My Pent-up Vacation

The summer after my eighth grade we went on a family vacation. Mom and dad sat in the front seat and my brother and me had the back seat along with his toys, some pillows and a couple of back-packs. I couldn't figure a way to jack off because all of us were together all the time. Even at bathroom stops either my dad or my brother were with me. I went only two or three nights without doing it. But it was enough, my dick was twitching and nervous to fire off. Riding along the highway my dick sprung up with this mammoth hard-on. Whenever I mashed it I got the feelings.

 My brother was right there on the seat. He was about eight or nine. I was sure he didn't know about boners or any of that stuff. After while he seemed to be asleep.  I was dying with my dick so hard. What I did, I put my arm down there and rubbed my wrist around on my thing. In a little while I knew I was going to cum. I made myself sit real still and not do anything weird. The stuff came blasting out all inside my underpants. I threw them away that night at the motel.

Anonymous

My Private Mexico Lessons in Life (Part II)

Story continued from Part I

The pleasure of the encounter watching that dude shoot his wad quickly evaporated. I didn't know cum ever contained blood. The sight scared me. It must be a sign of terrible sickness, I thought. Maybe cancer. Cancer of the dick! Going back over the incident in my mind, I asked myself questions. Had I touched him? No. Had he touched me? No. Had I touched or even smelled of his cum? No. Could there have been even a tiny chance of contamination? No. Not even fingertips touching through the gap. And yet I was frightened pissless that I'd been exposed to sure death.

If that crisis had happened today, I would have Googled "blood in semen" and learned that the occurrence is rare and usually harmless, a transient response to a momentary disturbance of the male reproductive system, such as a digital prostate exam. But in Mexico hardly anybody had a computer at that time, so Googling anything was not an option.

So, in addition to the turmoil of the move, I now had two new worries: First, that I might have been infected with a lethal disease by masturbating with the guy. And second, that masturbation itself might be dangerous. Maybe the dude jacked too much and that's why there was blood in his cum! What did that mean for me? I certainly jacked frequently. Continuing to jack off might be damaging to my organs and result in blood in my cum, God forbid!

I couldn't do anything about the first worry, but I could control the second one. No more masturbation. Give it up. Don't even think about it. Walking out of that restroom, I knew I was going cold turkey. My jacking days were over. I'd shot my final wad.

That was around the third week of October. I kept worrying about that strange experience. I put every ounce of my will-power to work, forcing myself never to touch my penis except when urinating or showering, in hopes that I was going to survive my encounter with an unknown but possibly lethal disease as well as the unknown but frightening effects of cumming every day for more than a year.

About two and a half unbearable weeks passed during which I was often erect and always scared about that drop of blood in the other boy's cum.

After lunch one day I was standing at a urinal trying to piss, which is tough when your dick is hard. I'd developed a strategy that seemed to work. I would get my dick out and let it poke forward while I relaxed every muscle in my body. I also tried to empty my brain of all thoughts. If I was patient enough, my erection would slowly sag downward. It never got completely soft, but eventually I could piss. Boys entered and left while I waited for my erection to go down.

The building was old and the urinals were the type that were installed right into the floor. There was a good line of sight between urinating boys. While I waited for my piss to begin draining, a bigger guy came in, a high school guy. Ignoring me, he stood at the only other urinal, the one right next to me. Out flopped out a large and uncircumcised peter. The boy peeled his foreskin back. In contrast to me, he did not have to wait for his flow to begin. A thick yellow stream immediately sprayed out of his dangling dick, like pressurized water out of a hose. It continued spraying for quite a while before thinning out and finally diminishing to a series of drops that splatted heavily into the urinal.

When the drops ended he grabbed his dick and shook it several times before cramming it back into his fly. Then he washed his hands and departed without giving me the slightest look. I might as well not have been there.

At last my own stream of piss dribbled out. I was ready to put my tool away and hurry to class. But my damn dick was already thickening and poking forward. And I knew why, too. I had just viewed the biggest dick that I'd ever seen. And now I was seeing it again in my imagination. How long it seemed to be, how big around, how all-over "impressive" it appeared. How he pulled the foreskin back. And the way the piss sprayed forcefully out of that big prick! What if it had got hard and that guy had..... JACKED ..... that big tool? I bet he does jack it! I bet he shoots huge wads of cum!

I was thinking all those horny thoughts and meanwhile my dick had already gotten unbearably hard again, demanding something that I refused to give it.

I washed my hands, conscious of nothing but my aching erection and the mental images of the high school guy's large, floppy dick and forceful stream of piss. Standing at the sink with a full-scale boner in my pants, I thought: "This is stupid!" I bumped my aggravating dick against the sink. "Get soft again," I mentally told my dick. "Shrink up and leave me alone."

Bumping the sink gave me funny feelings, somewhat like the "warning" feelings that preceded ejaculations back when I used to masturbate.

I was angry at my dick, still scared that I was going to die of a disease, and heavily loaded with un-shot cum. My body was a walking faultline on the verge of a seismic catastrophe.

"Damn you," I silently told my dick. "Leave me alone!"

I was trembling with sexual hysteria. "Damn it!" I said out loud, "Get soft! Get soft!" With a series of forceful bangs I bumped my confounded erection against the sink. Then I kept bumping the sink, kept bumping.....

