Bobby Angel

          Merry Christmas to the nifty archivist, fellow
          contributors, and readers. 


     I remember perfectly the first time I met Bobby Duncan.  He
and his wife Sally moved into the house next door three years ago
last June.  The day was hot and muggy, one of the first true
summer days after a cool, protracted spring, and Susan and I were
delighted that their six-year-old, Marky, was just the right age
for our little Trevor. The Duncans were totally exhausted by the
end of the day, so they took us up gratefully on an invitation
for beer and hot-dogs on the grill -- nothing too fancy, just a
new-neighbors kind of thing.  Afterwards Trevor and Marky stalked
fireflies while we grown-ups drank our beers comfortably on
garden chairs, talking about the schools and the commute, and
lazily watching the sky for the first star of the evening.  

     "There it is," I cried, pleased in a silly way to be the
first to spot it, "it's right over the second branch on the
maple, the big one." 

     "Quick, Joey, make a wish," exclaimed Bobby, touching me on
the arm.  His hand on my arm sent a warm thrill through my body
and he surprised me with the "Joey."  Even Susan calls me "Joe."
Silently I wished that we would become friends.  

     "Don't tell," Bobby warned earnestly, "'cause if you tell,
it won't come true."  I didn't tell.

     What I don't remember is when I first started to really
focus on Bobby's body, and what it was that first drew me to him.

It might have been his eyes.  When he wears his denim workshirt,
they seem to be the exact same color blue.  But when he goes
shirtless, which he does pretty much all summer long, you realize
his eyes are actually pale gray, as gray as the weathered wood of
a cottage at the beach, with only a smattering of blue in the
irises.  His tousled hair is similarly changeable.  In the winter
months it's brownish, no-color, hair-colored haired, but the
summer sun lightens it to a streaky blond, surprisingly light
against his tan. 

     Anyhow, I'd like to think it was his eyes that first
attracted me to Bobby, but it might have been something lower
down.  Like his jeans.  His calves and thighs completely fill
them out, like well-cased sausages of flesh, and his heavy basket
drags them down in front, while his pert ass hitches them up
in back.  Yeah, it might well have been the jeans.  But to tell
you the truth, I think it was something else that made me fall so
completely head-over-heels in love with Bobby Duncan -- I think
it was his smile.  When Bobby smiles, his whole face beams, all
kinds of dimples appear out of nowhere, and his eyes sort of
slant down and sparkle.  Bobby's smile combines the merriment of
Kris Kringle with the innocence of the Gerber baby.  It seems to
say he's pleased with life, pleased with the world, pleased with
himself, and totally happy to be with you.  Bobby has the
smile you might expect to see on a heavenly messenger bearing
tidings of grace; -- Bobby Duncan has the smile of an angel.

     It was last year sometime when I realized how hard I'd
fallen.  Bobby was in our driveway with his baby daughter in his
arms, dandling her up and down.  It being summer he had no shirt
on, so his proud-daddy eyes shone gray instead of blue.  The baby
was playing at her daddy's chest with her tiny fingers, reaching
for one of his nipples, which fit like bronze rivets at the
corners of his pecs.  A breeze stirring the leafy branches
overhead dappled his smooth tan chest with shifting shapes of
light and shadow.  I stared, mesmerized.  Close up, I could see
an arabesque of baby-fine colorless hairs across his broad upper
chest, almost white against the suntanned skin.  The bicep on the
arm supporting the baby bulged huge and hard under her small
plump limbs.  "Isn't she just a beautiful little thing?" said
Bobby, following my eyes and beaming his heavenly smile. 
"Beautiful," I replied, weakly.  That's when I started being
careful where I put my eyes when Bobby was around, allowing
myself only a glance or two before forcing myself to take an
interest elsewhere.  But I would stealthily position myself
around him in various ways, like standing down wind of him hoping
to catch his scent, or tying my shoe in places that allowed me to
gaze at his golden legs.  I was smitten.  

