From: organs@backdoor.com (Bruce)
Subject: BB: Letters to Bill (m/b)
Date: 28 Apr 1996 03:18:24 GMT
Organization: The Denver Exchange, Inc.

Please check the header! The following story contains some form
of gay sexual content  describing purely fictional events. If
this is "not your bag", do yourself and us all a favor and hit
the "n" key NOW!

Readers under a "legal" age somewhere who happen to be reading
this are used to being told to ignore the existence of this
material. Doesn't seem logical to me, if they happen to like and
enjoy it. As above, if they don't, they too can hit the "n" key
and be done with it. Since I have no control whatever over *who*
does or does not read this, I think this paragraph is silly. Some
hot-shot lawyer said it has to be here. Enough said.

Now, on with the show!                  (Hi, there, Senators!)

Oh: permission to archive and/or re-post granted, so long as the
author is credited. Otherwise, (c) Bruce Bramson 1995.

Bruce Bramson
                                                   S-------, California
                                                           June 1, 1966

Dear Bill,

It was good seeing you again after all these years, during the Christmas
gathering at your home. I'd sort of lost track of you, though I'd heard
you were involved in some sort of research at the University. Gloria said
once in a letter that you found your work "stimulating", but the
significance of her remark was lost on me until we discussed the
*subject* of your research! I suppose it gets pretty "old-hat" for you,
constantly studying sex as you do. But remember us on the outside who
provide your material: it rarely gets "old-hat" for us!

Because of all the frantic family goings-on we didn't get much chance to
delve into your subject very far. Your casual remark that I might recount
some of my own experiences for you came back to me the other day, so I've
decided to fill you in on some details of my life which might interest
you. Whether you get anything out of it is for you to judge, but
remember: YOU asked for it!

I was eleven years old when the folks met their tragic end and I was sent
to live with Aunt Mattie. I've learned since what a trauma suddenly being 
deprived of parents at that tender age really was: but at the time it
seemed like the most fortunate thing that could have happened. Parental
authority was despicable, and Aunt Mattie was so decrepit that I could
truly do anything I pleased. I was not with her for more than a few
months when (as I believe you know) I got mixed up with a pretty tough
bunch of kids at school. One of their pranks in which I was indirectly
involved (I was the look-out) back-fired, and as a result of their
snitching I too was rounded up. My "buddies", who had police records, all
ended up in the County jail, but I was sent to the Preston School of
Industry in Ione. A less aptly named place you can't think of, but a
whole new education awaited me there, believe me!

The first week at Ione was spent in various interviews with "councilors",
doctors, psychiatrists, taking tests and so forth. I was assigned to a
bed in one of the dormitories, and began getting used to the routine. I
was always so tired that first week that I fell asleep as soon as my head
hit the pillow. One thing puzzled me, though, for nearly every morning
something wet seemed to have been deposited in my socks sometime during
the night. The requirement was that we left our shoes and socks by our
beds at night, because we were supposed to put them on if we went to the
john; we weren't supposed to creep noiselessly around, as that would make
it appear we were "up to something".

Anyhow, like I said, every morning I'd find my socks had been used by
someone to mop up something or other and I had no idea who was doing it,
or what the stuff was. So one Saturday night I decided to stay awake and
find out just *what* was going on. I went to bed along with everyone else
at nine o'clock and pretended to go to sleep: but I stayed awake for a
while and lay facing the side of the bed where my shoes and socks reposed
on the floor.

I'm sure this was the first time I ever noticed how noisily people sleep.
There were some ninety of us in this room -- the beds were in two rows
along the walls, about 3 feet apart. There was a half-moon, so the room
was not entirely dark and I could see pretty well when my eyes adapted to
the dimness. But there was a *lot* of noise: beds squeaking, people
tossing about, some snoring lightly, some breathing heavily and so on. It
added up to quite a din. I wasn't making much noise myself, being intent
on feigning sleep. I had not particularly noticed the fellow in the bed
next to mine, but he was about all I could see clearly from my position:
I thought he was asleep like the rest. Unexpectedly (I had almost drifted
off in spite of myself) I saw him slowly push back the covers of his bed
to a point around his knees; he slipped his shorts down to about the same
spot and relaxed. He jumped violently as I rearranged myself for a better
view, but as I kept my eyes closed I guess he figured I was just tossing,
for when I cracked my eyes open after a few minutes he was busy at a task
I had never before witnessed. Imagine my fascination as I saw him stroke
his penis up and down in a rhythmic fashion with his fist. In the dim
light I could see he had made it rigid, and its length I judged was about
6 inches, better than twice as long as I'd ever seen it in the showers.
His body, very pale in the moonlight, was absolutely smooth and (like
mine) devoid of any hair: we could not have been six-months apart in age.
His stroking slowly gathered speed, and his body seemed tense and
excited.

Suddenly there was a noise out in the hallway and it was clear that one
of the night guards was making his rounds. My neighbor, electrified,
yanked the covers up over his body and turned facing me pretending to
sleep. I noticed quite a rustle of sounds in the room that suggested
others making sudden re-arrangements and quieting down. In the excitement
I forgot to close my eyes and when my neighbor opened his I could see by
the look on his face that he realized I'd been watching him.

The guard entered, walked the length of the aisle between the beds, went
back to the door, and out. It was a perfunctory visit of the sort he was
required to make at unscheduled times. For about two minutes after he'd
gone all was quiet; then the sound of rustling covers was heard again:
people moved, beds squeaked. Again I opened my eyes and saw my neighbor
looking at me. After a few minutes he rolled onto his back, tossed back
his bedding and resumed his work as though there'd been no interruption.
He did not seem to care that I was watching; at one point he turned and
smiled at me, then resumed his activity with his eyes closed. I sensed he
was enjoying what he was doing.

Again his actions soon gathered speed: his body once again took on a look
of tenseness, and it seemed that some sort of climax was about to be
reached, but once again a sound interrupted his operation. This time,
however, the sound was in the room, someone getting out of bed. I heard
no shoes being put on (against regulations!) but presently one of the
older boys whose bed was nearer the door very quietly walked up to the
opposite side of my neighbor's bed. My friend had not covered himself,
but stopped his motions and seemed to be waiting for some action from his
visitor. He did not wait long: the older chap sat down at once on the bed
and without a word bent over and put his mouth on the tip of the younger
boy's penis. My neighbor released his grip on his organ, which promptly
disappeared from view into the other fellow's throat.

The fellator was, of course, naked, but I could see only his torso, bent
down over my friend: his head moved up and down, duplicating the hand-
motion I had been witnessing. Neither of them noticed that I raised
myself up to get a better view, and I glanced around the room to discover
that the scene before me was replicated in several other beds. Somewhere
down the line someone was breathing very hard and moaning hoarsely. Just
then my neighbor, whose body was now so tense it had assumed an arching
position with his mid-section raised entirely above the mattress, began
to breathe heavily and with a series of jerky motions reached whatever
climax his assistant's activities were obviously intended to produce, and
then relaxed limply back onto the bed.

The older boy then got up and knelt on the bed straddling the other's
out-stretched legs, and grasping his own penis went through the same sort
of hand-motions I'd observed earlier. He knew I was watching, for he
looked directly at me and grinned. Then, he seemed temporarily
transported away from us, and there issued from the end of his penis
several powerfully propelled spurts of fluid which fell noiselessly on
the smooth stomach beneath him. After a few moments to relax, and with a
wink at me, he reached over the side of the cot and picked up MY socks,
which he used rather ineffectively to mop up the wetness from his
partner. Then he stood, tossed my socks atop my shoes, and returned to
his bed.

Well, now I knew! I watched several similar scenes around the room for a
time, most of which were over by the time the guard reappeared: this time
as he made his rounds I fell asleep. I do not remember what I dreamed
that night, but I was amazed the next morning to find evidence that
something had happened beneath *my* bed-clothes while I slept. Recalling
the scenes of the night, I could only picture someone kneeling over me
stroking his penis, but I could not imagine such could take place without
awakening me. I puzzled about this most of that day, and resolved to
learn more by staying awake again that night, but fatigue caught up with
me and for several nights I slept and saw nothing. No more spots appeared
on my bedding, either.

During the next few weeks I did manage several nights to observe some of
the goings-on in that dormitory. The curious thing (attributable to my
age, I suppose) is that it did not immediately occur to me to try any of
the activities I witnessed. I noticed others watching at times, but
discovered that the subject of what was happening was never discussed
during the day. Indeed, there was no discussion at night, either -- just
myriad activities that were taken for granted by everyone there.

One night, I was watching a couple of kids fooling around in the bed
across the aisle from mine. The activity was similar in nature to what
I'd decided was the usual course of things. Presently, I became aware
that the neighbor on my left was watching, too, and he was also watching
me. We exchanged smiles (embarrassed ones, for my part) several times.
After perhaps half-an-hour of this he quietly pushed aside his bedding (I
instantly noticed he had no shorts on), swung his legs over the side of
his bed and quietly slipped into mine, lying back with a calm smile on
his lips. I could guess what he wanted to do, but didn't really want any
part of it: but there he was, and I froze with fear when he silently
gripped my wrist and guided my hand to his penis which was very hard and
larger than my own. Instinctively my grip closed about him and I
commenced the up-and-down motion that appeared to be so effective for all
the others. He had some hair around the base of his penis and I guess he
was perhaps a year older than I: we had never spoken during daylight
hours, and although I felt this intrusion into my bed a bit presumptuous
of him, I had to admit the sensation of holding his erect penis in my
hand was not at all unpleasant!

I had not stroked him many times when he violently threw back the covers,
and just in time, too: he grasped my wrist in a vice-like grip and
stopped the motion of my hand. I squeezed his penis vigorously and with a
great lunging motion white fluid shot from the head of his penis and
landed high up on his chest here and there, some landing on the biceps of
his left arm as well. I was startled by this, for I hadn't expected it to
happen so quickly: he lay in a state of tension for several minutes
following his eruption, then relaxed all at once and heaved a great sigh
of relief. He reached over the bed-side and produced his own socks with
which he did his best to mop up, and then slipped out of my bed as
quietly as he had entered it. He gripped my shoulder for just a moment,
looked me straight in the eye, and whispered huskily "Thanks, buddy". As
I lay back mulling over these events it occurred to me that he was the
first person to say "thanks" for anything I'd done since arriving at the
"school".

Several more weeks of this sort of activity passed. My neighbor to my
right who had accidently introduced me to all this was involved in
something or other nearly every night, I discovered, while the neighbor
on my left "dropped by" my bed every now and then. There weren't many
variations in what went on, and through it all my involvement was only to
the extent of watching or occasionally "jerking off" (as I soon learned
it was called) a few of the others. Once at the far end of the room I
heard a good deal of noise that seemed different from the usual, and
judging from the sound someone was getting hurt in the process; but the
light was too dim to discern just what was happening.

One Saturday night as we were all getting ready for bed I overheard some
of the older fellows agitatedly discussing something near the door. I
caught only phrases like "...son-of-a-bitch..." and "...his turn...", but
could not fathom it. There was more tension than usual and although this
was a Saturday night, usually the busiest of the week, this night no
"activities" of any sort commenced after lights-out. About an hour passed
and I was nearly asleep when I heard a loud "hssssssst" from someone near
the door, and footsteps approaching. The door rattled, more quietly than
as if being opened by a guard; for it was NOT a guard, but instead one of
the Doctors I had seen around the infirmary. I did not know his name. In
those days he seemed much older, but I suppose now he was perhaps in his
thirties. He locked the door behind him and walked quietly down the
aisle. No one stirred; this surprised me, for as I've said there would
usually have been a lot of noise in the room.

The Doctor proceeded to the bed three to my left, and I turned to watch
what might happen. He bent down and patted the fellow in the bed, who
gave a little start and a sort of groan. Then the Doctor pulled back the
bed-clothes, exposing the full length of the boy who had been sleeping
there and who now lay shivering in the sudden cold. The Doctor then un-
buckled his belt and dropped his trousers to the floor. He stepped out of
them; he had on no shorts, and had a *large* hard-on. Without further
ado, he rolled the chosen boy over onto his stomach and climbed on top of
him in such a way that only one further thing could possibly happen. A
quick glance 'round showed me that nearly everyone in the room was
watching, though none seemed too pleased about it. The youth was
groaning, and the Doctor was pushing his erect penis into the boy's
behind. I shivered as I imagined what the poor boy must be enduring, but
I realized unexpectedly that the moans I heard were not those of pain,
but of pleasure instead! The Doctor was now moving up and down on the bed
vigorously, and it was not long before the various signs of a climax I
had come to recognize were heard from BOTH the boy and the Doctor, after
which they lay quietly for a few moments. Then quickly and quietly, the
Doctor stood, his organ limp between his legs; he pulled on his pants and
walked briskly out of the room.

Immediately the door closed behind him, several guys got out of bed and
went to the boy who'd just been the object of the Doctor's "therapy". All
had hard-ons, and I was amazed at the dimensions some of them displayed.
One by one, each took the same pleasure enjoyed by the Doctor, those
awaiting their turn standing and watching, keeping themselves hard and
occasionally groping each other. I was incredulous, for the boy "taking
them on" that night (and who took on no less than seventeen guys *after*
the Doctor) was obviously enjoying himself to the utmost. I could not
imagine so much as a pencil being pushed up my behind without pain, yet
here was a backside plugged repeatedly by very large "pencils" indeed,
and all I heard were sighs of pleasure!  It seemed odd to me at the time
that although this orgy lasted several hours, no guards came in during
the entire night.

You must agree with me, Bill, that the workings of adolescence are
strange: nearly three months of this sort of thing took place before my
watchful eyes before it occurred to me to see what my own penis was
capable of, given the kind of attention most of the inmates were giving
theirs. But one night after watching a good many episodes around the
dorm, my neighbor on the left slipped into my bed in his characteristic
way and I dutifully jacked him off: as always, it took only a few
minutes, but during that time he had (absent-mindedly, or so it seemed)
got his hand into my crotch and was fiddling with my tool as I worked on
his. At the conclusion of his ejaculation I noticed my own hard-on, and
that his hand upon it had a curiously pleasant feeling. In a flash I saw
(or felt!) what all this feverish activity around me was all about!

I relaxed against my mattress, hoping my friend would not discontinue his
efforts, and was not disappointed. He took his left hand and rubbed it
over himself where his own effusion had landed then wrapped that hand
around my penis and stroked it gently and fully from end to end. The
warmth and wetness electrified me in a way I had never known, but which I
recognized at once for having watched the symptoms in so many others. The
feeling was indescribably delicious, and it was not long before I felt
something welling up inside me which presently burst its bounds with such
force that I, my friend, and much of the bed were heavily spotted with
that juice so often to be found in that dorm at night. Both his socks
*and* mine did little to effectively mop up the mess. As my friend
prepared to return to his bed I gripped his shoulder as he had once done
mine, and in a voice heavy with fatigue and wonder I said, "Thanks,
buddy". As I drifted off to sleep it occurred to me that this was the
first time *I* had said "thanks" to anyone since arriving at the
"school".

Throughout the year I spent in reform school, Bill, I witnessed
adolescent sex virtually every night, and from the point of my own
"initiation" described above I engaged in it and indulged my own
pubescent fancies to the limit. One of the greatest blessings of getting
OUT of that place was the luxury of clean, dry socks for the first time
in many months! You probably cannot imagine some of the scenes in that
dormitory: they ran the gamut from individual jerking-off to various
pairings and groupings right up to virtually the entire group of ninety
all jacking-off at the same time (in unison, one might say), to the
wildest sort of group activity in which individuality was totally lost in
a confusion of fellation, masturbation, fetishism, sodomy and much more,
all enjoyed immeasurably by each and every one of us. The Doctor was only
one of several staff members who took his pleasure with us from time to
time, though the group generally disapproved of such intrusions.

