BOY ON A BIKE
A True Story
If you know "Golden Girls," then you know "Sofia Petrillo." She's the grandmotherly type from Old Italy. She always begins her stories with: "Picture it. Palermo. 1930 A beautiful young girl-me-is walking down the Boardwalk by the beach. Rossellini-he married Ingrid Bergman later, ya know-comes up to me, asks me if I want to share a glass o' wine with `im. So I says." Etcetera.
The trouble with Sofia Petrillo's stories is you never know whethert they're true. Rest assured that any of mine posted here on Nifty are pure reality, not fictitious. I"d like to explain why. I'm not against fiction. Tolstoy, Margaret Mitchell. "War and Peace" and "Gone with the Wind," fine historical novels. They read better than the raw history in history books. They contain truths, although made up by the writers, that have been distilled from real life. It's something like arranging artificial flowers. What they look like, their colors and shapes, the way they're put together makes all the difference. From a distance or up close, they are still flowers--even if made of colored paper.
A little philosophy here: I have to tell you I prefer nonfiction when it comes to reading-and writing. Like a steak cooked rare-no trimmings, no "flaming" this or that, no fancy white sauce. Just a thick, tender piece of meat (pardon the parallel) right from the grill. You can't beat that in my book. My stories may not be as tasty as that but at least they are 100% authentic. As a history major in college, that's important to me-truth--and maybe to you, too, if you like it straight from the shoulder, with all the unevenness, imperfections left in. So, that's life. Life is not perfect and symmetrical but is kind of lopsided and imperfect, right? Isn't that what makes it beautiful, really? Remember, as the poet Milton tells it, Satan couldn't stand heaven. It was too nicey-pooh! Anyway, Santayana, the poet, once said, "Life is not a party. It's a predicament."
Well, into my story.
Several summers in a row on Nantucket Island I rented a tiny house nestled in a pine grove. Way out of the way, almost totally isolated. You reached it by turning off one of the main drags outside Town, going down a winding sandy road (Nantucket is a huge sandbar 35 mi. out to sea off Cape Cod), and after turning this way and that, as though snaking around pine trees, you came to my cozy, little cottage. The smell of pine was intoxicating. I think every night I came home to the cottage after a night out-playing bridge, supper-partying, or just convivializing with friends--I got into a horny mood, "alone or with somebody." Way in the back of my mind I associate pines with a free, outdoor life of camping, canoeing, fishing, and making abandoned love with a partner.
This particular night, a weekday, saw the Moon absolutely full, low in the eastern sky looking lick a Jack o' :Lantern.. I had had dinner out with a couple of friends. They were involved in bridge later that evening with two other people, lady fvriends. So, when dinner was over, I was on my own.
Rather than go right home, I went to one of the local bars, famous as a drop-in place for "boat people," day- trippers, as well as landlubber, or non-boat-people regulars. A word about boat people. They have to be the most BORING individuals on earth. Yet if you're by yourself and planning only to down one or two drinks-in my case, just a post-dinner Sweet Vermouth (yuck!) on the rocks-it can be amusing merely listening to their inane, mindless chatter. Or there ,may be some cool-looking crewman off on his own from someone's "yachet" (i.e., yacht), drinking away the evening just to get away from the owners of the boat, or from his parents or whomever. Sometimes there'd be an older man by himself who has left apparently his wife back on the mainland and is here for a romp with his sons, or is alone. Such a guy may cruise you or engage in some chit-chat. An invite to go to his boat may be in the offoing (I always turned those down-exceopt once when it was a son of one such boat person).
But after while, such talk runs out its string. At that point you say, "Good night" to whoever is talking wht you at the moment, climb into your car, and look forward to a nice vacation snooze in youre nice, comfortable bed by an open window.
Well, so I started up the road toward my turn-off. But lo and behold, :I see a guy in my heasdlights riding a bike just in front of me as I drive slowly on. It's close to midnight. I wonder why so late he is out just riding around (for it was obvious the way he was idly pedaling that he was simply "touring," not going anywhere in particular. No one else was on the road (my turn-off is some distance from Town).
So, I slowed down and put him in my headlights, then dimmed my headlights to parking lights, and simply pulled over onto the shoulder and stopped. He stopped in front of me. I leaned out the driver's side window and said, "Hi! Want to race?"