Oh, God! What am I doing! I backed away from the lavatory, trying to calm down, when it happened. There was no warning except the excruciating stiffness of my erection and a feeling of doom throughout my body. My balls, prostate and dick combined in an involuntary clamp of unwelcome ejaculation. I came. Inside my clothes. Came with a passion. The stuff flooded my whole crotch with a warm torrent of semen that soaked my boxers and coated all of my junk. I didn't really climax; I just came, came, and came more. I could feel tears running down my face. Why the hell was I crying when I had cum to worry about?

The word "Shit!" hissed out of my mouth. Meanwhile more trails of wet sperm oozed thickly out of my aching dick. More saturating wetness.There was ejaculate wadded in my pubic hair, ejaculate fouling my boxers, ejaculate running down my leg. And then, ejaculate soaking through my pants, dampening my khakis. Now my crotch displayed dark patterns of wetness for the whole world to see.

I spent the rest of the day using books to hide my wet crotch. Holding books in front of me when I walked. Laying a book in my lap when I sat. I was actually glad for PE that afternoon because my dry jock was a welcome relief after the slimy boxers, and the shower removed all the slime from my skin, although none from my clothes..


For several more days I kept trying to give up masturbation. But it was a losing battle. I shot a gargantuan nocturnal emission one night and woke up with cum in my bed. That was the end of my battle, and I knew it was over. I had lost. Way back then I hated myself for being weak, but now I realize I was fully normal. No adolescent boy can refrain very long from getting his nuts off.

My return to the pleasure of jacking occurred the next night after the wet dream. I knew the fight was over. I knew exactly what I was going to do and took a hand towel to bed with me. Adam's stem was excruciatingly hard before I ever touched myself. Then I wrapped my hand around my engorged erection and began pumping. Within seconds I shot a painful ejaculation I was so unbearably aroused that the climax actually hurt.

The next night it was better, and the third night was wonderful.

Since then I've been in a few situations where I had to skip a day or two, but I've never again tried to give up the wonderful act.

The End

Arnold Stockford 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Headache (Part II)

Click to read The Headache Part I

 

Emerging a bit lighter from the outhouse, he nearly plowed into His Friend on the way to the bathroom himself. "It's like a real bathroom!" The Boy exclaimed to His Friend, though he just grinned by way of reply and remarked "At this point, I don't care if it's just a hole in the ground!" and hastening his step, disappeared into the little shack.

The Lake was very pretty, and although the light was quickly fading now, The Boy could see the reflections of fires and the smell the telltale perfumes of woodfire cooking.  Strangely, he wasn't that hungry but his head throbbed nearly enough to set him to slamming his head against a tree. Maybe laying down would help, so he dropped himself heavily into the chunky lounge chair by the lake. It was comfortable enough, but unless his head stopped throbbing, it was going to be a long night. At this point he realised he might have forgotten to pack aspirin into his rucksack, but it's not something he's ever needed to worry about including with his usual soap and toothbrush.

It seemed to be going from bad to worse.  He was wearing only his denim cutoffs and a short sleeved shirt with a thin nylon jacket, and despite his tolerance for cold, he was starting to get uncomfortable. Hearing His Friend behind him, he got up to see if there was something he could do. But His Friend had already gotten a small fire going in the stone ring just up from the lake shore, and was unpacking the steaks and wrapping the corn husks in foil to set them under the logs.

He was oddly still not hungry, despite the nice smells of burning pine needles and dry wood and the promise of tasty wood-fire grilled steaks to come. He loved grilled steak. The very smell of it on the grill was enough to make him salivate with anticipation.

\Usually, The Boy insisted on helping to make at least some of their meals together, but tonight he wasn't in the mood. He loved to cook, but of course it was never something Mother let him do except for token items at home. "Did you bring any aspirin?" The Boy asked. His Friend frowned a moment in concentration and then muttered that no, he hadn't.  The Boy sighed, and headed up to the porch. His head wasn't going to give him a break. Muttering, he half-heartedly mentioned “I’m heading inside to lay down a little.”

Going inside and The Boy finds his way into the Master bedroom by just what remained of the outside twilight. It was a small but nice room with a big queen sized bed with very soft looking pillows and a feather duvet. It looked like a heap of clouds. It featured a nice big window that faced the lake, but The Boy was in no mood for appreciating the view. Taking off his jacket and shirt, he flung himself into the willowy whiteness and luxuriated in the coolness of the fabric. It did feel really good. Even though he wasn't tired, he could feel himself relaxing despite the persistent throb behind his eyes. It was an improvement at least.

Reflexively moving his legs over the various patches of cool fabric, The Boy relished these first few moments of being in bed when the sheets were still cool. It was a pleasure he was to retain well into middle adulthood. Flipping over onto his belly, he gasped a little at the unexpected shock of yet another untouched patch of coolness. It was great.

Hearing heavy footsteps, he turned to the side to look at the door and saw His Friend peering inwards trying to see, needing a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkening room.  “Aha!  Falling asleep at the job, are you?”, he mockingly accused. “Ugh, I have a headache, leave me alone.” was The Boy’s reply.

 “Maybe I know of something that could help…”, and with that His Friend walked over to the bed, and sat down next to The Boy. It was always most strange and thrilling to be close to another person but not quite touching, especially another person with whom you have no secrets of any kind.

It's almost as if there’s something like electricity, which is invisible when the wires are either touching or far away from each other, and yet clearly visible when they get near enough to arc. Even now after two years, he’d have thought he'd be used to it, but it remained one of the most perplexing parts of their relationship. In the back of his mind he wondered if His Friend felt it too.