I recall with particular pleasure, however, one of the laundry employees
whose fancy I seem to have captured: it was only by chance that he
selected me one night as the object of his particular type of pleasure.
When he came in no one was much alarmed for he'd been around before. At
the moment, one of the other boys who had just finished sucking-off my
neighbor was kneeling over me and jacking off while I played with his
balls: he came just as the laundryman entered. Seeing this, the
laundryman approached and requested we not clean up the mess right away.
Instead, he arranged for several other horny fellows to follow the
example of depositing their seed upon my person, each act of which the
laundryman watched with growing excitement. After I had been suitably
prepared in this way, he stripped off his clothes and lay down upon me,
slithering here and there assisted by the ointment that had so willingly
been supplied. He was a smallish fellow himself, around twenty I suppose,
with what seemed to be an immense pecker. So excited did he become that
only a few wiggles sent him writhing wetly over me as he added his own
long-pent effusion to the lot. From all appearances, he'd stored it up
for some time, for he ejected a quantity at least twice that already
present. He then lay still briefly, and I began to fumble around for
whatever socks I could find, but with a hand on my chest he directed me
to lie quietly while he licked up every bit of that with which I had been
anointed, and so exciting did I find this operation that as he reached my
pubic area with his well-trained tongue I myself shot forth a steaming
load which he expertly retrieved just in the nick of time by swallowing
the whole of my penis at the critical moment.

This scene with the laundryman, with minor variations (pardon the pun)
was repeated a number of times: I am sure there was a connection between
the fact that as a laundryman he was always cleaning up and the fact that
following these orgies with him there was never any reason for me to mop
up afterwards, so perfectly had he collected whatever he arranged to be
placed upon me!

At the conclusion of my year at Ione (I had been a model of good
behavior, which is to say I'd not gotten caught at anything), I was
returned to the custody of Aunt Mattie, who, if anything was even more
decrepit than when I'd left her. I also returned to the public school
where it occurred to me that the simple-minded amusements of the kind of
thugs I had once run around with could not possibly measure up to the
nocturnal amusements I had become so accustomed to expect. Indeed, the
first month back was rather difficult because I did not know many of the
kids around, and my only release, abetted by a multitude of fond memories
and stimulated by scenes in the school gym, was by my own hand. I was now
just past twelve, and ripening rapidly. Looking back, I'm sure I was
considered precocious, and I have often wondered to what extent the many
"hormone treatments" I received at Preston may have influenced this.

One afternoon in the lavatory at school I was doing my duty at the urinal
and glanced longingly at the object held by the only other occupant doing
his duty at the next urinal. He was an upper-classman, for he had a
letter on his sweater. He was a powerfully constructed Negro, endowed
with a more sizeable penis than I had theretofore seen. He saw my glance
and I fancied that he arranged himself in such a way that I could not
help staring unabashedly at his magnificence. Completing his urination
and putting away his device for the purpose seemed to consume more time
than necessary. He grinned at my hard-on, which I hadn't noticed until
then myself for it was such an automatic reaction. But he turned at last
and strutted out, leaving me to put myself back together as best I could
and return to class.

It may, of course, be only a co-incidence that this same chap was walking
in my direction on the way home from school that very afternoon, or... 
In any event he smiled when he saw me and began a conversation clearly
intended to determine whether I was expected home at any particular time.
I explained about Aunt Mattie, whereupon he invited me to his house, to
which we repaired forthwith. This guy stood at least a foot taller than
I, and his construction anatomically was (to me at any rate) phenomenal.
His parents were away from the house, and although he spoke of a younger
brother, he also was not present, so we had the place to ourselves. We
went directly to a bedroom where, for lack of anything else, I sat on the
bed. The fellow dropped his sweater in a corner, turned away from me and
stripped off his Tee-shirt. As he turned around to face me I saw he had
opened his pants: "My name is Lee", he said, "and you and I are going to
have a little fun -- right now". So saying, he slipped his pants down
slowly, taking his shorts with them to reveal not only that which I had
observed earlier, but a pair of lithe, muscular legs and neatly formed
balls that complemented his rapidly rising penis. I could not take my cue
instantly, so riveted was my attention on his body, but after a few
moments of awe I recovered sufficiently to shuck my own clothes as
quickly as possible. Lee then moved directly toward me, his magnificent
tool preceding him: slipping his broad hands behind my head he directed
his cock into my mouth. But the position was bad and I choked up,
violently moving back and away from him. I motioned him to lie down so I
could kneel over him: this time with less effort I had soon devoured his
erection in a way that seemed very satisfactory to him, and which sent a
chill of excitement through my own being. "Baby! Where in hell did you
learn to do that?" he asked incredulously. I took it to be a rhetorical
question, for I was in no position to answer just then!

We horsed around a good deal that afternoon. Several times I thought Lee
was ready to come, but each time he stopped whatever I was doing and
relaxed briefly, during which times I gathered my breath and admired his
gorgeous form. In the reform school (where indeed I'd learned to do these
things and many more) I rarely had occasion to pay much attention to
physiques, since our activities were entirely nocturnal. But here before
me was a specimen of young manhood that defied my description, and under
the circumstances, describing it was the farthest thing from my mind!

Our seance was, alas, interrupted by the arrival of Lee's brother, who I
guessed was closer to my age but built like his brother and who (it was
obvious) would be another magnificent stud in not so many months. When we
heard the door close I reacted instinctively, but Lee calmed me at once.
To my surprise, he called his brother into the bedroom, which shortly
gave me the opportunity to make the observations just described. The
brother seemed unconcerned by our situation, which was compromising to
say the least and provocative to say the most. Lee, with a firm caress
with his huge hand sent me back to work on his masterful erection which
had not flagged once all afternoon, and it was while so engaged that a
lurching of the bed indicated that we were being joined by the brother. I
at once felt hands exploring my back and realized that, my position being
what it was, only one thing could be expected to follow. It did, and soon
I was enjoying the sensation of a well-proportioned penis gliding warmly
in and out of my behind. Paul (for that was the brother's name) bent down
over me, reached around and grasped me in the appropriate place. Our
motions were tuned to a regular rhythm which grew faster, and by a happy
coincidence we all reached our climaxes at nearly the same time. I
received deep in my throat a burst of energy that flooded my gullet and
brought me up gasping for air, only to have the weight of Paul's lunging
press me deliriously back down on his brother's shaft, while these same
lunges signified the deposit in my bowel of a torrent of warm fluids;
only moments later Paul's hand (and certain other factors!) brought forth
from me great spurts of thick whiteness that landed in that beautiful
valley formed by Lee's muscular thighs, still tense and shaking with the
ecstasy of his release.

                      ++++++++++++++++++++++

[continued]

We collapsed into a dishevelled heap on the bed, a mass of panting,
sweating, happy flesh still entwined in various ways, slowly recovering
from our orgasmic delirium. With considerable effort Lee produced from
beneath the bed a towel which he used to mop up himself and which Paul
used to wipe first his diminishing tool then my behind. Lee said in a
hoarse voice "Baby, that was the MOST!"  "The most, man, the MOST", his
brother rejoined enthusiastically. All I could say was "Wow", which I
found myself repeating senselessly over and over.

The scene recounted above, with many variations, was re-enacted many
times over the next months. Aunt Mattie worried at first that I was "up
to no good" because I was constantly away from the house; but when no
inquiries from school or police were forthcoming she finally decided
whatever I was doing was OK, and worried less. At various times I
participated in sexual activities with Lee and Paul together, and often
with one or the other individually. I was almost a fixture in their
house, although I never ever saw their parents. Our sessions were always
grand, satisfying affairs. Though it was known at school that Lee and
Paul knew me, neither they nor any of our classmates ever showed in
public that they knew what was really going on.

Since my sexual desires were now being successfully met through Lee and
Paul, I was able to attend to my studies to a greater extent than
formerly. I took up an instrument in the Band (clarinet) and found to my
surprise there was some musical talent in me: long acquaintance with
blowing instruments of another sort gave me an edge on my classmates, for
I had marvelous control of my embouchure!

So it was that I and the rest of the Band members went to Sacramento for
the annual Band Competition . This was a week-long series of concerts at
the conclusion of which the winners got trophies. Our group stayed in a
rather seedy hotel near the waterfront, along with a Band from some other
town. Of course, there were chaperons all over the place, and a strict
series of rules was laid down about who went where in the hotel: floors 5
and 6 were reserved for the guys, and 4 and 7 for the girls.

The first night, of course, there was a lot of ribald talk of making
secret arrangements with the girls to visit our floor or vice-versa. But
with chaperons patrolling the hall there really wasn't much chance of it.
(I know now that if any of the fellows actually *had* gotten upstairs,
they -- and the girls -- would have been petrified!) But with all the
excitement of the trip, most of the kids in our room and nearby (judging
by the noise) were awake talking and exchanging tales. The man patrolling
our floor demanded more quiet and finally, near midnight I guess, the din
quieted down. I was not very sleepy myself and was lying there wishing
Lee or Paul was at hand when suddenly I detected a sound I had not heard
since leaving reform school, but which I instantly recognized as bedding
being tossed aside; in the dimness of the room I saw the chap from the
farthest bed (there were five of us) was moving quietly towards the door,
which had a ventilation grill in it. He listened intently for a few
minutes. I did not know what he was hearing, but as he got an erection
almost at once I guessed it was stimulating. Consumed with curiosity, I
slipped out of my own bed and, naked as the other, joined him at the
door: he jumped when I lightly touched his shoulder, but he saw at once
that I had things similar to his on my mind, so we both put our ears to
the grill.

The sounds we heard came from the room directly across the hall. That
room was larger, and as I recalled had eight or ten fellows in it. That
an orgy of the sort I had earlier known was in progress was immediately
evident by the wealth of bed-squeaks, heavy breathing, and other familiar
sounds. Being nearest to it, I put my hand on our door-knob and edged the
door open: the hall was deserted, so I pressed on, propelling my new
friend ahead of me across the hall and entered the opposite room. How the
scene that greeted us took me back! Everyone in the room was involved in
something or other. Of course, our sudden appearance caused a few moments
of panic, but our nakedness and the conditions of our organs made it
evident at once we were there to join in, not to interrupt.

Having a bit more forethought than the others, I threw the bolt on the
door, then moved into the room. My fancy was immediately struck by a tall
brown boy who I'd admired in our Band but who had always been stand-
offish at school, and I went directly to him. He smiled sheepishly as he
recognized me, and I gripped his erect cock rather as one under more
formal circumstances would have grasped his hand in greeting. A tinge of
intense pleasure permeated me as his wand pulsated in my hand, my other
hand found the firm flesh of his forearm which I squeezed affectionately.
The boy warmed to me quickly, and taking me into an embrace planted a
warm wet kiss directly on my mouth -- an experience that was, strangely,
new to me at that time. I forgot altogether about the others in the room
for a time, for the blissful sensation of this beautiful boy caressing my
mouth with his tongue, rubbing his muscular legs against mine, and
pushing his hot pole between my legs blotted out all other thoughts.

How long we amused ourselves in this fashion I don't remember, but
presently someone began working with something warm and turgid in the
vicinity of my backside. Glancing over my shoulder I found behind us a
"daisy chain" of about seven others; willingly I backed up on the
foremost member of the chain and gently rotated my partner around and in 
just a few moments he was comfortably impaled on my shaft. As I nibbled
at the broad brown back before me and enjoyed the sensation of toying
with his tumescent tool I could sense he was enjoying everything just as
much as I: indeed, he reached a climax almost at once and writhed and
squirmed with pleasure as I caught up his exudate and used it to
lubricate and massage his organ. His intense motions soon induced much
the same result in myself and I loosed into his interior several days'
accumulation of my own lubricant. The orgasmic wave thus passed down the
chain and one could, if familiar with the sounds, track its progress; my
own intense ejaculation with its associated motion and tension brought on
a violent ejaculation by the chap behind (and in) me, and his wild
thrashing was accompanied by a somewhat less enthusiastic, but
pleasurable I am sure, climax of his aft partner: so it went until the
last chap in line, whose moans and groans we feared might arouse the
hall-monitor, signalled his transport briefly into the all-consuming act
of ejecting his load into the delighted boy in front of him.

As the chain broke up and exhausted boys flopped on their beds I found
myself loathe to leave the lovely fellow from whom I was slowly
withdrawing, and who was wiping himself with the window curtain. The boy
who had come over with me was talking with another, and as I moved near
to collect him he whispered he wanted to stay there for the night: I was
delighted and returned to my friend at the window. He was tired and
sleepy, almost "out on his feet" in fact, so did not complain as I
propelled him across the hall to my room, where we slipped into bed
together. There, warmly entangled, we were in dreamland within minutes.
Somehow, before the chaperon pounded on doors to signal morning, everyone
had once again found his assigned room and bed, but not before some fond
leave-taking with the promise of future meetings.

The bed-switching occurred most nights of our stay in Sacramento, so when
we were riding home on the bus I could relax and sleep peacefully knowing
that I had found a new partner to help out when Lee and Paul were not
available.

The remainder of that school year was one of the happiest of my life. My
sexual activities were pretty evenly divided between Lee and Paul, and
Oral, the chap I'd connected with on the excursion to Sacramento. The two
relationships were very different, however: with Lee and Paul sex was our
only objective. Although both these boys liked me, it was principally as
a medium for their sexual release that I functioned in their lives. Both
were athletes: Lee was the foot-ball hero of the school, single-handedly
carrying the team to victory in the series that year. The only game our
school lost was one which took place when I had broken the schedule of
our sessions because of an attack of flu.

With Oral, there was a more genuine feeling of comradeship apart from the
sexual pleasure we took in each other. Without Aunt Mattie ever being
aware of it (she was becoming quite deaf) Oral slept with me several
nights each week. He told his older brother he had a friend, and his
brother (who I assumed took this to mean "girl-friend") helped cover his
absences from home. The family did not seem to disapprove, really, and as
long as Oral's studies did not suffer he was free to do whatever he felt
was right. Needless to say whatever was right for him was entirely
acceptable to me! I don't think he was ever aware of my activities with
Lee and Paul, whom he knew only casually.

That summer, they both got jobs out of town, so the weight of keeping my
appetite satisfied fell entirely on Oral. We saw each other constantly,
and I was surprised to find the increasing intensity of our encounters,
caused by a rapidly deepening emotional involvement, tended to compensate
for the reduced frequency of my sexual excursions.

By this time I had become familiar to Oral's folks, and became almost a
member of the family. Oral's mother, a large, wonderful warm woman, and a
superb cook, was the closest thing to a real mother I ever had. Thus, it
seemed only natural that when pneumonia finally carried off Aunt Mattie
late that summer, I was nominally adopted into the Washburn household.
Shortly after, the whole family helped me celebrate my thirteenth
birthday, and a remarkable event took place. The party itself was a
lavish affair with a few kids from the Band on hand. After glorious cake
and ice-cream, and some gifts (a handsome sweater from Oral), we got
together a group of diverse instruments and spent the afternoon in
raucous music-making. About six, after still more food, everyone left.
Oral's folks also went out for the evening, and his brother had a late
date for which he was preparing.

