Date: Fri, 01 Jun 2007 07:07:24 -0700
From: mychael@hushmail.com
Subject: On the Road

         Disclaimer: The following are the expressions of an acknowledged
boylover, but does not advocate any particular lifestyle choices. Also, the
stories are not necessarily true accounts. For information, contact the
writer.


     On the road, with writer;s block

     By Mychael
     mychael@hushmail.com


         Writer's block.
         It isn't supposed to be this way, especially for someone on a paid
getaway, looking for subjects in a series of anecdotes about of everyday
people claiming to have spent time on distant ground.
     So far, the assignment had gone well. That is, until this morning, the
morning after.
         This wasn't what I enjoy about writing, but it does help pay the
bills and there have been enough good days to make it all worthwhile.
         Writer's block happened and there is little I could do about it.
         Alone in a freeway close motel room, I put aside the computer
keyboard, lay down on the king-size bed and stretch out my legs. It was too
early to sit by the swimming pool with my thoughts and a notepad, maybe
even the laptop. On Thursday, I had done that, until three young people -- a
girl and two boys between the ages of 8 and 13 -- had decided to spend about
an hour swimming and tanning.
         Soon, my thoughts are elsewhere, my left hand rubbing my bare
chest, my right hand slipping inside my white briefs grabbing hold of my
mildly hard cock.
         My eyes close and I start to pull on my cock a little harder,
though there's real pleasure in a soft and gentle motion
         Writer's block is an everyday occurrence to every writer; for me,
it is not something to bemoan but to embrace because I often tend to write
the first thing out of my mind.
         My right hand wanders slightly across my right leg, then rubs
against my white briefs, my cock getting even more hard by my thoughts.
         Thoughts of those 8- and 9-year-old boys in my neighborhood, boys
I noticed from my bedroom window, boys who stirred feelings I never knew
possible
         Thoughts of my neighbor friend Mark, a 12 year old who I had
noticed from afar until this particular moment when my strongest fantasy
became reality -- a game of strip black jack followed by an awesome
pleasure.
         Thoughts of Harley, a 17 year old who visited me one afternoon,
taking me to bed for a wonderful and memorable experience that I relive
often, his arms around me, his smell, the feeling of
         Thoughts of John and Robert, 13 year old neighbors who I
befriended during my first year in junior college, two boys whose curiosity
took me into another wonderful place.
         Thoughts of my cousin John who, as an 11 year old, invited me to
share his bed, and with whom I enjoyed many intimate moments.
         Thoughts of a 10-year-old standing outside the restroom located
near a trail at Sequoia National Park, a boy so fresh, so beautiful, a boy
who so much needed my special touch that summer in the late 1960s, when I
was in my early 20s.
         By then I knew I was like the other boys I had grown up with, the
boys I met at my fifth-year high school graduation only months before,
including Harley and Jim, who, as a 14-year-old freshman, paraded his
massive cock in front of my during gym class.
         I had no interest in any of the girls in my school, but the girls
pretty much ignored me, perhaps sensing I would ignore them as well.
         It was the boys who caught my attention, the boys who created in
me those feelings that have become even more wonderful through the
years. It has, though, been a struggle as I have tried to fight back my
feelings, only to come to understand they are natural...they are me. And, I
hope, they are you, too.
         **
         Two of my classmates had married shortly after graduating and now,
five years later, were attending with their wives and young children. One,
a boy, was almost 4, and created in me such feeling that I offered to watch
him while his parents went out onto the dance floor with other couples. The
feeling of that little boy on my lap so aroused me, that I had to move him
to my right knee, fearing that he might notice that my cock was hard and
getting even harder as he moved around.
         So, what is the purpose of this?
         Memories. Wonderful memories of someone who years ago had come to
grips with his sexuality, including his feelings for boys, for his wants
and desires, for his pedophilia.
         Yes, I am a pedophile.
         Pedophile? Boylover?
         Certainly nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to deny because, it is
what I am. And right now, with the thick cockhead peering out from the
opening in my briefs, with tasty precum starting to drip, with thoughts
directed toward that 10-year-old on the television, I was right where I
wanted to be,.
         A day before, after completing two chapters, I had taken myself to
a nearby mall, to the food court for lunch. But it just wasn't the lunch
that brought me to the mall, it was the thought of seeing dozens of
beautiful boys, there as part of a middle school athletic competition.
         I had images of these boys, images so vivid that I completed my
manuscript in less than two hours, put on some clothes and made the 20-mile
drive. On the way, I stopped at one of those sleazy adult book stores to
buy a bottle of Rush.
         Welcome to my world.
         * * *
         Now, don't get the idea I am lurking through malls, around city
parks or schools, or that anything is out of order. While my interests are
deep seeded, my actions are totally mutual.
         I reached out to and befriended thousands of boys, some more than
others.
         Sharing a hamburger and soft drink, a cigarette or even a bottle
of poppers, maybe a ride from here to there -- so, what's wrong with that?
         There's never a hint of taking advantage of him. The word no means
no, and, yes always doesn't mean yes.
         Think about it.
         ***
         "Are you really a pedophile?" 16-year-old Josh asked me a couple
of years ago.
         "...cool."
         Josh, who has lived with the stigma of being gay, confided to me
his interest in Ryan, a 12-year old friend.
         It sounded all too familiar.
         The two had been friends for some time and Josh noticed his
attraction to Ryan (and other boys) after a week-long scout trip.
         One day, Josh was sitting bear the pool, surrounded by a dozen or
so boys between the ages of 8 and 14.
         Ryan, Josh told me, walked over to him and started to talk about
