Date: Thu, 15 Mar 2007 18:13:45 +0000
From: Timothy Stillman <menovember@hotmail.com>
Subject: bi young friends "Girls Are For Practice, Boys Are For Fun"

			 "Girls Are For Practice,
			     Boys Are For Fun"
				    By
			     Timothy Stillman


Well, you sure don't expect to see those words knifed into the back of a
restroom stall when this is a Christian school. I did not laugh, because I
was in the seventh grade, and being at a new school, I had to be serious and
adult. We had our stupid little blue and gray uniforms and we had our
classes and our sour faced teachers. An all boys' school. We studied. We did
not talk to each other. Not even at lunch. We did not hit each other. Or
give each other wedgies. We did not titty twist each other. There were no
messages passed in class. It was one helluva place.

And there, the oasis--and there, Nirvana, sorry, almost said, Heaven, will
anyway. I traced each letter of the perfectly carved word, spelled correctly
of course, and straight lined. I had been having sex trouble for a while.
There was a girl who lived across from me. And a boy who lived beside my
house. I did not love them. I did not like them. Well, true, we had just
moved to town a few months ago. But few people had ever liked me. I was
known as the crab at my first school. Not because of my disposition. But
because I walked hunched over, like a crab.

I lived in a suppressed family. I went to a suppressed school.  The boy and
girl who were my neighbors went to what I called real schools, because it
had been a real school I had been to, before we moved here. And to think of
sexuality. Well, I didn't. The feeling was everything. I allowed myself a
bit of it, a nickel here, a dime there, never larger than a quarter. But to
think of sexuality had nothing to do with it. I guess I knew or figured at
least that boys masturbated, though I had no proof of it. I never thought
girls did. How could they? They didn't have a penis. Though I had never seen
or read anything that gave me conclusive proof of that. I figured if a girl
wore a dress, she didn't have a penis. I was in the seventh grade, come on.
I was doing the best I could.

Masturbation sent you to hell and I thought if thinking every now and then
and more and more a bit at a time, if a face of a movie boy or TV boy, never
a school boy I was with eight hours a day, came into my mind, well, that
would send me to a hellier hell than regular hell. So if I had to try to
think of a girl, well, I tried that, just a flash here and there, cause it
took me five seconds or so to rub myself to orgasm, well, that would send me
to not as hellier a hell, and not a hellier than hell had to, in the scheme
of things, be on the brighter side.

If there was one thing all the teachers here taught us, it was homosexuality
was the worst thing in the world, unless you were somehow involved in an
abortion at the same time, then there was under the hellier than hell they
would put you. So those words on the back of the rest room stall were
salvation for me. I could bridge the gap--boys for fun, girls for practice,
and vice versa, and I do mean vice, the other direction. I must have sat
there for some time, with my school pants and briefs down on my ankles
because the school bell rang and it was time for class.

Class was a painting. A doze. I put my hand in my left pocket and touched my
erection through the material. I loved my penis. I loved its being hard. I
loved how I never let any of the boys in gym changing room see it. Because
it was mine.  And it was attached in its very attractive way to my little
balls, which were a bit oblong shaped and nice like squishy walnuts. I could
not wait to get home to jack off. I had heard the phrase back at my old
school, where, if you were seen as homosexual, they would beat the hell out
of you. I was seen as nothing. There are good things sometimes to be seen as
nothing.

So here I was in health class, listening to an adenoidal challenged woman,
bean strait, with a long hoop necklace that played horse shoes with her
tented breasts, looped on one,  then looped on the other, middle aged, at
least 30 and one huge turn off. So I imagined the boy across the street.
Whose name even I didn't know. And I imagined the girl on the opposite side
of my house, whose name I didn't even know. And I wondered if they were
having sex. The boy I would see from time to time, walking to his school, or
playing baseballs with friends in his front yard. And the girl who sat on
her front porch swing and read constantly read. She was pretty. He was
pretty. But she was a nice girl, always in a clean white dress. He had long
hair and wore ragged clothes and looked like what my mom called a J.D.
Whatever that was.

