My Best Summer

Our extended family was pretty large. We had big cookouts together on holidays, as well as parties for everybody’s birthdays. In the summertime these events usually happened at Aunt Sue and Uncle Joe’s place because they had a big house and a swimming pool.

When it was time to swim, guys changed in the upstairs bathroom, girls downstairs. It was very informal for the guys. Grown men changed one at a time but boys would change together, maybe three or four guys of various ages in the bathroom at once, all talking and carrying on and thinking nothing of “letting it all hang out” in front of each other.

I had been part of this family locker-room mentality forever, beginning with my father peeling off my street clothes in front of other little boys and pulling a bathing suit over my butt when I was barely a toddler. Then I got big enough to proudly join the other boys without any help. My cousins and I had been naked in front of each other all our lives.

The summer that I was 12 I shared the bathroom one day with Curt, slightly older than me, a tallish, skinny, dark-haired dude. Just the two of us were changing together. As Curt pulled down his boxers, his tan line became visible. And then his peter came into view, highlighted against the stark whiteness of untanned crotch skin. Remember, I had been seeing all the cousins’ peters for years. I didn’t stare at them, you understand, yet I was aware of how everybody’s dick looked. So I was well acquainted with Curt’s crotch.

Curt’s bare penis swung around as he wrestled with his jock strap. But there was something different. What I saw this year stunned me. I was absolutely amazed to see that Curt had hair! It had happened since last summer. There was a small snarl of black wispy stuff right above his dick. And his dick itself looked longer and thicker than it used to.

Seeing what had happened to Curt astonished me. I could not keep my eyes off the swinging penis, the little bush of curly hair, the black patches in his armpits.

I think Curt knew what was going on in my head. He stepped to the commode and pissed, aiming a forceful stream into the bowl. “Ah, the pause that refreshes!” he said as he shook the final drops off his penis. He turned my direction and stood facing me a little longer than necessary, watching me as I tried not to stare. Then he finished changing.

You could say that I made an ass out of myself the rest of the summer. I made sure that I changed with Curt every time we went to Aunt Sue’s and Uncle Joe’s. When we were in the pool all I could think about was the black hair that I personally knew was hidden above his dick. Whenever Curt decided to get out and dry off, I was right behind him, trailing him to the bathroom. When he stood completely naked in the bathroom I was there beside him. He could not take a step without me following. If Curt noticed my constant attention, he apparently didn’t mind.

Meanwhile, I was at the stage in my own development where my dick was aggravating me. It would get hard at inconvenient times and places, like in church or sitting at the table for a meal. I would enter restrooms when I didn’t need to “go,” just so I could pop my little erection out of my pants, wiggle it around and wish it would get soft. I went to sleep at night with one hand stuck into my briefs, holding onto my stiff peter.

Late that summer Curt made his move. I’d been looking at him all this time but was unaware that apparently he’d been looking at me also. The two of us were in the bathroom, drying off. Suddenly he pointed to my dick and told me, “Your dingle is poking out.”

 My which? It’s doing what? Suddenly I realized that my peter was rising, becoming harder every second and elevating from its resting position. I was already halfway stiff, right in front of Curt.

Curt touched his own dick while looking straight at mine. I tried to shield my crotch, holding both hands in front of my boner.

“Don’t hide it,” Curt said. “Hell, I get hard too. Everybody does.”

There was kind of an awkward silence while we looked at each other. Then Curt told me, “It’s just getting hard because your stuff is cold after swimming. Here. I’ll warm everything up for you.”

He extended one hand toward me, sort of offering his fingers. In a second his warm hand was wrapped around my ball sack. “That’s better, huh?” Curt asked me. He gave my balls a few gentle squeezes and tickled them for a second. His fingers moved upward to touch my stiff little prod for an instant.

“Was that okay?” he asked.

Okay? It was awesome. My dick became mega erect. My balls tingled from the touch of his hand. And to top it off, Curt was now jiggling his own stiffening equipment, wiggling himself right in front of me.

“That’s a nice hard dingle you’ve got there,” he told me. “Real nice.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, wondering if I might be lucky enough that he would touch me again.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he continued after a pause, “but your thingy started it. Want to feel mine to make us even?”

His dick had risen dramatically. It was seriously hard, completely inflexible, extending out from his body, beyond horizontal and halfway toward vertical. I gave it a few nervous touches, awesomely honored at what he was letting me do.

“Okay,” he announced. “Enough of that. We don’t want to clean up a mess.”

Mess? I had no idea how we had gotten from the subject of hard peters to the subject of making a mess.