The Boy turned his head to face the man and felt a big hand touch his nose, and then find The Boy's forehead. “No, you’re not sick.  Maybe you're just faking it.” the man declared.

“Yeah right. This sucks!  It feels like there's someone hammering at my eyeballs.”, The Boy grumbled and turned his head to the other side.

His friend gently rubbed The Boy’s neck and between his shoulder blades. It was already starting. It never took long these days, but there was something like a switch inside of The Boy when he felt His Friend’s big hands on his body. It felt as if his hands were molten iron and all of that heat and electricity would flow into him like a ready vessel. At each touch, there was a tingle, a shiver, a jolt… they would zing down his spine like a Jacob’s Ladder bolt, and would concentrate in his belly and move its way down. And there was a law of the universe which mandated that IT never ever be in a good place for this sort of thing at the time, especially in last year’s shorts which were already a little tight to begin with.

The Boy’s muscles all relaxed at once, which seemed strange because he wasn’t aware they weren’t, but since he did shift and sink down a fair bit, some of them must have been tensed. They usually had their sex in the late evenings or the early mornings, when both of them could take their time - all the time in the world if need be.

Since the first time, sex was an entire meal with several courses. There was the caressing, the massage on the back, and between the thighs, as The Boy’s erection ached to have the weight released from it. The man usually would lift the boy up, or flip him over completely, to expose the swollen penis, which was softly and gently massaged and stroked, eliciting an excited response at each touch.

Each sensory plateau was savoured, and by the time the final bits of clothing were removed, his penis danced on its own as if it were possessed. Ever the little scientist, The Boy noticed that the dances were synchronous with his heartbeat, which thudded in his chest and roared in his ears.

The first time His Friend masturbated him to orgasm he nearly gasped for air.  The first time he gave The Boy fellatio, he nearly screamed.  While The Boy had discovered the pleasures of his body before meeting His Friend, he'd never had or even imagined oral sex.

Fellatio was the filet mignon, the caviar, the Grand Finale of the meal. It was never rushed, and The Boy would lose track of time as His Friend would bring him up the spiraling vortex of ecstasy, then rest, then bring him to the edge again, then rest. Every time, the spirals getting smaller with the periods between rests shorter, until The Boy would seize His Friend's head and grunt for him to not stop. It was a lot trickier now that The Boy as a teen, he could cum a bit, and he was less able to have multiple orgasms like when he first started. It also meant then when he did climax, it felt like a nuclear bomb went off inside of him.

As His Friend's hand moved down the right side of his back, he brought his left hand down the left side. The Boy spread his legs a bit in a vain attempt to allow his tortured willy some relief. The tingles were encircling his abdomen now and the heat of His Friend’s hands were duller but somehow felt welded to his skin. It felt good. As always, there was a twofold shock: once when first feeling his touch and once more as they released him.

As his hands arrived to the small of his back, The Boy spread his legs a bit further - an empty gesture, really, as they were already as part apart as they could go. The man's hands spread out and slowly traced the line of The Boy’s hips, and slid down the sides of his body just to the point of the upper thigh, and circled up around his buttocks.  One side of his mind shrieked for the man’s hand to dive between his thighs and grab the turgid organ lurking within.

The Boy knew from quickies in the boy’s room at school that he could wank himself to orgasm in just a couple of minutes, if he really wanted to. But it was never the same as a long and slow build-up to detonation. His imagination provided ample methods and techniques for enhanced self-pleasuring which he’d not even revealed to His Friend, more out of embarrassment than anything else.

In retrospect he doubted most people would ever believe him that a ten year old boy could enjoy the feeling of slinky bikini underwear, which had been given to him as a Christmas gift by some Italian relatives, or that he saved them for those precious times when everyone was out of the apartment so he could strip naked and wear them, whilst looking at himself in the mirror with his stiffy straining to poke its head above the upper line of the briefs. 

Just their feeling was enough to give him a stiffy.  Sometimes, he would get hard just unwrapping the slinky briefs from their plastic tubing. So little material, so soft, and so revealing. He could almost make out all of the veins and bizarre little features of his erect penis through the material. And in another sensory distortion, he admired his body as if he were a god.

On those extremely rare occasions when he could be sure he'd be alone for an hour or two, he'd slowly stroke his penis over the material and slowly build himself up to orgasm whilst fantasising about his classmates. When it came time for the final onrush to climax, he’d flip the briefs down and enjoy the brisk snap of his penis against his belly. It'd spasm a bit in the chillier air, and then be madly stroked to oblivion. Such a marvellous thing, the erect penis. It takes on such a life of its own when it’s aroused, and it has a way of fixating one’s mind upon it to the exclusion of all else like no other part of the body.

The tight jeans shorts were now becoming a serious liability. The Boy’s penis was beginning to really hurt as it valiantly attempted to double in size within a confined space. In the epic battle between a rock and a hard place, something has to give. The man sensed this, reached down between The Boy’s soft thighs, and took his right thumb and forefinger and tried to adjust The Boy’s embattled equipment. It was a nice try, but the sensation only made it spasm twice in response making things worse.