I was watching TV in the living room and Oral was washing dishes in the
kitchen when his brother joined me on the divan. I was being effusive
about the wonderful party, saying it had been the greatest (I could have
said "only"!) one I'd ever had: Earl said he was happy I was pleased, and
then said, "After all, anyone who makes my little brother as happy as
you've made Oral deserves the best we can offer". I was alarmed: how much
did he know about what Oral and I had been doing? We'd been sleeping
together at his house out of necessity, but had tried not to be noisy
with our activities.

Earl continued, "I was always afraid Oral was going to turn wild like so
many of his friends, but since he met you he's settled down and none of
us worries about him much any more: he loves you more than he himself is
aware, and the effect you've had on him is really great. As a family we
can't thank you enough and hope you like the set-up and will stick
around. If you walked out on Oral, I'm afraid it would be very hard for
him".

I was dumbfounded! Earl's matter-of-fact tone about it all, and
especially his mention of "love", was totally unexpected. Clearly they
all knew about us and were concerned from the standpoint of my effect on
Oral's happiness. As Earl stood up to get on with preparations for his
date he said, with a winning smile, "Besides, you two make a cute
couple", -- and he walked out of the room leaving me speechless.

Oral soon finished up in the kitchen, and we went up to bed almost at
once. With the house to ourselves we gave free reign to our passion.
Throughout the night I kept hearing Earl's words, and some of Oral's
reactions to me that night took on new significance. It had never
occurred to me that "love" might be involved in our relationship; I knew
next to nothing of the subject due to the various deprivations of my
tender years. My own reactions to Oral took on a new light as I realized
I WAS in love with him! As our knowledge of each other deepened, it
became increasingly evident that lovers we were. And, as Earl had said,
we *did* make a cute couple!

So it is, Bill, that at the tender age of thirteen, I had a lover. Some
sage once said the first love is always the best and I must agree with
him: the next few years were among the happiest I'd known. I was accepted
into the Washburn family as a brother-in-law, in exactly the same warm
wonderful way that Earl's wife, when he married a short time later, was
welcomed as a daughter-in-law. Mr. and Mrs. Washburn were my second
parents, doting on me and the others equally. My studies at school went
smoothly enough, as did Oral's, and while neither of us made the Honors
list, we were at least near the top of our graduating classes.

But the horizon began to cloud towards the end of the year Oral graduated
(he was a year ahead of me). I suppose it was inevitable that anyone as
wonderful as he would attract a female: just before leaving for boot-
training in the Navy, Oral married the only girl he'd ever known through
his high-school years. I was too young to feel very bitter about losing
him, and the warmth and understanding extended me by his family helped
reduce the hurt.

Thus, in my Senior year of High School, I was once again "on the prowl"
so to speak and for a short time was without the sort of companionship
and activity to which I was so accustomed: I felt the lack keenly and
devoted no little time to correcting the situation. One night I went to a
football game to pass some time (and do a bit of cruising!) and sat near
a group of four guys I knew casually. We got to talking and after the
game decided to get some hamburgers at the drive-in. Naturally, the talk
got around to girls pretty quickly, and after a while someone remarked
that I had dropped out of the conversation. I left to go to the john, and
when I got back was informed the group had decided to drive out into the
country for a while before going home. While I was a bit apprehensive
about this, as I didn't know these guys all that well, I certainly knew
what they had in mind!

Actually, we went only a mile or so and drove down an access lane in a
vineyard: a six-pak of beer materialized, which we all shared. The talk
was the usual thing -- girls -- and I once again had fallen silent when I
noticed the chap sitting next to me rubbing his crotch suggestively and
looking my way. I needed no further clue to what was on his mind; handing
him my can of beer, I bent to the task of opening his fly. Then,
rearranging myself on the seat, I moved down and took what I had exposed
into my mouth. His cock was of ample proportions and very responsive to
my attentions. The desired result was reached rapidly but the ecstatic,
emotion-filled climax I'd been used to with Oral was replaced instead
with only a little heavy breathing and a few muscle twitches. It was not
awfully satisfying for me, but I had not long to worry about this because
in rapid succession I was obliged to service each of the others. Only the
last fellow seemed to really respond to my efforts, and though it took
him longer to reach nirvana, when he did it was like an explosion: so
stimulating was it to feel his vigorous thrusts deposit their effluent in
my throat that with no assistance even from my own hand I experienced a
warm emission in my pants.

Of that group I saw again only the one whose climax had so stimulated me.
He picked me up in his car about a week later as I was leaving school and
took me to his house, where he asked me to relieve him as I'd done
before. When he stripped off his clothes there was revealed before me a
very neatly assembled package of young manhood. His skin was a pale olive
shade and every movement he made revealed the lithe muscular structure
beneath it. He had a nicely formed hair-line that widened from its point
just below his navel to a thicket of very straight, very black pubic
hair: this hair ended abruptly at his groin and his legs below were
incredibly smooth and well formed. Here was, I thought, something I could
really *work* with, and as he stretched out on his bed I shed my clothes
and wasted no time in joining him. He had developed an erection, as had I
for that matter, but I was irresistibly drawn to other parts of his
anatomy so began by licking him all over. As my tongue darted here and
there over his handsome form he shook with delight: muscular
contractions, most of them involuntary, rippled beneath his skin. At one
point my excursions took me far down his leg, bringing about a tension
that caused each muscle to be clearly outlined underneath that lovely
skin so delightful to lick and touch. His pubic hair seemed strange in
texture because it was so straight and fine. From it sprang his lovely
erection, another delight for my tongue, and when I worked with it my
friend writhed with delight. Further up, my hands had got busy with his
nipples, and moans of pleasure signified that he found this agreeable,
too. As the tension mounted and his excitement grew, my own body
responded in a like way; he raised his trunk upwards as my mouth at last
began to toy with his firm glans, and the tasty exudate I found there was
another delight. His position now allowed me to lick further down below
his balls, whereupon his excitement grew in intensity until I recognized
the familiar symptoms of a frenzied climax close upon him: so I quickly
buried all of his rock-hard penis deep in my throat. He cried out with
pleasure and with a writhing jerky motion found the relief he'd begged of
me while I, as before, found the intensity of his orgasmic pleasure so
thrilling that I emitted a flood of semen accompanied by that singular
feeling that is the more intense for having been achieved without real
physical action. His orgasm lasted several minutes and I guessed he'd not
had relief since our first encounter, for the volume of material he
expelled was enormous! When at last I could "come up for air", I tongued
him again as necessary to clean up the mess I had created. during which
he continued to writhe and moan in the near-agony of his orgasm. When at
last he relaxed, wholly spent, I laid down beside him and we both fell
asleep.

His name was George, and I saw him regularly for the remainder of that
last year at High School. Our sessions were almost always the same, and
though there was no particular warmth towards me on his part, the pitch
of excitement to which I could always raise him usually incited a
climactic reaction in myself: hence I always enjoyed the many afternoons
we were together. Through him I met, on much the same basis a number of
his friends, and by the time school was over I was kept very busy taking
care of them. On graduation night, George threw a "bash" for a bunch of
his friends. Nearly everyone got too drunk, but not before I had relieved
most of them in the privacy of the upstairs bathroom. I heard later I'd
made myself very unpopular with the girls there, who felt they were
losing out, which they certainly were.

As the school year ended, culminating as always in graduation, it became
clear I should unburden the Washburns of my presence (although in truth I
had been spending less and less time there as my sexual activities
claimed more and more of my time); I also decided I should go to college,
for I was really an orphan very much "on my own", and further education
would be helpful. The questions I faced in order of importance were;
first, how would I support such a venture, and second, what college
should I attend? In a moment of respite between "tricks" I had applied to
a small college in Southern California that offered a scholarship: to my
surprise I won it. It was just a stipend, enough for books and tuition,
and I would have to support myself as far as living expenses were
concerned. So, early in the summer, most of my friends having scattered
also, I decided to go to the college town to see what sort of work I
might find. Taking leave of the Washburn's turned out to be heart-
rending, and by the time I had arrived in S------- I was already homesick
and lonely.  Having had little experience travelling, I wasn't ready for
uprooting myself so completely. But I spent the first few days
familiarizing myself with the town, and then got down to the more serious
task of finding work. This was no easy thing in a small college town in
summer, with its surfeit of students needing work.

Such meals as I took in those lean days were eaten at a small hamburger
joint a few doors away from the cheap hotel where I stayed. Adjacent was
a service station, and I longed for experience in that field for the
attendant usually on duty had not escaped my notice: he reminded me so
much of Oral, though be was more fully built, darker, and somewhat older.
He was a very rich, glowing dark-brown and was industrious and efficient
-- but at the same time graceful -- as he went about his duties at the
station. One day when I was feeling rather dejected after a fruitless
morning of job-hunting, this chap came into the 'burger joint while I was
there for lunch. I'd noticed he'd had a very busy morning, so I decided
to ask if he might like some help, and after rather boldly managing to
begin a conversation, I put the question to him. I shall never forget the
result: our talk up to that point had been idle, the sort of thing any
two strangers might say. But the overtones in his voice changed abruptly
as he answered; it was as though he had "multiplexed" and come on loud
and clear in Stereo! He turned full towards me, ran his deep brown eyes
over me as if seeing me for the first time, and said, "It might be
arranged: what can you do?"

You can bet I read *both* channels! As to what I might do (at the
station) I mumbled something about washing cars and so forth: as to what
I might do (at any other place he cared to choose!) I let a long,
lingering look at his crotch serve as a temporary answer, and by the
smile of approval that lit my face I signified my willingness to do my
best for him. He replied in his former tone that he'd "see" about it, and
told me to drop by the station about five that afternoon. I returned to
my hotel for a nap: all thoughts of actual work were temporarily
dispelled as I envisioned an encounter I felt sure would be terrific.

I got no job at the station, but from that evening forward I was "kept"
by Albert, the attendant. We went from there to his apartment a short
distance away. He fixed us both drinks, then disappeared into his bedroom
saying he had to clean up after the day's work, and it was not long
before I heard water running in the shower. Being un-used to alcohol, the
drink rapidly had an effect on me and I was seized by an irresistible
impulse. I shed my clothes right there in the living room and quietly
sought out the bathroom where steam rose in great clouds from behind an
opaque shower curtain. None too timidly, I pulled back a corner of the
curtain: seeing Al's broad muscular back and a wall-dish with a bar of
soap, I took up the latter and without a word applied it to the former.
Al responded with a satisfied sort of sound and as the hot water splashed
around us both I washed and massaged him with the fragrant soap. Feeling
his smooth, dark skin beneath my fingers was very exciting, so I climbed
into the tub and washed his back, as much of his chest as I could reach
from behind him, and his marvelously sculptured arms. Then I put aside
the soap and massaged the same areas again without its slippery benefits.
Al made no move to turn around, but languished beneath the flowing water
and uttered occasional sounds of intense relaxation. Next, I knelt behind
him, moving my hands towards lower regions of his body, deliberately
avoiding his private parts: I could not resist massaging each of his
sturdy legs in turn, and found myself nibbling occasionally at the firm
gluteus maximus directly before me. With gentle urging from my busy
hands, he turned around so the hot water struck his back: there, erect
before my anxiously waiting throat was a phallus of such perfect
proportions that I began to exclaim over its loveliness. But before I
could utter a sound Al grasped my head firmly but tenderly and thrust my
mouth down over his magnificent erection. I had not realized how much I
had excited him, for he ejaculated at once: his pubic hair commingled
with the very warm water delighted me as it rubbed my face, and his
balls, drawn up tightly against his penis felt hot as they rubbed my
chin. His whole body was involved in this act: his hands gripped my head
and synchronized its motion perfectly with each peristaltic contraction
of that great organ buried in my throat, and my hands against his broad
thighs felt the approach of each wave as the muscles worked harmoniously
to effect the expulsion of his vital fluids. Suddenly, with a huge sigh
of relief, he relaxed and gently pulled me up to stand before him: I at
once buried my head between his breasts and my own erection between those
powerful thighs. Hugging him to me at his waist, I exploded in a frenzied
orgasm of pleasure, heightened by the sound of his still-rapid heartbeat
and the manly fragrance that permeated my nostrils.

In this embrace, hot water flowing over us, we remained for some while
after I had calmed down from the feverish excitement of the events just
concluded. When at last I relaxed enough to look up into his eyes I knew
at once I had found someone who would look out for me in this new town.
Together we have achieved heights of passion exceeding even that just
described, and which indeed defy adequate description.


Bill: I had no idea when I began this letter it would turn out more like
a book!. I've got a class to catch in fifteen minutes, so I really have
to close. As I said at the beginning, I hope you get something out of it!

Sincerely,

Fred

                      ++++++++++++++++++++++

                                           San Francisco, July 10, 1976

Dear Bill,

Your reply to my long letter has gathered dust among my things for
several years now: I found it again while packing some stuff last week.
Since you seem interested in learning more of my life and to have other
escapades described, I'll oblige.

My first year in college was spent with Albert, or Alberto as I came to
know him, for eventually I learned he was of Latin-American descent. It
was a good year, marred only by a complete lack of direction to my
studies: I had never once thought of how I might earn my way in life, for
until this time I'd just never had to think about it! I dabbled in many
subjects, but found little that turned me on. Alberto, on the other hand,
*definitely* turned me on, regularly. He was a man of few words but of
many talents: he was a pretty good cook, so as I neared my eighteenth
birthday I had filled out some and was losing the boyish look that had
gotten me along in life that far. Our life together -- Alberto's and mine
-- was GREAT: I was not very expensive for him and he made a good living
at the service station (he owned it, I learned). I puzzled for many
months, though, about why such a desirable stud as he should be so
content with me when he could have had his pick of any of the single guys
(or gals!) among his customers.

One night after a long session in which we reached heights of rapture and
passion that can't adequately be described, I got to thinking that
Alberto knew as little of me, really, as I did of him. Nestled alongside
his magnificent form I unburdened myself of just about the only thing I
had left that he had not experienced: my past. Mainly I described for him
some of my early years, some of the escapades I've described for you, and
some doubts about my future. Al listened wordlessly, but when I happened
to mention (though I'd not intended to) my old "Alma Mater" (the Preston
School), he suddenly perked up and asked me to describe in great detail
that period of my life. So I launched into a long reverie about those
days. I was startled by the reaction from Al: despite our just having
completed sex, I found him very excited by my tales, and it was not long
before we were groping each other and working ourselves up to another
round. Suddenly, as if I had turned on a tape recorder, Alberto began to
unburden HIMself too, (exactly the effect I desired!) and I learned some
interesting things.

Albert had completed college with a degree in some sort of social work,
but after all his studies and efforts the only job he could find was as a
guard at a southern California correctional institution for boys! This
was a more modern facility than the one I'd attended, with smaller dorms,
more doctors and technicians, and (I soon learned) far more
"individualized" attention paid to the inmates. It seemed Albert had not
expected this. A few months after he was hired, he was transferred from
the day schedule of grounds patrol to the night crew of inside guards:
and here, it seems, his *real* education in "social work" began.

I had not immediately perceived that this institution was not State-run
like Preston, but was in fact a private organization. There were State
inspectors around occasionally, but the place was run -- for profit -- by
a group of Doctors. Courts could send offenders to this place when their
parents could afford the fees.

