There is a Sparta, Georgia. It is located where the story says it is, but that's where reality ends. This story is completely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental. The story also contains explicit sexual acts between males, both adult and adolescent. So be warned!
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Copyright 2013 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved.
IT STARTED IN A PARK
by Macout Mann
Chapter 1
Christian
Christian Ballard was fascinated with Georgia's allusions to classical antiquity. After all, if you change the Latin ending of Atlanta, the state capital, from first to third declension, you come up with Atlantis, the fabled Lost Continent. Change the ending of Augusta from first to second declension and you have the name of the first Roman Emperor. Athens, the home of Socratic learning, is now the home of the University of Georgia. Rome, Georgia, is so named because, like that town in Italy, it sits on seven hills. And Sparta, which in Georgia sits about eighty miles east and south of Atlanta, was originally the home of the Georgia Military Institute. Sparta in Greece being the most militant of the ancient city states.
GMI, as it was known, was founded to be a rival of the Citadel in South Carolina and VMI in Virginia as a place, other than West Point, where America's military leaders were incubated. The other two are still going strong. Following the Civil War, however, GMI declined. The same Georgia common sense that prevented Sherman from destroying Savannah and allowed Atlanta to rise from the ashes converted GMI in the 1880s into Sparta College for Men. Now it is the University of Sparta, a coeducational institution that rivals the best colleges in the country in academic achievement.
Now in 1980 Christian Ballard is to become an assistant professor at this fabled institution. He is a freshly minted PhD, twenty-seven years old, a gay bachelor tossed into the Bible Belt, not knowing a soul. And to make matters worse, he is an art historian.
Christian has never minded being alone, except that he has always coveted sexual fulfillment. Often. And even in high school, and throughout college at Washington University and grad school at Stanford he found that he easily could find satisfaction by cruising parks. He was confident Sparta would provide the same opportunities.
Sparta is a city of 110,000. The university is its major employer. Peanut culture is its other major economic impetus. Like most other American cities, the downtown is decaying, but it does have three major parks. One is favored by families for picnics, by Little Leaguers for games, and by joggers for workouts. One is in "the wrong part of town" and has a reputation for drugs and vice cops. The third is a beautiful area left to the city a by newspaper publisher "to be kept a pastoral landscape in perpetuity."
Cranston Park is mostly a wooded area with walking and biking trails. It does have tennis courts, a grassy area for soccer or other games, a children's playground, and at the edge of the woods a pavilion overlooking an open area with restrooms nearby. It was perfect for cruising.
Christian Ballard grew up in Cleveland. His father was a first-violinist in the Cleveland Orchestra. So early on he knew all the hiding places a kid could find in Severance Hall. His mother was a painter, well known for her portraits but world-famous for her seascapes of Lake Erie in the days before it was the garbage dump of the Great Lakes. She was an artist-activist.
From an early age Christian studied the fiddle with another member of the Cleveland Orchestra violin section. His dad thought it best that someone else be his teacher. Merritt Jensen, a boy not quite a year older, had lessons just before Christian did, and they became acquaintances, then friends. Their relationship began with Christian going to Merritt's place to practice together. As they reached puberty, there were mutual jack-off sessions, and then Merritt introduced Christian to the joys of sucking and fucking. Different kinds of duets than they played on their violins.
It started one afternoon when Merritt asked, "You ever tasted a cock?" Violins set aside, they were each jacking the other.
"Shit, no!" Christian responded. And then after Merritt didn't say anything, Christian added, "You're not saying you have, are you?"
"Sucking's no big thing," Merritt answered. "And getting head feels a hellova lot better than a hand job."
"That's sick!" Christian exclaimed. But he had an entirely different reaction when he felt Merritt's palm replaced by his lips. "Damn. You're not kidding." Christian moaned.
Merritt's technique wasn't perfect, but he did use his tongue to heighten the experience and he did slide rhythmically up and down Christian's tube, gradually increasing the pace, until Christian cried out, "Hey man, I'm goanna cum." And then, "I'm goanna shoot in your mouth, man!" And finally, "Goddamn..."
Christian's copious load filled Merritt's mouth, and as he swallowed, trickles flowed down his chin. He lapped up the overflow with his tongue.
"Goddamn...," Christian said again. "You fucking let me cum inside your mouth!"
"Sure I did," Merritt replied. "Cum tastes good, man. Let me show you."
"I don't know about that. I'm no fucking queer!"
"You think I am?" Merritt retorted. "Try it. If you don't like it, you don't ever have to do it again," he added.
Call it "intellectual curiosity." Christian just had to see what it was like. He sank to his knees.
Merritt took his friend's ears and guided Christian's lips to his own rigid tool. "Watch your teeth," he cautioned.
Merritt's fourteen-year-old hard-on filled Christian's orifice, almost making him gag. But the only taste he experienced was the not unpleasant flavor of pre-cum. And the sensation of having a dick in his mouth was strangely thrilling. He slowly began to move his head back and forth, burying his nose in Merritt's stubby pubes. "Yeah, man," Merritt whispered, "suck that thing. Suck it good."
Soon Merritt was fucking Christian's face, increasing the tempo until in a frenzied thrust he finally dumped his essence down his friend's throat. "Yes...," he yelled, "taste my jizz."
Both boys became hooked.
Merritt had gotten started with an older cousin. He had learned well. He waited after his initial encounter with Christian, however, until Christian broached the subject of again going further than mutual masturbation. It was about ten days later. "How about sucking my dick again?" Christian ventured.