The man put his big hands to either side of The Boy’s hips, and lifted him off the bed a little. At this The Boy, rolled over and opened his legs into a frog leg position. The worst of the pressure was a little relieved, but even through the fairly study denim his penis was clearly outlined. A hand undid the button.  More relief. Another slowly unzipped the shorts… TRUE RELIEF AT LAST. It was like a missile being readied for launch, as The Boy’s penis progressively assumed a more vertical attitude.

It was around this time The Boy usually lost himself completely to his pleasure. All that mattered was his penis. It ached, burned, and throbbed with the fire and agony of an unscratched itch. But this was both worse and better than an itch.

A curious thing usually happened at this point during their sex together. The man would just gaze at The Boy, it was if he was drinking in the sight of him and it was the last time he’d ever see him. It seemed like an eternity to The Boy, because he was completely and fully aroused. But there was a feeling of being a fine statue under his gaze, as if you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever lay eyes on. It made The Boy feel a little strange, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

The man took a finger, and gently tugged down the briefs. Catching his penis partway down, he raised it slightly whilst continuing the downwards motion causing The Boy's stiffy to snap loudly against his tummy. It was an oddly satisfying sound, as if it reflected the strength of his body even if it was such a small manifestation.

The man rubbed The Boy’s belly, and in a movement which startled the youngster, he immediately took his penis into his mouth. He’d usually start very slowly, merely touching his lips to the head and lightly licking around the circumcision scar. This time was very different. His hot mouth descended with shocking speed down the entire shaft of his penis, whilst surrounding its head with a good amount of wet tongue and maintaining pressure on the more sensitive underside with the bottom lip. The Boy involuntarily buckled at the sensory assault, and stifled a small cry.

This was faster, and more vigorous than usual. And it was making The Boy writhe in pleasure. He was like a rag doll, with his legs and feet twitching, seemingly without control. The pressure was more vigourous, and the speed of the movement more sudden on each stroke, but the rhythm was slower. There was a loud sucking noise at each pass, and the man’s mouth was very wet.

The Boy was being bodily hauled up the passages of Pleasure, and he was surrendering himself completely to His Friend. It was approaching the part he wished could last forever, nearly to the event horizon of orgasm. He lay bare, completely open to whatever was coming to him. His heart hammered in his chest. His breathing became laboured. Every second breath, he emitted a small grunt - in near-syncopation with his older friend's sucking.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" It was so different this time. So carnal, so savage, so … delicious. It was close now, all that existed was his penis. His universe… His Penis. Release me! Release! YES!

The Boy had practiced many times the old techniques of holding back orgasm for as long as possible, and had varying degrees of success with it. He found he could hold it off for as long as twenty strokes, if he was sharply focused and not too greedy.

He managed to hold off his orgasm for a full pass of His Friend’s mouth. Feeling The Boy’s penis mortally stiffen, the man intensified the final sucking strokes and savaged the head with his tongue. The Boy spasmed in one violent shudder and exploded into the man’s mouth, with the aftershocks spiralling in time with each stroke. Stroke, shudder shudder shudder… stroke, shudder shudder, stroke shudder… and finally…samadhi. After sucking The Boy’s penis clean, the man withdrew and switched on the small bed lamp.  He grinned at The Boy, who was already melting into the post-orgiastic bliss of contentment.

Chucking conspiratorially, “So, how’s the headache?” he asked.

It took a moment for The Boy to regain his bearings, but he thought a little, and shrieked, “Holy shit!  It’s GONE!  That’s .... cool!” Many things about His Friend amazed, confused, and perplexed The Boy. But he’d learned that where His Friend led him were the oft-hinted-at secrets and true delights of the human body which everyone possessed, even a chubby nigh-adolescent bookworm with braces who suffered the twice weekly humiliation of always being picked last to join a team in gym class.

He felt oddly strong and powerful in his presence.  It was a feeling that sustained him over the barren weeks of the rest of the year, and made him look forward to the next summer. It was a feeling he would return to later in life, when all other hopes died out.

He felt like the Sun itself, and it was in these half-lucid moments he realised in his heart that THIS is what people talked about when they mentioned love. THIS is what spawns all of the poetry, the songs, and the operas. He wanted to be this man when he grew up, no… he wanted to be this man, NOW.

It was this event which forever struck him perplexed when he heard that sometimes people give an excuse of “Not tonight, I have a headache” when one partner didn’t want sex.

“Hey!  Are those steaks ready yet?  I'm HUNGRY”, The Boy announced. And getting up from the bed, he pulled on his briefs and shorts over his already flaccid penis, and trotted outside to check on dinner.

Rory Graham

[The End]

He Showed me his Biggie

This dude with the oversize dick reminds me of one of my first shared experiences and discovering that a guy I knew had a big dick.

He was the one who engineered it. I was at his house and needed to piss. I asked him if I could use the bathroom. He said he would show me where the bathroom was, so he came along. That was strange to me. I already knew where the bathroom was. We passed it every time we went in or out of his room.


He told me to go first. He stood at the sink and I knew he was watching me in the mirror. I tried to hide my dick while I pissed because he was not a jacking buddy and I didn't know what he was up to. Then he said it was his turn. He did not try to hide. When he got his dick out it seemed humongous to me. It was sticking up by itself. He put his hand around it and started pumping very slow. He said he needed to do this and would be through real quick. He pumped for a little while, still very slow. Then he asked me if I would help because his hand was getting tired. I guess we were 13. He said would I just do it a few times for him. I was not a complete dork. I knew how to get one out but never had anybody just openly ask me to play with his thing.

