When I Were Nowt but a Lad

When I Were Nowt But a Lad 17

J. H. P. Cash, 367

Times are hard and there's "Twofers" everywhere. So there are two "Little Spurts" in this posting. And they weren't even made by blind Chinese orphans.

When I Were Nowt But a Lad 16

For inter-House cricket games even I was sometimes called upon to play.

One warm, sunny afternoon, Guy and I were lying on our stomachs, watching our side batting. [SFX: the crack of leather on willow; cries of "Owzat!"; polite clapping. GUY is chewing on a long stalk of grass] The game was dragging on a bit, but then, cricket games always did, as far as I was concerned. We'd been fielding half the afternoon (well, I'd been sort-of standing around uselessly really, hoping that the ball wouldn't come near me). Andy was batting, our No. 2. Guy and I were far down the order and we had time for a wander.

"Fancy a wander?" I asked Guy.

"Yeah, might as well," said Guy, getting up and brushing down the front of his cricket whites. His, like mine, were pristine. We didn't do all that flinging-ourselves-at-catches, sliding-on-our-knees-type stuff. And we certainly didn't rub the ball sensuously against the front of our trousers as skilled bowlers did, leaving that curiously erotic red smear. I was never even allowed to bowl.

It was a few weeks into the Summer Term. The match was, for me, a good excuse to take an afternoon off from revising for my 'O' Levels. Spending at least half a sunny afternoon in Guy's company made it a special treat.

Robert had, after some whining and sulking from me, allowed us to use his bedsit on a few occasions. He stated firmly that he didn't "want to know anything about it or have anything to do with it."

"You joined in with Andy," I pointed out.

"If you can't see the difference between doing it with Andy and doing it with Guy, then you're not as bright as everyone thinks you are," Robert replied.

"You mean Andy's a tart, don't you?"

"No. You know what I mean." I did.

"Anyway, my cock would scare the shit out of him," Robert said.

"Don't flatter yourself," I laughed, even though he was probably right. Guy could only have had the briefest impression the night that Guy had walked in on us. "Mind you, he doesn't seem to mind looking at Seniors' cocks in the Drying Room," I added.

"Just you be careful with him; he's a sensitive soul," Robert said, seriously.

Guy was sensitive, and quite serious, for a 13-year-old. But he was beginning to show that he could also be light-hearted and relaxed. Andy and he were developing the kind of bantering friendship that Dab and I had, although they weren't having sex as well. Their little act was more classically "Odd Couple", but they could still be a little surreal sometimes. And, despite the mock-insults they traded, Guy did hero-worship Andy a little. And Andy continued to feel protective towards Guy. When I first came to get Guy so that we could sneak into Robert's bedsit while he was downstairs watching telly, Andy said jokingly to us, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!", but there was a slight edge to the remark.

Guy and I had never been fully naked together before. I made a point of taking off his pyjamas myself, before we got into bed. He stood there, hands at his sides, watching me unbuttoning his top. I pushed back the shoulders of the jacket and he shrugged it off. His dick was sticking out of the flies of his pyjamas. He looked up from it at me and I kissed him on the forehead. He wrapped his arms around me and laid his head on my chest. I cupped his bum cheeks and pulled him in. He sighed and shuddered against me. I stroked his bum and snuffled into his hair. My dick was stiff against his tummy. I let go of him and pulled at his pyjama cord, then ran my hands around back to his bum to push the bottoms off his narrow hips. He looked down at himself as I took his cock and balls together in my hand. A hand went to my shoulder to keep his balance as I pulled gently. I was only a few months older than him, but he seemed so much younger. His pubic hairs were barely visible, very blond against his pale skin.

I hugged him to me again, understanding why Simon used to like to have me naked while he stayed dressed. Guy seemed so vulnerable. But I don't imagine that Simon ever felt towards me the strong need I felt to care for and protect Guy.

No, not from me, admittedly.

Guy shivered and then giggled. "Can we get into bed? It's a bit cold."

He reached to unbutton my pyjama jacket, but I was impatient now and did it myself. Guy sat on the edge of Robert's bed, his hands clasped between his knees. His little dick was still stiff. I said, "Get in." He did, pulling the bedclothes over himself. I finished undressing and shivered slightly myself. It was May in England. I slipped in beside Guy and we cuddled against each other. For a couple of minute we just absorbed each other's warmth. Each of us would occasionally twitch and shiver as we warmed up. I rubbed Guy's upper arm briskly.

"It's weird," said Guy, "It's colder inside now than in the winter 'cos they won't put the heating on."

"Yeah, they should just let all the boys sleep together in pairs to keep warm," I suggested.

"Do you actually sleep with Robert?" Guy asked.

"Sometimes. Not all night, you know. Just we sometimes fall asleep sort-of, um, afterwards, just for a couple of hours or so."

"That must be nice. Like having a gonk to hug."

"Not quite," I thought, thinking of spunk drying on our bodies. "I never had a gonk," I said, "I had a sort-of bolster thing we called a 'Dutch Wife'."

"I've still got my gonk at home," Guy admitted, whispering. "Only I don't really hug him much, now." I guessed that this wasn't quite true. "Why 'Dutch'?"