When I said that I wasn't exactlyh flying blind. I got a pretty good look at him From behind in my lights. He was wearing a white dress shirt, long, unbuttoned sleeves that were fluttering the breeze as he rode. His broad shoulders, medium-trim build. But when he came over to my car after leaning his bike against a wooden telephone pole, I got a really close look at him.
"My God," I almost said out loud, "what a beautiful boy!"
Dirty-blond hair, sort of uncut and wind-tossed, sunken cheeks, blue eyes, beautiful smile, tanned arms speckled with blond hairs, shapely hands as he reached sort of up high to the car window in order to reach my outstretched hand over the window sill for a handshake.
"Just out.riding around," he said kind of abstractly while also catsing furtive glances at me. Then for some reason he put his head right into the window and looked down at my feet and inside my car. Then straightened up again.
A thought entered my mind-which, as things turned out, I'm real glad it did.
"My place is just up the road. Want to follow me there for a little nightcap?"
"COOL!" he exclaims in a way that made me think that was just what he wanted to do, like he had had it on his mind just as I stopped to meet him ad we look at each oither.
So up the hill we go-I see him in my rearview mirror, pedaling hard, his bare legs pumping like pistons, his head down to hold down wind resistance while looking up at my car just ahead as he tailed along.
I turn in on the winding sandy road. There he is right behind me, bouncimng along, sometimes on the little grasasy island in the middle of the sandy road, sometimes along the roadside. He's so close behind my bumper that the red glow from my taillights--as I negotiate the various bends in the little, curvy road-- light up his bike, face, and body with his legs-in-motion.
Whew! Great! I say to myself, he didn't change his mind or anything but is right on my tail!
We reach the cottage and I get out of the car. He puts his bike by the side of the house as though it's going to be "parked" there for some time. Which it was. All night, in fact!
In the moonlight he looks so stunning, it actually takes my breath away. He is looking me up and down since I am now standing in full view next to him. He praises the house. "Wow, this is a nice place. And so SECLUDED!"
"Yeah," I say, as I open the wooden door and we go inside.
He immediately takes off his sneakers leaving his well- shaped, white-soxed feet treading around my houise, pettuing my cat, as he looks over the "digs." I don't have a foot- fetish, I don't think, anyway, but I was even attracted to his "tootsies." They looked sort of weathered and "experienced" even throiugh his sox. Because his feet had sweat somne pedalking so that the contoujs of his toes, ankles, heels, and arches of his instep all showed up as though carved in stone. It wqas, inb other words, just one more sexy thing about him besides his curvy thighs and subtly curved lowert legs. (Why is it women's legs can never look that way? Sorry, gals!)
We sat down on the so-called "love seat," which could hold three people more or less close together. In the dim light of the cottage he looked so stunning that it was all I could do but remember to get up and serve us some drinks. Scotch on the rocks-that summer my favorite-hit with soda squirted out of a pressurixzed soda bottle that was always left behind by the previous lessees (made in Czechoslovakia, it said, remember). When you depressedd the handle, the soda came gushing out with a "pshissssh!" making bubbles in the Scotch. This rather fascinated my guest.
Whose name turned out to be Chip, as we introduced ourselves.
Our talking together-warmly, or excitedly, or sometimes punctuated winks and with laughs, moving on and on without any beginning, middle or end-- wandering all over the place. Why is it, when you meet an attractive person that the talk comes so easily, when the attraction is mutual? When what he has to say is so damned interesting? I guess if you wrote it all out, it woulkdn't have made particulartly good reading: about canoe and camping trips and incidents; extraordinary feats at fishing; a small- airplane trip with a scary twist to it. All totally "non- erotic" fare, to be sure. And while "leading nowhere," did bring us together -- two young males, well he younger than I by some 10 years, with similar outdoor interests and pleasures.
As I rose to pour another highball, I wondered to myself how in the world we-if he wanted to, that is-would shift things into bodily warmth since the spiritual warmth from the conversation was certainly at a peak. The laughing, touching each other to make a point, the unloosening effect of the Scotch, and so on. So when I returned with our second drink, I sat "noticeably" closer to him, doing a kind of drop-sitting action, like an exclamation point, as I lowered onto the sofa and looked at him.
