It's been almost 25 years, and I still wake up sometimes thinking about that afternoon during Super Bowl 1992 when we were on a couch and he denied he was stiff in his sweatpants and I rubbed my wrist across his bulge to declare, "No, you're stiff all right, and I just touched your dick after wanting to for seven aggravating months and I want more."
We were in a room with other boys and adults and I had disguised my graze by sliding in front of him (and across his upward-pointing bulge) a newspaper I was pretending he would find interesting. He looked directly into my eyes and tried to give me a "what the fuck do you think you're doing?" look, but he couldn't keep it up (he was keeping his dick up, though). He broke eye contact quickly and his face went from faux anger to "FUCK, that was hot!" There was almost a smile, too, that read "GOD, he finally touched it."
He'd probably been waiting for me to make the first move because he was too closeted to. He'd known I liked boys; the other boys had told him the rumors. Like how when I was 12 I slipped a sandwich baggy over a 14-year-old's dick and sucked it. I had to pretend to be disinterested, of course, so I got a baggy from the kitchen to not seem too eager to have an intimate experience. I didn't know he was going to tell other boys. After all, it was his idea to show me how he masturbated (by fucking a mattress) and what cum looked like (like mayonnaise, he said). What if I were to tell everybody that? At least word hadn't gotten out about how I had sucked my cousin's dick around that time too.
But Rod would hear other stories before that Sunday morning on the couch. See, we were at a "boys ranch" in the Pacific northwest, and everybody had roommates. On one of my first nights, I'd gotten caught masturbating on the lower bunk of a double-bunk bed after "lights out." I had to have been stupid to think the hunky 17-year-old above me (who looked like Michelangelo's David but with a bigger and cut dick) wouldn't notice the shaking. He probably felt like a ship in a storm with me working my cut seven-incher below deck. This was the third or fourth night in a row he'd noticed, too, so apparently he wanted to embarrass me into quitting so he could sleep in peace again. "Brian!" he yelled to our third roomate. "This dude's jackin' off!" Brian threw his covers off and went to the staff office to taddle, and by the next morning, 20 other boys knew that I was apparently too lazy to jack off in private. So of course Rod, my tall, tan, twinky, beautifully round-assed obsession, knew too. He was friends with my bunkmate -- I think because he liked his muscly build -- and one of the first to confront me, asking why I'd been jacking off. "Because," I told him, "it feels good at the end." It seems I was all too happy to give him ammunition, and he took it. Rod reflected those words back at me a dozen times over the months. "Because!" he'd say mockingly, in stacatto glee, as though he were a special-ed student. "It feels. Good. At the. End!"
So Rod knew why a newspaper had just slid across his lumpy pelvis. I had finally opened the door to touching. I had finally gone beyond the jokes -- like "Meet me in the bathroom at 10:05" ("lights out" was at 10). I had finally gone beyond secondary touching too, like secretly licking a spoon that he had used, or fishing the briefs out of his laundry bag and licking their salty crotch. I had made the first move.
While the other boys were watching the Washington Redskins and Buffalo Bills that Sunday -- what a gift of a diversion -- we moved to a conference table in a more private room. He kept denying he was stiff and I kept touching his bulge through his sweatpants to "prove" that he was. Then I touched under his sweatpants, then under his briefs.
"Does that feel good?" I whispered.
"Yeah," he whispered back.
And then, trying to take this where I really wanted it to go, I said, "You don't think I'll suck it?"
"No," he said.
And so I sucked it to prove him wrong.
The whole exercise, starting on the couch, had been about me proving him wrong; I was using it as a gimmick -- an effective one at that: Rod's precum-oozing rod was now in my mouth. We had retreated to an adjoining bedroom -- actually the closet in an adjoining bedroom -- in case somebody walked into that conference room. If somebody had, we'd just come out, maybe saying we had followed a mouse into there. (Which I had.)
After just enough bobs to his dick wet, he laughed and said, "I can't believe a 13-year-old is sucking my dick!" He had always kept up the straight facade, of course, but now he had betrayed himself. He had expressed surprise at my youth, not my gender. My youth might have bothered a 16-year-old, but in this case, he was a little over 6 feet and I was slightly taller. I didn't seem 13 and my dick (though not the head) was bigger than his.
After just another bob or two, he said, laughing, "Okay, you can stop now!" Surely he said that because he was a second away from starting to fuck my face, and that would have betrayed his feelings even further. But he was my obsession and I would've done whatever he said (stupid for a future top!) so I stood up. That big-headed upward-arched teenaged cock would fuck my mouth later. To my shock, after I stood up, Mr. Straight didn't waste any time unzipping my acid-wash Levi's and fishing my soon-to-be-14-year-old hard-on from my briefs and jacking it off. He felt it for a second before doing so -- mine hung downward and, unlike his, stayed downward when hard in my pants -- but the difference in delay between my first feel (months) and his first feel (minutes) was exponential. I don't think I lasted a minute before spraying the floor. He was good enough to keep working it as it sprayed, laughing the same laugh: The one he used to mask how he was enjoying what was happening. Later, we got over the awkwardness of our closets and pursued pleasure without the "gee, my dick is in another dude's mouth!" dialogue.
Sometimes, anyway. Even with a dose of his chowder coating my tongue, he never accepted any love of males and would urge me out of the room. We had sex a few times, and got interrupted trying to have it still other times. There were other times when he was just bitchy. We'd be in the only two in the shower some morning and he'd slowly get stiff, his dick going from short and straight-out to bending down and to the right, to bending across and to the right, and finally aiming straight out, big-headed, curved up and fully hard. And if I reached for it, he'd slap my hand away. You had to catch him in the mood, it would seem. And I did several times. Those times are the hottest memories of my life.
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This story is completely true, and names and locations weren't even changed.