"No idea. What's you gonk's name?"

"George, of course: George Frederick Gonk."

"Uh huh; of course," I said, reaching between us to take hold of Guy's dick.

Guy's childish admission was charming, but it also made me suddenly want to be dirty. "Can I suck your cock?" I asked, stroking it.

Guy giggled and said, "What if I said 'No'?"

"Well, then, I s'pose I'd just do it anyway..." I paused. "Unless you really meant it."

"Well, I'm not going to say 'No', am I, silly?"

In what was now a quite well-practised move, I slid down the bed while Guy moved up a little. His head touched the wall at the head of the bad. I bent my legs and my feet pushed into the tightly tucked-in bottom on the sheet. Hospital corners. I suckled happily at Guy's cock for a few minutes. The tent of the bedclothes didn't, as with Robert, create a musty haven of adolescent sex, but Guy was not without his subtle smells. I came up for air and kissed Guy on the cheek. Then I tried to kiss him on the lips, but he shied away. He nuzzled into my neck.

"Do you want me to suck you?" he whispered.

Only if you want to."

"What does it taste like?"

I carefully pulled back his foreskin and ran a finger lightly over the head of his cock. He shuddered a little. I held my finger to his nose and again he shied away.

"It's alright, honest," I said.

He sniffed gingerly at the smell of his own cock. I held my finger to his mouth. He tightened his lips against me. I just put my finger against them and he allowed the tip to slip in. I pressed against his teeth and he let me push further in. He didn't close his mouth around my finger until I said, "Suck it". I felt his tongue carefully moving against my finger.

Guy didn't say anything for a few seconds, but then spoke around my finger: "S'pose it's OK," was what I thought he said. He moved down the bed and I moved up slightly. I wanted to watch, but resisted, leaving Guy to settle under the covers. He laid his cheek against my tummy and I felt his breathing against the head of my dick. I put my hand on the top of his head and gently pushed him down. I was about to suggest, "Just lick it first," when he took my cock in his mouth in one go, as if he'd steeled himself and pounced. It was a bit of a shock and I jumped slightly. But I kept my hand on the back of his head as he began sucking, moving his mouth up and down. I turned on my side and Guy turned with me. I moved my hips gently, pushing my cock in and out of his mouth. He seemed to back off a little, but I pushed him off anyway. I was close to spunking.

Guy's head emerged and I asked him, "You know how people joke about the number '69'? Do you know what it means?"

"Of course."

"Do you want to try it?"

"But how can two boys do it?"

"Durrr! How do you think?"

I pushed the bedclothes down and got Guy to lie on his back. I turned around and positioned my mouth over his cock. I licked at him and said, "Just suck mine when you like." I bent to my task. I felt Guy reach his hands round to hold my hips and then raise his head to take my cock into his mouth. I lowered myself slightly so that he could put his head back on the pillow a bit. Guy at first just sucked for a couple of seconds at a time, then would take a break. Then he took at least half of my cock in his mouth and just held it there, sucking on it lightly. In a rush of lust, I licked at his balls and down beneath them. I reached for his legs and pulled them up at the knees. When he understood what I wanted, my tongue running down his bum crack, he spat out my cock and tried to lower his legs and close them against my move. I held him. I should have reassured him that it was alright, but I just started licking at his bumhole. He lay absolutely still. After a minute or so I felt his legs relax and he shifted them a little more apart.

He tasted wonderful. Again I enjoyed the contrast between sex with Robert and with Guy. Rimming Robert and licking at Guy's hairless hole, with its slight smell, were almost completely different experiences. With Robert a lot of the enjoyment came from doing something really dirty for a Big Boy, proving that you'd do anything for him. The stronger smell and taste made it seem a little humiliating that you would do this. Rimming Guy I felt more active, more in control, more giving and more taking, but more gentle as well. Robert never forced me, but with him I liked to feel forced.

My excitement grew with my confidence that I would not disgust Guy too much. I moved around so that I knelt between his legs and could get at his bumhole from below. Guy relaxed his raised legs wider as I pushed at the backs of his knees so that they came almost to rest against the sides of his chest. Now he was moving more, thrusting his cock upwards, even pushing down a little onto my tongue.

"Hold your legs up," I told him, and took hold of his cock, laying my other hand on his tummy. I wanked him as I licked at his hole. He groaned a little, the most noise he'd ever made when we were having sex together. His hips tightened and he shot his few watery spurts. I moved up to lick the spunk off his tummy and sparse pubic hairs as I brought myself off. I moved up further and snuggled against him. He seemed relaxed, but kept his face away from my mouth.

After a few minutes he stirred and said, "We better go, Robert might be back."

"It's alright, I'm going to wait for him anyway. "

"Yeah, but you said he said that he didn't want to see us in here together," he said, moving over me to get out of bed.

"Guy," I said, stopping him, "it's alright you know. I like doing it. Didn't you like it?"

"I liked it yes, but you... isn't it nasty?"

"Well it's quite a dirty thing to do I suppose... but in a way that's part of it." How could I explain that properly?

"Uh huh," Said Guy, getting up and reaching for his pyjamas. I lay watching him dress, his head down.

