BEACH BLANKET BARRY by janus znaiu
Labor Day '64
My gears clicked in an ever-diminishing tempo as I coasted my ten-speed to a stop at the top of the driveway. A battle-weary electric lawnmower lay on its side on the flagstones leading to the front steps. Barry's father, Jack Llewelyn, was sitting on a tufted outdoor ottoman on the whitewashed porch, wiping a wrench with an oily rag. By way of greeting, he stood and raised his tumbler of what was supposed to pass for simple orange juice. He took a long drink from it. Barry's dad was a loquatious alcoholic with an educated Welsh accent, a gregarious manner and a legendary repertoire of dirty jokes-- all qualities that probably stood him in very good stead as a car salesman. Having a dad who ran a car lot certainly stood Barry in good stead. Only two days before, Mr. Llewelyn had given my friend a three year old Volkswagon beetle, an appropriately-colored lemon yellow convertable that had come to him as a trade-in.
"Barry's still in bed, Jens. I've only just called him for the third time. Probably pounding his hound." Mr. Llewelyn said with a conspiratorial wink. He opened the front door, stepped into the foyer and bellowed up the faux Tudor staircase, "BARRY!" He listened for a few seconds, then shouted, "Geddup ye pimpled lout! The president of your fan club's down here!"
Then to me again, "I see your dad's turning that delicatessen of his into a regular department store these days," He was referring to my father's expansion into the building next door to our deli in the city. I knew he'd want to pump me for information about how much pop had spent on the renovations and so forth; for Mr. Llewellyn, any human undertaking was instantly reducible to a clear-cut matter of dollars and cents. "All that Italian tile and plate glass sure must have set him back..." he insinuated."BARRY!" he shouted again over his shoulder.
"Yeah, I guess," I said. It was my generic response to almost any adult comment. Fidgety, my hands in my jeans pockets, I rocked uncomfortably on my heels and peered past him, up into the relative darkness of the staircase, hopeful that Barry might appear from the gloom at any moment and rescue me. Mr. Llewellyn chuckled at my obvious impatience. "Aw, you might as well go on up and build a fire under him yourself, Jens. Tell the bugger he won't be watching any more late, late shows again until next summer. Looking forward to being back in school?"
"Yeah, I guess," I told him. I sprinted up the stairs and past Barry's sisters' rooms. If Barry was beating off, I meant to catch him at it. We hadn't seen each other for two days because he had to clean and polish cars for his dad. I was very keen to have his dick in my hand again-- and more. I stepped into his room and quietly clicked the door shut behind me. He wasn't jacking off, but even fast asleep, Barry looked no less hot to me right then than if he had been.
He snored on lightly, seemingly oblivious to the whining and thwapping of the electric lawnmower that Mr. Llewelyn had started up just below his open window. His breathing was utterly undisturbed, remaining deep and even through the sudden din. He'd covered his eyes with part of a pillow against the wide-open blinds, leaving only his strong, square jaw and his half-opened mouth exposed. An intense, narrow shaft of late-morning sunlight played back and forth across his exposed torso with each September gust that stirred the cutains. It accentuated every ripple of his abdomen, emphasized every one of the sparse black hairs that grew in a light, fuzzy ring around each of his nipples.
Barry's blanket lay across him, well below his waist but revealing only the slightest hint of his pubic patch. A sexy trail of wispy black hair joined his navel to his bush. Below that, the blanket's folds followed the contours of his plumped-out dick so exactly that it was as if he'd been handling himself through the covers just before I came in. The fold that covered his thick cock formed what seemed to be a slender third leg as it continued towards the foot of the bed, but you could see exactly where the fat, flared head of his cock was by the way it bulked out the fabric. I sat down across from him on the edge of his kid brother's bed and visualized Barry's goods as they must look under that blanket. I drilled his bulge with my gaze and pretended I had x-ray vision: his dickhead would be partially skinned now, in sympathy to the expansion of his half-erection. His balls would be warm and therefore low-slung; they'd be resting against the nearest inner thigh, dangling in whatever way gravity would have it.