There in the hot sunshine of the hot class of boring health, my mind, thanks
to the eleventh commandment of the bathroom stall, I laughed into my hand,
just a tit of a titter, imagined that boy and that girl getting together and
taking off each other's clothes. I imagined the boy who was tall and what
mystery detectives seem to always be described as "rangy," standing there
with his dick stuck out--mine went straight up--I wanted to have a stick out
dick--the old school taught me images and words--not directly---I eavesdropped
a lot at lunch and in the hallway and the gym--and her to look at it as if
she owned it, but he was not to give up ownership just yet. He told her in
no uncertain terms that his dick was for boys, which were fun, and he was
just using her for practice, cause that was what girls were good for, and
she could just take it or leave it. Mattered not to him.

So she would be on her knees, examining him up close. His dick would be
bigger than mine because he was older and I figured every dick was bigger
than mine anyway, regardless of age. She would take off her pretty white
dress with the red trim at the bottom, after she had disabused herself of
her penny loafers, and her white socklets, and be there in her training bran
and delicate panties. Well, I'm remembering this from now; most of this
stuff back then I had no words or images for. Anyways^Åhis dick gets harder,
looking at her and imagining a boy in her face instead of a girl. So he
feels really cool on this really hot day in the back yard of a deserted
house with a shield of light covering them and preventing anyone from seeing
them at all. And she feels her tits get harder.

The thing is, she is not hot for boys at all.  Because, oh come on, you saw
this coming, she thinks girls are for fun, but boys are for practice. And
she tells him so.  Which hurts his feelings terribly. He shoulder slumps and
his dick gets a little less erect. Which would make me laugh but I'm too
busy concentrating or giving the impression of same on the page of the
health book showing an X ray of a kidney--blech. But inside I am roaring
insanely.

And the boy was the one who carved the words on the bathroom stall. And the
girl carved her own words on the stall of the girl's room. And there they
were. And somehow she wound up naked.  I wasn't paying attention to the
fantasy at the time. I turned back to it and this had happened in the
meantime. Now, then, I had no idea what a naked girl looked like. I had only
my mirror image to know what a naked boy looked like. But let's pretend I
did at the time. He wants her and she wants him, but they both want the
opposite. Therefore, they will go through their lives confused and baffled
about what they get. Because she will get all the handsome boys and men
because she is already beautiful, and he will get all the beautiful girls
and women because he is handsome in a shaggy kind of way and also because
there seems to be a dangerous glint of anger at the upturned left edge of
his mouth. Friends might call him Louis. Not Lou-is. But Loo-eee. I don't
know why. They just might.

So there is the girl. With a little brush of black on her vagina. And there
is the boy with a little brush of red on his groin. They decide to do it.
First for his practice. Second for her practice. And then later, they were
young, they could last forever, they would do it for each other. And they
would even like the last part a bit. They would trade secrets of what turns
a boy on, what turns a girl on, what they liked and didn't, what they
imagined from a girl hand and a boy hand. They would roll and role play. And
it seemed like such fun, I came in my pants, sitting there in health class.

God damn, so to speak, did it ever feel great? I had never come in public.
Never with others around. My dick barked about six times. I was filled with
connubial joy only a single boy and his magic thoughts can play, and as I
came, old loop de loop kept on nattering monotonally, and the day was hot
and I and everyone else was sweaty, though not for the reasons I was, so I
grabbed my four incher and held it tight and milked it for all it was worth.
I would wash my clothes tonight, part of my chores anyways, the laundry, and
I felt so applesauce good; I felt just screamy creamy as my sperm felt and
my body emptying it out and out. I thought around there, when I could think
again, who had carved the Eleventh and as far as I was concerned the most
important Commandment? It was a fresh carving, it looked.  There were no
other carvings anywhere else I had seen. Not in the desktops or the lockers
or the walls or the gym floor, nothing. An unmarked school. Except for those
seemingly fresh carvings that got me this cum fantasy. And surely other boys
saw the carvings on the stall door.