"If you'll suck me too," Merritt quickly responded.
They met twice weekly to play duets together, and twice weekly they drank each other's cum. In time Christian was no longer concerned about his sexual orientation. He accepted the fact that he was totally gay.
By the time he was sixteen, he also accepted the fact that he would never become a competent violinist. Merritt's technique was twice as good as his, and although he enjoyed playing, he had lost his zest for practice and discontinued his lessons. And he was glad that that was all right with his father. His dad also realized that Christian could never become a professional. His other relationships with Merritt, however, continued until they finished high school.
During high school, he also realized that he craved sex more often and more urgently than Merritt could provide. He couldn't afford to be exposed as a queer to his schoolmates; so he found his way to a neighborhood park, not really knowing what to expect, but having heard that "stuff happens there."
The first few visits to the men's room were uneventful. He contented himself by jacking off and reading the graffiti, which seemed to indicate that something had to be going on. Then one afternoon he saw a car parked outside and found the single stall inside occupied. He took his place at the urinal and waited. He could see that the man sitting in the stall was wearing khaki pants and black loafers, and he heard his companion tap his foot three times. He watched as the taps were repeated, but he didn't know what that meant or how to react. Then he saw a hand extend beneath the partition with wiggling fingers. He continued to stand with dick in hand as though he were pissing, but his companion could tell there was no sound of urine flowing into the basin, and Christian's tool was definitely responding to what was happening, even if his mind wasn't..
Finally, the man stood up and stuck his head out the stall door. He was in his thirties, dark haired, sort of Mediterranean looking. "Come on, kid," he said. "You want a blow job? Get your ass over here." Then he sat down again.
Without a word Christian crossed over and entered the stall, his hard dick still in his hand. The man was sitting on the stool with his pants down, but his hard-on said very clearly that taking a shit was the last thing on his mind. He quickly undid Christian's jeans, revealing his whole package, and he fondled the boy's balls and kissed the tip of his dick. "Nice," he said.
Christian had never been so excited. He was near panic for fear another person would come in, but the experience of being in public with a person he'd never seen before was about to bring him to an immediate orgasm. The man took Christian into his mouth without another word. Christian's excitement only heightened as he realized that, unlike when he was with Merritt, he couldn't predict what the man's expert lips and tongue were going to do next. He exploded into the guy's throat, wishing that he could hold out, but there was no way. It was body over mind.
The man stood, pulled up his pants, said his thanks, and left. Christian was just coming off his high, when he heard the man's car speed away.
That experience was the first of many. Sometimes Christian and another guy would do it standing together at the urinal. Sometimes, they'd suck or even fuck in the stall. Some of his partners were near his own age, some in their sixties. More than once they would be interrupted by the arrival of a third person. Sometimes that led to a three-way. Occasionally he would encounter someone he had been with before. But mostly his experiences were totally anonymous, never-to-be-repeated adventures. And he never lost the excitement that he felt that first time with the hot Mediterranean guy.
Christian was also attracted to art, but unlike his mother, he was not a good painter either. She suggested that art history might be a field that would appeal to him, and after reading several books, he agreed. The fall following his graduation from high school, he headed for St. Louis and Washington University, which had a very respectable art history program.
The drive from Cleveland to St. Louis took over nine hours without stops, so it was decided that he'd lay over in Indianapolis, which was close to halfway there. He didn't leave home until after lunch, and the sun was already setting, when he pulled into an I70 rest area. He wasn't all that far from his motel, but he just had to take a piss. It was there that he discovered that roadside parks also offered opportunities to satisfy his sexual needs. He encountered a horny truck driver.
The driver was in his late forties. He was standing a bit further from the bowl than most guys would have, but appeared to be concentrating on his business. He had massive shoulders and at one time he had had a trim waist, but twenty years of drinking beer and sitting behind the wheel of an eighteen-wheeler had given him a plump belly. Christian went to a urinal a couple of places down and unleashed a stream of hot piss like only an eighteen-year-old can manage. When he looked up at the truck driver, he was surprised to see that the other man had turned to face him, and was sporting eight or nine inches of hard meat. As soon as Christian finished pissing, he also turned to face the driver.
"Come out to my rig, kid," the driver said. "We won't be bothered out there."
Christian followed the trucker, climbed into the cab, and was shoved over into the sleeper. An hour later, after both men were satisfied, Christian resumed his trek.
Once settled at WashU, Christian discovered that across Skinker Boulevard from the campus was St. Louis' famous Forest Park. No forest anymore, but a huge space containing theatres, museums, so many attractions. And unlimited opportunities for hook-ups. Go jogging, and you never knew.
After graduating with a near 4.0, Christian's mother encouraged him to go for a higher degree, and at the Leland Stanford, Jr. Farm, he excelled academically and sexually. If a gay can't get laid in Northern California, he might as well give up.
As is the case at most American universities, Christian's doctoral program stretched from three years to five. Cheap teaching assistants are needed, and the approval of dissertations can be delayed indefinitely.
Now, however, he was at Sparta. On tenure track. Standing in the Cranston Park Pavilion late in the afternoon, he wondered what was to come next. Passersby would notice a tall blond with regular features, piercing blue eyes and a t-shape with a thirty-inch gut that promised six-pack abs. When hard he was also nine inches long and over five around.
Christian had never been athletically inclined as a child, but when he got to college and was faced with two years of mandatory gym classes, he discovered swimming and fell in love with it. He still swam every day when he could, and had the body to show for it.