I was burning that image into my mind when suddenly there was a loud, abrupt clunk outside, followed by a gnashing of metal on metal and then the lawnmower fell silent. "Christ in a friggin' sidecar!" hollered Mr. Llewelyn. There was the sound of a lawnmower being picked up by a very pissed off Welshman and thrown across an asphalt driveway.
Barry woke up then, filling the room with smug, subdued laughter. "I told you it wouldn't last the season!" he shouted with a sing-song tone, his voice still thick from sleep. He scratched his adam's apple and fell into a fresh outburst of not-so-private, self-satisfied cackling.
"Get your lazy arse out of the rack, you cheeky monkey," shouted Mr. Llewellyn from outside.
His eyes still covered, still unaware of my presence only a few feet away, Barry stretched deeply, arching his back obscenely, almost touching my knee with his outstretched hand. He sighed contentedly and reached under the blanket. Then he scratched his bag, causing his cock to bob under the fabric. My that got my confined dick bobbing too. I reached inside my jeans to squeeze it some comfort. Barry tossed the blanket back to mid-thigh, exposing his meaty, upturned pecker to the rare tactile dichotomy of warm sunshine and cool breeze. He thumbed his tits a little and then slid his palms very slowly downwards along his chest. They passed across his belly and continued to his inner thighs, which he stroked a few times before grabbing his fat, semi-tumescent pole with one hand and tugging at his sac with the other.
I could have cheerfully continued this fly-on-the-wall game indefinitely, but Barry chose that moment to pull his head out from under his pillow. He glanced first at his cock, then at me, then at my hand jammed into my fly. "Good afternoon," I told him, though it was barely eleven am.
"Hey Slim," he said, grinning broadly, using what was fast becoming his pet name for me. "What's goin' on?" He asked casually in mid-yawn, as if he always awoke to find someone feeling themselves up three feet away.
"Not a lot, Bar'. Like some help with that?" I licked my grinning lips and nodded at the fat, skinned dick in Barry's hand, the one I'd sucked in my dreams a hundred times in the past week of nights. He swung his legs off the bed and I stepped between them. Barry slipped one arm behind me, lay his cheek against my belly and palmed the front of my denim-clad thigh, from my knee to my crotch, while I lightly stroked his tousled, curly head.
"Mmmmm. Missed you, Slim." then, suddenly, "Fuck! Are you ever boned!" He backed off a bit and grasped my flanks. "Listen, man, we can't do fuck-all here, Nicholas could walk in any minute." I knew Barry's eleven year old brother was loose about the place; the little shit had flipped me the bird out on the street when I first pulled in. "We could go for a drive though." he suggested, staring up at me with that voluptuous leer I was becoming more and more familiar with. He pronounced "drive" in a low, growling timbre that almost made it sound filthy. I knew he was itching to show me his new wheels, but I also knew he was thinking about the new mobility his having a car would give us. The idea of being able to get away someplace, someplace nearby but private, any time we liked, kept my bone alive the whole time Barry was in the bathroom getting washed. That, and my discovery of the briefs he'd slept in.
Well, maybe he hadn't slept in them at that; they looked more like he'd slept with them. A nearly new pair of Stanfield whites, Barry had likely been breaking them in-- he never seemed completely happy unless his drawers had some kind of major rent or some irreversable blemish to them. Two large damp spots adorned the inner pouch. A third still glistened in the sunlight like a slug trail higher up, near the waistband. I was just bringing them to my cheek when Barry came back from the bathroom.
"Caught ya!" he said, grabbing them from behind my back when I tired in vain to hide them. He teased, "You'll be nose-divin' my bicycle seat next, I expect."
I leaned in and stifled his coarse chortle with my mouth. He half-responded, but with wide-opened eyes staring uneasily past me at the door. Realizing his heart wasn't in it, I broke it off with a profound sigh.