Alberto's first discovery was that the dorms were all built in such a way
that, unknown to any of the inmates, they could be observed in their
quarters at all times through innocent-looking wall mirrors. His second
discovery was that nearly all the observing done by the doctors of their
"patients" was done at night: days were occupied mostly with fitness
exercises and more-or-less routine school activities. Alberto also
discovered that even the toilets could be surveyed, and that everything
was "bugged" for sound as well. So the poor boys had no privacy
whatsoever, and the night "guards" had precious little "guarding" to do,
so spent most of their time watching, along with the doctors, the various
carryings-on in the dormitories.

These held just ten boys each, but assignments were changed frequently --
every week, in fact -- the doctors' idea apparently being that "therapy"
consisted mainly of mixing the boys very thoroughly together. Al
eventually realized that the frequent dorm changes actually hinged on the
doctors' desires to see as many different kinds of action as they could.
And from Alberto's accounts, they were never disappointed. Now I knew why
my descriptions of the scenes at Preston found such a ready listener in
Alberto, for he had an endless fund of similar tales about the things
he'd seen. For the next few months we were to regale each other with tale
after tale, usually as a prelude to our own sexual activities. Poor
Alberto: he had spent many months watching, but never *participating*. He
had a favorite dorm he nearly always watched, and he told me when he left
the institution the wall of that observation room was encrusted in cum
where he'd repeatedly sprayed his load after watching hours of juvenile
antics.

Eventually, Alberto decided sex was not a spectator sport, and,
disillusioned by the unconventional therapeutic methods, he quit his work
as a guard. He bought the gas station where I'd met him and had been in
business for himself ever since. Who knows what forces were at work that
cast me his way, but it seems I was the first boy he'd ever had, and he
was enjoying it immensely. And it was a near-perfect set-up for me as
well. Yet, as the months went by, I began to realize there was something
missing in our relationship: variety. I sensed that Alberto, too, might
wish for some occasional different fling.

One afternoon at school my rear-end reacted to Alberto's zeal of the
night before, and I went to the nearest john I could find which happened
to be upstairs in the Art-wing. Here I encountered my first glory-hole --
I was mystified by it at first, but as I completed my business I realized
there was someone watching me from the next booth. On impulse, I limbered
up my tool a bit, and when I noticed that lips had replaced the eyes
behind that hole I saw how handy it was. Without further ado I plugged
the hole and the warm throat beyond and had my first blow-job in a public
toilet. At the middle of my 18th year I never seemed to lack a good load
when the occasion demanded it, so without much effort but with quite a
thrill because of the newness of the technique I presently pumped forth a
goodly wad, relaxed briefly, put myself back together and departed.

The upshot of this experience was that I spent more and more of my "off"
time at school in the Art-wing john, sucking cock at a great rate. The
impersonal aspect of it appealed at the time, possibly because of the
intensely personal nature of my activities with Alberto. And, my, there
were some real beauties around that school! I got so I could recognize a
cock as soon as it poked through the hole, and I made it a point to
remember which of the various techniques now in my repertoire each
responded to best. I did some strange things along about this time, too:
for example one day I spent four hours in that cubicle (I cut a couple of
classes). Instead of blowing the cocks that presented themselves, though,
I jerked each one off, doing my best to get each load deposited on my
body. After four hours there I was literally drenched in cum -- I'd given
close to thirty hand-jobs -- and finally after spreading all that around
and especially down into my crotch I jerked myself off and actually shot
a spurt clean over the top of the toilet divider! How I wished my friend
the laundryman from Preston had been there to clean me up. As it was I
emptied the TP dispenser in the attempt, but finally had to go home and
take a shower.

That day was really my undoing at home, though, for Alberto saw me arrive
earlier than usual; he closed his station briefly and surprised me in the
shower. With the unmistakable odor of cum permeating the bathroom, he
could tell immediately I'd been up to something. Al was a gentle soul, so
I had no real fear of telling him just what I'd done: and he became so
turned on by my recounting the tale that he climbed into the shower with
me *with his clothes on*, whipped out his throbbing tool and threw a fuck
into me unlike any he'd ever done before. His gentle brutality coupled
with the extraordinary sensation of his soaked Levis slapping my buns and
legs worked me into a frenzy as well, so when with a lunge that pinned me
to the wall Alberto exploded in my interior, I shot my own wad yet again.

The end of the school year was approaching and Al asked me one night if I
had any summer plans. I'd not given it any thought, so he asked if I
wanted to work in his gas station. I couldn't imagine myself doing
anything really useful there, so I said, "doing what?" -- and he replied
with a sly smile, "you'll see". So it was that a month or so later
Alberto gave me a white uniform with my name embroidered on the pocket.
These were coveralls of a sort, but not at all baggy. In fact, I found I
could not wear them over other clothes as intended, but instead had to
slip into them with only my underclothes on. The effect was nice, and I
dimly perceived that I looked rather good in the outfit. When, as I
examined myself in the mirror I realized that I even showed a basket, I
began to understand (or so I thought!) the purpose I was to serve at the
station. "Business must be bad", I thought, and Al wants to pick things
up a little.

So on my first day at the new "job", I was really gung-ho, washing
windshields and so forth, all the time under Alberto's watchful eye. Now,
as an independent dealer, Al always closed his station for lunch.
Sometimes he ate at the hamburger joint, but he also had a little office
in back he could go into and eat sandwiches brought from home. So on that
first day we repaired to his office for lunch. Naturally, I asked how I
was doing, and again with a sly smile he replied, "Fine, but I didn't
really put you on here to wash windshields and fill batteries".
Surprised, I asked what he wanted me to do, and so Al unfolded his plan
for me -- and Boy, was it a beaut!

Though it had but three pumps, Al's station had a lot of parking space
around it. And, as I was about to discover, he'd had a few changes made
in the mensroom. He'd equipped it with two nicely closed toilet stalls
AND had carefully included a glory-hole between them. And (shades of his
days at the "correctional" institution!) he'd put in a one-way mirror
from his little office, that gave a full view of the interior of the
john. His plan was beautiful and simple: when either of us spotted a
horny-looking fellow alone, we'd suggest they park and check out the
john. Al had decided he wanted some action -- some variety -- and this
would be his method of getting it. Still a gorgeous hunk himself, and
with me running around in coveralls (that didn't *quite* cover all!) he
figured we couldn't fail to attract some action: of course, he was
absolutely right.

Nothing happened right away: the word had to "get around" about that
glory-hole. So I busied myself learning the business of selling gas,
making change and so forth, so that if Al were to be "away" from the job
for a while, I could manage. And as luck would have it, he was the first
to score in his new facilities. We'd worked out a set of signals, so when
he gave a particular whistle, I knew he was going to disappear. And his
first trick turned out to be quite a winner by any standards: a tall,
lanky youth with longish blond hair, a beach-boy face and complexion to
match, and an astonishingly long tool that found both the glory-hole and
Al's waiting throat just the ticket. After filling a tank, I got to the
one-way mirror just in time to see this fellow, pants around his knees
and hands gripping the top of the partition practically push it over flat
as he thrust his tool and shot his load into Al's fiery throat!. Back at
my place at the pumps, this fellow gave me an appreciative glance and a
winning smile of relief as he walked back to his car. Al's radiant smile
when he came out of the john told me (as if I didn't know!) he'd enjoyed
that score very much.

A couple of days later a snazzy convertible drove in with a fellow
driving I'd swear was too young to have a license: sure enough, there was
a learner's permit on the windshield. He ordered a dollar's worth of gas
and when he handed me the buck gave me a convincing, if nervous cruise. I
responded with a smile, a quick grope of my crotch, and a glance first at
the john door and then at the parking area. Then, whistling casually (but
meaningfully!) I sauntered into the john myself, where, not unexpectedly,
I was soon joined by the young man. He was bold, despite his
youthfulness, and walked directly into the same booth I occupied: no
glory-hole nonsense for this chap! In anticipation of just such an event
as this I had forsaken wearing anything under my coveralls, so when he
gripped the zipper and pulled it slowly down, the cloth parted to reveal
me in whatever naked glory I then possessed. Apparently it was glorious
enough for him, for his pants bulged forth, and it was with some
difficulty that I, responding to *his* opening gambit, managed to open
his fly and withdraw a really sporting cock. ["Boy, Alberto, I hope
you're watching this", I thought]. Feeling my friend was over-dressed for
the occasion, I proceeded to complete the removal of his clothes as far
as was necessary at any rate, for the task at hand. There ensued such
groping, pawing, feeling and stroking -- it seemed neither of us could
simply *feel* enough of the other! This fellow was HOT, and he wanted
foreplay -- with a capital P. I was happy to oblige, for he had, as I
said, a very nice pecker and a nice smooth youthful bod from which it
sprang with all sorts of ripply muscles that felt really good under my
fingers. Of course, he was warming me up to match his own mood: to my
surprise, he bent over and sucked me a little, rather inexpertly, before
I had a chance to try that on him. Then it was my turn to suck his
gorgeous tool, which I did (more expertly, I'm sure), but he did not seem
to want to come that way, and after a few moments he pulled me back
upright, commenced nibbling at my nipples, licking my arms, and generally
carrying on in a way guaranteed to work me up to a feverish pitch of
excitement. But he saved his real surprise for last, and when he sensed
that if he went much further I'd drop my load before he was ready for it,
he spun around, bent over slightly and slipped my dick up his ass as one
might sheath a sword. I decided this guy was not as inexperienced as I'd
first thought, and I was right on: with my cock buried in his behind, he
commenced "working with it" in a way I had never previously  experienced.
There was no in-and-out motion, but his whole rear-end seemed to be made
of muscles he could contract at will. It was an extraordinary sensation!
He pushed me back against the wall, and I realized he was watching our
reflection in the mirror (THE mirror!) so I knew (or hoped) Al was
getting a great view. Not wishing to miss out, I reached around and
grasped the erect tool I saw reflected, but my hand was pushed away.
There ensued a most amazing experience. Picture it: I, my back against
the wall with my entire cock buried in this amazing asshole, and my
friend, without any noticeable exterior motion was working me over such
that I would come at any moment. His hands gripped my buns, assuring that
I remained impaled to the hilt and preventing either himself or me from
touching his pulsating tool. Unavoidably, inevitably, I suddenly yielded
to these astonishing actions and began what seemed at the time one of the
longest ejaculations I'd ever had. Simultaneously, my friend climaxed as
well, without so much as touching his own penis. It was so perfectly
synchronized that each time I shot *my* wad, it seemed to emanate from
*his* dick, and in wave-after-wave of physical ejection we spent, my seed
appearing to go right through him and out on to the opposite wall!

To this day, I have never had an exactly similar experience! Our bodies
eventually calmed down and parted, clothes got put back on, dishevelment
rearranged, and too quickly my friend was gone. Neither of us had spoken
a word since he'd ordered his "dollar's-worth" -- I only hope he felt
he'd gotten top value! I was exhausted, and although Al was pumping gas
when I made my reappearance, a glance at the wall below THE mirror told
me he'd been pumping something else -- so it was a unanimous experience.

Well, Bill, we really had a thing going at that gas station, believe me.
The word got around quickly; there were just dozens of horny students,
many without work and little to do, who enjoyed our services. Al re-named
the place the "service station", and towards the end of summer even put
up a sign calling it a "full service" station, as if nearly every guy in
town didn't already know it. We had a lot of repeat business, though to
my annoyance the boy with the "educated asshole" (as we nick-named him)
never came in again; he must just have been passing through.

But all good things come to an end, of course. While at first our little
game enhanced my relationship with Al, it eventually supplanted our
activities together -- mostly, I guess, as things really got going we
were just too tired to do anything together most of the time. The wall
under THE mirror really got funky. One day I cleaned off the innumerable
loads Al and I had shot there as we watched each other carrying-on, and
somehow that little act seemed to signify the end of a good thing. And
then, with the kind of timing I'm beginning to think is pre-arranged, the
most amazing thing happened: I stepped up to a car window, leaned down to
inquire what was wanted, and found myself staring right into the face  of
my beloved Oral Washburn!

We were both struck dumb by this event, so utterly unexpected by either
of us. When I finally found my voice, I could only softly speak his name,
and then tears clouded my vision, for before me was my first real lover,
even more handsome than when I'd seen him last. Sniffing back my tears, I
said, "What will you have, Sir", and his reply was the sweetest word I'd
ever heard. With that radiant smile I'd never forgotten. he said, simply,
"You", and with a flick of his head indicated I should get into his car,
which is exactly what I did. As Oral drove out on to the boulevard, I
collapsed in his lap and bawled with joy at seeing him. His free hand --
that gorgeously sculpted hand I remembered so well -- stroked my hair and
soothed me.

We drove what seemed like hours; eventually I fell asleep, my head in
Oral's lap and my feet tucked up on the seat cushion. The motor's quiet
hum and Oral's soothing hand worked magic and I slept a long, deep,
dreamless, rehabilitating kind of sleep I had not known for a long time.
When I awoke in a motel room, I was clinging to my lover's sleeping form
as though I could never let go. But Oral was not asleep, and when he
sensed I'd wakened, he asked me what I was doing there in that gas
station. I told him I was ashamed to tell him some of what I'd been
doing, but that I really did push gas sometimes. Then Oral asked if I
could forgive him for walking out on me, for marrying a girl, and for
dropping all contact with me. Of course I could -- and did -- forgive him
all these things. He said the marriage had lasted only a short time, he'd
realized it was a big mistake, but that when he went back to look for me
I had disappeared. The folks knew I had gone to College, so whenever he
could get away from work he would visit the town in hopes of finding me. 
The College authorities had refused to give him my address. Then he heard
some guys talking at a drive-in about the full-service gas station, and
lonely, discouraged and horny, he'd driven in to see what might happen.

What happened, of course, I've already explained. What happened next was
simply fantastic. Oral and I stayed at the motel a week, during which
time he saw to it I ate well and put back a little of the weight I'd lost
in those frantic orgies at the full-service station. We shopped for a new
wardrobe, since I'd left the station with only the coveralls I was
wearing -- Oral wouldn't let me throw those away, though. There seemed no
good reason to go back to Al's to pick up the few thing I had there, so I
abandoned them, and wrote Al a letter explaining my disappearance. But I
did not put on a return address: I felt that was a chapter of a book best
left closed. Although Oral and I slept together that whole week in the
motel, we had no sex. I just seemed to be all played out, and patient,
gentle Oral seemed content just to hold me at night. So I slept and slept
and slept, ate well, and by the end of the week was in fine spirits.

Oral had said nothing whatever of future plans, but one day told me to
pack my things, so I guessed we were moving on, but he would not say
where we were going. Seemingly, when we got on the road we were just out
for a drive, vaguely northward, but on back roads and up into the hills a
bit. But late in the afternoon I realized we were actually headed home,
and sure enough, about six that August evening, with just a touch of Fall
in the air, we pulled up in front of the old Washburn place, which hadn't
changed a bit. But I was unprepared for what I found when we went inside:
there was a banner with "WELCOME HOME FREDDIE" stretched across the
dining-room doorway, the living room was festooned with streamers and
balloons, the dining table was piled high with food, and as I took in the
scene the whole damn family, led by Mom in her apron, burst from the
kitchen singing, dancing, whooping and carrying-on. Mom embraced me,
literally taking me off my feet, then dissolved in tears of joy; Dad
grasped my hand warmly and huskily wished me welcome home; there was
Earl, with Margaret on his arm, all smiles of joy; somewhere a baby was
wailing, and I guessed it was theirs. Amid all this din and confusion
Oral pulled me to him and with both of us now in tears he said, "Welcome
*home*!" and kissed me full on the mouth as the whole family whooped and
hollered some more. I heard Earl exclaim, "By golly, they still make a
cute couple", and Dad's rejoinder, "Shucks, Son, you'd think they was
gettin' married or something"; Mom, stifling a great sob of joy said,
"Well, I surely hope they do this time: I can't stand seeing Oral pinin'
the way he's been".