"I've really freaked him out," I thought. Then he stepped over and kissed me quickly. On the cheek. Then he left. I snuggled down and waited for Robert. I was still a little worried that Guy was quite disgusted with me.

It was alright, though. The next morning at breakfast I looked over to the Junior table and caught his eye. He grinned happily around the cereal spoon in his mouth. As he took it out he almost seemed to give it an extra lick as it emerged from his lips. Surely not. Guy? But he smirked at me naughtily, pushed the empty cereal bowl away and reached for his plate of bacon and eggs. He wouldn't look at me again. I wanted to tell Dab, sitting beside me, what had just happened, but I couldn't really believe it and anyway didn't quite know how I'd explain it.

We didn't have a chance to get together again (well, not for sex) for the next few days. And now we were playing cricket in brilliant sunshine, a few days after shivering together in the cold bedsit.

Beyond the outfield, round behind a small copse of trees, there was an old Second World War pillbox. This was out-of-bounds, of course, but generally irresistible, both to younger boys playing at war and older boys sneaking off for a smoke and a few cans of beer. It wasn't, however, one of the several out-of-House places I'd used for sex. Local young people obviously had: discarded condoms were frequent finds there. Perhaps that why I'd never used it: the danger of running into "courting couples" of the more conventional kind. Guy and I headed vaguely that way, and then I decided to actually go over to it.

I stepped inside. It wasn't that dark inside, the doorway being wide enough to let in sunlight and more light coming in from the gun ports. Guy stood in the doorway.

"It smells," he said. It did, but I reached out to pull him in by his hand. I tried to embrace him. Although I didn't think much of cricket, pretty boys in cricket whites were fine. Guy wriggled out of my arms.

"It really stinks! It's horrible."

I clasped him from behind as he turned to leave.

"I don't want to stay in here," Guy said, clearly - not whining, just stating.

"Just a moment," I pleaded. "No one can see."

That wasn't his point, of course, but he relaxed against me a little and lowered his head. I kept my arms wrapped around him from the back and put my chin on his shoulder. He looked up, out of the doorway.

"God, I wish..." I said, but stopped. My dick was stiff against his bottom.

A few more beats passed. Still looking up and out, Guy said quietly, "You want to bum me, don't you?"

Actually, I didn't. Not there and then. I had been wishing something a little different: that we could be standing like this amongst the rest of our team at the edge of the cricket pitch.

Before I could reply, Guy said, "I don't want to be queer."

"Oh, fuck!" I thought. "Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck!" What had I done? Had I forced him? He'd actually seemed much happier and light-hearted this term, since Easter. I'd almost credited myself for some of that greater ease and fun in his demeanour.

I was certainly amoral in terms of my own sexual behaviour, but as far as other boys went, especially younger boys, I believed that I - that most of us, actually - had some sort of code of sexual conduct. Perhaps because of the laxity about sex between the boys we had a fairly strong taboo amongst ourselves about coercion. I was to learn, later, from friends at university, about very different schools, with very strict disciplinary regimes, at which the bullying would include sexual bullying and coercion, if not outright rape. Readers may be surprised at all the sex I "got away with" at my school and amazed that no one ever "told". I was much more amazed when I heard about the physical and sexual bullying that had gone on at some other schools - and I really didn't understand why no one had ever "told" at those places.

"Guy," I said, "I told you: we don't have to do anything." I moved us forwards through the doorway, into the sun, turning him round to face me. "I mean it. God, how could you think..."

"I don't mean that. I know you said... And I know you mean it. It's just well... you'll think I'm silly..."

"I won't, I promise." I was holding his upper arms, but he shrugged me off. He looked at his feet and seemed almost to smile to himself.

"If I let you bum me, will that make me queer?"

There was something in the way that he asked the question that made me realise that he didn't mean, "Will that prove conclusively that I'm queer?" He was asking whether the act itself would turn him into a queer.

"God, no, of course not!" I said. Well, I would say that wouldn't I? I would have said anything, wouldn't I, to get up his arse?

Well, no, actually, I wouldn't. I knew both instinctively and from the culture, or "sub-culture", around me, that there was a line, and not a very fine one, between seduction and coercion. This is, of course, "classic abuser self-delusion" in most minds today. Fuck 'em. Even had Guy not been as precious to me as he was becoming, even if the slightest upset to him had not pained me, whether I'd caused it or not, I would still never have forced him to do anything.

By this time I'd read Boys and Sex by W.B. Pomeroy (see Little Spurt 05 below). By this time I been at the school long enough to know that queering didn't make you queer. Plenty of boys had "messed around", even quite extensively, but then simply moved on. I may still have wanted to believe that ingesting spunk was good for your spots, but I didn't believe that it could make you queer, even per anum.

Guy moved further away from the pillbox and sat on a small rise. He hugged his knees and spoke to them.

"I like being your friend.... We are friends aren't we? It seems silly saying that to a Fifth Former."

"I'm only a little older than you."

"I like the stuff we do. Sometimes I just look at you, and I get excited... you know, stiff. In Dining Hall, in House Prayers. Even in Chapel!" Guy was in the choir (of course, how could he possibly not be in the choir?).