At that point-and I've never forgotten and will never forget, I think, the tone of the words as he spoke them at that moment-Chip turning to me with intense look in his face and with a bit of breathlessness:
"Al, I think something's gonna happen. I want you to know, "clasping my thigh on top,"that if it does, it's OK with me."
These "loaded" words, like a big morsel of delicious food, took some time to chew, or sink in as I "digested" them trying to fathom their ultimate meaning. Well, it didn't take me long.
Without saying a word, either of us, I put my right hand on his left upper arm near his hard, deltoid muscle that I felt over his shirt, and just grasped him there, squeezing and holding onto his arm. He then simply let himself fall forward, his head landing on my chest. I enveloped him in my arms and me in his arms. We sat their holding onto each oither so neither of us would "fly away."
I've been around, there have been in a lot of hugs with boys and guys in my life since I was 14. But this for sure was the hottest embrace I ever remember.
"Oh, Al, yes, yes..yes," he wouyld mutter intermittenly between kisses and licking and kissing around our necks and the backs of our necks. At one point Chip even took one of my hands and gently kissed it, inside and on top.
This really innocent, freewheeling smooching and romantic togetherness continued for 15 to 20 minutes, at least. We both weanted it to go on and on and never stop.
Then came the inevitable-exploring the rest of our anatomy. Peeling off of clothes. The way we silently undressed each other, not only on the love seat but while standing. Then while walking slowly dropping clothes along the way en route to the little bedroom with the wide and narrow beds in it. What we both felt as we got naked were taut muscles, quivering flesh (both of us werte shivering with excitement), heaving, "high" chests.Our hands went everywhere. A quick fondle of our totally-erected cocks follosed by rubbing of bellies and abs, up to our pecs and nipples, brushing their erected tips with our excited fingers. Then more wild, ecstatic kissing. Grasping and squeezing of ass cheeks as we walked. We'd stop along the way for more feeling and kssing while somehow, clothes dropping on the floor, still moving on toward the beds.
By the time we got to the bedroom we were standing bare-ass naked. I lit two candles. We stood back slightly from each oither looking each oither over head to tgoe fully in the buff. Then we got into a mad embrace with wild, slobbering kissing. We crashed onto the bed. It was the sort of unruly love-making that can suddenly turn into massive, joint cumming if it is not controlled!! But we botjh wanted to control it because we had plans, not very definite ones to be sure, as to how this would continue once we were in bed together thoroughly into it. Whatever it was going to be...
Now, is it possible to be so carried away with someone that your erection sort of diminishes, even if only a little, in the magic and wonderment of it all? Well, that's what happened to me--but only momentarily. It happened when Chip, now on his back on the wider bed waiting for me to hop on him, said, "Al, please. Do whatever want to!"
Well, I was quite sure what I "" and that was, frankly, to fuck him-from the front. I like it that way. His legs up on my shoulders, or as it tuirned out, around my waist, his whole body facing me and mine him. That way we kiss, look at each oither, feel each other--as we screw.
Obviously, he had never done this before (though he had told me earlier he had had sex with his g.f., who, by the way as he told me, was due on the Island in a couple of days) or had it done to him. I had to do some teaching. At first, I had one helluva a time geyting into him, giving him "instructions" about relaxing, and so on. I'm a little above average in size, cut, quite thick, somewhere between 71/2 and 8". So, penetrating someone who is not totally loosened up becomes a problem. This became an inhibiting factor with my erection as well. I was cursing at myself for not being at total hardness for this really exceptional event-for both of us.
After getting my penis head a little into him, I pulled out and let him massage my dick. Which he did with such zeal that my cock soon was up to its normal , rod-like erection.
All this time I am feelings that beautiful late-teen- boy's body of his, licking and sucking on his pointy "nips," he exploring my high chest at the same time.
Then I insert my head into his by-now more relaxed hole.
Ensues some of the best fucking imaginable.
Part 2
Why is it that an inexperienced person soon "catches on" so fast! Why is it that the RHYTHM of the screwing soon becomes like one person, lalmost like fucking oneself because the two partners are so completely in synch with each other! I have screwed women occasionally but I've never had that in-synch rhythm going as I have sometimes with males. (It reminds me, actually of playing drums in a small rock band, which I also did and do, when all the musicians are in perfect synch making music and rhythm smoothly together. It's a rare and sublime feeling!) It's like the easygoing conversation between males, whether friends, acquaintances or newly-met strangers: The talking is always more intimate and freewheeling, and amusing, than it is with women. Or so it is with me, but then our family was mostly male in cmposition and also male-dominant-on both sides, and going way back.