"I know," Barry said sypathetically. "Soon..." Spinning on his heel, he turned away and yanked his top dresser drawer open. Curiously, he put the soiled briefs I'd been admiring in with the tangle of underwear in the drawer.
"Now, why would you go and put a dirty pair of shorts in with a bunch of clean ones?" I had to know.
"Who said they were dirty, Slim? I haven't worn 'em. They're just a little cummy, that's all." Barry told me, as if that ought to be explanation enough.
He pulled out an older, clean but vastly more stressed, pair of briefs and let the damp towel fall from his waist. I ogled his dick for the brief instant it was visible, licking my lips at the prospect of having it in my hands again sometime soon. He slid into the whites and carefully arranged himself to the right, both nuts to the left. Barry sniffed the armpits of a few t-shirts that were strewn about until he found one that didn't make him wrinkle his nose. Then he yanked on a pair of paint-spattered cutoffs that were cut so high that the bottoms of his front pockets hung out a little. Stepping sockless into a pair of low-cut Keds, he opened the door to the hallway and said with a flourish, "M'lord, your carriage awaits."
Mr. Llewelyn was pushing the remains of the deceased lawnmower into the garage, a large, twisted section of the blade tucked under his arm. "Curfew's two hours earlier tonight. Remember that Barry." he warned, as we headed towards Barry's new bug in the third bay. "I'm serious, kiddo, any later than ten pm and you'll be back to riding the school bus and that car'll be back on the lot."
"Yeah, yeah, and you'll have 'my balls for bookends'..." Barry said wearily.
"Exactly! Ha-HA! School tomorrow! Oh, you boys are SO LUCKY!" I hated having unpleasant things rubbed in by gleeful adults at the best of times. Barry's dad made it that much worse by mussing both our hair and unleashing an evil, histrionical snicker, like the moustache-twirling villain in a cheap melodrama.
I fiddled with the dials of the car radio as Barry pulled onto the highway. He grinned at me, fingering the knob of the stickshift like it was a big round dickhead. "So where to, Slim?" he asked, shouting over the sudden, rushing gust when he sped the convertable up to join the stream of holiday traffic. "The beach? Toronto? Wanna get somethin' to eat?"
"I'm pretty hungry. Why don't we leave Toronto for another day-- everything'll be closed anyway. Wanna grab something to eat at the beach?" I knew what I wanted to eat most of all. I stared at Barry's well-packed basket.
"Your wish is my command," he said. I certainly hoped so.
We picked up a couple of burgers at Hutch's Dingley Dell and drove up and down the strip a couple times, chomping our lunch as we went. I was impatient to find someplace we could be alone, but Labor Day Monday, and the observance of the official farewell to summer, brought everybody and their dog down to the lake, as though it would somehow freeze over the very next day. There were even line-ups to play bingo or to get on the cheesy old rides near the lift bridge. I had a different kind of ride in mind-- I pictured myself sliding my lips up and down on Barry's shaft.
I don't know if he'd been reading my thoughts, or having just having similar ones of his own. "I know a spot," he said, rubbing his crotch.
We'd been messing around together for only a week and a half, but under the combined influence of Barry's patient, tactile coaxing, his logical arguments and my own innate randiness, I had, only the day before, made my mind up to suck him off the very next time we were together-- this time without the reassuring layer of cotton underwear between my lips and his cock. On the half dozen occasions we'd sixty-nined, that few millimeters of fabric always somehow helped me to convince myself that I wasn't really sucking his dick. Barry didn't seem to mind the barrier; he was happiest when he was blowing his stones into a pair of drawers anyway. I was aware of how tenuous my rationalization was, of course, but not turning "too queer" was a major preoccupation with me in those days. I vacillated erratically between being the wanton, can't-get-enough Jens whose first cogent thought after an orgasm was the next one, and the uneasy, trepidatious Jens who stewed endlessly about the queer label and all the hideous consequences that discovery could bring.