Anyway I took hold of his dick and it was just huge compared to how mine felt when I played with it. It was big around plus long. Pretty soon he said things like "good" and "slow down" and "keep going." Then he was kind of shaking all over. He said he was cumming and shot his load while I was doing him.

When he was finished he told me thank you and said I better do myself while we were in the bathroom. I guess I was hard from seeing him. Anyway because I was already hard I went ahead and did it while he watched. Him and me jerked together a few more times. I was in awe of his big dick and liked to jack it for him. But we were just kind of regular friends, not besties.

Anonymous

The Headache (Part I)

The Headache by Rory Graxham

July in New England existed outside of Time and Space for The Boy. The mindless tedium of school was already forgotten, and September still seemed distant enough to not really exist. It was a progression of powerful intensities, from the loud bangs of Independence Day to the wonderfully sweet tastes of fresh corn on the cob and smells of barbecue everywhere.

It was also the month of true freedom for The Boy. For two years now, The Boy was released from his captivity to spend three weeks with His Friend who lived in a rural part of Northeastern Connecticut. Three weeks without Mother, whose loving but oppressive presence drowned his personality and self-confidence in the honey of devotion endemic in single mothers left to raise two children by themselves.

It was an altogether too common casualty of the Free Love spirit of the 1960s: as the product of this free love bound them to suffer the same fates they rebelled against in their own parents. Unlike their parents, however, they felt empowered to pretend these responsibilities simply didn't exist.

The Boy was shy and soft-spoken and never comfortable with too many people. It was easy for him to let other people hold court in conversations or social situations, since that was second nature to him at home; for Mother was King, Queen, Judge, Jury, and Executioner. What she couldn't shout down, she punished with a wooden paddle quaintly referred to as the Board of Education. Little did Mother know how little it really hurt The Boy, but even then he realised it was better to let people have their illusions than confront them with the truth. In the end, they will have their way regardless of proffered justifications.

It was for this reason The Boy hid his intellect and imagination behind a mask of cheerful smiles and an eternally agreeable disposition. Few knew the truth. It took a minor outburst of destroying books in the fourth grade for him to come to anyone's attention at the small public school he attended. Fortunately, this was during an era when public schools actually cared to attempt to understand such things. The school's principal was an earnest man, and recommended The Boy to be tested by the school district's psychiatrist.

He determined The Boy was simply a very bright and gifted child but woefully under-stimulated and completely and utterly stone-cold bored. What could be expected from a fourth grade child who understood Einstein's Theory of Relativity and could demonstrate how short or heavy things would get as you neared the speed of light via the Lorentz equations. Later that year, the shy bookworm won a city-wide contest with a paper on this very subject, earning him a terrifying five minutes reading it over the local radio station.

His Friend knew The Boy's gifts from the moment they met. His Friend saw him in ways he'd long abandoned hope of ever experiencing from another person. He was not a child to be proud of, or protective of, or to be told where to go, or what to do, or congratulated, or praised. He was for the first time in his youthful memory, a real person who existed in his own right and not in relation to someone else, or how smart he was, or how much like his father, mother, grandparents, aunts, or uncles he looked.

The Boy was to understand this miraculous feeling much later in life as the fundamental recognition of ones intellectual peers. It was in His Friend, The Boy found another like himself, and even though he was much older than he was; it was as if he found an island in a great grey ocean of dullness and stupidity. That such a person could see his true self was a gift exceeded only by His Friend's invitation for The Boy to visit him during the summer holidays.

Nature in its way shields the young from too sharp a perception of time, whether past or future. Things proceed as if they had always been and always shall be. And so it was this July, nearly two years after that fateful day they first met. The Boy had forgotten what it was like to not have His Friend in his life, just as he took it for granted that he would always be there.

It had been the first weekend after his arrival, and the sharp ragged emotions and excitement of actually being with His Friend had softened to the warm glow of contentment and happiness. The Boy would have been happy to have mowed his vast lawn or spend some time camping in the woods behind the house, but His Friend had a better idea. They were going to spend their weekend together motorcycling their way around the forests of Northwestern Connecticut and Southwestern Massachusetts. It was absolutely brilliant. His Friend had a big Gold Wing motorcycle with saddlebags fore and aft, and a big white bucket for Herbie to sit inside comfortably in the back.

What made these things so purely enjoyable was how easily such plans took shape. His Friend told him that they'd be going for two overnights, and to make sure he had everything he needed packed into one saddlebag. And that was it. He wasn't nagged endlessly about toothbrushes, toothpaste, clean socks, or any of the rest of the repetitive trivia Mother would spend hours belabouring. The Boy had room for some books from His Friend's library, which again did not need special permission.

His Friend had told him once that all of his books were open to The Boy, but that he should regard them with the same respect and care as if they were his own property, and that they should be returned in the same condition they were taken.

Early Friday afternoon with everything packed and ready to go, as if on cue, Herbie did his one, two, three step and hop from peg to saddlebag to bucket, and the trio finally set off into deep green woods of New England.

 

The senses are curious things. Much of philosophy and even science itself is built upon a premise that perceptions reflect varying aspects of reality. And yet, there are moments when we perceive that reality in its stark and unaltered form only momentarily. Such momentary glimpses occur when The Boy is riding behind His Friend on the powerful Gold Wing, when he realises just how large His Friend is compared to himself. He's a vast human being, easily weighing at least 350 pounds. Even though The Boy is big for his age, he can barely get his arms completely around the person in front of him.