     It's not like I don't love Susan, I do.  But I began to
obsess on Bobby.  Once when I was upstairs in the bedroom, I
looked out across the drive and saw a shape move in the Duncan
house.  It was Bobby -- and in his underpants.  He stood with his
back to the window, apparently rooting through a dresser drawer. 
I crouched down to watch, looking over the window sill like a
doughboy peering over a trench.  "I can't believe I'm doing
this," I thought to myself, but with no intention of stopping. 
Downstairs I could hear Susan vacuuming.  As though rewarding my
perseverance Bobby shucked his briefs, revealing his glorious
butt.  It was white against his tan in the dim room, with
beautiful hollows on the sides that I longed to nuzzle in. 
Although I couldn't be sure from this distance, I thought I spied
a fine trail of hair disappearing into the crack.   Sturdy tree-
trunk thighs supported the pale buns.  "Turn around," I prayed,
riveted.  And turn he did, revealing his cock and balls hanging
weightily from a thicket of brown pubes.  His perfectly
cylindrical cock was about the length and thickness of the
cardboard inside a roll of toilet paper, and his balls hung
peacefully down behind, one asleep on top of the other.  
     
     The scene between my own legs was anything but peaceful.  My
cock had poked its way through the slit in my boxers and was
straining urgently against my pants leg.  All of a sudden Bobby
stepped into a swim suit and was gone.  I rushed downstairs and
grabbed Susan, planting a hot wet kiss on her startled lips.  I
pulled her down and fucked her right there on the living room
rug. "What got into you?" she laughed when we were finished.  "I
dunno," I lied, "Just horny I guess." 

     When the circus came to town Bobby was eager for him and me
to take the boys to see the show.  I was dubious.  Sure they
might be a little young, said Bobby, but we could always leave if
they got bored.  We'd have a great old time, he promised, laying
a coaxing arm across my shoulders.  Bobby was wearing jeans with
a frayed horizontal slit just at crotch level that seemed to wink
at you when he walked, while his boxers played peek-a-boo
underneath.  The circus?  Shit, I'd have followed him to Alaska. 

     The circus -- which wasn't a Ringling Brothers affair, not
by a long shot -- was in a somewhat seedy arena in a somewhat
worse than seedy part of town.  We were a little late getting
there and the arena wasn't really big enough for the crowd, so
the four of us squeezed onto the end of a bleacher, or rather the
ends of two bleachers, Marky and Trevor in front, and Bobby and
me right above them where we could keep an eye on them.  We were
wedged in tight, and Bobby's the kind of guy who always sits with
his legs spread, as if his cock and balls need the extra room,
which, judging from the size of them, perhaps they do.  Anyway,
as the elephants and tigers were doing their elephant-and-tiger
routine,I became aware that Bobby's shoulder was touching mine
and that our legs were touching too.  I moved away just slightly,
afraid he might realize how queer I was for him, but Bobby, who
didn't seem to have any qualms about the matter, happily used up
the extra space, wedging his body against mine, taking long drags
on his coke, and innocently enjoying the show.  

     For my part I have no idea what the animals and clowns and
bareback-riders did that afternoon, or for that matter, whether
they performed at all.  All I could think of was the animal heat
of Bobby's body against mine.  I could feel, ever so faintly, the
pulse beating beneath his skin.  By swiveling my eyes as far as
possible without moving my head I could see little-boy-blond
hairs marching down the back of his neck.  Ah, to bend over and
lick them!  