Bill, that was a night I'll *never* forget. We ate, we drank, we sang, we
cried, we ate more, we drank more, and we sang more. It was the greatest
outpouring of love I'd ever received. Amidst it all I perceived at last
that it was a home-coming for Oral as well, for he'd not been living at
home since his divorce, but was now moving back in -- with me there to
share his home, his family, his bed, his joys, and eventually his
sorrows. I guess he'd tipped off Mom by phone, because she had his old
room all done up, clean as a whistle, the bed turned down and -- ever
thoughtful -- a stack of towels beside the bed.

So when, in the wee hours of the morning Oral and I fell into that bed,
after Earl and Maggie and baby Mike had gone home, and Mom and Dad had
cleaned up some of the dishes then quietly hugged us both goodnight and
gone off to their room -- when we fell into that bed we fell as well into
each other. We re-wrote the book of sex techniques that night, or
morning, rather, and converted the stack of towels into a limp pile of
laundry before tumbling off to sleep just as the sun was rising.

The rest of that summer Oral and I were inseparable. I found to my
delight I could still work him up to such a pitch of excitement that his
vigorous and enthusiastic climaxes could often induce a voluntary
ejaculation from me; I never tired of spraying my copious loads over his
smooth olive skin. Once in a while he would drag out my old coveralls and
make me wear them around the house for a day: that night we would re-
enact our miraculous re-uniting and go on from there to new heights of
passion. I never ceased to be amazed at Oral's inventive capacity in bed,
and when some new idea struck him and we found it further elevated our
levels of passion we would both exclaim later that there could seemingly
be nothing left to make sex any better.

Oral and I both returned to the local Junior College, he a year ahead of
me still. Somehow the contentment, the family loyalty and the sheer joy
of living combined, and I found I had interests in things other than sex,
though truthfully, sex was certainly my first love and greatest talent. I
found my career in my third year at college, when I enrolled in a
photography class: the endless possibilities of photography amazed me,
and it seemed I had the right combination of "eye" and other attributes.
That third summer I bought a cheap camera and used up dozens of rolls of
film photographing all sorts of things -- I even sold one shot to the
local newspaper, and got a couple of honorable-mentions in some contests
I sent things to.

But of course it was Oral who was first to see how I should best combine
my new-found interest with my natural inclinations. Where he got the
money to buy me a Polaroid camera (they were *expensive* in those days!)
I'll never know, but buy it he did, and I quickly built up an album of
photographs of him. I have the album still, all that remains of my first
great love. After exhausting the possibilities photographing Oral, he
began shooting me, and when I scraped together a few bucks and got the
add-on time-release gadget, we photographed ourselves together doing what
we liked best in every possible way. I'm lucky to have those photos now,
and they're still some of by best work, though out of respect for Oral,
the family, and the special nature of our relationship I've never
published any of them.

- Bruce Bramson, 1992

                      ++++++++++++++++++++++

[continued]

Oral was drafted into the Army as soon as he graduated, and after boot-
camp was sent to Korea. Like many others, he never returned. We had
tearfully agreed when we parted that he was not to waste his beautiful
body "waiting" for me, so I have some choice letters from him describing
some of his experiences in detail. It seems he found young Korean boys
very much to his liking. I used to read and re-read those letters,
imagining every vivid detail, until my balls ached as much as my lonely
heart, and a few quick strokes would send my pent-up load out over the
empty bed beside me -- my imagination had to fill that space with my
lover's image. Oral's last letter describes a male brothel he found in
Seoul, where he carried on a whole night with several *dozen* young
Koreans, and he described each one in such exquisite detail that I could
virtually spend the whole night there with him. Soon after that last
letter came the notice from the Army: "Missing in Action", it said. I've
always believed the Army was deceived and that Oral went "over the hill"
with a Korean cutie: my mind simply cannot cope with the notion that his
gorgeous body was wasted and destroyed in that stupid war, so Oral lives
on in my memory tumbling in and out of bed with a succession of sexy
boys: truly, "missing -- in action!"

So I spent my fourth year of college the way I'd spent my fourth year of
high school: without a lover. The Washburn household was plunged into
gloom at the news of Oral's demise. For the first time in many years I
actually went without any sexual contact with others for months, though I
confess I did have some rather weird private sessions, using my books of
photos and long letters from Oral to kindle my fantasies. But life is for
the living, time heals all wounds, and eventually some sort of normalcy
returned to our lives. With few distractions my studies went well and I
had no reason for shame when I graduated (as far as grades were
concerned). As far as sex was concerned, however, about mid-year I
chanced to meet one of the college "star" athletes: he lived not far from
the Washburn place, and although I'd never noticed him at all when Oral
was around, I did realize one afternoon that he was a very well set-up
fellow. His specialty was pole-vaulting, but he played many other sports
depending on the season. His name was Art Pederson, a very blond Swede,
about as opposite in appearance to Oral as anyone could be.

Art drove me home from campus many afternoons. Although ruggedly
handsome, with clothes on he was not particularly striking. But one day I
chanced to cross the athletic field and was startled to be greeted by a
God-like specimen of young manhood wearing only training briefs: it was
Art, and I saw at once how singularly appropriate his name was! I suppose
everyone forms an image of "the perfect body", and here before me was the
closest person to that image I'd ever seen. Every ounce of him was muscle
-- but not the gross, over-built muscle of the body-builder -- just good,
old-fashioned healthy male muscle. His skin was nearly transparent: as I
watched him running towards the pit for a vault, I could detect the
rhythmic flexing of every individual muscle in his body. He ran with the
grace of a greyhound, made every motion count as he let his pole flip him
up and over the bar, and fell into the sawdust pile with a boyish grin of
pleasure and accomplishment.

But my first thoughts of Art were not as a sex-object, but as a
photographic model: I thought, "This near-perfect male MUST be captured
on film!" My mind raced for days, considering lighting and background
details I thought might be suitable: it would be tricky, I knew, to
capture that pale skin in a way that would not look unreal or washed-out.
So, when some of my ideas had crystallized, I decided to ask Art to pose
for some figure-studies I needed for a photography class (I didn't tell
him I'd completed the class the year before!) He was not too keen on the
idea at first, but I was able to flatter his athletic ego sufficiently to
persuade him to have at least one session. I told him we'd work with the
Polaroid at first, just to explore the possibilities (but didn't tell him
I owned no other camera at the time). To further secure his agreement I
suggested we take the first shots in his "natural" setting -- the
athletic field -- early one Sunday morning.

Well, the results of that first session were, photographically, simply
awful! I couldn't control the lighting or the background; Art moved too
fast; I couldn't get close enough with the camera to capture just HIM
without all sorts of other stuff; everything came out badly exposed, or
fuzzy, or he was just a speck in a great blur. *Nothing* worked right.
Just ONE of the dozens of shots I took that morning succeeded, and that
was entirely by accident. I was lying on my back in the sawdust, the idea
being to get Art just as he cleared the bar. But I was too late with the
shutter, and the result was a perfect shot looking right up Art's leg to
his bulging jock-strap. Since he was on his descent, his shorts caught in
the wind and were carried up and away from his crotch, so there was
"everything he had" (cupped in elastic) captured forever on film.

When at last I ran out of film we drove to Art's place to view the
results. I was miserable: the pictures were *really* bad. So I begged him
to try some "studio" work the following weekend, and he finally agreed,
mainly I think because he saw how badly I felt about the results so far.
Of course, the "studio" had to be my bedroom, as there was no other
place.

The following Sunday, with the folks away at church, Art came over for
his first studio session -- the first of many, as it turned out. He was
quite unabashed about changing out of his street clothes into his trunks
right on the spot, and I missed many a good shot of that, not wishing to
do anything to put him off. But with better control of all the variables,
I did manage to get some better shots of him, although neither of us
really knew a whole lot about proper posing. To my surprise, the
attention of the lens being paid to him and his body had an interesting
effect: he kept getting a hard-on, which he tried his best to conceal and
I to capture on film. I never said a word about it through the whole
session, until down to my last piece of film, at which point (mainly
joking) I said, "OK: on this last shot, pull your jock aside and let that
gorgeous hard show through your shorts". Having reacted dutifully to my
commands all morning, he automatically did just as I bid and I clicked
the shutter before he quite realized what I'd said -- and he'd done. So,
a minute later, there it was, the head exposed just below the seam of his
shorts and every inch of the shaft outlined in the snowy whiteness of the
flimsy cloth. Realizing what had happened, he good-naturedly tried to
snatch the finished photo away, but I quickly shuffled it into the pile
with the others, and in the ensuing friendly tug-of-war I myself quickly
developed a hard-on. Teasing him, I unzipped my fly and flipped out my
tool, to discover from his reaction that our "session" was only about to
begin. In a trice Art shed his shorts, flopped on the bed and began
jacking-off. Still feigning interest in photography, I said, "You *would*
do that AFTER I've run out of film", and jumped all around the room with
the empty camera snapping imaginary shots from every possible angle of
him jerking himself off. Then I said, "I've even got the delay gadget
that will get us both in the picture", and I put the camera on the book-
case, shed my pants and hopped on to the bed with Art. Alas, it was all
too much for him: before I could try *anything* he shot his wad all over
the place. All I could do was lick up that sweet cum, which stirred him
up again and before I was finished he quickly jerked himself off again
and sprayed his load in my hair! Then he fell asleep, leaving me blue-
balled and unrelieved.

These Sunday sessions were to continue through the end of the year. God,
what a frustrating time it was! I have since learned a lot about the
typical athletic ego-trip, but in those days I was mystified by Art, who
never had the slightest interest in ME. Over the months I built up a
portfolio of him from every conceivable angle; I eventually got the
series I wanted of him undressing; finally I got him to pose nude, both
flaccid and erect, and even got the shots I wanted of him squirting his
loads all over himself. Once, he "broke training" and had a couple of
beers, and I got the photos I wanted of us together, and in this way
introduced him to getting his cock sucked, which he clearly enjoyed. But
through the entire period of our association he never once touched me.
After he'd gotten his rocks off a couple of times it was the end of the
day's session, so after he left I had to work by myself, spraying my
pent-up frustration out of the end of my cock. The huge collection of
Polaroid shots of Art I'd accumulated helped, but there really is NO
substitute for response and attention from another body.

Near the end of that year a bunch of bureaucratic red-tape unravelled and
I learned that Oral had made me beneficiary of his Army life insurance
policy: I received the sum of $25,000, and naturally immediately fancied
myself as rich. Only the Washburns' wise counsel prevented me from going
on a spree. I had learned at school of something called the West Coast
Institute of Photography, and I decided to enroll there. This would take
me to the big city - San Francisco - for the first time in my life. So,
once again there were tearful farewells from all the Washburns and I took
a bus to what I was soon calling "the City" as everyone else did. While
looking for a place near the institute, I stayed at the YMCA, and was
amazed to find glory-holes in nearly every john on the 7th floor, and
plenty of activity. I spent an entire Saturday in one john, and bettered
my previous record for hand-jobs by quite a margin. As usual, the black
cocks, of which there were quite a few, drew my best efforts. Tricks
would come into the booth next to mine, look through the hole and see me
rubbing cum all over myself, and the sight (and smell) would bring them
instantly to life; so all day long there poked through that hole a
succession of peckers of every size, type and description: I got a load
out of each and every one.

One day as I rounded a turn in the hallway I literally bumped into a
nice-looking black fellow who had a camera strapped around his neck. We
struck up a conversation. His name was George, and he was on his way to a
pool party; he invited me to come along. The party was somewhere in Marin
County, and as we drove over I learned that George planned to go also to
the Institute ("Going to the WC", as he referred to it) so we discussed
the possibility of getting a place together. Of course I didn't know this
guy from Adam, but then he didn't know me either. But the more we talked
the more we seemed to have in common, and the more I saw of him, the more
interested I became in his body which appeared to be very neatly put
together. Somewhere along the way I realized I had no bathing-suit along,
but George didn't appear to have one either, unless he was already
wearing it.

It was a perfect afternoon for a pool party in Marin, warm and sunny, but
I was quite unprepared for it. Perhaps a dozen cars were parked in the
cul-de-sac at the end of which, somewhat apart from the other houses was
a typical ranch-style home. We were greeted enthusiastically at the door
by a fellow in a terry-cloth robe and ushered directly to a pool-side
dressing-room. This was festooned with clothing, to which we added our
own. I was just going to ask George if they had any bathing-suits to
spare when, buck naked, he disappeared through a door and a splash
moments later told me he'd hit the water. Fired by my brief glance at his
bare backside, I went through the same door and found myself beside a
large pool, in and around which were about twenty guys, all nude, and a
quick glance revealed a few couples making-out here and there. Well, I
felt right at home and plunged into the pool, almost forgetting that I'm
a lousy swimmer! George surfaced near me, and with an unmistakable and
delicious grope under water said, "Welcome to the club!" and while I was
not quite sure what he meant, his busy hands convincingly conveyed the
warmth of his welcome and were certainly welcome to me, so long had it
been that anyone had seemed much interested in me.

What an afternoon that was! George knew everyone there, and introduced me
around. To most of them he introduced me as his new lover (to my
astonishment!), and as if to prove it, presently threw me onto a
centrally-placed mattress in the yard and turned me on: he knew just how
to do it, and while it was my first virtually public display of sex, I
soon forgot the spectators and concentrated on making George really
appreciate what he'd found. It was one of the grander orgies of my life,
for George was an experienced and skillful partner: together we put on a
performance which (I was told later) held the attention of the entire
group for more than an hour, and the conclusion of which ignited numerous
other orgies around the pool. Exhausted, we slept through them all.

George and I became fast friends, room-mates, and fellow students at the
"WC", but alas, we did not become lovers. He was the first "one-shot" I'd
ever met, so it puzzled me at first. His thrill was in the conquest, and
once that was made, he was off seeking another. But I valued his
friendship and through him met many very nice people and learned a lot
about the more-or-less "underground" gay life in San Francisco at that
time. George and I used each other as models when we both took a figure-
studies class at the WCIP, carefully turning in to the instructor the
shots we managed to get (with some effort!) that were not pornographic:
those that were, I cherish yet.

The roof fell in at the end of our first year. Our final exam in that
same figure-studies class required us to present a portfolio of what we
considered our best work. George was convinced the instructor was gay (he
was right!) so without telling me, he slipped three of my most lascivious
shots of himself into MY portfolio before turning both of them in. As
luck would have it, the instructor got sick and gave the task of grading
the work to another -- a woman who had neither a sense of humor nor of
fair play. I was summarily expelled from school. Poor George! It fell
upon him to explain to me what had happened; he, too was expelled, a more
serious matter for him because he had very little money. But when we both
began to picture the outraged uproar the woman instructor must have
created when she found those pictures, we got to laughing and shrieking
almost hysterically, and turned our despair into endless mirth. George
made up for his prank in the only way he could: he slept with me
exclusively for a week, and as far as I know I remain the only person in
the world to have had him more than once.

George returned to his family somewhere back east, and I found myself
with time on my hands, no firm plans for the summer, and a larger
apartment than I needed, so I was really at loose ends. That summer's
events developed unexpectedly...