"But you can't see me from the choir stalls." And I couldn't see him.

"When we progress, silly. I don't dare look up usually, but if I do you're always looking at me and I..."

"I get stiff when I look at you," I admitted.

"Everybody thinks it's wrong." Guy said.

"Not everybody. I've got this book..."

"No, but here though. Here they do."

"Not everybody here. Look at Dab. Look at Robert..."

"Robert's smooth. And Dab's the smoothest Fifth Former."

I let that pass.

"Look, Guy. I promise - cross my heart and hope to die, I promise: we'll never do anything you don't want to do. It wouldn't be any fun for me anyway it you didn't want to do something."

"You mean bumming."

"That and..."

"Spunking in my mouth..."

"That's not the point, I just mean anything. We can stop everything if you want. We can still be friends." (Yes, I had an over-developed sense of irony for a 14-year-old, but, honestly, I used that line with complete sincerity - it was a less cynical age.)

"I don't want people to hate me."

"You said your Dad had lots of poof friends."

"Not lots, and they're not exactly... Well, Uncle Daniel is... I'm not supposed to call him Uncle any more, he's not really an uncle... Anyway, people hate poofs."

"You're not a poof!"

"I think I must be."

"We'd better get back," I said, suddenly scared of this conversation.

"Oh Andy'll still be in. He's brilliant."

"Yeah, but the rest of them aren't; we may be in soon."

We walked back in silence. Just as we walked down the bank that led to the playing fields I said "Guy, you have to promise me something....If we don't do anything for, um, a week, say, will you promise me to think about it all and tell me honestly if you want to stop doing stuff?"

He smiled at me and said, "That's an easy promise!" and ran down the bank towards our pitch.

Watching him run I thought: "Fuck! A week!"

No, actually, I didn't. I'd really never encountered such ambivalence in my feelings about sex. I think I understand now why it was with Guy that I did. Of course I was playing the Big Boy. I was only six months older than him, but I was a veteran of the school now. Whatever I knew myself to be, Guy thought of me as confident, relaxed, competent and of himself, still, as pretty much, well... well, less established, anyway. But Guy was, as I've said before, a thoughtful boy. As it turned out, Guy was very successful academically - and not just because he was a swot. But while Dab and Charlie and I tended to express our cleverness by being "too fucking clever", relentlessly showing off our intelligence, knowledge and wit in our sparring - joking together, and particularly enjoying wit that relied on being bang up-to-date with what was going on around us, and on quickly recognising any new craze or fashion so that we could briefly embrace it and then scornfully mock it - Guy was calmer, more thoughtful.

Guy was anyway quite a serious little boy, and, if we were quick-witted, he could sometimes seem almost slow-witted. Sometimes his mouth would actually be slightly open as he thought something over: almost, but not quite, a caricature of a simpleton. This was actually the result of a very slight deformation of his jaw that had meant that he had talked late and had had to see a speech therapist for a while. There was the occasional tiny slip on a word, and a sort-of quarter-stutter to get a word out. But he was definitely not stupid. While most boys would do stuff or not do stuff or just do stuff occasionally, Guy worked it through.

I'm not saying that boys just blithely had sex and thought nothing of it, I'm not minimising the confusion and doubts many boys must have had, even in my House, where "it wasn't that big a deal". But we were busy people, every day was pretty full... For most boys it was a quick mutual wank in the showers and then off to double-Maths. Those who looked for justifications had the easy excuse that they were "just making do because there were no girls available". And that was true - though had there been girls available, most boys would have got a lot less sex out of them. "The Pill" had changed sexual behaviour in the real world, yes, but nice girls weren't on it at 14. Those few of us who though that we were definitely queer had our own supportive sub-culture.

But Guy was pausing for thought, and that gave me pause as well.

And, lastly (well, not lastly, of course, this only really skims the surface of what was going on for me) I was in love with Guy.

As for bumming him: well, that really wasn't a priority. I wasn't much of a top anyway. It'd be fun, but some part of me felt that I only felt that I ought to want it just because I was pretending to be a Big Boy.

"We were about to send out a search party," said Dab. "Bit of a collapse in the middle order." Andy was still in, standing waiting at the crease as Guy walked out, awkward in his pads, dragging his bat behind him.

"You best get padded up," Dab said.

"What?"

"Well, Guy's not going to last long is he?"

"How do I put these pads on again?" I asked. Dab helped me.

"I hope you've got a box."

I looked at him a little blankly.

"Oh, you hopeless fairy. Borrow mine." He fished down the front of his cricket trousers and pulled out the padded plastic cup. Oh, a cricket box. "Protector", I think, was the official name.

"Do you put it under your underpants or..."

"What do you think?"

It was almost worth having to bat to get to wear Dab's cricket box. My cock got stiff as I stuffed it down the front of my underpants.

"Not that you've got much to protect," Dab noted.

I flicked him a "V" sign. I sat down in one of the deck chairs and asked, deliberately, "Who's winning then?" - the supremely stupid question of the dumb foreigner at a cricket match.