     I had a raging boner, mercifully hidden by a tub of popcorn,
into which Bobby every so often dug his hand, nearly sending me
over the edge.  From time to time he shifted on the hard bench,
but each time he brought his thigh and shoulder back against my
own, as though he found it companionable.  I longed to run my
hands all over him, but knew it was impossible, impossible.  The
temptation to increase the pressure of the contact between us,
however, was irresistible; by infinite degrees I moved my leg
more firmly against his.  Millimeter by millimeter I brought my
left foot into contact with his right.  It was lunacy.  My cock
had been so hard for so long it ached, and my balls were
clamoring to unload like a kid's when he's been making out all
night with a girl who won't bring him off.  It was way beyond
fun.  In fact, it wouldn't take much more of this for a batch of
steaming spunk to shoot right down my leg.  I imagined the big
slimy spot, dark against my khakis.  "What happened to your
pants, Daddy?"  Enquiring Minds would indeed want to know. 
Hoarsely I excused myself.  The boys were squealing with delight
as forty-odd clowns tumbled out of a tiny car.  I made my way to
the mens room.  "Five quick tugs will put a stop to this misery,"
I thought doggedly on the way to the can.  

     I must have missed the main one because I found myself going
down a rank and dingy hall near the top of the arena.  At length
I found a door marked, improbably, "Gentlemen."  As the door
creaked shut behind me I noticed that the battered old stalls
opposite the row of urinals had all had their doors removed. 
Must have had problems with guys doing it, or maybe drugs, I
thought as I approached the pisser farthest to the back.  Feeling
sort of hang-dog, to be wanking off like this in the boys room at
my age, I unzipped my pants, gave my dick some air, and started
strummin' on the ol' banjo.  It wasn't going to take whole lot of
fret work for it to pump its load onto the streaky old enamel.  

     Suddenly I became aware I wasn't alone.  I shot my head
around and saw the last stall wasn't empty.  A black-haired,
brown-skinned guy -- Mexican?  No, smaller.  Salvadorean? -- was
bent over with one hand on his knee, his ass in my direction,
wiping himself.  At least at first glance he appeared to be
wiping.  In a flash I realized that he was just holding a wad of
toilet paper against his asscheek with one hand, while with the
other hand he pulled his buns apart, ostensibly to do his
business, but in fact with the transparently obvious intention of
offering me a good view of his hole.   

     He watched for my reaction as he dragged the paper slowly up
and down the middle of the tawny cheek, very slowly grinding his
ass in a lazy circle, like a stripper.  His wrinkly asshole was a
slightly duskier brown than the rest of him, and gleamed with an
oily substance, vaseline probably.  He pulled his ass apart a
little harder, making the hole wink me an invitation, while he
gyrated and rubbed the toilet paper slowly up and down, a few
inches east of where it could possibly be of use.  

     "Aw shit," I said to myself, torn.  I could see the
headlines -- "Cops Nab Dad in Circus John" -- but my need was
stronger than my judgment.  I turned and allowed my cock to lead
me over to the stall.  Pedro dropped the toilet paper, reached
out to support himself against the back wall of the stall, and
offered his well-lubed bunghole to me.  I had to stoop slightly
to position my cock against him.  Touching my cockhead to the
greasy opening almost made me cream on him right then, but I got
a grip, crammed forward, and wedged the head into his puckered
gate.  It must of hurt because he kind of gasped, but I plowed on
anyway, reaming him wide.  As I sank the last inch into his
steamy smooth gut he groaned; was it more than he'd bargained
for?  "Too bad, Pedro," I thought as I slammed into him, "you
sure asked for this."  

     I grabbed him by the hips and pulled him back hard against
my crotch, forcing my cock deep up his rump, and then pushed him
firmly away, until only my dickhead was still lodged inside.  He
got the idea and matched my rhythm, allowing me to fuck him up
and down my stationary pole.  He was doing a quick jerk on
himself, yanking his fist up and down his stiff brown dick. 
Images of Bobby's delectable white ass flared across my
consciousness.   