There wasn't a single thing in my orbit that said being a homosexual was an acceptable thing to aspire to. Gays hadn't been invented yet; all we had were faggots and fairies. They ran florist shops and made good, if prissy, hair dressers. I knew I wasn't anything like them, though my older brother Nils, so far the only one to have picked up on signs of my inversion, implied that if I continued on my present course I would turn into just such a nelly caricature as Mr. Sweeny, the old undertaker who'd been our neighbour in the city; as though mincing and lisping were a natural and inescapable result of any sexual activity or undue affection between males. Yet, if I had so little else in common with the few self-acknowledged homosexuals I'd seen, why was I so driven to do the other, more private things they did? And why were those things seeming so less nasty with each passing day? Why did they occupy my thoughts so, waking and sleeping?
It never occured to me that all around me there were hundreds and thousands of others being eaten up by the same fears and longings I harbored. There was no sure way to spot them (although it was universally alleged at school that anybody who wore red socks on a Thursday was definitely "one"). And even if I'd known who they were there, if there had been some secret way to communicate with them, I didn't have the decoder ring required. Like a lot of kids of my generation, I spent years convinced that what was happening to me-- the constant inner struggle between forbidden lust and propriety-- had never afflicted anyone else before. And if it did, they didn't have it half as bad as I had it.
Far more than by anything Barry and I actually did together, I was distressed about the emotional element of our relationship. I knew full well, from everything I'd seen, read or heard, that the things I was feeling for him ought more properly to be directed towards girls. Although it was never discussed as such (only mentioned in passing, and rarely), it was assumed between us that we'd each eventually get married and have families one day, even if we didn't feel anything in particular for girls at the moment. I sure didn't. And Barry didn't either, by all appearances. Still, our intrinsic heterosexuality was the tacit assumption, despite the contradiction posed by the steady escalation of our passion for each other.
All of the stuff we were doing was as new to Barry as it was to me, but he seemed so much more self-assured behind it all, as though he'd sussed out exactly what he wanted and was willing to do almost anything, make any dumb compromise necessary, to get it. If we could only mess around in secret places and in stolen moments, that was no big deal to Barry, merely an annoyance. That time of our lives is filled with many such logistical irritations.
We passed ever fewer groups of bathers as we drove along the paved road where it followed the rougher, rockier shoreline. When the paved road veered off to the right, we continued to follow the shoreline road, even after it turned into a simple graveled access route leading to a huge hydro transmission tower. A few hundred feet from the foot of the tower, Barry left the road and pulled into a the middle of a splendid grove of cascading yellow-green willows. A house had stood among them once, but all that remained now was the driveway, a low heap of rubble and a crackled cement hole that had once been a swimming pool. Barry shut the engine off and leaned back with his eyes closed, breathing deeply and listening to the loud, rasping drone of the cicadas announcing their sexual availability to each other in the trees all around us.
"We used to live here, until I was twelve, like," he said finally. "Then that thing went up," he nodded in the direction of the unseen hydro tower. "C'mon," he grinned, grabbing a rolled-up straw beach mat from the back seat and tucking it under his arm, "I'll show you someplace cool."
We followed an overgrown path into the brush and emerged some moments later at the edge of a large pond rimmed with cattails and rushes. Barry unfurled the beach mat and spread it atop some tall spikes of goldenrod that carpeted the open, two-acre meadow. He flattened the stalks horizontal by treading all over the mat. When he was done, he'd created a rectangular, box-like depression about the size of a twin bed in the undergrowth, one that would render us virtually invisible, even to someone standing a only few meters away. I lay down on my back, suddenly reducing my field of vision to one of only sky, foliage and Barry.
"We used to whack off back here all the time when I was a nipper," he said as he peeled off his t-shirt and cutoffs.
"We?" I asked, stripping off my jeans and shirt. By now I knew enough to leave my jockeys on.