"Ha-fucking-ha!" said Dab. "Actually, we are. Nearly. We've just lost five people in double-quick time, but Andy's been slugging away. We're just three under. Guy just has to stay in and Andy'll get us there."

"There's still me to bat," I protested.

"Yeah, that's why Guy's got to survive."

I grabbed the score book from the little boy sitting cross-legged just in front of my deck chair. Against Andy's name there was a long row of entries.

"Don't pretend you know what it means," said Dab.

"No," I admitted, "but Andy looks pretty impressive, don't you think?" I held the score book up and ran my finger along the long line of entries. Dab smiled and lobbed a cricket ball at me. Of course I fumbled it - I would have done even without the score book in my hands. It landed fairly squarely in my lap, with almost a clunk from the box.

There was a cheer from all around us and I looked up to see Andy running over to slap Guy on the back.

"What's happened?"

"We've won, of course. Guy hit a four."

Andy was the Man of the Match but Guy got a bit of attention simply for having hit the winning shot.

"It was a mistake," he insisted. "I didn't even know what I was doing. I was just blocking like Andy said and then it bounced funny and I hit it just like in Rounders."

"It's called a sweep," said Andy, actually ruffling Guy's hair.

"Thank god it worked out though, If you'd got yourself out..." He looked at me. I was unbuckling my pads and pretended not to see.

"Can I have my box back?" asked Dab.

"Not just yet..." I was hard again.

"Ahhh! That's so sweet! You're going to stop buggering the lad for a whole week!" said Charlie.

"He's not buggering him," said Dab

"Buggering him up, though."

I looked at him, annoyed but distressed.

"This isn't real here, you know. In the real world boys don't do what you lot do. You know I don't care what you are or what you do, but, God, mooning over some 13-year-old."

"He's not buggered up!"

"How would you know? How would you know what's normal and what's weird?"

"Charlie!"

"People from places like this run the fucking country," he muttered.

"Actually, I think that our present Prime Minister is a grammar school boy," Dab pointed out.

"Fuck off, you snob. You know what I mean!"

In a stage whisper Dab commented to me, "Time of the month."

"Oh fuck you both, you fucking little queers!"

Dab did a little moue and shrugged at me.

Charlie turned back to his work and then sighed. "I'm sorry. I am a bit on the rag. I've got to get fucking 1s in every fucking subject if I'm going to keep my scholarship, you know."

"You'll do it, easy peasy," I said.

"I don't even know if I want to stay at this place."

I don't think that either Dab or I could have been able to process this idea.

"What?" said Dab, "Just because of a little bit of queering?"

"Oh, fuck, I don't care about that really: it's just a symptom."

"Of what?" Dab demanded.

"Like I said: this isn't real, this place."

And it wasn't. It wasn't like the real world. But that was no bad thing. Well, it was a bad thing in lots of ways, but not, I thought then and think now, in terms of sexual (and emotional) experience.

A week to the day later I went to sit on Guy's bed for a "chat". He seemed happy to see me, turning to push himself against my side as I sat there. When I tried to pull down the top sheet, however, he said, "It's a bit light still."

The days were getting longer, but it was hardly light at all by this time.

"Andy lets Dab in with him."

"Yeah, still..." I waited to see if he would relent. I didn't dare ask what he'd decided about us doing stuff, but the little thrust against my thigh seemed fairly definite.

"It's nicer in Robert's," he said. "It's more private and..." he lowered his voice even more, "... we can do more stuff."

"Is he in now?" I asked.

"Dunno. Don't think so."

I checked and went back to tell Guy he wasn't there.

"We can't go in there without his permission," Guy protested.

"He won't mind. It's OK."

"Nah. Go and find him and check."

I huffed.

"Please?" Guy asked, seriously. "It's only polite."

"OK. It's not long 'til my Lights Out now anyway, there wouldn't be time..."

I went to find Robert, dashing downstairs to the House Room where the monitors hung out. (The "House Room" couldn't, could it, be for the whole House? That was the "Common Room".) I knocked and there was no answer. I pushed open the door a little. The room was dark except for the telly. "Whoever that is, the answer's, "No"; fuck off," said a voice from one of the sofas. I thought briefly of trying to imitate my housemaster, but I knew I wasn't any good at it. I asked to see Robert.

"Your sprog wants you, Robert," the voice said.

"Wait outside a sec. The ads are just coming up." said Robert. Well, he couldn't come running when I crooked my little finger, could he?

A minute or two later Robert came out with the Duty Monitor right behind him.

"Your Lights Out is in two minutes," the latter warned.

"What is it?" asked Robert, irritated. ("I've told you not to come to the office...") I drew him into the monitors' little kitchen and made my request. He looked at his watch.

"I should be doing an essay, but I want to watch this film til the end. 10:30 - I want you out of there before I come up."

Give it ten minutes after my Lights Out, that gave us 50 minutes - 45 minutes.

"Thanks," I said and Robert scowled a little, picking up the House Biscuit Tin, sitting on a little table outside the House Room.

"No fucking Bourbons left," he muttered.

I ran up the stairs to get to my dorm for Lights Out. I hadn't felt quite so excited since Mike had told me that first time that he'd come and wake me later.