     My over-stuffed nuts, drawn up tight, were agitating like a
washing machine.  The thick hot juice was primed and loaded,
ready to squirt in viscous jets.  I could tell the guy was fully
into it now by the way he mashed his butt back against crotch,
eager to get every last bit of my cock deep up his ass.  My dick
itched and ached to spit its spunk.  The sluice gates opened.  I
ground Pedro back against my pubes, poked up his chute as far as
I could go, held him steady, and blasted him like a Texas gusher
with about a quart of jizz.  The deluge in his bowels must have
pushed Pedro's buttons, for with a soft "aaaiiieeeeeee" he
spurted three streams of come that plopped neatly into the toilet
bowel; the rest of his wad dribbled onto the floor.  As he shot,
his anal contractions milked the final drops from my own pulsing
rod.

     "You feelin' okay Joey?" asked Bobby when I slid in next to
him, much relieved, if a little shaky on my feet.  "Much better,
thanks," I replied truthfully, glad to be able to enjoy the touch
of his sexy body without worrying about shooting down my pants. 
We turned our attention to a pair of greasily good-looking guys
in spangled tights who were flying through the air with the
greatest of ease.

     
                    *    *    *    *    *    *


     It must have been July when Bobby came up with the idea of
building a tree-house for the boys.  We had an ideal tree for
one, a great old oak whose ancient limbs spread wide over both
our yards.  His kid brother Pauly, who was on break from prep
school and was visiting Bobby and Sally for a few weeks, was
enthusiastic about the idea from the get go.  I was less keen. 
I'm not all that coordinated with a hammer and nails, for one
thing, and I was sort of reluctant to appear a total klutz in
front of Bobby and Pauly.  Somehow Bobby must have intuited why I
was hesitant, because he managed to make me feel completely at
ease on that score without ever mentioning it directly.  Anyway,
before I knew it, the three of us were at a lumber yard buying
two-by-fours and plywood and nails from a little wizened clerk. 
We dragged it home in Bobby's pick-up.
     
     The kids were all excited and wanted to help, but pretty
soon they drifted away -- building a tree-house is a lot duller
than it sounds, especially following Bobby and Pauly's exacting
specifications.  It soon became obvious that more than one
weekend would be necessary to get it up, but somehow I didn't
mind; horsing around with Bobby and Pauly was a lot of fun, and
it was a lot more comfortable being around Bobby than it
sometimes was -- I mean, at least I didn't have to go jack off to
keep my composure.   Things were easy among us.  Two weeks later
the thing was practically built, and sturdy too.  We even made an
opening for a window, which was harder than it sounds.  Bobby,
Pauly and I were three proud carpenters by the time we stood back
and admired it, glowing in the evening sun.  Bobby insisted for
safety's sake that we add more support beams and brackets, but
that could wait for tomorrow.  We dragged some old couch cushions
up from the basement.  The boys were elated.
     
     Putting in the additional support beams turned out to be
more difficult than we'd imagined, especially securing the metal
brackets, which was close, awkward work.  It was really a two-man
job, one to hold the beams, the other to screw in the brackets,
so Pauly went off to buy some stuff and left Bobby and me to
finish up.  It felt anti-climactic after the previous evening's
high.  The boys soon lost interest and drifted away. Bobby and I
were alone in the tree-house.  

     It was hot so we'd stripped to our shorts.  Bobby's shorts
hung loose and low, revealing a narrow band of white hip, belly,
and butt below where his tan left off.  Without Pauly around I
was intensely aware again of Bobby's body, its curves and masses
and meaty bulges.  His chest glowed moistly and his tousled hair
was dark with sweat; when he lifted his arms the perspiration
trickled from his armpits.   Every once in a while my nostrils
were rewarded with a faint whiff of his healthy boy-animal smell. 
I was sweating too, and my heart beat fast, and not just from
exertion.  We didn't talk much, just concentrated on the job --
and, in my case, on Bobby.
     
     I was having the devil's own time screwing in a metal
bracket when I heard Bobby's voice close behind me.  "Hey Joey,
easy man, let me hold those beams from behind you while you do
the screws.  I was working in a corner, and suddenly Bobby was
right in back of me, stretching out his arms to keep the beams in
place.  I mean right in back of me, at most an inch or two
separated us, one step back and I'd be in his lap.  My dick
started to get hard.  

