping his weight to 165 pounds. He was thankful.
"The Beyers are late bloomers," his mother had repeatedly stated as he fretted about his physical development, or more precisely, the lack thereof.
"Better late than never!" he thought one afternoon in the late summer as he looked into the dorm's mirror at his too short and tightening pants.
By September he had saved up enough money to get him through the first year along with his parent's help. He was really looking forward to 'college.'
Along with his physical maturity, Phil was beginning to gain mental maturity as well. He knew that he had to apply himself. A lot was at stake. He had to do well. He would be the first of the Beyers to go to college. His father had to quit high school to help his grand-father's ailing business. Phil's mother had finished high school and one year of college before her large family's meager resources ran out. There was no question in his parent's minds that Phil's generation of Beyers all would be properly educated. This was a wish of his parents, more than a wish, it was a goal to be achieved at all costs. It was an ambitious goal, but, attainable.
Also, Phil had ambition, although he wasn't quite sure of the direction that he should take. But, he would succeed. So he took to his studies with a certain ferocity and did well his first semester. During the Christmas vacation he worked at Avalon's Red and White. It was a job that he had had during his last two years of high school. Besides, Mr. Avalon need the help.
During this time Phil became aware, in little ways, of the hardship that his college expenses were exacting on his family. Nothing was said, but he was aware. He had suggested that he stay out a semester to make more money and to relieve the pressure on his family. This was instantly, almost violently refused. There was to be no question of his immediate education.
Upon his return to Winona he had mentioned to his room mate, Ed Jensen, his financial situation. He and Ed had become relatively close that first semester. Ed was a Business Administration major and a member of the Air R.O.T.C. unit. The military had no particular appeal to Phil. It was not that he was against it--he merely had never considered it.
Ed, on the other hand, came from a background not altogether dissimilar from Phil's. Having been unemployed, Mr. Jensen had entered the military during the latter part of the Depression. He was married in 1940 to his high school sweetheart. Mr. Jensen served during The War, had been awarded a battlefield commission and a Purple Heart, actually, two. His second wound qualified him for an early release and a small disability allowance. He used it along with the amount of money saved from his unspent pay to set himself up in a business--an auto repair garage and service station. That was in New Prague. It was enough to keep he and his family in some comfort. So, at least to Ed, the military had its positive side.
Like Phil, Ed had worked to save money for his education. Air R.O.T.C seemed to be a good choice. It paid for his school. And, besides, his father had said that the Air Force always ate well, not like the Army to which he had been attached.
"Why don't you join the R.O.T.C." Ed had half seriously suggested.
Phil thought about it all week long.
Friday morning Phil went to talk to Captain Roswald Martin, R.O.T.C. commander and that afternoon he 'signed on.'
That evening he and Ed got a couple of ID's from some older dorm-mates, drove to LaCrosse and celebrated. They got drunk. It was Phil's first time. Part way back to Winona, Ed pulled the old Plymouth off the road and fell asleep. Phil was already sleeping, actually, passed-put. Luckily it was during one of those almost balmy Minnesota January thaws. It was cold, but not freezing and the two winter-dressed bodies provided enough warmth in the car for their fitful sleep.
It was Phil who awoke first. The wrenching in his stomach was frightful. He quickly stepped out of the car and immediately began to vomit. It was only after the last few dry convulsions that he became aware of the unbearable pounding headache.
"Good God, I'm dying!" he thought. He steadied himself against the car with one hand, the other pressing his temple. He began to take great gulps of the fresh cold morning air.
"What's the matter Buddy? Not feeling so good?" (Ed always called him "Bud" or "Buddy").
Phil turned to see Ed's face, angled across the seat, looking out at him. He had the semblance of a smile on his disheveled face.
"Uh-huh"
Ed laughed, good naturedly. "Don't worry Ol' Bud. It'll pass," he stated, not with some authority. "Come on. Get back in. I'll get ya to the dorm and a good shower will fix what ails ya."
Phil gingerly, oh, so carefully edged himself back into the car and closed the door. He winced at the sound of the crashing door, sending another paroxysm of pain through his tender temples. The ride back to Winona was interminable. Happily Ed was silent. Not having to talk and the frequent gulping of mouthfuls of air help to calm his queasy, convulsing stomach was all Phil could safely do.
They arrived safely back to the dorm. After a hot shower and a careful brushing of their teeth they climbed into their beds and quickly fell to sleep. That was around 10:00 am on Saturday.
Sunday morning Phil woke, soon after eight-thirty. He was thirsty, more thirsty than he had ever remembered being. He threw back his bed covers and swung his legs out of bed. It was only after his feet had touched the cold floor of his dorm room that he realized that he was stark nude. Phil always wore pajamas to bed. In part because his mother had always provided him with pajamas, and in part because there was only one bathroom in the Beyer house and that was downstairs off his parent's room. He and his younger brother shared one of the two small upstairs bedrooms, next to his sister, Ellen's room. There was always a sense of decorum in the Beyer household, not prudery, so pajamas were the norm.
His nudity slightly disturbed him. The secret flashed before his eyes for a brief instant and was quickly repressed. Then after he recalled yesterdays memories he remembered that he was too tired, too weary, too sick to waste time and excess motion to put on his pajamas. He remembered that after the ministrations of the shower he slipped hastily between his covers, barely dry and sank into a fitful sleep.