George and I had gotten to know rather well a family living in the same
building, Tom and Susan Li. Susan was a rather plain mid-westerner and
had met -- then married -- Tom, who was Indonesian/Chinese. This unusual
combination was great, and they liked George and myself I guess in part
because we, too were something of a mixture. They were sorry to see
George leave (as was I). Susan shocked me to the core shortly thereafter
by saying casually over coffee one morning, "You don't seem very broken
up about losing your lover". I'd had no idea that's what they thought,
but hastened to explain that such was not the case and went on to regale
her with the real truth about why we were out of school. We both had a
good laugh over it. The Li's had only one child, a lovely youth of (I'd
judged) 12 or so, very quiet and introspective. So retiring was he that I
don't suppose I'd spoken thirty words to this fellow: not that he was
unfriendly, just withdrawn and busy with his own things.

A couple of weeks later I had dinner with the Li's, and over coffee they
unfolded for me a fantastic plan, one that flattered, intrigued, but also
scared me a little. They were anxious, it seemed, to take a second
honeymoon, and plainly didn't want their son along. They said they'd also
been informed by the school and others that all available evidence
suggested their son would be homosexual. This prospect did not bother
either of them, except that, as they put it, they wanted his first
experiences along these lines to be with a good, warm, loving and not-
too-much-older person. Their proposal was that Tommy (Junior) would stay
the summer with me while they went to Indonesia, and my instructions were
to use my own best judgement as to how best, and when, to" bring him
out". I was surprised to learn he was actually 15, instead of the 12 I'd
guessed. They had, they said, already discussed the matter (up to a
point...) with Junior, and he had not seemed adverse to the arrangement.

Thus, in the summer of my 20th year, I became mentor to this budding
young man. While the arrangements were being made I saw more of Junior,
and realized the prospect of working with his was not at all unpleasant:
he was, I suddenly noticed, a very beautiful boy, slightly built and
small, combining agreeably all the best features of his parents. Still, I
had some doubts: he was not effete, and never said anything about sex,
girls, boys, or anything that made me think he had any predilections;
would I really do him a favor by bringing him out, or was this just some
weird trip his parents were on? And, as one who had simply found the gay
life rather accidently and stayed with it, I realized I had little useful
knowledge about how to go about my appointed task. As we became better
acquainted, I could not imagine Tommy initiating anything, so I figured
the first moves would be up to me, but what these might be I was not
sure. A week or so later, Tom and Susan departed, Tommy was ensconced in
my spare bedroom with his familiar things, and the next moves were,
indeed, up to me.

We spent the first week or so getting to know each other better, went to
a couple of movies, and played a lot of canasta, Tommy's favorite card
game. He was good at it, and usually won. Towards the end of July we had
a few days of hot weather, and one evening as we played cards Tommy
disappeared briefly and returned with only his shorts on -- and I nearly
came unglued! He wasn't just *beautiful*, he was spectacularly lovely, a
miniature man in bronze with doll-like proportions and absolutely smooth
skin. How I longed to scoop him up in my arms and throw him into bed! But
I didn't, and I'm almost ashamed to tell you what I DID do. After losing
badly at cards the rest of the evening, we finally decided it was time
for sleep, and toddled off to our respective beds. I, however, slept
little: the vision of that beautiful, beautiful boy in the next room swam
through ny mind and sleep would not come -- though something else nearly
did as I played with myself. About midnight I got up to pee and glanced
into Tommy's open room as I passed the door. There, stretched out on the
bed with neither clothes nor covers was Tommy, sleeping as only the young
do, the scene illuminated by moonlight. I told myself there was a chill
creeping in and he should be covered: but it was not a chill, but I who
crept in, with the intention of putting at least a sheet over him. But
when I got to the bed, I simply could not resist touching that exquisite 
form. I swept the hair back from his eyes, gently kissed his cheek, then
let my fingers roam at will over that sensuous body, the sensation
sending chills up my spine. Watching for signs I might be awakening him,
I ran a hand across his tight, youthful belly, down along one hip and
thigh, and back up towards his crotch. There was neither a stir nor an
eye-lid flicker from him, yet when my hand instinctively found his penis,
it was erect like my own. Though his was small, it was proportionate to
the rest of him, so its size seemed completely unimportant. I held it a
few moments, and, satisfied that Tommy was sound asleep, I bent over and
took his cock in my mouth, experiencing quite a thrill as it pulsed
rhythmically in response to his heartbeat. But Tommy remained asleep, and
after a few moments I decided it would be more fun to get another sort of
response, which I resolved to get soon! So I dropped a sheet gently over
him, fascinated by the little tent his still-erect penis made, and
returned to my room. Within seconds I had sprayed my load all over
myself, mopped it up, and dropped into fitful sleep.

I repeated these nocturnal visits to Tommy's bedroom for several nights;
there was never any indication that he consciously knew of them. My
dissatisfaction with the arrangement grew. Then the weather turned cool
again and I no longer had an excuse to "visit". One evening a few days
later we had watched TV for a while. Tommy had been unusually quiet all
day, almost morose, and suddenly as we sat on the sofa together he moved
over to me and unexpectedly burst into tears! I realized at once he was
missing his parents, so put my arm around him and drew him close. Through
his sobs I learned he thought his folks had abandoned him, so I had to
reassure him that they were indeed scheduled to return, but that for the
summer I had to take their place. Knowing how lonely he felt, I suggested
we could sleep together in my big bed that night: Tommy agreed without
comment, so a while later we both prepared for bed.

Tommy got ready for bed in his room as I did in mine; I was already in
bed, nude as usual, when he came in wearing pajamas. I could see he was
still feeling lonely and sad, so when he slipped into bed with me I
turned off the lamp, put my arm beneath his neck and pulled him against
me. He rolled, threw his arm across my chest and discovered to his
evident amazement that I had nothing on. "Why no pee-jays?" he inquired.
"I don't like them", I replied. "I don't really like them, either", he
said: "So, take yours off, then", I suggested. Tommy complied, then
settled back against me. "Doesn't it feel better without them?" I asked.
His reply was a sleepy sort of "hmmmmm", and I feared he would drift
right off to sleep, so I began stroking his back with the hand I had free
in that area, and reached across my chest to push his hear back from his
forehead, which I kissed. His response was to begin some tentative
stroking of my chest with the hand he had tossed across it. Of course, I
was on FIRE!. "It"s now or never", I thought to myself.

We explored each other gently for a while, and it became very warm
beneath the covers; these I presently threw back a ways, not so far as to
expose us below the waist, for I was still not certain what Tommy's
reaction would be if I explored that area. But I made no effort to hide
the large mound made in the covers by my erection, and it was plainly
visible in the pale moonlight. But Tommy was relaxed and had his eyes
closed: only his slowly moving hands told me he was not asleep. Then I
noticed, with a distinct elevation in the degree of my own excitement,
that unmistakable throb as his penis began to swell against my side! So I
let my own busy hands roam a little farther, and presently, by stretching
a little, I was able to run my hand down over his hip to the inside of
his thigh and back up to his stomach, very near his crotch: and whereas
when he'd been sleeping on previous nights this had brought no visible
reaction, now there was a real twinge of pleasure from him, and he
pressed his now-rigid pecker harder against me. Then, apparently
emboldened by my suggestive excursion, his own hand made a slow pass down
my stomach, past my crotch and along the inside of my thigh, then more
slowly and hesitatingly up inside my crotch. His delicate hand cupped my
balls for a moment, then his fingers wrapped themselves around my wand.
He seemed unsure of what to do with his handful, played with it just a
few moments, then brought his hand back up to my chest.

And then, Mother Nature took over! There is a rutting instinct in us all,
waiting only for the right moment to burst out and guide our bodies to
sexual Nirvana. Without a word, but with a quiet smile and relaxed
expression, Tommy stirred, rolled over and on top of me. Clumsily, but
with the sure guidance of instinct, he slipped my cock into the space
between his thighs and began to hump my stomach in a slow but steady
rhythm. He laid his head on my chest and I ran my fingers through his
fine, straight black hair, moved his arms around behind my neck, stroked
his back and generally met his movements with appropriate moves of my
own. Then I lifted his lips to mine and received his first, fumbling
kiss: but from that moment on I knew his parents and others had been
right, for his tongue, after a few tentative explorations, plunged into
my mouth and he drove his hips against my groin and entered into this new
activity with obvious joy and enthusiasm.

And as we kissed, and kissed, and kissed again, his lithe hips wrought
their magic on my cock, and his ever-deepening and somewhat more rapid
thrusts against my stomach told me his first orgasm was approaching.
Suddenly he gasped with pleasure, pushed against me with all his weight,
became rigid, and I felt wave after wave of muscular contractions as his
sweet boy-essence flowed copiously out between our mated stomachs. So
excited was I by this that my own seed spewed forth, landing on his
perfectly-shaped buttocks and on his back as I returned his rigid thrust,
locked in his embrace.

We relaxed slowly and without words, drifting into sleep without changing
position. Yet, within a couple of hours we were awake again: Tommy was
already aroused a second time, and although my cum had dried or dripped
away from his back, his own first load was still fairly moist, trapped
between our flesh. I gently rolled Tommy off me on to his back, and went
to work with my tongue, gathering up his generous exudate and working him
up to a new pitch of excitement. There was more moonlight in the room
now, so I could see his lithe little body glistening here and there, and
I could see the wonder in his face as each new sensation exploded in his
consciousness. Before long I had enveloped his rigid pecker in my mouth,
and this time with but little effort was rewarded by a fresh ejaculation
of his sweet cum, accompanied by moans of pleasure. Once again we fell
asleep...

..for a while! Ah, youth! In a couple of hours Tommy was awake yet
again, as was I. He needed no prompting when after some preliminary
fondling, I presented my backside to his protruding tool. Once again,
instinct took over and I found him inside me very quickly. The thrill and
excitement of "something new" expressed itself in his wild, if
occasionally uncoordinated fucking. Driven by Nature, he nibbled at my
neck, put his arms around me and hugged me tight then reached beneath my
belly and gripped my cock, obviously relishing his new experiences as he
ground his hips against my willing butt. This time his youthful shouts as
he triumphantly shot another load excited me, too, and when he had calmed
only a little I rolled us over quickly so I was on top of him with his
still-throbbing pecker buried in my ass. I took his right hand in mine
and quickly taught him the requisite motion as I closed his fingers
around my turgid penis, and within moments we both moaned with pleasure
as his flying fist brought forth another eruption from my plumbing.

Any lingering doubts I might have had about Tommy's willingness to
participate in sex were dispelled in the wee hours of the morning when, 
after a few more hours of sleep, I awoke to the pleasant sensation of
Tommy playing with my cock, which quickly rose to the occasion. When he
saw I was awake, he rolled over and presented his backside to me! But I
deliberately let my cock slip too low and go between his legs and told
him we should leave that for another time. "I want to know how it feels",
he said, so I wet my finger and began working it into his behind: "It
feels sort of like this, only bigger", I said, and I could tell he was
not so comfortable as he'd expected. "And maybe tonight, after some rest,
we'll try it", I said, "but not now". I felt him relax, then; I gave his
hard little pecker an affectionate squeeze, and told him to get more
sleep. He curled up contentedly in my arms, I nuzzled his cheek, and we
slept.

Well, Bill, I won't bore you with further details of my summer with
Tommy. Suffice to say I taught him everything I knew, that he was an
eager learner, that his parents felt I'd done my job well, and that Tommy
has gone on to "bigger and better things"; we're still in touch, and I'm
sure he could write you a letter as long as this one about his
experiences.

But I've got work to do, so will close, and perhaps down the line will
continue this narrative for you.

Sincerely,

Freddie

[continued]

(c) Bruce Bramson - 1992

                      ++++++++++++++++++++++

                                                 Manila, October 1986

Dear Bill,

When you wrote that ten years have passed since you heard from me, I was
startled: time does seem to fly by. But as I never throw anything away, I
was able to find a copy of my last letter to you, and you're right! So
I'll pick up where that letter left off...

I appealed my expulsion from the WCIP; the instructor who'd caused the
ruckus had retired, and since George had confessed that the prank was
entirely his idea, I was allowed to return. Here my career took another
turn, for I got very interested in video. Thanks to the Japanese, the
technology was advancing rapidly, and it was clear to at least a few
visionaries that videotapes ("X"-rated and otherwise) would soon be a
huge industry.

Classes at the "WC" were fun and captured my interest. So did the
instructor who taught the only class in video technology - how to repair
cameras and players - and we became first good friends, and eventually
steady pals. Although I was also going to a local electronics school to
learn much more about the "nuts and bolts" of video, I found enough time
to squeeze in Frank's "nuts AND bolt" fairly regularly. Still, there were
lots of times we'd go out drinking together and go our separate ways with
other dates: that's how it was in the late 70s.

Following Commencement at the WCIP, I took stock, and found I had (a) not
much money left; (b) a passable portfolio of camera and video footage
that was NOT pornographic; and (c) a much larger collection of stuff that
was! The latter got me a series of jobs as a photographer or videographer
at some of the porn studios that sprang up like mushrooms (and as quickly
disappeared) around town. At first this was all exciting and fun, and
since I was not exactly a troglodyte myself as I approached thirty, I
"got it on" with more than a few of the studs that passed before my
lenses. I even appeared in a few short takes. But it was a crass
business: as soon as a "star" developed the slightest blemish or showed a
wrinkle in the wrong place, he was unceremoniously "dumped" from the
studio's stable. I stuck with it for a year or so, becoming increasingly
disillusioned but fairly well-off financially, as I didn't spend much
money.

I abandoned this work when I was offered a job with a company that made
travelogues. My first assignment was in Quito, Ecuador, so I polished up
my high-school Spanish and joined a motley crew of writers, "artists" and
directors. We travelled by ship, because we had a lot of heavy equipment,
and because it was cheaper than flying. I soon found that I was far from
being the only gay guy aboard: among our company, the few other
passengers, and especially the crew, I found an interesting "assortment".
This was my first experience with a ship registered in Liberia, a crew
that was almost entirely from Hong Kong, plying a route along the west
coast of South America, and carrying mostly "gringo" passengers (and some
freight). It seemed an odd combination. Being averse to mixing "business
with pleasure", I had little to do (except professionally) with our
group, and I found most of the passengers seemed more charmed by the
"glitter" of a TV crew; but my interest in mechanical things soon found
me down in the bowels of the ship examining huge engines, and it was
scarcely the flick of a wrist before I was examining a few other things!
Despite their origins, most of the crew spoke at least some english, but
still it was through "sign language" that we communicated most clearly. I
had no idea how long it might have been since these fellows had been
ashore, but judging by the degree of horniness among them, it must have
been some time. So, having a new "bod" around to experiment with brought
out the best in them. The only problem was that the engine rooms were
very hot, and there was always grease, oil or dirt around. The crew spent
most of their time stripped to bathing-suits, and often less; to avoid
ruining the small wardrobe I'd brought along, I was reduced to doing the
same. And of course there was NO privacy to be had, so whenever the
notion of having sex arose (and it arose often), it was "Johnny on the
spot" (except in this case it should be "Xiang on the spot"). There WERE
a few straight members of the crew, but they seemed quite indifferent to
what was going on around them; when, years later, I visited Hong Kong, I
could begin to understand how people come to disregard privacy when it is
simply not available. My favorite in the ship's crew was Lin, who was a
"stoker", except that since this was a diesel-driven vessel, his job
seemed unnecessary (I guess the merchant-marine unions "featherbed",
too). He always had time for me, and we spent many long hours slithering
around sweatily in his minuscule bunk. But his fetish turned out to be
getting off sitting astride the rocker-arm covers of the huge diesel
engine that powered our progress. With a willing partner - myself, for
this trip anyway - he would reach wild orgasms as the throbbing engine
stirred his innards, my busy hands stirred his externals, and his own
flying fist brought forth huge loads of cum. Great gobs of it would "fry"
instantly on the hot exhaust manifolds, and the odor, commingled with
that of fuel, oil and sweat, is one I shall never forget.