     All I could think of was how very near he was, near enough
for me to feel his body heat, near enough to feel his breath. 
Surely he could hear my heart beating against the walls of my
chest.  The screwdriver suddenly seemed incredibly awkward in my
sweaty hands -- oh please, please don't let me start shaking, I
prayed.  The screw was going in awkwardly, at an angle.  My cock
pressed against my shorts, tenting out the thin material.  
     
     "Easy, Joey, easy, baby," Bobby murmured caressingly, as
though steadying a nervous horse.  My prayer had gone unheeded;
my hands shook.  "Hey Joey, let me steady you.  Lean back against
me, you can steady yourself better that way," Bobby cooed. 
Trying to act natural, I leaned back into him.  The shock of his
touch against my back and thighs sent electric currents racing
down my spine.  He seemed to cradle me in his strong frame and
engulf me in his warmth.  I felt as though I was fainting against
him.  The screwdriver slipped from my hands; I felt myself sink
back against him, helpless, dazed.  Then it hit me like a meteor
-- there was something big and stiff back there, something
nudging at my butt; -- God Almighty, Bobby was hard!!  "Oh
Bobby," I gasped.  "I know, baby I know, said Bobby with infinite
gentleness, right into my ear, as he took my weight against him,
"I know."  He pulled his arms away from the beams, folded them
across my chest, and hugged me tightly to him.  "I know."
     
     I turned around, or maybe he turned me, I really couldn't
say.  For a long moment I gazed into his gentle blue-gray eyes,
the eyes I had for so long forced myself to avoid.  Then Bobby's
closed his eyes and parted his lips.  I kissed him.  Our heads
formed an X as our tongues entered each others' mouths, shy at
first, then exploring, tasting, licking, dueling.  I was drowning
in him.  We broke apart long enough to sink down onto the old
cushions.  We kissed again, deeply, Bobby sprawled underneath me
like a losing wrestler.  I licked his neck, sucking and biting on
the strong cords in it, but gently, like a she-wolf carrying her
pup; I didn't want to leave any marks.  Bobby fumbled at my
shorts, and reached for my throbbing dick.  I worked southward to
his nipples, licking them erect, sucking on them, while Bobby
pulled gently on my cock.  Down I went, mouthing Bobby's sides
in the soft place below the ribs.  Unable to hold off any
longer, I bent over him to take his cock into my mouth.  A bead
of pre-come oozed from his piss slit like salty nectar.  I
managed to take his entire cock in my mouth and sink my nose in
his bush.  I longed to service him properly, to please him.   A
heavenly smell rose from his groin, a wholesome musky smell,
composed of deodorant soap and clean sweaty American man.  Bobby
lay his hands on my head.

     At length I went exploring.  First I took his heavy nuts
into my mouth and sucked them one by one, rolling them in their
sac, squeezing them, encouraging them to make sperm.  Then on to
his ass.  I pushed back on his thighs to get at it.  Bobby lifted
his legs trustfully.  Could this be happening?  The fleshy cheeks
were completely white, with, as I had suspected, a trail of fine
brown hairs gathering into the center of the crack.  I parted the
firm halves of his bottom in order to see his anus.  The little
pink butthole seemed incongruously delicate on such a well-
muscled guy.  I licked up and down the crease, and especially the
mysterious rubbery entrance, loving it with my tongue, forcing my
tongue in past the o-ring of muscle.  Bobby gasped -- I guessed
this wasn't in Sally's repertoire --  but encouraged me to go on.
"Oh Joey, yeah,  ... aw yeah man, yeah ...  wow, yeah ....  yeah 
...  oh yeah  ...  do me man, it feels so good, Oh, Joey, Joey,
yeah  ....  yeah man, yeah."  I nudged his hole with my nose.