Curiously, while The Boy has seen enough people to realise just how overweight he is, there isn't a trace of a single unkindly thought or perception of his older friend. Even words like "fat" or "chubby" aren't in his framework when he regards His Friend. Much art has been devoted to how expressing how blind Love can be, but its expression during the scattered moments in which we are blessed to exist within its glow always overlays our perceptions as surely as if we were blindfolded.

Most of New England is rural and consists of small towns which generally follow the course of rivers or other bodies of water. The Boy delights in the relatively cool air and all of the different smells from the pleasant perfumes of lavender and the cedar and pine trees, to the not-so-welcome scents of manure from nearby dairy farms.

Seeing any new landscape is at its most immersive on a motorcycle. You are not shielded from the heat of the air, its various flavours, or even the sounds of the environment around you. It is not tedious in the way a bicycle is, when trying to cover a range of hilly terrain. It is not the shielded "television screen" which traveling in car presents. You hear the insects, feel every little crack in the road, and the very act of turning requires your active participation.

But one unpleasant aspect of motorcycling is the limited range of occupants' motion. After about an hour or so of continuous riding, the body begins to beg for some stretching and movement, and when it's really hot, something to drink. In the small town of Stafford Springs, The Boy, His Friend, and his dog made their first stop.

True to form, Herbie waited until the motorcycle was switched off before leaping from his perch in a single bound. The Boy was greatly relieved to get off the bike and stretch while His Friend disappeared into a package store for a few minutes. Emerging with a pair of Moxie colas and a cut-up milk carton, he filled the carton with water and left it for Herbie by the front tire of the Gold Wing.

The Boy loved Moxie cola, which is a slightly bitter cola made with gentian root; he was much later in life to discover it was modeled after an Italian bitter cola called Chinotto of some renown.

That was another thing about His Friend. He remembered things. More importantly, he remembered what The Boy liked and disliked. To be sure, Mother possessed that same trait, but with her it was inconsistent. Sometimes it was the trial of Job to get her to acknowledge what he wanted, and other times she would give him what he hadn't realised he even wanted yet. Invariably it was a battle of wills, and he always lost.

They were within a few miles of the Massachusetts border, but out there the towns were small and most of one's vision was filled with trees. It was just prior to setting out from their first stop, when the onset of a headache began to afflict The Boy. Sometimes it just happens on such hot sunny days, particularly since you're always exposed to the elements. One uncomfortable aspect to this kind of riding is that as you move around groups of trees, the alternating shade and fully bright sunshine filtering through branches and trunks can throb with uncomfortable frequency. The helmet's face-shield reflects much of the glare from sight, but the inescapable fact is that you are fully within the outdoor environment, for good or for bad.

It started off as the usual throb behind the eyes. "Maybe I'm just thirsty," he wondered. He finished off the entire 16 ounce Moxie before they set out in hopes of staving it off. His Friend saved half of his, and perched the bottle in his customised holder that was a hollow tube offset from the kingpin of the motorcycle’s front fork. Chattering with His Friend and the old man at the petrol station had taken his mind off the then-dull ache, but after about ten minutes into their trip it had regained its place within his awareness.

The Boy knew they were heading for a lake in western Massachusetts, because His Friend had mentioned it last year towards the end of The Boy's stay. There wasn't time to go then, but he must have remembered talking about it because His Friend had intended to take The Boy there over his first weekend. The Boy had forgotten all about it, of course, but was reminded only now on the way there. In any event, The Boy resolved to bear out the headache until they made it to the lake. He knew it'd be a special place and that it'd be perfect.

With great relief, they pulled into their second rest stop in a small village dating back to the early 18th Century. They must have been close to the Connecticut River, since all of the oldest Southern New England towns were never far from it. His Friend must have noticed The Boy's great relief when he announced it was less than 15 minutes away now, and that they'd stopped primarily to pick provisions as much as to top up on fuel.

His Friend was the most resourceful person he knew, his house littered with gadgets he'd fashion to do the most extraordinary things. He never seemed to compromise on anything he valued, even if getting what he wanted seemed impossible. It didn't surprise The Boy to see a few gadgets for various cooking implements in one of the saddle bags as His Friend packed some steaks and husks of fresh corn into one of the four-packs. The headache was bearable now that he could see a nice dinner awaited him and it was going to be SOON.

The air was getting much cooler, as the sun was setting and they were deep in the woods that kept much of the ground under a merciful canopy of leaves. After passing a small wooden sign that looked hand-painted, they turned off the road onto what quickly became a dirt path. Riding in one of the tracks, they topped a small rise, which quickly led down to the surprisingly large lake below.

It was surrounded by cedar and maple trees, and there was a strong scent of pine and cedar which struck you in the face. There were small cabins scattered around the lake, but it seemed they were cleverly placed so that you couldn't see them from another cabin. It's as if you had the entire place to yourself, though some other cars were visible so there had to be other people nearby.

His Friend took them down a narrow trail and made one last turn, which placed them just behind a small wooden cabin fronting the water. It was a classic bungalow with large windows on all water-facing sides, with a generous porch. There was an envelope in the mailbox with both of their names on it, which contained the keys.

Boys and water seem inseparable in summers the world over. While His Friend took the various supplies and saddlebags inside, The Boy sprinted for the lake, kicking off His shoes as he went. He couldn't wait to just jump in, but after touching the water tentatively with his toes, it seemed a bit cold. The sun was nearly completely set now, and the air was getting chillier even off the motorcycle.