Too soon, we arrived in Guayaquil, Ecuador's only port of consequence. At
sea-level of course, and just a few kilometers south of the equator,
Guayaquil is a really pestilential place with little to recommend it. We
were soon loaded into a rented bus with all our gear and off on a wild
trip up and over the coastal Andean range to Quito. It was a two-day
trip, staying over night in Riobamba, where I had a foretaste of things
to come, (or "things THAT come", to be more precise). A rough-and-tumble
mountain town, Riobamba has a certain charm, but few "restaurants" we
"northerners" would find to our liking. Indeed, the closest thing to one
was - of all things - a chinese restaurant, and a pretty decent one at
that. In this far-off place, I learned two things: one was that ethnic
chinese have emigrated from China to all the corners of the globe; the
second was that though the chinese don't often inter-marry with "the
locals", when they DO, the results can sometimes be spectacular! The
waiter in this place "came on" to me in no uncertain terms, and I was
certainly not one to pass him by: he was (I discovered) half Chinese and
half Indio, with a quintessential Spanish name: Carlos! He had some of
the stockiness of the Indios, and many facial features harking back to
the Maya, but his glabrous, blemish-free skin belied his Chinese half. He
claimed to be over 18, which I doubted, and he LOVED to be fucked, which
I attributed to an older relative. All this I found out when I returned
to the restaurant at closing time (10 O'clock) and found him waiting for
me as promised. He grabbed my hand and led me down a dingy alley to an
abandoned shed (I gathered it was his regular trysting-place, since there
were yellowed cloths and wads of paper strewn all around, and an old
mattress). Despite my fear of <chinchas> (bugs), I tumbled onto the
mattress with Carlos who was soon sitting on my erection. Watching and
feeling his leg muscles work as they raised him up and down on my pole
helped me reach a climax rapidly, the effect of which was that Carlos
shot his wad across my stomach and chest without either of us touching
his pulsating wand: apparently he had a sensitive prostate to match his
other "sensitive" features. So spectacular did I find this experience
with Carlos that I returned to Riobamba more than once, and repeated the
performances, which were always the same. But for this occasion it was
necessary to "move on", as our bus left the next day to carry us to Quito
and our work.

Now, Quito, by contrast with Guayaquil, is a beautiful place. Even closer
to the equator, its elevation (9500 ft) and location in the valley formed
by the two Andes ranges combine fortuitously. The weather is spring-like
all year; the lengths of days and nights vary no more than a few minutes.
Gorgeous perpetually snow-clad peaks are visible in all directions, and
the volcanic Cotapaxi near Quito is one of the world's most perfect
mountains. All of this, and MUCH more, we videographed over the course of
the next two months. This was, of course, mostly day-time work, with only
a few nights taken up with "Quito by night" drivel. The REAL "Quito by
night" I found on my own...

There is a large park in the northern part of Quito called El Ejido.
Ordinarily, it is quite well lit at night. However, that year, Quito was
experiencing a shortage of electricity due to a drought - something to do
with the "El Nino". So, every other night, the park was left un-lit, with
fairly predictable results. The park is situated on a bee-line between
the local Catholic boys'-school, and the upper-class part of town where
most of them live. So when the word got around that there were nights
when the park wasn't lit, THOSE nights the park filled up with horny,
frustrated, perfectly normal boys doing what boys DO! Yours truly was
there to help in any way possible! It remains my only real experience
with "sex in the bush", so to speak, but for the time and place it was
appropriate and very delightful. Many of the fellows enjoyed the novelty
of getting blown or otherwise satisfied by a "yanqui", but there was
endless carrying-on in the bushes among themselves as well. There were
ALSO a few straight couples to be found screwing here and there, and they
were either oblivious to or entirely tolerant of the predominantly
homosexual goings-on. By some tacit agreement, the police NEVER set foot
in the place, the sole exception to which (in my brief experience there)
occurred one night when the park WAS lit, and so nothing of consequence
was happening. On such nights I often sat on the base of Eloy Alfaro's
statue, just enjoying the balmy weather and "people-watching". I was
startled when the policeman came around from behind the statue - I had
not heard anyone approaching - but his polite introduction quickly put me
at ease, and his frantic groping of his crotch meant either that he was
horny or that he had a case of crabs! I was willing to learn which was
the case, but in the brightly lit area where we were, this seemed an
unlikely possibility. Oddly, it was the weather which provided the
opportunity, for a sudden dense fog drifted in (I had seen this
phenomenon occur before), and within a few moments visibility (despite
the lights) was reduced to a few feet! Quite possibly I had been
described to this man, for he wasted no time with formalities: he ripped
open his fly and whipped out his cock, and I just as quickly went down on
it right then-and-there. I didn't find any crabs, but I did find a very
horny cop! He shot a copious load almost at once, put himself back
together quickly and with a lilting "Gracias, Senor" disappeared into the
fog: by the time that wafted away a few minutes later, he was nowhere to
be seen!

Those two months in Quito FLEW by! We got endless hours of tape for the
travelogue, and I had seemingly endless wild nights in El Ejido park! I
really hated to leave Ecuador, and hope one day to return. But, our work
finished, we re-traced our steps back to Guayaquil. Here we had an
unexpected lay-over: our ship was late putting in to port, and all we
could do was wait. I discovered the incredible narrow-gauge railroad that
still ran some steam trains from Duran (across the river from Guayaquil)
to Riobamba, and amused myself by riding them (and Carlos!) several
times. All too soon, the inappropriately named MS Flying Goose arrived,
and we were northward-bound for home. Once again I found the ship's crew
compatible, and there had been enough changes to make it interesting. The
stoker I'd met on the trip down had been replaced with a "straight" guy,
but an oiler I met was ruggedly handsome, even if seemingly always "up-
to-his-armpits" in grease. I introduced him to the special thrill of
being "massaged" by the diesel engine, and I expect he plays what he
dubbed "widem-cowboy" to this day!

My "big break" came early in 1983: through some connections I was hired
by one of the TV networks to assist in covering the Olympic Games in
Seoul. This time I was not to be behind the cameras, but with the crews
that did the daily routine maintenance and equipment checks. It was with
considerable anticipation that I envisioned a few "equipment checks" of
another sort, and the notion that I might run into Oral Washburn DID
cross my mind, though of course that did not occur. The trip to Korea
would be my second excursion out of the USA: I decided I liked to travel!

Stepping off the plane and going through the airport routine in Seoul was
almost a case of <deja vu>: so vivid had been Oral's descriptions that I
had the definite feeling I'd been there before! And it certainly took no
time at all to realize why he'd found the place so exciting (even with a
war on!) With a population close to half of which was younger than
myself, Korea was paradise for me, rapidly becoming a confirmed "chicken
hawk" as I grew older. As if this surfeit of gorgeous guys wasn't
stimulation enough (I found myself with an almost perpetual hard-on!) the
Olympic Village was yet another turn-on, populated by male athletes of
every size, type, kind, and description! I was glad I had brought along a
video camera of my own, for with my Press-Pass I could go almost anywhere
in the village. For some reason (!) I found myself particularly attracted
to the gymnasts, many of whom turned out to be very nice guys, apart from
being exceedingly healthy, exceedingly gor-jeeesus to behold, and (as I
was to discover) exceedingly horny as well. None seemed much interested
in the women, housed elsewhere in the village.

Shades of my experience back in Sacramento those many years ago! Despite
there being chaperons and trainers and reporters and all the rest around
the village in hoards, there WERE quite a few places where the
participants could "get away from it all", and with a little pull here
and there bring a friend along. And whereas I had always had the
impression that sexual activity would be frowned-upon ("sapping one's
strength"), in fact the opposite was true: getting "it" out of their
system was one way the athletes had of psyching themselves up. With
bodies by God himself, they were so vain that only the slightest
attention - a pat here, a stroke there, or the "ready-light" of a video
camera - had them ready to go. On camera or off, those guys were beating
off in one corner or another seemingly every few minutes, and few of them
had any compunction about helping - or being helped - with it. Though I
shot loads of footage (and footage of loads!) NO ONE could be induced to
sign a release, so all those delicious scenes are still "in the can".

Although I had a hotel room outside of the village, the fact is I used it
only one night during the games. By day I'd manage to "connect" with
someone or other and get the necessary invitation to "stay over" with (in
some cases) individuals and (in other cases) whole teams. Not that I had
sex with ALL of these guys, but nights were generally pretty busy.
Besides the gymnasts, there were swimmers, runners, boxers and all the
rest, but the Chinese especially turned me on. We had to use sign-
language most of the time, but body functions are (happily) universal,
and although the Chinese gave the appearance of being stand-off-ish, they
could be VERY aggressive in making known their taste for sex! The memory
that sticks most firmly in my mind is of an all-night orgy with four
Chinese (two swimmers, a gymnast, and a runner) who found an unused room
for the five of us and proceeded to show ME more than a few tricks. One
was the first-ever guy I'd met who was so lithe he could suck the
entirety of his own cock, though it was clear he preferred to have that
done by others.

The strength of these men was astounding; any one of them could have
wrung my neck like a chicken if so inclined. One of the gymnasts picked
up a partner who held his body stiff as a board horizontally while the
other "went up" on his cock, rather than "going down" in the more
conventional way. Another for a brief time held me upside-down as we did
a "69" standing up! One of the gymnasts stood on his hands, which
afforded me the opportunity of sucking on his surprisingly massive
erection - again, a new position. Their stamina was equally amazing: they
could drop two or three loads in the course of a few hours, then rush out
and compete in trials and meets with energy to spare. It was all I could
do to drag myself around to adjust cameras and recorders and generators
and cables - I was like a zombie most of the time! By the end of the
games, I was exhausted, and when the whole shebang was over as suddenly
as it had begun, was abruptly cut loose (we got two weeks of vacation in-
country as part of our contracts) with only Koreans and a gaggle of
American hangers-on left.

A few days' rest, however, and I was ready to explore Seoul more widely,
and the more widely I explored Seoul, the more widely I wanted to explore
Koreans! I found this was not really difficult, so long as one was
discrete and polite. The only real problem was to determine their age:
I'm sure I carried on with some who were probably well under 18, yet how
was I to know? Identity documents, when I got to see them, were
meaningless to me! Not that I am complaining, you comprehend: my fondness
for young men was instilled back in reform school, and has never left me:
(surely a case of arrested development). And although I tried to find the
male brothel Oral had described so well, the passage of so many years had
long since obliterated it; if I was successful in finding the location
from memory, there is now a huge office-building there, a giant phallic-
symbol marking the spot.

It was not difficult to locate some of the gay bars in Seoul, and I was
scarcely surprised to find a good many Americans in them. My two-week
vacation flashed by in a series of romps in the hay which were nearly
always great fun. There were too few who spoke much English, though, so
there weren't many deep philosophical discussions - just a blur of
"quickie" couplings in seedy "short-time" hotels. Many of the tricks were
as fascinated by my slightly furry exterior as I was by their almost
uniform lack of body hair except in the usual spots. But after weeks of
marathon sex with olympic superstuds, the Koreans were, for the most
part, rather tame. I realized one day with a start that I was becoming
"jaded" - and a little bit homesick.

Hence, my return to San Francisco was as anti-climatic as it could
possibly be. I'd been gone almost a year, had given up my apartment, and
had lost track of many friends. Tommy Li, seeking his roots, was in
Indonesia. Once again I found myself back at the Y for a brief stay, but
even it was "down at the heels" and no longer the "fun" place to be that
I had known previously. The only bright spot was that I had a very
healthy bank account, so I was in no great hurry to find a job.

I don't know why my next "binge" was for "trade" (or "rent", as the
British put it). Perhaps I was just "getting older", or perhaps I was
beginning to realize that I would probably never find another "love" to
equal my affair with Oral. At any rate, one day I found a run-down old
pair of flats not far from the Y and the waterfront, and on some weird
impulse, I bought the place. During the closing, I discovered it was in a
proposed "redevelopment zone", and would probably be demolished, but that
would be some years in the future. The place was, however, cheap, because
it was such a mess. I began at once to transform it, when an idea struck
that formed the basis for my activities for the next couple of years.

I left the exterior of the place just as it was, derelict and all but
collapsing. Then I built a hidden staircase in the rear from a pantry on
the main floor up to the second. The lower flat I left pretty much as
was; just swept out the trash and scattered around enough second-hand
furniture to give the place a "lived in" look. But the upstairs flat I
converted into a palace! Many of my tricks were from the freighters and
Navy ships that still put in to San Francisco in those days, and they'd
be in town only a few days. But they'd be horny as the dickens after
weeks at sea! All of them knew me by different names, so when they phoned
I knew just who was coming over, and of course they ALL thought I lived
downstairs in this dumpy flat and wasn't worth trying to hit up for more
than a drink or pack of ciggies after I'd sucked them dry. Naturally,
when I wasn't sucking cock, I was living UPstairs in my palatial
quarters! It was a perfect setup, and I even wired the place and
scattered several cameras around so I could tape the action without any
of my tricks knowing about it. Since I still had royalties coming in from
some of my early video work, money was not really a problem. But boredom,
especially during the day definitely WAS, because (for whatever reason)
men seem to be horny mostly at night.

So I dug out my old notes from the WCIP, built myself a darkroom and
began printing and preserving collections of old photographs. I soon
found that there were other photographers around town, both professional
and amateur, who were willing to have good work done in a private lab
with "no questions asked". Pretty soon my days were filled, spent mostly
in the darkroom, and my nights were also filled, servicing "doorbell
trade" in my wretched flat downstairs. It goes without saying that I kept
copies of a lot of the photos I processed - copies I used to amuse myself
and a few of my "tricks".

Once again, I was soon making quite a lot of money! In my usual way I
salted this away in the bank, the "overhead" of this whole operation
being so ridiculously low. Every now and then I'd get a call from one of
the networks wanting me to go on some assignment or other, but I turned
them all down: I did not think any such work could compare with my
experience is Seoul. Then one day about a year into this operation, an
event occurred that was to change my life forever. I was shopping mid-
morning at Safeway, in the meat department (appropriately!) when a small
voice behind me said, "Hello, Daddy..." I did not respond at all, since I
had ample reason to believe I was no one's "Daddy". But the voice
repeated the phrase a couple more times, and finally my attention was
caught, and I turned to find a VERY pretty and (seemingly) VERY young
Filipino gazing up at and speaking to me! "I really don't think I'm your
Daddy", I said, perhaps with a tinge of regret in my voice.

"Oh, I'm only WISHING: of course you're not my Daddy", he replied, "I
don't HAVE a Daddy..." his voice trailed off rather wistfully.

I was confronted with a dilemma. It was not beyond my imagination that I
was being propositioned, but I thought I knew jail-bait when I saw it, so
I resolved to be very firm and reject this approach. On the other hand,
I'd always had a penchant for brown eyes, black hair, fair skin... I was
not sure how to proceed (a rare situation for me)! But of course I made
the fatal mistake: I asked, "What's your name?"

"It's Jun - that's short for Junior - Santos", he said; and I already
know your name is Fred. I asked at the check-out counter, where I've seen
you before".