"Mostly just me and Jimmy MacDonald from across the street, but there used to be dozens of houses along this road. A whole bunch of us would used to camp out here and shit. We'd usually wind up circle-jerking each other." Barry knelt on the mat between my jack-knifed legs and spread my knees until they met the straw. He palmed my growing mound, his eyes half-closed and distant in recollection.
"This one guy," Barry continued, "I forget his name now, but he was one of my friends' cousins or something. I guess he was a couple of years older than the rest of us and he knew lots of cool shit. He used to, you know, put his mouth on the knob of your pecker while he was jackin' you. It felt so fuckin' great, man. If I was ever alone with him, I think I'd have done it back. But it never happened. I guess I just felt funny doin' something like that with a bunch of my other friends around-- and nobody else ever did it to him either. They were probably more scared of the size of his cock than what anybody would say, like I was," Barry chuckled to himself at the reminiscence.
"Didn't you ever try it with your friend from across the street?"
"Who? Jimmy? Nah, he was a real baby about most of this stuff. But at least he was always around."
I saw a connection. "Kinda like me, I guess,"
"Not a bit!" Barry stopped rubbing my pouch and stared at me. "He didn't even like to jack the other guy off. Most of the time we'd just kind of watch each other while we beat our own, and that'd be it. It's way different with you, that's for sure. You've done way more shit with me than anybody, ever. That's why I trust you so much. That's why I gotta do this..."
Barry choked on the last words. He drew my bone out of one leghole of my briefs and, grasping it vice-like at the root, he calmly enclosed the top third of it with his mouth.
Involuntarily, I gripped the back of Barry's neck with both hands and half-sat up. He laid a warm palm on my breastbone and urged me back to the mat. As if to restrain me in case I tried to get up again, he left his hand there, with a determined downward pressure. Barry's thumb felt around for a nipple, found one, and began flicking it. I heard myself moan.
Just when I thought I couldn't bear another shred of pleasure, Barry's lips began their agonizingly slow descents to to the root of my cock. Just short of their target, on the third or fourth delicious pass, Barry coughed and sputtered, his gagging brought on a thoughtless upward thrust from me. At first, it seemed like he'd be able to hang on. He stopped bobbing his head and rested with his lips gripping my cock about two-thirds of the way down, waiting for the spasms in his throat to subside. But his rebellious esophegeal muscles contracting so tightly and erratically around my dickhead caused my cock to pitch and heave in delight. In the end, he was forced to draw off me with a loud, explosive pop. He sat up slightly with teary eyes and a red face. Still holding my dick with one hand, he wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm. "Sorry," was all he said.
Sorry? Sorry for breaking our 'agreement', or sorry for choking? Sorry for making me feel better than I'd ever felt? However wonderful it might have been, I still harbored a mighty reservoir of doubt, one whose banks grew a lot more precarious the moment Barry took his mouth off my prick, despite my earlier resolve to blow him, unasked. That dreaded word: 'cocksucker' and the repugnance with which I'd always heard it hissed, began echoing in my head again, horny as I was.
"Barry, I don't know..." I started to say, but he cut me off.
"Don't you dare tell me I gotta stop, Jens. Just don't fuckin' say it." Barry rumbled, drilling me with a determined look. But then he calmed right down, suddenly becoming diffident and uncharacteristically tender, "You gotta know this, man. I've been trying to find a way to be with you like this ever since the beginning of the summer."
I'd been turning him on all those weeks? So. Underneath it all, he was confused and frightened by all this shit too. I guess he just had a higher tolerance for inner chaos than I did. He let go of my dick, as if his holding it would get in the way of my understanding what he was saying.
"I really, REALLY like you, Slim. It's like I just GOTTA show you how much." He peered down at me, as if wondering whether to say any more. He bit his lower lip and averted my eyes. He looked out over the tops of the goldenrod that surrounded us. He practically whispered it, "Aw, fuck Jens, you know it's way more than that. You must feel it too, don't you?"