Besides, he had a stiffy from needing to use the toilet so badly. He'd skipped going to the bathroom on both stops and was getting sore from needing to relieve himself. It was strange how it would get hard when he had to use the bathroom really badly because there was nothing particularly pleasurable about the sensation.

He knew the plumbing for both products of his penis were connected, but it seemed that there must be a valve which regulated which liquid came out depending on its function. He couldn't pee when it was hard, and he couldn't cum when it wasn't. The body is so strange that way. He always meant to ask His Friend, but then again, he would just answer the same way he usually did when asked a silly question he felt the Boy could answer on his own: "LOOK IT UP!"

Fortunately, the sanitation of the campground wasn't primitive like they sometimes are. It was outside the cabin, but clean and modern with a wooden floor made of latticed slats. It wasn't uncomfortable to walk on barefoot. And most importantly, it had a REAL TOILET. So far, it was looking to be a great place.

Rory Graxham 

To be continued -

My Private Mexico Lessons in Life (Part I)

I suspect that nearly every boy goes through a period when he tries to give up masturbation. Some may do it for religious reasons and some as a matter of self-discipline. Or, as in my case, fear of harming yourself. Most of us have found that it just doesn't work. Here's my experience.

This incident took place shortly after we made one of our moves back to Mexico. As a result of the move I had a bunch of big transitions to deal with, all at the same time. I was plunged back into Mexico after getting used to California. School had been in session a month and a half when I transferred back to the American Academy. The other kids had already found their place in the pecking order. I was the new kid on the block even though I'd attended that school in the past. I was faced with fitting into the social life of a snob school, avoiding the bullies and braggarts, and getting up-to-date on my classwork.

I had not been back at the school in Mexico more than a week when a totally unplanned sexual encounter messed up my head. I was sitting on the toilet in a restroom at school. A guy came in and pissed. Then he moved to stand at the lavatory. By peeking through the gap alongside the stall door I knew who he was. An acquaintance but not actually a friend.

The door of the single stall was located at my left side as I sat on the pot. I had some previous experience with this restroom. A person standing at the lavatory, which was right next to the stall partition, could back up a few inches and glance through the gap next to the door. If the guy inside the stall slid forward a little on the pot, his dick was on display for the other guy, along with any attention he might be giving the dick. Likewise, if the guy at the sink stood in just the right place, he could exhibit his fly to the boy in the stall, perhaps squeezing his zipper or rubbing his pants to call attention to a hidden boner. These things could happen even though the stall door remained closed.

All you readers know the routine from your own experiences. Both of us did some shifting around and peeking, trying to pretend that it was accidental, but also signalling that we were aware of each other and that something interesting might take place. The guy at the sink was trying to get a look at my lap without yet committing himself. And I was curious about him. After a few seconds of this "mating dance" we knew that we had something in common. I carefully slid forward on the toilet seat and let my boner stick up.

As soon as I showed my hard-on, the dude at the lavatory unzipped his pants and displayed his own hard prick. Excellent! An unexpected chance to get my nuts off!

I suppose we could have opened the stall door and exchanged feelies, but all we did was simultaneously masturbate while staring at each other through the gap. He stood in exactly the right place for me to see his stiff dick and moving hand. I got up from the pot, turned toward the gap and did the same for him.

A few moments went by while we silently jacked off, occasionally stopping to show off the size and stiffness our aroused peters.

The jacking quickly reached its conclusion and the moment of ejaculation washed over me. I was 14 and I loved masturbating. God, how I looked forward every time to that growing sensation that culminated in a fleeting instant of exquisite spasm in the base of my dick while the cum spurted out!

I swiveled to face the pot so my cum would spray into the bowl. The other guy also turned and - although I couldn't see his cumshot - I knew he ejaculated into the sink.

Suddenly he was in a rush, moving quickly toward the door, zipping his pants while he hurried out.

As I left my stall it was automatic to look into the lavatory so I could see his cum. But what I saw scared the daylights out of me.

My momentary partner had left several iridescent blobs of cum in the sink. In one of those blobs was a dark red sphere about 1/8" in diameter. Blood! The guy had shot a drop of blood in his cum.

The pleasure of the encounter evaporated. I didn't know cum ever contained blood. The sight scared me. It must be a sign of terrible sickness, I thought. Maybe cancer. Cancer of the dick! Going back over the incident in my mind, I asked myself questions. Had I touched him? No. Had he touched me? No. Had I touched or even smelled of his cum? No. Could there have been even a tiny chance of contamination? No. Not even fingertips touching through the gap. And yet I was frightened pissless that I'd been exposed to sure death.

If that crisis had happened today, I would have Googled "blood in semen" and learned that the occurrence is rare and usually harmless, a transient response to a momentary disturbance of the male reproductive system, such as a digital prostate exam. But in Mexico hardly anybody had a computer at that time, so Googling anything was not an option.

So, in addition to the turmoil of the move, I now had two new worries: First, that I might have been infected with a lethal disease by masturbating with the guy. And second, that masturbation itself might be dangerous. Maybe the dude jacked too much and that's why there was blood in his cum! What did that mean for me? I certainly jacked frequently. Continuing to jack off might be damaging to my organs and result in blood in my cum, God forbid!