When I snuck back round to Junior Dorm ten minutes later Guy said, mock-impatient, "You took your time."

I just said, "Come on," and walked quickly over to Robert's bedsit. By the time Guy got there I was in the bed, naked. He came and sat next to me.

"Don't you want to know my answer?"

"Uh, I thought... I thought it was obvious back there."

"You're just so randy, aren't you? Can't wait to..."

I grabbed him round the waist and pulled him to me. He struggled happily and then I just stopped, my arm around his waist.

"So, it's OK then?".

"Yeah, s'pose so, if we must..." He leant forward and kissed me. On the lips.

When we were snuggled naked together under the sheets I forced myself to stop thinking about the time passing before Robert came up, and tried to be responsible.

"So, really, you're sure?"

"Yep. Really."

But not that responsible: "And about the other thing...?"

Guy laughed into my neck: "We can try."

I was 14, OK? My first time bumming a Little Boy. The clock was ticking. I wasn't sophisticated enough to do things gracefully.

I switched on the over-bed light and took out Robert's jar of Vaseline. Guy settled on his back, raised on his elbows, just looking at me unscrewing the top. His expression was neutral.

"Turn on your side." He made to turn towards me, then giggled at himself and turned away from me. He reached back and pulled on his upper bum cheek, opening himself to me. It seemed such a strange gesture, coming from him. I hesitated but he said, "Go on." He'd made his decision. When I put my greased finger against his bumhole he bit his lip slightly. I pushed my finger into his hole a little way. He breathed out through his nose.

"OK?"

"OK."

I pushed harder. My finger slipped in easily. Guy's hips bucked and he made little sharp "Uhg!" noises. But he held onto his arse cheek. It didn't seem strange now, it seemed wonderfully horny. I slid my finger all the way in. Guy screwed up his face a little. I waited and then began moving my finger in him. He let go of his cheek now and put his hand on my wrist. He didn't say anything.

Should I stop?

"OK" he said, relaxing his grip a little but keeping his hand on my wrist, ready to control things if he wanted to. I started fucking his bumhole with my finger.

Guy relaxed, his mouth falling open a little. His hand left my wrist and reached for my cock. Full of surprises tonight.

I started to try to get a second finger into him. He said, "Just... It's alright, just see... see if you can now." He sounded as if he was suggesting that his courage might fail him if I didn't get on with it.

I rubbed Vaseline on my cock and Guy reached back again to feel it, all greasy. He pulled open his bum crack again. I shuffled in behind him. It wasn't quite right.

"Bend your knees up a bit," I said.

He did and my cock was against his bumhole. I held the base and pushed the tip into him.

"Ah! Agh, agh, agh! No, stop!" he gasped.

I stopped.

Ooooh, ow!" Guy said. "Ow, ow, ow! Ow... shit!"

"Should I...?"

"Wait!" he gasped. He let go of his bum and clasped his hands together in front of his face. Was he praying? He couldn't be praying, could he? Just as I was going to abandon the attempt Guy huffed out a sigh. His shoulder fell back against my chest. His mouth was slightly open again. I pushed in further. My foreskin was pushed back. It stung a little. Guy stopped me again. We stopped several times before I'd got enough of my cock into him to feel that I could relax without it slipping out. Then I just rested.

Guy's eyes were closed, his forehead moist, his cheeks, which had seemed drained of colour a few minutes earlier, were now flushed.

"OK?"

Guy seemed to consider.

"OK."

Then, "Don't move though!" as I started to pull out a little.

I kissed his neck. "We can still stop."

"It's alright!" Guy said, almost angrily. "Just wait."

How did he know to ask me to wait?

"Dab said it would hurt like fuck," Guy said, smiling bravely. I didn't say anything.

Guy hardly ever swore.

He'd been getting hints and tips from Dab? Bless him. Bless Dab.

"Go on now."

I moved my cock out a tiny, tiny bit and pushed back. Guy ground his teeth. I reached round to feel for his dick. He was completely soft. I tried to rouse him.

"Just..."

I knew what he meant: "Just hurry up and finish."

I tried to be gentle, but I couldn't hold back from shoving more of my cock into his hole as I started fucking.

It was obvious that Guy wasn't enjoying it, but that didn't stop the quick rise of my lust. I spunked in him and pulled out.

Guy bought his knees to his chest and hugged them. I tried to get my arms around his arms. He was staring at the wall. I wanted to say that I was sorry. But I didn't.

Guy lowered his knees and gingerly straightened his legs. He reached back and felt into the crack of his arse. He flinched as he touched himself. He rolled over onto his back. I looked at him and he just looked back. I had no idea what to say.

Finally, Guy attempted a tiny smile and said, "S'okay."

Little Spurt 05

Boys and Sex

When I was 13 I stole a copy of Wardell B. Pomeroy's Boys and Sex from a bookshop in the town near the school.

I was in the shop choosing books to buy with the book tokens I'd been given for class prizes in a couple of subjects. We were allowed to choose our own books to be given at Prize Giving - a very recent innovation, I understood. Previously boys would have been given "good books" of the most boring possible variety.