In the weeks that followed I had something new to occupy my thoughts whenever my dick got hard. Every time I had a hard-on I remembered Curt tickling my balls and stiffie. At night I fantasized that he was touching me ever so lightly while I tried to go to sleep. My scrotum tingled and my erection pulsed.

Finally it was time for another pool party. I had been looking forward to this day forever. It seemed to me that things were reversed and Curt was sort of following me this time. He was the one who made sure we changed together. Before I ever unsnapped my pants I knew I was already hard. Was Curt? I hoped so.

“How’s your little pecker?” he asked.

“Good,” I answered. “How’s yours?”

“Stiff as a board. Here, feel it.” He stepped a little closer and slid his boxers down.

For several minutes we stood together silently while we felt and touched and caressed each other’s erections. My peter was so stiff I thought it would burst.

There were voices outside the door. “We better get out of here,” Curt whispered. “I think people are waiting. Let’s do this again after we swim.”

So we hauled our bathing trunks on, grabbed our towels, and headed for the pool. How long did we swim with the rest of the crowd? An hour? Maybe two? I have no idea. All I could think about was what Curt and I were going to do afterwards.

I’ve had years to think about all of this and I realize Curt already knew how to jack off, a skill I had not yet learned. But he didn’t lead us into a pump session. We just stood together in the bathroom, hip-to-hip, fondling our boy organs and tickling everything we could reach. It was my first experience with sexual intimacy and I was in heaven.

That was Labor Day, the end of summer parties. I was in seventh grade that term, taking a year of PE, besides other classes, and secretly peeking at all the bare bodies on display in the locker room. Some of the guys had pubes, and I mentally compared them to Curt’s little fringe, illogically hating boys who had more hair than Curt. He and I saw each other at occasional Fall and Winter gatherings and managed to use the bathroom together at one of them. But we didn’t actually do anything. Since it wasn’t a swim party, we didn’t have any justification for stripping bare in each other’s presence.

Early in April I was lying in bed and trying to go to sleep one night. The fantasy of Curt touching my body overwhelmed me. I was 13 now, intensely hard at school, constantly feeling of myself at night. My squeezes and wiggles that night turned to strokes as I lay on my back and messed with my dick. Before long I was in the grip of mysterious feelings that told me to immediately quit what I was doing - and yet also encouraged me to continue. I couldn’t stop; as a matter of fact, I seemed to pump faster and faster until my banging hand was out of control, whamming back and forth on my erect penis.

I climaxed for the first time in a frightened panic, feeling my body shake and shooting a blast of unknown stuff into my covers and all over my pajamas. Then I lay gasping for breath and trying to figure out what the blankety-blank had just happened. I was scared to death.

By the time of our first Summer party at Sue and Joe’s on Memorial Day, I’d had several weeks to deal with my fright and had settled into a comfortable schedule of pumping my stiffie two or three times a week. I kept a roll of toilet paper in my dresser and took a handful to bed whenever I agreed with myself that “tonight’s the night.”

Curt and I looked at each other. Was he still interested? Or was he embarrassed about what we did last summer? What if he didn’t want to do things like that any more?

I shouldn’t have worried. We ran some little boys out of the upstairs bathroom and locked ourselves in, immediately unfastening our pants and then standing there in our underwear. Curt had a silly grin on his face. “Drop ‘em,” he told me, pointing a finger at me in imitation of a gun. Both of us bared our crotches at the same time.

Curt was a lot further along than he’d been the previous summer. His little fluff of black hair had become a full bush of curly manhood above his thicker, heavier peter. I was about to comment on his pubes, but Curt spoke first, in a hushed whisper: “You’ve got hair! You didn’t have any last year! You’ve been a busy boy!”

I had hair? Somehow I hadn’t noticed. I looked down. Sure enough, a few little solitary filaments had sprouted without me knowing.

We wasted no time, immediately reaching toward each other’s crotch and trading feel jobs. I stepped back a little and wrapped my hand around my boner. “Do you ever do this?” I asked, giving myself a few back-and-forth pumps.

“You jack off too?” Curt asked, genuinely impressed. “I was pretty sure you didn’t know about doing that last year.”

“I didn’t. But now I do.”

We were both sliding our hands back and forth on our dicks, watching each other and thoroughly enjoying being guys.

“I’ve been thinking about this all year,” Curt told me.

“Me too,” I answered.

The little boys hammered on the door and pleaded with us to let them change. It took us less than five minutes to help each other fire incredible cumshots, wipe up the evidence, and finally let the little guys have the bathroom.

I was 13 and Curt was 14. It was the start of the summer that I have never forgotten.

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