"I'm so thirsty," he thought as he reached for his terry cloth bathrobe to cover himself. It was only then that he noticed that he didn't have his usual morning 'piss-hard-on.'
That had always been a condition of merriment and some good-humored ribbing by Mark, his brother, younger by eight years. Especially when Phil tried to hide it under his thin summer pajamas. A losing battle--hiding it that is. It had even been mentioned by Ed in an equally good humored way on more than one occasion. But, then Ed, too, had the same problem. That, Phil had noted with equal good natured humor, and with Ed it was so obvious since he slept "in the raw" as he liked to say.
Phil padded across the hall to the dorm-section's bathroom, leaned over the drinking fountain and drank his fill. Feeling some what better, but still a little fragile, he returned to the room. As he quietly closed the door he noticed that Ed was waking. He sat on the edge of his bed, adjusting his robe.
Ed sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stretched. "How're ya feelin, Ol' Bud?" he asked good naturedly.
"Fine, except I was so darn thirsty when I woke up. I drank like a horse."
Ed chuckled in understanding and further asked, "How's you stomach?"
"It's Okay. A little fragile, How come you don't get sick?"
"Guess 'cause I didn't drink as much as you."
"Uh," was the limit of Phil's reply.
"I need some water too," Ed stated as he threw back his covers and wrapped a towel around his waist. Then he too went to assuage his thirst.
The "initiation," as the celebration and the resulting drunk became known to the two, coupled with Phil's enlistment into the R.O.T.C., cemented even further the friendship that the first semester had nurtured. Ed and Bill, two similar, yet two distinct individuals became what euphemistically was called "fast friends." Yet the term did not really, adequately describe the depth of their friendship. They were more like brothers, close brothers. There was a bond of friendship, even love, that all too rarely occurs. It was a friendship that bridged their difference, and there were those--differences, that is. It was also a friendship that complimented their individual characters and offered undemanding acceptance. They were not uncritical, but their criticism was handled in a non-judgmental way. The depth of their friendship was rare.
Even when the were apart for long periods of time--during Christmas vacation, summer vacation (except for the two weeks of "Summer R.O.T.C. Camp")--they would write each other, infrequently, and even less frequently phone each other. They were secure in each other's friendship. After the separations they would "catch up" on each others news: what they did, how much money they had saved, if they got drunk, what girls they had "slept with," the usual stuff. These conversations often ran into the wee hours of the morning. And, often as not, they would both fall asleep with the room light blazing all night long.
They even shared secrets. Once, after finals of their junior year, when the extreme pressures were gone, they sat in their room and began to talk. Soon their conversation began to become "serious." It was inevitable and necessary that their friendship plumb all the depths. They were talking about some of the "weird" things that had happen to them. After a lull in the conversation, Phil asked, "What is the weirdest thing that's happened to you?"
It was a kind of a test. A test of their friendship. A tacit understanding that this was a fork in the rode of their friendship. It was, in a sense, an unusual condition for the two, so young. Yet implicitly both knew the import. Neither at the time knew that few of their age group had had the opportunity or the ability to develop such an association, nor that fewer still had reached the 'fork-in-the-road,' the level of true, real, all-encompassing friendship.
Ed, paused, searched his friend's soul, accepted the challenge, paused again and then confessed, "Once my cousin sucked me off."
"A girl cousin?"
"No, a guy cousin."
"What?" Phil questioned, incredulously. This was not what he had expected. Not from Ed. Ed was what is euphemistically called 'masculine'--six-foot-two, a hundred-eighty-five pounds, football-player-type, girl friends--he was thoroughly masculine. Phil, not ever having expected such a confession could only state, "Unbelievable!"
Ed snorted, self-consciously, "Well, I was only fifteen. We went to my uncle's farm near Wilmar for a weekend visit. I had to sleep with my cousin. I guess he was about nineteen. He was going to the 'U.' " He looked down at his folded hands, somewhat self-consciously, and continued, "Some time, during the night, after I had gone to sleep, I had a sexy dream. . . . Ya know, everybody has 'em. Well, it was so real. I woke up and felt someone sucking my cock. It was Grant. By then I was close to coming. . . and. . . I did."
Ed glanced up at Phil. Phil was mesmerized. Ed said, as if to expiate that act, "I pushed him away. Turned away from him. He tried to put his arms around me. I pushed him away and I told him not to do that again or I'd tell my folks. He never did it again." Ed returned his gaze to his hands.
"Jeeze, that is weird!" Phil said. Then his secret flashed before his mind's eye. There was a brief silence between the two. Ed sat in embarrassed reflection.
Ed glanced up, "What about you?"
The die was cast. "Well . . ." Phil paused in is silent debate. Then acknowledging, mentally, the challenge to their association he quietly confessed, "Once a pastor jacked me off."
"Your kidding!!" Ed snorted in shocked disbelief.
"No. . . no I'm not," replied Phil, and he related the story. Well, most of it. . . . He didn't tell Ed of the pleasure he felt or the desire to pass his eyes over the pastor's nude body.
"Well, ol' Bud, that's really weird!" They both laughed. A laugh that comes from relief. Another indissoluble block had been added to their friendship.
One thing is for sure, Phil and Ed's friendship was anything but average.