     After thoroughly tonguing his crack and tasting his
bunghole, I replaced my tongue with a finger.  At first his
asshole clenched, involuntarily resisting the intrusion, but with
a little persistence I pushed through and had full access to his
chute. Inside it felt soft and yielding.  I examined the moist
and fleshy region inside him, penetrating as deep as my finger
would reach, and stroking the lining back and forth in a broad
circle around his hole.  His prostate was as hard as a walnut
beneath the wall of his rectum, and grew even harder as I rubbed
it with the ball of my fingertip, gently at first, then more
vigorously.  Bobby moaned appreciatively.  "Unnhhhh ..... 
Unnhhhh .... Oh-Unnhhhh .... Unnhhhh .... Unnnnnhhhhhh."  His
head lolled back and his lips parted as he experienced, I think
for the first time, the super-intense arousal of a deep slow
finger-fucking.  He lay there, giving himself up to me, and
surrendered to the sensations I was causing inside.  His cock was
quivering and drooling pre-come when I took it again into my
mouth.  

     I wanted to taste his come.  I wanted to eat it.  And more
than anything, I wanted to drive him to orgasm, to cause him to
quake under my touch, to reduce him to a hunk of shuddering
pleasure, gushing forth milk in involuntary spasms of release.  I
held the base of his cock with my fist, because I couldn't take
it all without gagging.  I concentrated on the choice upper
parts, --  the head, the flange, and the most sensitive regions
of the upper shaft.  Sucking on his cock felt strangely natural,
sucking and licking him, bobbing my head up and down on his dick.

     While I continued to massage his inner lining with gentle
circular finger strikes, I rubbed my own cock with my free hand.  
Bobby moaned reassuringly.  Please, Bobby, please shoot in my
mouth, I want your come, give it to me -- silently I begged for
it as I sucked his cock.  

     Would I be able to feel his sperm rushing down the dicktube,
or would it surprise me as a sudden pulsing flood in my mouth? 
All at once Bobby made a little strangled sound, he must be going
to shoot any second, I could feel his body going rigid.  I
redoubled my efforts; -- but wait, something was terribly wrong:  
Far from coming, Bobby was going limp in my mouth.  In a moment
of blank horror it came to me.  I leapt off him and looked to the
door.  It was Pauly.  His mouth sagged open and his eyes were big
as headlights.  And Bobby and I were frozen in their beam, like
deer. 

     It was Pauly who broke the spell with a Banshee cry of 
"Coooulllll," bounding into the tree-house and tearing off his
clothes.  The color came back to Bobby's face. Pauly, far from
shocked, was hot to share everything concerning man-on-man sex
that he'd learned at school.  Bobby and I were primed and ready,
though Bobby shot me a meaningful look that promised "Later."  
At first the brothers were somewhat reserved with each other, but
that gradually wore off, and soon they were attacking one
another's bodies with zest.  Afterwards we cleaned up under the
hose.  It was, as Pauly put it, fuckin' awesome.

     Bobby and I have had sex with each other many times since
then.  Mostly we just lie down gently together, and kiss, and rub
each others' cocks for a long, long time, till we shoot.  We've
talked about it.  We both agree that we still love our wives. 
It's just that we have very strong feelings for each other, too,
feelings that include a sensual side.  A generation ago we might
have freaked, but we're comfortable with it.  We don't do it all
that often, and Susan and Sally still get all the cock they can
handle.  But every once in a while, when our wives are out with
the kids, I'll climb the ladder to the tree-house.  Usually Bobby
will already be there, lounging on the cushions, hands locked
behind his head and the top button of his jeans undone.  And
he'll be smiling that dimpled, down-turned-eyed smile of his, as
merry as Kris Kringle, as innocent as the Gerber baby, pleased
with life and the world and himself, and totally happy to be with
me.  It's the smile of an angel.