Disclaimer: Dear reader, this first chapter sets the stage for an intense sexual relationship between two consenting fifteen-year-old gay boys. It is loosely autobiographical. If you object to same-sex relationships or if you are too young to read this legally, please abandon this story now without reading it. I have no desire to offend anyone or to influence the sexual attitudes of under aged boys. Your comments are welcome at stoicactor@hotmail.com. Thank you.
The Invitation, Chapter 1.
The time was the Fifties, 1956, to be precise. And the setting was the American South, bastion of the prudish. Gay meant merely happy or cheery. Homosexuality was a word that most ordinary folks said in a whisper. Even in a large high school like the one I attended, there was to my knowledge only one openly homosexual boy. I don't think he ever came out and said it. More likely, he just didn't waste time denying it. Why try? He was a plump, dramatic, effeminate fellow who must have been terribly lonely. The tough guys, the hoods, called him Queenie. I don't know what became of him.
My secret sexuality somehow escaped notice. When I finally walked across the dais to pick up my diploma, I suppose that if the crowd assumed anything, they assumed that I was a "normal" boy destined to choose a bride one day and raise a family. But there was a tall, slender young man a few steps ahead of me who knew the truth about the shy, bookish kid who stumbled and nearly tumbled off the platform as I accepted my diploma from the principal.
I watched the boy walk briskly away and imagined how his most intimate parts were moving under the blue gown and the required black pleated pants and white, button-down dress shirt. And I thought of how he had looked the first time I saw him standing in a doorway in his white briefs three years before. On that earlier day, I stepped into another dimension of life, another world, forbidden and irresistible. Together Oliver and I opened a door we could never close.
Even now, more than half a century later, I can still awaken old sensations from that Saturday morning--the pungent smell of his mother's house deodorizer, no doubt mercifully vanished from the market long ago, and the lotion, her lotion, we used in our encounters, the sight of his room with dingy pull-down shades and very old lace curtains, and the sound of his bed the first time he stretched out on it in his underwear, leaving so little to my fevered imagination, the sparks from his fingertips skimming over my sac. The outside world, unwilling even to think of boys like us, was utterly excluded from our lonely rendezvous. Two lamps with brown shades combined with the window treatments to cast the entire scene in sepia tone. Sometimes I wish that I could travel back in time to that first day, knowing what I know now, and be a 15-year-old again.
Oliver never told me why he had thought to invite me to his home. It was only years later, in reflection on those halcyon days, that I began to wonder. The question came too late. Oliver was lost to contact. My guess is that he had noticed me stealing longing glances at his crotch. I was an incurable aficionado of the bulges of other boys, a habit that began so early in my life that I cannot recall its origin. I loved to see boys naked. As puberty began to strike around me, I became obsessed with how other boys were faring with this wondrous blessing. I studied their bulges for signs of growth of penises and testicles and scrotums. And I was totally captivated by the sprouting of pubic hair. I studied boys' faces to see if the peach fuzz over their lips was darkening and tried to peek at their armpits to look for hair. I wondered if they masturbated and how often they did it. And I would look at a particularly appealing guy and wonder if he had done it the night before and how he would look sprawled on a bed, penis in hand, bringing himself to a glorious orgasm. Alone, I would examine my own genitals, daily discerning the slightest signs of growth and trying to note the appearance of each new black hair over my still small penis.
Then came the day when I reclined in a warm tub of water, echoes of a conversation about masturbation I had overheard between two classmates reverberating in my hormone-soaked brain, and became the most aroused I had ever been. My sparse little row of hair had thickened and even had some curl and the characteristic coarse feel to it. I poured some old Richard Hudnut Egg Shampoo on and slathered it all over the area, finally focusing on my penis. Guided by increasing pleasure, I knew I was on the right track. Electricity surged through my mid-section and almost without warning, a watery, pale white liquid squirted onto my belly. I had done it. I had jacked off. Since I was alone for the entire evening until nearly midnight, I kept returning to the bathtub and pouring on the egg shampoo. I came five times before I felt exhausted and went to bed. Life was never the same again.
By the time I got to know Oliver, I was an accomplished masturbator. And when I masturbated, I had vivid, though ill-informed, fantasies of the most beautiful boys I could imagine. It was in the day before easily obtainable pornography in print. And the Internet was years away.
The fateful invitation came one fall afternoon as we were leaving school. As I walked to catch a city bus to go home, I saw Oliver standing on the lawn obviously looking at me.
"Hey, Winston," he said, motioning for me to join him.
"Hey, Oliver," I said as I approached him.
I glanced at his bulge, which was as inviting as always.
"Whatcha doing in the morning?"
"Sleeping late, probably. Why?"
We had never really had even this much conversation. I was puzzled. What could he want with me?
"Why don't you come over to my house? You know where I live, don't you?" As he spoke, he looked me over. I thought his gaze lingered briefly just below my belt.
"Yeah, I know where it is. You really want me to come over?"
"Well, yes, that's why I invited you, silly. So will you come?"
My dirty little mind played with that last question briefly, but I didn't make anything of it to Oliver.
"Sure! Sounds great. See ya tomorrow!"
I had no idea how much of him I would be seeing.
Chapter 2 is in the works: "Winston acts on Oliver's invitation."
This is my first submission here, and I welcome any feedback. Thanks for reading. stoicactor@hotmail.com