"How old are you, Jun?" I asked. With a hearty and knowing chuckle he
whipped out his wallet and proffered a Green Card, and a quick bit of
arithmetic showed he was 19, though I could scarcely believe it.


[continued]

- Bruce Bramson, 1992

                      ++++++++++++++++++++++
[concluded]


Now, clearly, this guy had done his homework! And for whatever reason, he
was "coming on" to me in one BIG way. Satisfied that he was "of age", I
decided to see where it would lead, so gave him my business-card and
suggested he call me. He assured me he would; what's more, he did, that
very afternoon, and within an hour he was in my flat. He confessed
surprise  at the run-down exterior of my place and the contrast with the
inside; thinking it would put him off, I explained about my "arrangement"
and the flat downstairs. Jun immediately concluded I was doing all this
trade simply to avoid loneliness, and that if HE were around, it would
not be necessary. And with that pronouncement, he insisted he would move
in and be my "boy". To prove his sincerity, he raped me (to the extent,
at any rate that the willing CAN be raped) on the spot! Any misgivings I
had - and there were many - evaporated as I held him in my arms and
relaxed after an evening of passionate and reciprocated love-making.

Life suddenly became MUCH too complicated! Jun was running away from a 
very strict Mother (his Dad had passed away). At first I thought he was
just using me as "safe haven", but since he insisted on sleeping with me,
and having GREAT sex with me, and calling me "lover", it began to dawn on
me that perhaps he was at least infatuated, and possibly even "in love"
with me. But this put one heck of a crimp in the lifestyle I'd been
living, and I had to quickly make some changes! A friend who had always
envied my situation was very ready to take over my downstairs "apartment"
and ALL that went with it; some quick changes in the 'phone numbers
routed my callers directly to Joe, and I found myself a "father" at the
ripe old age of 32!

Jun still calls me "Daddy". I expect you, Bill, know far more than I
about the "surrogate father" syndrome, and I confess that there seems
something "not quite right" about a "father and son" sleeping and having
sex together; but of course we AREN'T "father and son" - indeed, there's
no way we could be related, and could not be more disparate in
appearance. Still, in just about every other way we ARE father and son,
and lovers as well, and very happy. We now run a "business" (of sorts!)
together, but about that, more later.

With Jun enrolled in City College and I kept busy with my dark-room work
and Joe kept busy downstairs taking care of the doorbell trade (I confess
that both Jun and I sometimes watched on the closed-circuit TV that Joe
didn't know about!) our situation seemed perfect. Alas, too perfect: all
of a sudden, the Redevelopment Agency moved into the area to buy up
everything in sight for some new convention center or the like. There was
really no point in arguing with the "urban removal" folks, so after a bit
of negotiation, I sold out at a pretty handsome profit. As luck would
have it, however, I had before me an offer to go with a team that was
doing a documentary on the Philippines, which I agreed to join with the
proviso that I could take Jun with me.

This time out I was behind the camera and doubled at some preliminary
editing. I don't think I ever saw the finished product, because it was
heavily edited again back in the states. But when it comes to beautiful
young men, I found Manila the closest I've yet been to paradise, and most
of my editing amounted to erasing yards of tape where I'd allowed the
camera to linger far too long on some cutie in the crowd. (Of course, I
transferred this footage to a tape of my own before deleting it from our
production runs!) Despite the various impositions of "Martial Law",
Manila was a fascinating city. There were more beautiful people per
square yard there than any place I'd been. During the monsoons,
youngsters shuck their clothes and romp in the rain, their sleek wet
bodies driving ME (and many others, I expect) crazy with desire. And,
(unlike Seoul) most Filipinos speak passable English, so the language
barrier isn't so much of a problem. Of course, Jun was there to translate
when necessary. I "pulled some strings" and got him a job as a gaffer, so
we were never far apart even when working. I suppose there were some on
the crew who knew we were lovers, but nobody seemed to care. Jun was a
bright young man: he knew perfectly well how attracted I was to so many
of the gorgeous guys one cannot help but meet in the course of any given
day. But our relationship was so new to us both that he clearly was
averse to the idea of sharing me with any of his compatriots, and (quite
frankly) with Jun taking very good care of my physical and emotional
needs, I was content to watch and occasionally "use my imagination"...

..that is, until we met Raul! I say "we" because our first encounter
with him was as we were shopping together in Harrison Plaza, and because
when we met, I could see at once a physical desire arise in Jun that,
until then, he had reserved for me: it was clear he was struggling with
his conscience! As for Raul, while he was not the most handsome man I'd
ever seen, he WAS one of the "sexiest". I've met a few others like him,
who for some reason, "exude" SEX! Perhaps it's a pheromone, who knows? He
was just one of those persons with "bedroom eyes" whose glance was enough
to start the juices flowing. He saw through my relationship with Jun at
once, but I guess the notion of a three-way didn't bother him - he
blatantly followed us out to the rented car and asked for "a ride". Jun
and I were headed for our hotel, of course, so that is where "the ride"
ended - and where another long association began!

These events took place as we were nearing the end of our assignment with
the documentary team, and Jun and I had already discussed the possibility
of remaining in Manila: I had money enough to start some sort of business
and he could continue his studies at the University. We'd even looked
around for a house to rent, but as soon as the landlords saw me, they
smelled "money" and costs escalated alarmingly. While reasonably "well-
off" as a single man, I was certainly not "wealthy", as everyone seemed
to think. Eventually, it was Raul who solved the problem - but again I'm
getting ahead of myself...

Raul first made himself indispensable by becoming a live-in cook, maid,
cleaner, and general factotum around the house-keeping hotel in which we
were ensconced. To my surprise, and (I later learned) to Jun's annoyance,
he did not immediately put the make on either of us. Our generous hotel
suite did have two bedrooms, and I gave him the spare in return for all
the "TLC" he was giving us. But along about the end of his first month in
our "employ", when I came out of the "comfort room" one night, I found
Jun peeping through the keyhole into Raul's room. Caught in the act, Jun
was chagrinned, but I gave him a hug and asked, "Do you want to have sex
with him?"

Jun stammered his reply, "Could he have sex with US, do you think?"

"Do you think he WANTS to do it with US, or just with you?" I asked.

"I don't know," Jun replied, "but I want him to have sex with US, if
that's all right with you."

"Then, why don't you ask him over for a San Miguel, and see what
happens," I said.

The old adage "if some is good, more is better" usually doesn't apply,
but in this instance, it certainly did! Raul had never been invited into
our bedroom past the hour of ten, and never to drink beer with us. Hence,
he must have known what Jun had in mind; and that this was just what Raul
had had in mind from the beginning soon became apparent, for his reaction
when Jun (using an age-old ploy) "spilled" beer in Raul's lap was exactly
as intended: he shucked his trousers, and while helping mop up beer from
the floor managed to engage Jun in a little horse-play. Watching them
naturally got ME <malibug> (horny), and when the boys noticed the outline
of my hard-on in my pants, the free-for-all began! Within minutes, we
were all down to our birthday suits, romping on the bed. I must admit, it
was with a touch of sadness mixed with curiosity that I watched my lover
explore another's body. I'd have had to credit him with VERY good taste,
if he had been the one to select Raul, but since Raul had instead
selected us, it was perhaps he whose taste was to be congratulated. But
these thoughts were soon dispelled as Jun drew me into the fray and our
pent-up fascination with Raul displayed itself for both of us to
recognize in each other. And who would not have been fascinated with
Raul? He was the very essence of Filipino maleness *physically*, with an
underlying femininity and playfulness that was absolutely irresistible. I
was grateful that this first (of many) three-ways occurred on a Saturday,
for it lasted most of the night. And sex or not, the spare bedroom became
just that once again: Raul slept with us regularly thereafter, though he
was astute enough never to place himself between Jun and me. He slept
along-side one or the other of us instead.

Not long after this first episode, our contracts ran out with the
documentary crew, so some decisions HAD to be made. I was suddenly the
sole support of TWO young men, one of whom I knew intimately. Of the
other I knew little, but he seemed determined to be part of our lives.
Raul knew his future was in the balance: if Jun and I returned to the
States, he'd be left behind and on his own "hook", whereas if we remained
in Manila, presumably he could make himself useful enough to be kept (or
at least kept around...) So, the day I cashed in the return tickets I
held for myself and Jun, Raul was ecstatic. My first step was to see
about getting them both enrolled in school. For Jun, this was no problem,
as his credits were transferable from the States and he could enter UP as
a freshman. But Raul? I was soon to discover just how remarkable this
fellow was! He had come to Manila from Mindanao at the age of ten,
because, as the eldest of eight children, there simply was not enough
food to go around. Until meeting us, Raul had earned his keep in Manila
primarily as a prostitute, sending home what spare cash he could. But he
had NO formal education past about the sixth-grade; everything beyond
that was self-taught. He really WAS bright, and all he needed was some
intensive tutoring in the "three Rs", so I arranged for a retired teacher
from the American University to take him "under his wing" during the day
for some intensive "boning up".

These practical matters out of the way, the next item was to establish
myself with some sort of income-producing enterprise, and to find a place
to live. Although Jun and Raul could do some of the looking, they were
too young to be able to negotiate prices for me, and as soon as my name
came up, prices skyrocketed! I was comfortable enough that this matter
did not have to be rushed, but as one always used to "doing something", I
needed to be busy. There seemed to be a surfeit of photographers already
in Manila, and every shop sold VCRs and all the latest widgets from
Japan. I knew there was a small market for pornographic stuff, but
doubted my ability to deal with all the regulations (and ways around
them) to get the stuff imported, not to mention any kind of distribution
network. Neither being nor speaking Pilipino would not serve me well in
THAT business - or any other, when I got right down to it. I needed
Filipino partners...

..and (as I mentioned earlier) it was Raul who put together the winning
package. During a discussion of "our futures together" one night, I'd
pointed out my need for partners, and HE pointed out that I already HAD
two partners - why should I need any more? I couldn't argue his point! It
was then that he began formulating a plan that at first seemed utterly
ridiculous, but the practicality of which became clearer as the three of
us discussed it. During his nearly ten years on the streets of Manila,
most of those spent in the notorious Ermita district with its glitzy
"massage" parlors, bars (both gay and straight) and out-right whore-
houses, Raul had identified a certain "lack" which he alone could not
fulfill: there were no male brothels. He felt sure that with me as a
"silent partner", he with his "street contacts" and Jun with rapidly
developing business skills, we could establish a "high-class" place
catering to those local and foreign men whose taste ran to other men and
boys and who would find the average massage parlor (with its token
masseur or two) uninviting.

Raul's logic was unassailable, but there were certain practical matters
(I knew) that would have to be dealt with, like the law! Nooooo problem!
Raul had tricked with a local lawyer who surely would not want that fact
known to his family: so, a little polite blackmail got us a well-placed
lawyer to handle such things as buying property; finding out who had to
be paid off "under the table"; which of the myriad "private security
agencies" were reliable, and similar considerations. Another matter would
be that of obtaining "workers" (both those to satisfy the customers, and
others to maintain the property). Again, Nooooo problem! Raul knew
*dozens* of guys working independently who would gladly trade
independence for some TLC, a roof over their heads, decent grub and a
steady income. (The supply, incidently, has been inexhaustible). And so
it went: everything I perceived as an "obstacle", Raul saw as either a
"piece of cake" or a challenge, and either way disposed of the matter.

We formed a Corporation; I as President, Jun as Financial Officer, and
Raul as CEO. The problem Raul found most difficult was finding a suitable
place in which to carry on the business; it had to be in or very near
Ermita, or else it had to be in some completely unexpected place - one of
the suburbs. We finally agreed the latter was preferable, since the
clientele we wanted to attract might well be put off by the crass
commercialism of Ermita. In the end, we bought what had begun life as a
large motel in Quezon City (QC as it is universally known here), but
which had fallen on hard times, and of which its owner was anxious to be
rid. The location was perfect: on a commercial corridor, not in a
residential district, and with ample off-street parking. We agonized for
weeks about whether or not to have a name for the place, and how to
advertize. On paper, we were "FJR Enterprises, PC", but that didn't seem
appropriate. Finally, to give the place some semblance of respectability,
we settled on "FJR Motel", but made the sign so small and inconspicuous
that no one would see it and mistake us for a legitimate motel. Then came
the question of advertizing. After more long discussions, we chose a
simple approach. We had match-books printed with our telephone number on
the outside, and a simple line-drawing of a handsome young man's face on
the inside. These we put in every gay bar, and any other place that would
take them, throughout Ermita. Raul spread them liberally around the
tourist hotels, too.

What had once been a restaurant in the motel compound we turned into a
lounge, and what had been a stock-room next to the kitchen became a mess-
hall for our workers. The manager's quarters became home for the three of
us, and the rooms, arranged in two levels around the parking lot became
the "entertainment suites" for our "guests". Needless to say, I installed
some elaborate CCTV and other surveillance devices!

Though some minor operational changes have been made over the years, our
basic arrangement was that those we called "staff" wore an assigned
number-tag whenever they were in the lounge and "on duty". There, too,
our "clients" gathered (refreshments were available, but no alcohol!) to
select from the staff, which they did by telling the hostess (yes, a real
"she") the number of their selection. The hostess then gave the client a
room key, and sent the chosen staff member to the same room. A schedule
of fees was posted in each room: the client paid based on what the staff
reported to the hostess at the conclusion of the transaction; clients
could stay as long or as short a time as they liked, have as many tricks
as they wanted, and always paid in cash. Among the maintenance crew there
were enough very large and tough-looking guys to assure that no clients
made trouble; for further insurance, we held the keys to the clients'
cars until they had paid and were ready to leave.

The boys "pooled" 10 percent of their earnings, from which fund
"equalization pay" (as we called it) was given to those who (for whatever
reason) didn't make as much in a month as the average for the "stable".
Staff members kept any tips they were given. Forty percent of their
earnings went to "the house" (that was us), and we picked up the tab for
meals, up-keep, laundry, basic clothing, medical exams, inoculations,
maintenance, payoffs, and all the rest. With 80 rooms, and a staff of 70
to 100 guys at any one time, believe it or not, we made MONEY hand-over-
fist.

We recruited only by word of mouth; there was always a waiting list. Our
"boys" ranged in age from 18 (well, maybe once in a while a little shy of
that...) on up. The turn-over was high, because the "johns" kept stealing
our staff! And while there were a few occasions when I, Jun or Raul (or
some combination thereof!) "got it on" with one of the staff, this did
not happen often: I still preferred not to mix business with pleasure.

Well, Bill, you know how long "too much of a good thing" lasts, and while
we had a "perfect" setup in many respects, we were brought down in the
end by several factors. One was imitation and competition: several
similar places opened up as the word spread of our success. There was
also some resentment of me as a "round-eye" making so much money, though
I never took any of it out of the country. But as the Marcos regime
started to fall apart, resentment of americans in general began to set
in, and the business climate for us went quite sour. So when that buy-out
"offer" came that we couldn't refuse, we sold out. Raul took his third of
the proceeds and returned to Mindanao: I've often wondered what he told
his family there as to how he'd made what was (for him at his age) a
sizable fortune!

Jun and I live a quiet life of semi-retirement. As a graduate of UP in
Business, Jun has a quite respectable job now, and I? Well, let's just
say for the moment that I'm "betwixt and between", waiting for
opportunity to knock, waiting to see what the future holds. When I find
out, you'll be the first to know!

Sincerely,

Fred

(c) Bruce Bramson, 1992