As I fucked Chip facing him, I jerked his cock in a rhythm that jived perfectly with our rhythmic fucking. This drove the boy absolutely wild. What with my cock thrusting slowly, sometimes fast in and out, sometimes all the way out then back in again; in and out, in and out, massaging his prostate when I was all the way up in my thrusting-because I was completely UP INTO him, to the very end, like the end of a railroad track siding where there is a stop and you can't go any further!
I"ll tell you, it was so wild and divine I actually pinched myself once to make sure I wasn;t dreaming. Since I never drink much when I drink (I have been drunk only once in my life-when I got my wings in the USAF and the guys werte tjhrowing tjhem down like water-short stint in the USAF), I knew I was sober. So this WAS really happening. With this magical person. On this "transfigured" Moon-lit night!
When the sex was over after tg\wo go arounds, I lay next to him in the big bedc. The smells of sex, the sweat, the smell of Vaseline, his saliva still on my body, our arms around each oithger as we lay on our backs-well, I knes I woyldsn;t get miuch sleep. Plus he was staying with his grandma. So I thought it best all `round-maybe he'd want to get up and ride back to his grandma's house since it might worry her that he was out so long--if I retreated into the smaller bed. Which I did. And immediately fell sound asleep.
The next thing I know I hear the morning birds twittering away, dawn is breaking. I also hear loud pissing in the little bathroom adjoining the bedroom. It's Chip, up and doing his morning thing.
Now here's the odd thing in terms of my own behavior. "Know thyself," right? An unending process, I"ve found. I just lay there, don't ask me why, like I was tortally asleep. I'm not sure exactly what was running thogh my mind. Maybe I felt he should make up his mind what he wanted to do. If he chose to stay till I got up, fine, then I'd make a super breakfast for him (I love cooking breakfast for people I like and, not to be immodest, make a very good one-eggs any special way you want them, sagey sausage, etc.).
So I just lay there, occasionally opening my eyes a crack, just enough to observe the little drops of dew on the screen and the somewhat heavy fog outdoors. I didn't look in his direction. Then I hear him trodding across the wooden floor, the house shaking slightly with his footsteps and nimble gait. I wonder what to do. Lie thertew, get up, or what. Before I can make up my @#^&$@ mind, he has gently unlatched the wooden latch bar and is opening the the two little slatted doors atop each other.
He's leaving!
Then I hear the front fender of his bike rattling as he pedals out and down the sandy road toward the main road.
He has left! And I have no phone number for him, nor he mine. He's with his grandmother but I don't know where or what her name is.
At first I feel exhilirated about our "transfigured night." I know I will see him somehow again. Then showering and getting my new-day's act together, I realize that I may never see him again. Ever.
I start feeling both warm and sexy as well as melancholic. Which may not make sense but that's the way it was.
I dry off and start to get dressed as the Sun tries to see its way through the fog.
Then I feel totally sexy and horny! A narrow, full length mirror is in the bedroom. I look into it, just in my briefs, my body looking quite good, and I remember how at one point Chip and I both looked in that same mirror togethewr just before we piled into bed together.
My cock sloewlyh harden as I stand there surveying my own image. My face flushges with excitement, my body tingles inb the ocol morning air. I still hear ringing in my ears thay rattling bike fender. I can't resist the urge any longer.
So, I lie down on my back on the wide bed where we had made love and where he had spent the night. I sit up first, looking through the bed, inspecting and smelling the sheets and the pillow. I peel off my already tight briefs as my cock just pops up once they were off. I reach over to the window ledge where the Vaseline and the Baby Oil are sitting.
You know what I did then, I'm sure! I just wish I could have photographed my graphic thoughts as I fantasized running over every moment of Chip's night with me-from that very first meeting on the road to the conversation to the journey into the bedroom and into the hottest-ever sex.
That J/O session, I'll tell you, was real special. A "third cum" can be quite titillating!
What was not so good was the fact that-yep-I never saw him again. Not that I didn't keep my eyes open, evben driving off the main road sometimes hoping I'd run into him or even see his old bike leaning up against one of those old New England houses on the Island.
But sadly, I never did. That doesn't stop my memories from popping into my head at any given time.
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