"Yeah," I croaked. I felt like screaming. I felt like crying. I felt like breaking into great peals of hysterical laughter. I just knew that if I didn't pull Barry down on top of me and hold him to me as tightly as I possibly could, that very minute, the whole universe would implode. So that's what I did.
We shuddered against each other without kissing, our erections stilled at half-mast even though they were touching, as if we'd momentarily gone somewhere beyond the simple adolescent need to get off. And only a moment it was too. With snowballing fervor, our balming embrace of mutual acknowledgement became one of unfettered teen lust. Our cheeks and necks became shiny with spit and we rolled about moaning, as the edges of the mat and the walls of goldenrod would permit.
There was no need to stifle the urge this time-- all my usual devilments were utterly absent. There was no Greek chorus in my head foreboding disaster, no itchy twinges of muscular tension near my tailbone. A completely new concept of "right" and "proper" came to me-- it was suddenly right and proper (and altogether necessary) to somehow express to Barry how much his stilted words had meant to me. I knew only too well what it cost him to say what he had. Taking his cock into my mouth seemed such an easy, fitting thing to do after his sharing something so priceless. It happened that he was beneath me when I made my decision. I raised myself up and knelt beside him. I peeled his Stanfields as far down as his position would allow. I looked him square in the eye and said, "Raise your bum up,"
Barry knew precisely what I meant to do. "You're sure, are you, Slim?" he asked. He said it like it was some requisite formality, not as if he actually doubted my certitude.
"Never been surer of anything in my life," I told him. But it was a lie. Oh, I was solidly behind the idea of blowing him alright, but I knew the actual doing of it was going to be another matter. There was his size to consider-- Barry had a knob on him the size of a table-tennis ball. Getting that into my mouth alone was going to pose a problem, not to mention trying to swallow any of his thick, veined shaft. I'm afraid the direct approach, the one I chose from among a very limited field of options, turned out to be the wrong one.
After I'd pulled his briefs completely off (!) and shed my own, I bent over his crotch and watched myself skin his pole from only a couple inches away. His most intimate scent was, as usual, that of a kid with a fairly relaxed attitude towards personal hygiene. He wasn't visibly smeggy or anything close to it, but his now-familiar pungency said he might have spent a little longer rinsing behind his flap that morning. Nevertheless, I skinned it back one last time and descended on it hungrily. To my amazement, I could get his entire salty, leaking cockhead in my mouth, but only just. And that only with some stretching of my jaw-- something just this side of actual dislocation. Unfortunately, I couldn't do it without baring my teeth. Barry winced and hissed when I scraped the sensitive tissue, yanking my hair with what was probably far more pull than he'd intended. We both said "ouch" at about the same instant. The overall effect, to someone watching us, would have been more one of a Three Stooges routine than that of hot, afternoon sixty-nine. We looked down the length of our torsos, caught each others' eye and cracked up laughing at our own incomptence.
"Sorry," Barry said finally. He shrugged and smiled me a modest half-smile, as though he somehow felt it necessary to apologize for his exceptional endowment. "I guess you could just kind of lick it some," he suggested timidly. If that's what he wanted, I'd have happlily licked it for the rest of the afternoon, for the rest of our lives.
His hand curled around my shaft. He tugged at it and grasped my flank. I took the hint. I rolled onto my side and presented him with a face-on view of my twitching bone. "Try this," he said, and fell into a series of long wet slides that began at the back of my nuts and terminated with a sucking pop at the very tip of my knob.