I couldn't believe the title of the book when I saw it. On the cover it said "Co-author of the Kinsey Reports" and we had all heard of them. But I couldn't buy it as a Prize Giving prize. And I had neither the cash nor the nerve to buy it otherwise. So I slipped it into the generous pocket of my duffel coat and went to the cash desk with my prize books and book tokens. The owner asked something about what subjects I was getting prizes for (our school uniform was well-known in the local area, of course, and he would have been having quite a few boys coming in to spend their book tokens). I mumbled the subjects and he smiled: "Well, well done anyway, lad. Good show!" I felt even more guilty about the slim paperback in my pocket.

I read the book in secret, hidden, in classic fashion (and with completely unconscious irony) within the covers of my Nuffield Biology textbook. It was a revelation. Like a fussy eater leaving the best on the plate 'til last (as I did - borderline OCD, no doubt about it) I forced myself to read the book through from the start, though desperate to read the chapter called, starkly, "Homosexuality". The information and advice in the early chapters was so very sane, straightforward and liberal that I was hopeful that "My" chapter, the chapter about me, would be as calm and reassuring, but I was also dreadfully fearful that the author would suddenly turn rabid when confronting my perversion. If this guy wasn't OK about queering, then I really must be sick.

Recently, having begun these memoirs, I wanted to check what I would now think of Pomeroy's book. I bought a copy over the internet of the very 1970 Pelican edition I had stolen at 13. Re-reading it, I remembered clearly how amazed and relieved I was to read, in the chapter on "Masturbation", that many "more imaginative" boys had fantasies ("daydreams", Pomeroy calls them) that they would never actually want to act out in reality: "Having sex with their sisters, or schoolteachers, even their mothers or fathers." Fuck, even I wasn't that sick! But I did have fantasies that worried me a little (I'll tell you another time). Pomeroy's other instance of a daydream you would probably never want to act out was, "an orgy, in which several boys and girls, or even just boys, are taking part." Well, I had such dreams. No girls, though - well, hardly ever. And now I felt fine about having them. But, of course, I did want to act them out. Still, he allowed for a fantasy about an all-boy orgy. I can only imagine that my hopes were high as I finally turned to "Homosexuality". I was alone in Robert's bedsit (the downstairs one - this was before he was a monitor). Even here I hid the book behind the Nuffield - anyone might walk in.

The chapter was a revelation. All my life since, I have credited Pomeroy with freeing me, definitely and formally, from any lingering sense of guilt or shame. He has been a hero, really, as much as, later, Boyd McDonald, editor of Straight to Hell, (or The Manhattan Review of Cocksucking) was to become a hero of mine. But heroes usually turn out to have feet of clay, and I was worried that I might find, all these years later, that I have been projecting an unwarranted status and wisdom onto Wardell B. Re-reading the chapter now, I'm pleased to confirm its amazing sanity, not only for its time, but, in some ways, for today.

He does, once, refer to "this problem". And he does cover transvestitism and transexuality in this chapter, although he acknowledges that, "Curiously, although they like to dress as girls, transvestites are not necessarily homosexuals". He has a few wacky theories about the reasons that a boy might become a homosexual (not "causes", for he does not, as many liberal thinkers even then did, pathologise homosexuality). Adolescent body-building, while "all well and good", could apparently easily lead to a narcissism which might then be projected onto other muscular boys. A poor lad might start a body-building course to make himself more attractive to girls, but end up finding himself obsessed with the bodies of other boys as well as his own. This was, remember, well before gay gyms and muscle-marys. There were only boys' boxing clubs back then. Pimples or fatness could also lead to homosexual experimentation, it seems (although, actually, at my school these were considered disincentives).

Otherwise, he is pretty good. He explicitly dispels myths. He is careful not to be too "permissive" - this was a book intended for parents to give to their teenaged sons - but he has several clear messages.

The only thing that a homosexual boy need really be anxious about was that society and religion in the West was "still" not generally accepting of homosexuality, and it was important for the homosexual boy to understand this. Other cultures had different, more accepting views, Pomeroy points out, "especially in the large areas of the worlds in which people follow the Muslim and Buddhist faiths" (yeah, OK, strike one for the "Muslim" - but I lived in a supposedly Muslim state at that time, and, well, Islam may never have had a Reformation, but the tropical climate did seem to mitigate against energetic fanaticism). However different other cultures might be, "We must live in the society and culture which is ours." He anticipates progress towards tolerance in "our society", but makes it clear that most Americans ("British", for this edition) still "regard homosexuality with distaste". But this is merely, "A peculiarity of our Western culture, with its roots in the Judaeo-Christian code." "A little local difficulty," he seems to be saying.

If a boy is worried about being "homosexually inclined" it will do no good, Pomeroy says, to try to "give it up". The boy might give heterosexuality a go, and perhaps find it to his taste, but even then he needn't stop having sex with other boys. "One doesn't learn to like ripe olives by no longer eating ice cream." Fuck knows what I made of that at the time, although I'm sure that I knew I preferred ice cream to ripe olives.

He has a straightforward message for the straight boys: understand the natural variety of human beings and "develop tolerance". "A mature boy is one who can accept these differences as a fact of life and not be upset by them, who will not bully a sissy or sneer at homosexuals and try to put them down in one way or another."