the day's activity.
         As he looked up, Josh could not help but notice the boy's tight
red speedos, his firm flat stomach. Ryan also had what Josh called "a
massive boner."
         Soon, Josh was hard, his eyes fixed on Ryan. He tried not to be
too obvious, looking around at the other boys, but that affected him even
more.
         That night, in their area of the cabin, Josh mentioned that he had
been looking at Ryan. A little later, in the quiet of his bed, Josh's
thoughts of Ryan became even more vivid as he took his own cock in his hand
and started to stroke it gently.
         His body started to twitch as his cock grew. He licked his lips
with his tongue as he felt himself being swept away by this wonderful
feeling, a feeling he had been experiencing for some time now. But this was
different, very different.
         This time, Josh was thinking only of Ryan, only of the other boys
he had seen, and the explosion of cum was sweet, extreme.
         As he wiped the milky cum from his chest and legs, Josh noticed he
was still hard. He smiled. He looked at the boys around him and began to
stroke himself again, feeling no shame or guilt, not even for his feelings
toward the much younger boys in the cabin.
         At 16, Josh had come to the realization that boys are a gift, that
they should be treated with love. Feelings I had discovered years before.
         **
         It was only a matter of time before Josh and I grew closer,
sharing several intimate moments of our own, sharing our mutual love for
young boys.
         It was, for both of us, a beautiful and natural time. He needed
me. I needed him. We all need one another -- no matter our age.
         **
         The Angels had beaten the Baltimore Orioles in an infrequent
Thursday afternoon baseball game, a game I attended as a spectator, not a
working journalist.
         When the game was over, I took my car on a beach-front ride,
turning toward the 405 Freeway once I got to Long Beach.
         A city park, though, had been a nice place for me to visit, not
far from several popular gay bars, a well-known "cruise area."
         It wasn't even 5 o'clock, I wasn't cruising, and I never enjoyed
bars, but I went by the park anyway.
         My idea was to make a couple of runs through the park -- maybe
there was another guy like myself -- and then drive home.
         As I drove by the children's play area, I noticed a boy about 13,
dressed in jeans and a black jacket, with dark hair. He was walking toward
another area of the park, and I stopped by car to watch him.
         "Gawd," I told myself, "he is beautiful."
         I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out a bottle of Locker
Room, opening it and putting it to my nose. I inhaled deeply, and felt that
deep rush, my awareness of him growing, my desires creating a strong
intensity.
         In seconds, I had left the car and was walking in a roundabout
way, so as to perhaps pass the boy, to get an even closer look at him.
         As I approached the boy, I took the bottle of Locker Room and put
it to my nose again, inhaling two more times and feeling myself even more
desirous to see him, to touch him, to love him as only a pedophile can do.
         We passed, I noticed he had just lit a cigarette, and I put the
Locker Room to my nose again, taking another deep hit. I was hoping he
might notice, that he might not be turned away, that maybe he might even
follow me.
         I walked toward a restroom, located off the main trail of the
park, and went to the urinal. I took another hit, unzipped my jeans and
took my cock out, thinking about the boy, my mind wandering his body.
         My cock was hard, it started to drip cum, and then the boy showed
up, standing a few feet inside the restroom door. He looked and smiled,
watching me stroke myself, the cum starting to drip even more. I took
another hit from the Locker Room and motioned for him to come closer.
         I turned away, facing the urinal, and the boy stood next to me.
         "Please, let me see your cock," I asked him, my own now releasing
spurts of cum.
         The boy, to my surprise, started to unzip his pants. I held out
the bottle of Locker Room and told him to put it to his nose and inhale. He
did, and pierced his lips as his jeans and white briefs fell toward the
floor.
         "Ooooooooo," I groaned, looking at the boy's beautiful little
cock, his ball sac and a pubic area just starting to develop. I moaned and
stroked myself even faster, my cum exploding into the urinal.
         I watched the boy, his own cock was getting hard, and then I
suggested he and I move to the back of the restroom, to a stall. He looked
skeptical, that is, until I took a hit of the Locker Room and offered him
another. He put it to his nose and followed me to the back stall.
         By then, I had cum twice, and my cock was still rock hard. I
wanted him, I want to put my mouth on his boy cock, I wanted my tongue to
lick his balls (and maybe even his boy ass), and my breathing got deeper.
         Inside the restroom stall, I sat on the seat of the toilet and
pulled the boy close, my mouth taking his cock, my hands holding on to his
tight little ass.
         I looked up and noticed the boy's eyes had closed. He took a hit
of the Locker Room and started to thrust his hips. Obviously, he was
enjoying himself and in a couple of minutes, he started to drip. I pushed
his cock deeper in my mouth, swallowing a combination of cum and piss,
continuing to suck him for about 30 seconds after his cock had softened.
         Then, with the boy standing in front of me, I took my own cock and
stroked it again, cumming within a matter of seconds. Explosive. Again. The
boy seemed surprised; I seemed pleased. Very pleased.
         "Can you run me home?" he asked, taking a cigarette.
         We moved toward my car, sharing small talk. I learned he was 14,
that he was visiting his brother, who is 19 and a student at Long Beach
State, and that he would be returning to his home in Denver within a few
days.
         And, yes, he told me, his brother knew that he smoked, that he
enjoyed sex. His brother, he said, was gay and actually approved of man-boy
love.
         "We do it all the time," the boy told me.
         I smiled to myself, thinking about that boy again, thinking about
his brother.
         ***
         It may not be the most desirable lifestyle, but it is what it is,
and every time I see a beautiful boy, I am thankful I am what I am.
         Or, am I?
         There will be more ... See ya then.