I copied his lapping as exactly as I could, mirroring every nuance I felt, or thought I felt. When he ran the tip of his tongue around the ridge of my glans, I did the same to him. When he pulled my foreskin over the tip of his tongue and swirled it around in the tight space between skin and cockhead, I replicated his ministrations as though I'd been doing it all my life. His increasing moans spurred me on to the point where I began taking my own inspired departures from his wet, tactile suggestions: I swallowed his balls one at a time while I wanked him, I mouthed along the bottom of his shaft while working his precum around his cockhead, then I thrummed my tongue all along the length of the thick, bluish vein that ran the length of him. Satisfied that I could proceed without further instruction, Barry went back to what he was attempting before things had gotten serious between us. Once again I felt the pressure of his lips encircle my shaft and the heat, the wondrous moist heat, as he slowly drew me into him an inch at a time. This time I resisted the strong urge to thrust and let him find his most comfortable rhythm. Unfortunately, not long after he settled into a nice, regular pace of sucking, I made the mistake of sneaking a look at him to see how he looked with my dick in his mouth. The earnest, resolute concavity of his cheeks and his brow, knit in concentration were marks of beauty I couldn't deal with-- the sight of him sucking me with such determination was sufficient to cause my dam to burst.
The first shot took Barry aback. He pulled off me as if to see for himself that I was, indeed, spunking. He couldn't seem to aim my cock and jack it at the same time. Jets that I'm sure were meant for his gaping mouth ended up landing in his hair and flyng over his shoulder into the foliage. Once again he impaled his mouth with my rod, so as not to miss any more.
At that moment his own cock swelled and started burbling in my hand. I pursed my lips and sucked at the twitching hole of his piss slit as though it were the end of a straw and his load were an extra-thick milkshake. I had to swallow a lot of it to make room for more; his gentle, but generous flow seemed as though it would never let up. When it finally did, I snuck another look at him. Barry's grinning, half-open mouth greeted my gaze. Two long strings of my cum hung off his canines as though the were vampire's fangs. His face still flushed, his abdomen still palpitating from his recent purging, Barry lapsed into repeating, over and over, his catch-all, post-orgasmic comment: "Fuck!" he said, several times.
"You can say that again," I told him.
"Fuck!" he said again. But he would have anyway.
We spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening on that mat in the goldenrod, leaving it only twice; once for a trip to the car for a couple of cans of soda and once to go for a swim in the pond. We'd done that in our underwear and when we returned to our beach mat afterwards we left them on to wrestle a bit, the damp fabric cooling us where it clung to our asses and our goods.
Our wrestling match soon escalated to another pair of blowjobs that we performed on each other one at a time, instead of sixty-nining again. The fact that I didn't have the "distracting" influence of Barry's lips on my bone while I ate him aided my concentration immeasurably. I managed to take not only his whole dickhead into my mouth for most of the duration, I was also able to cram in some inch or so of his shaft a few times. I knew that with a bit of practice, I'd get a lot better at giving him head. I happened to be taking a little breather to pull pubes from between my teeth when he stroked himself to orgasm, but none got wasted-- I lapped the resulting spurts off his chest and belly as they shot, before they even got a chance to cool.
I dumped my second load down Barry's throat standing, while he stared up at me from his knees. It's nigh unto impossible to smile at someone when there's a spurting dick in your mouth, but Barry did just that.
All too soon, dusk began to fall and we had to think about getting home.
Barry got us back to my place just before nine pm. and we sat parked in the turnaround between the our garage and the barn, saying a long, reluctant goodbye. After the all the things we'd admitted to each other that afternoon, after all the things we'd done, it seemed wrong, somehow, to have to part until the next morning, when Barry would be picking me up for school. I wished we could turn back the clock, even just for a day. Then, Barry and I could finish the night in my bed. I still had so many things to tell him, to ask him. Volkswagon bucket seats weren't designed with necking in mind, but we pressed our contorted bodies together as best we could-- three rigid stickshifts fought for the scant space between us.
"Oh shit!" Barry swore during one of our frequent breaks, "I was supposed to tell you my mom wanted a couple of bunnies."