Remarkably, he urges tolerance on the homosexual boys as well. Again anticipating future improvements, he says, "Fortunately, many parents are able to give the warmth, love and support their sons and daughters need as they make their adjustments to the world. If a boy finds that his parents are unable to do so, he can help them by his own understanding and tolerance, knowing that it is only natural for them to worry about him and his sex life."

The chapter ends with more good sense for the straight boys: do not allow the fear of homosexuality to deny you the opportunity for close friendships with other boys. "There is, in fact, a need for more warm, demonstrative friendships between males in this country" (he meant the United States, but the British editors left the wording to allow it to refer to Britain). As I knew from my own home, in many other cultures, "males can walk arm in arm, even with their arms around each other. They often kiss openly as a show of affection...". I later used this argument in a little informal lecture I gave to the dormitory of which I was then in charge, following an incident in which two boys were teased badly for being "too close" (whether physically or emotionally, i don't remember). But my extolling the virtues of close friendship and the risks of fearing homosexuality arose from perhaps slightly less pure motives than Pomeroy's"

The chapter ends, referring to this fear of appearing to be homosexual: "...the fear deserves to be banished, like all other fears. In no other way can we learn to live healthy, fulfilled lives." I took this to extend, as I'm sure Pomeroy intended, to the fear about actually being homosexual.

I don't think I ever bothered to read the next chapter, "Going out with Girls".

I was, I think, about 11-and-a-half when I first thought to myself, "Well, I must be really queer, I suppose." Re-reading Pomeroy now, I know that my strong persistent memory is accurate: he liberated me. "Liberation" is not now a word that travels lightly in the world, free of much baggage. But then, and still, now, that's how I think of it.

One last thing... (if you've read this far you'll surely be able to take one last thing) ... Pomeroy several times writes about boys "having sex with other boys", even at one point, "a lot of sex with boys". Not "experimenting" - "having sex". And he uses this language in a deliberately neutral, non-judgemental way. I still have just about enough faith left in humanity to believe that Pomeroy would find as absurd as I do the current idea that a sixteen year-old boy having sex with a fourteen year-old boy, however consensual, is necessarily an "abuser" and will be so forever.

Little Spurt 06

Little Red Book

Mao Zedong (or, rather, "Mao Tse-Tung", as we then transliterated his name) had his "Little Red Book" and my school had it's own Red Book that was equally little, but served a very different purpose. It simply listed all the masters and pupils in the school. The masters were listed in order of Seniority (time at the School, rather than age), with all their academic qualifications and universities after their names. The boys were listed both by House and by Form.

One cold, wet winter afternoon when a gale was rattling the windows (not exactly an unusual situation at my school), Dab, Roger and I huddled in my study over our Red Books. Charlie, if he was there, would have held himself aloof (or, at least, apart) from our exercise. But I don't think he was there. We went through each House list in the book, pooling our knowledge about the sexual orientation of our fellow pupils. We started with the "least queer" Houses as they could be dealt with most quickly, then moved on to the "really queer" Houses, leaving our own, of course until last.

Highlighting pens had not be invented, so we didn't have a colour code, but instead used simple symbols against each name:

• X = definitely not

• ✓ = definitely ("*" added if any one of us had actually done stuff with the individual and "Q" added if "really queer")

• ? = No information

• ?? = possibly (but no really reliable information)

• ??? = almost certainly, but no definite information

• ✓ = has done stuff, but not up for it any more

It was a fun (and potentially useful) exercise, and a great excuse for, well, an extended gossiping session. Each one of us learnt quite a bit of new information, and so our progression through the lists was punctuated by frequent cries of "No! Really! How do you know?" and some disagreements about the reliability of some claims.

There was also an element of a "Truth or Dare" game, however. We each admitted to having had people who were, well, perhaps not the most attractive boys in the school. Even Roger, who, frankly, could have had almost anyone he wanted, possibly even the most rigorously priggish boys, admitted to having made poor choices on the spur of the moment. So there were also cries of "Arrrrgh No! You didn't? Not him!", a few "puking" mimes and much embarrassed or mocking laughter. I had imported a practice used amongst the local kids at my primary school at home (possibly a legacy of British rule, but more likely a tradition to do with the loss of "face"). This involved stroking the top of the index finger of the left hand with that of the right whilst staying, in time with each stroke, "Shame! Shame! Shame! Shame!" When Roger admitted to having sucked off the fattest boy in the school, Dab and I teased him in this way, rocking with delighted shock.

Charlie later looked through Dab's Red Book, shaking his head in amused disbelief. For the three of us involved, however, the next few weeks were enlivened by seeking out sightings of unfamiliar boys who had come up in the exercise around the school, in Chapel, and in the communal Dining Hall at meals.

During our game, specific couplings were, of course discussed and we did try to work out a system for noting connections between particular boys, but it quickly became obvious that it would be too complicated to record every known interaction. We did plan to try the exercise again later, concentrating on this aspect, but we never got round to it.

I hope that people are still enjoying this. Email: spelchek@hushmail.com