I couldn't do anything about the first worry, but I could control the second one. No more masturbation. Give it up. Don't even think about it. Walking out of that restroom, I knew I was going cold turkey. My jacking days were over. I'd shot my final wad.

That was around the third week of October. I kept worrying about that strange experience. I put every ounce of my will-power to work, forcing myself never to touch my penis except when urinating or showering, in hopes that I was going to survive my encounter with an unknown but possibly lethal disease as well as the unknown but frightening effects of cumming every day for more than a year.

About two and a half unbearable weeks passed during which I was often erect and always scared about that drop of blood in the other boy's cum.

End of Part I (To be continued)

Arnold Stockford 

 

 

Oral Favors

My outstanding friend "Troy," a little older than me, sometimes treated me to oral pleasure at the culmination of an unusually fulfilling session of mutual masturbation. This was during the years that I remember as being the most horny time of my life, say 8th, 9th and 10th grades. We would be really, really aroused, almost there but trying to postpone our climaxes. Troy would take my stiffie in his mouth for a few strokes. He didn't go down on me all the time, just when we were tremendously stiff and ready.

I offered to return the favor, but he wouldn't let me. I think he believed his erection was too large for me to handle. Besides, he was so attentive to me that his goal was always to pleasure me to the fullest, squirting his own load only after he was sure I'd enjoyed my orgasm to the max. The first time he blew me he merely put his lips around my erect peter and applied vacuum to my stiffie for a brief moment. I felt like my prong was doubling in length.

"How was that?" he wanted to know.

I was so astonished at what he'd done and how it felt that I don't think I answered.

Over a period of time he began to perform more actively, giving me warm and wet back-and-forth strokes with his mouth. I always pushed him away when I was ready to cum, thinking it would be seriously nasty to ejaculate in his mouth.

I remember his blow jobs increasing the stiffness of my boner and making me feel like my erect little peter was as solid as a piece of pipe.and more sensitive than words can describe. I believe I produced more ejaculate than usual after Troy's oral stimulation.

Martin

Fill-in Post - Young Triathletes

The Things that Form or Break a Friendship

I remember the guy that showed me how to jack off. It was in the restroom at camp after our shower. He showed me how he got hard and pumped his dong for me. Naturally, I decided he was my best friend. I wanted us to hang together all the time and nobody else. But I caught him jerking for another boy and that changed my mind.


After that,  I didn't like him any more. He hurt my feelings. He was only 13 but tall and skinny with gold-blond hair. I still remember watching him jack-off. His hand going back and forth on his stiffie. I didn't feel that I was practiced in this mysterious art form of jacking so I was remained quietly mesmerized while watching, and of course getting really hard. It was the first time I ever knew anything about it.

 I wish he didn't make me mad at him.

Anonymous

The story behind the OOTS Header

A reader recently sent us this comment.

Hi I was wanting to know where the header / theme picture for the main blog home page is from? The sunset looks as if it from a movie? Does anyone know? It looks like they're riding on a boat or a ferry and one boys hand is in his friends lap I'd like to see this movie!

Anon


 Thank you Anon, for the questions and coincidentally.....  I had recently considered writing something about that special photo. Indeed it is my own original composition. There is a short story I'd like to share with you and our readers.

One summer evening I was with my partner MG, in his home town which is a beach-side community. We were enjoying the nice evening as dusk was settling along the shore. After a full-on warm day, the plaza and park was alive with families and many joyful voices. Although it was just an ordinary summer evening, it seemed like a holiday. The place was full of vibrant activity. Tourists and locals alike were snacking on pretzels, hot dogs and sweet treats. We had ordered ice cream cones in the Tastee Feeeze shop, and were sat in a spot just near the park playground enjoying the sights and sounds along with our sweet indulgence.

 Being near the shoreline the scene was dotted by palm trees, overlooking an expansive beach view. There were over-sized pieces such as a marker buoy, and a giant Ship's anchor as oceanic decoration. It was there when we first spied a pair of shadow figures which now appeared before us as playful young boys climbing around on the decorative pieces, and running from each other all about the play ground, in some presumed game of tag. We could hear their voices challenging and taunting the never-ending chase. We detected the slight warble of boys beaky voices when their tone changes pitch emerging from a puerile boy, into the glorious teen years. All of these awkward indicators of early puberty, I am sure are worry-some for a boy, but to us.... well it was all very amusing.

We decided to take a stroll down the jetty joined by a growing crowd of people, all lured to the inevitable sunset planting a lull over the calm tides.This coincided with the rowdy pair who barrelled past us then ambled ahead at about 5 paces. I expect the boys were likely reaching exhaustion from their scampering games. The lot of us arrived at the end of the jetty, we could now hear their conversation was low but completely random. They both sat down on the platform, arms on the guardrail, with their feet dangling tall above the water. One tinkered with his phone, then he snapped a photo to commit a memory for themselves to share later. Soon they settled in for a few moments of bliss as the sun slowly gave way to nightfall.  Their images darkened in the calm of a glowing cherished friendship.

My partner and I whispered our own deductions of what daring escapades the night might bring for these two handsome pals. The only actual result you see is just what we experienced that evening. Although the epoch in time was unplanned, it held a durable memory for us both. The light sea-spray, a couple of buddies and a setting sun makes for incredible memories. We have no idea what mischief those two managed to find together, but their closeness spoke volumes of their kinship and trust.

Eric & MG