"Easy as pie, if she'll settle for frozen," I told him. I sure didn't feel like butchering rabbits at that moment, but Mrs. Llewelyn was my best rabbit customer. In fact, other than the old Italian couple who ran the mini-golf place down the road from us, she was my only rabbit customer.
Barry pulled the car around to the barn's man-door and we went inside, into what had been the milkhouse years ago, when the previous owners still ran the place as a dairy farm. I unlocked the freezer and pulled out three pink, frost-covered carcasses wrapped in plastic bread bags. "Tell her I'm having a three-for-the-price-of-two sale today," I told him, chuckling. "Call it a back-to-school special."
"Gee, if that goes for blowjobs too, you still owe me one," Barry joked.
"The koostomer's alvays rrright," I said, borrowing my pop's accent. I dropped to my knees as if by reflex and pulled his meat out of the fly of his cut-offs one more time. I sucked at the tip of Barry's swelling knob, jacking myself off inside my pants while Barry stroked his own, bumping my chin with his knuckles more and more often as matters gradually drew closer to completion. We both came at roughly the same time-- me onto the cement floor between Barry's feet, and Barry, onto my face, the side of the freezer and almost everywhere else.
It never ceased to amaze me how opposite the nature of our loads were. My first volleys could often exceed five feet in distance if my mood was right and I'd been holding it back for a while, but any subsequent orgasms usually netted progressively weak and scanty wads. With Barry, it was as if the force of his ejaculation increased with each orgasm after his first, as his body were somehow offsetting the diminished volume of his ejaculate by greatly amplifying its trajectory. Barry licked the remains of his sperm off my face and we made ourselves presentable amid impulsive, mushy kisses and sighs of unwilling resignation at having to really, really say goodbye this time.
My hand on the doorknob to the patio door, I watched the tail-lights of his beetle dim as he took his foot off the brake and turned onto the highway for the five-minute drive to his place. My mom shouted a half-hearted hello from the kitchen along with a reminder not to forget to set my alarm clock. Pop could be heard in his music room, playing a bouncy Fats Waller tune on the piano. Typical bank-holiday evening, by the look and sound of things. They couldn't know how fundamentally different the entire world had become in the past few hours.
Nils' bedroom door was open, so I stuck my head in to see what he was up to. He sat at his desk with a brand new ring binder, marking the colored tabs that separated the uniform sections of virginal, lined sheets: Math, EngLit, Geog. He looked up when he saw me in the doorway. "Where'd you get to all day? Pop made me go to the deli with him to do the trash. That's supposed to be your job, Jens. Next time..." he started to say, but he stopped short. "Ugh! Pig! You better go fix your hair before mom or pop see you. It's obvious you've spent the day with 'Barry', or should I say 'Fairy'?" He accompanied the last word with a limp-wristed, flapping motion and an upturned hand on his opposite hip; his taunting and increasingly familiar pantomime of homosexuality.
I dismissed it with a, "Get bent, pencil-neck," and passed through his room to the bathroom. I was bursting at the seams to express to someone how utterly happy I was. He, as usual, just wanted to be an asshole. I was far too pumped to get into yet another row with him over the same tired issue. I loaded my toothbrush and began brushing my teeth. It wasn't until I was rinsing my mouth for the umpteenth time that I happened to peer into the mirror and noticed what it was Nils had been on about. A short white string of Barry's load still lay plastered to the side of my head, just above my ear. That shot-spot would certainly have been my undoing if I'd gone to have a word with either of my parents when I first came in, instead of Nils.
I picked the goo out of my hair and rubbed it between my fingertips absently as I stared out the open window, thinking back on our long afternoon together. I guessed it would be proper to call what we did with each other "love-making" now. That simple realization filled me with a warm glow that blotted out all traces of the profound relief I ought to have been feeling at not being found out. For the first time in months I fell asleep without feeling any need to wank myself there. For the first time in my life I could fall sleep without once wondering if I was the only one who felt like I did.
END
comments heartily encouraged, flames cheerfully ignored. janus@greynet.net