Did no one report it to teachers or principal? These were such shave tailed
little kiss ups you would not believe. So why was it still there? The
custodians could have gotten it off in some way. This was a prestigious
school. Not a blot on its rep would be endured. But it was there. Still.  In
all of its glory. And looking round, coming down from my Rock Mountain High,
High School seemed raucously funny a phrase in those days, there must be a
reason. There must be a group of boys who practiced on girls somewhere and
used what they learned from fucking them in how best to fuck other boys. To
be girls with them for a time, then to switch, and to be boys, to use each
other for sheer pleasure, girls totally out of their frame of reference,
just what they had learned from them. And I thought, as the blood swirled
freely through me, and my penis began to get limp still in my loving grip, I
should grab hold of that. No, not that. I already was holding that.

I meant I should be the harbinger of evil in this place. They warned us
enough about it, why not give them what they wanted? After all, it never
seemed to appear, which seemed to oddly disappoint them. Therefore, it was
time to do something I had never done before. Start a group. Found a club.
Find the boy who carved the words. Start a project. Get together in a room.
The church rec room. Or the school gym. At night. Lock the doors. Every boy
wondering what was going on. I could tell them. I could say GIRLS ARE FOR
PRACTICE, BOYS ARE FOR FUN. And see who did what. So I would try it. I might
get decked. The might curse, which would be a nice change of pace. Hell,
here, even being decked would be a nice change of pace. But after the
stampede over me and out the doors, would they tell? Or would they not? And
if they did not, would they return for next week's session?

And they would know girls and they would mention to their girlfriends who
they were chaste with without out a doubt, cough cough, ring pledge of
purity and all, and the boys would be disgusted and the girls would be too,
but as time came around, and sexuality I know now is a fluid beast, they
might think for a second, and then here and there..hmmmm^Åmaybe, you know, if
they are still meeting there, if there was some chance to put some beef stew
and flavor back in all this, well^Å

Anyways^Ådetails would have to be worked out in my head. Right now, everyone
seemed to be taking a test, so I got out my notebook and pretended to write
in it. I would fail one test. I never had before. But this would be scotched
out by not failing another. I was writing the notice I would put on the
bulletin board in the lunchroom. It would read when I finished, thus cutting
the chattel out and hopefully cutting down my chances of being beaten up:

"Practice Thursday.
Exams Sunday night.
Place Undetermined.
See Brice Benham
For Instructions.
It'll be fun.
Trust me."

And you know, they say Christian kids are smart, and they are, (or maybe I'm
just lousy with being subtle) so more than a few boys got in touch with me.
We were embarrassed as hell, and stubbed the toes of our shoes around, and
did not look one another in the face. But we knew what we were talking
about. And thank God it got easier.

Something about being in the church rec room at one in the morning, totally
naked with each other melts away lots and I mean lots of inhibitions.  And
with me of all people, a child pure as the day is long, well not so much
anymore, to lead the way. We started off each meeting playing drumstick
major, follow the leader--me, natch. Well, you get the idea. Makes me hard
thinking about it. Some boys pretended they were fucking and being sucked by
girls. Some saw exactly what they got and were delighted with it. Then they
would switch. And of course so would I.

And one night some weeks later, after more than twenty boys including me
were having fun every weekend (we had gotten excessively good at it; and had
allowed by last week, two girls to join us), the boy across the street and
the girl who lived to the side of my house came a-knockin' at my door, and
the girl said as I opened it, "I'm here for practice." And the boy squeezing
her left boob, still that hotcha glint of danger at the corner of his lip,
"And I'm here for pleasure."

I said, "Come in."

And you better believe they did. And I was on my way to a whole dollar bill.
And counting. God, I love sex. And my penis had a good time too.