Date: Tue, 1 Mar 2016 20:12:34 +0000 (GMT)
From: z.blake@tutanota.com
Subject: Tales from the Male Bag: Scoob's First Beej

TALES FROM THE MALE BAG:
SCOOB'S FIRST BEEJ
By Scuba Steve, as told to Zachyboy
t/t, oral

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When Scoob told me he "lost his virginity" back on the mean streets of
Chicago, I called bullshit right away. Man, what's the matter with some of
you guys, tossing that phrase "lost my virginity" around willy-nilly? Let
me give you a lesson in Gay 101. "Lost my virginity" means "took one up the
ass," or "gave one up the ass." Period, the end. Otherwise you just sucked
a cock.

Anyway (sorry for the rant), I called him out.

"Lost your virginity," I harrumphed. "What do you mean? Oral? Anal? Top?
Bottom? Of which glorious, precious, Scuba Steverginity do you speak?

And he just smiled wistfully like he always does when he knows I've got him
by the short hairs and he answered:

"You know me all too well. You're like the smartest student in the class
asking just the right question of the professor. The one that makes him
backtrack a bit. "Now THAT is an excellent question, Mr. Hunting." I hope
you busted some pretentious assholes' balls at the campus pub too.

There is a Bill Clinton-esque division to things, isn't there? "I did NOT
have sexual relations with that woman! Oh, you mean a blowjob? Well,
sure. Yeah. A BUNCH of 'em. And they were GOOD ONES too."

But thinking back on it, yeah, you nailed me (see what I did there?) on a
technicality.

Let's just say my junior year in high school was quite "adventurous." Even
more so was that entire calendar year.

By Shire reckoning, the year was 1993. And on a side note, damn, Bag End
was a totally badass little Hobbit house, wasn't it? Damn, I could fuck
many a Halfling in that place.

Anyway, I digress.

Where to begin?

I was a stud long distance runner on the track team at my high school in
the western suburbs of Chicago. No girlfriend. Never had one. Ever.

I think my teammates & classmates maybe suspected something, but they
didn't know exactly what. Smart, good looking, witty, charming captain of
the cross country team without a girlfriend? Was he just a geek? Maybe a
little.

Anyway, we were up in the far northwest suburbs at an invitational. It was
fucking freezing (April in Chicago can be downright wintery) and windy as
all fuck. Not only that, but the damn thing was at night on a
Saturday. Whoever scheduled that thing should have been fired.

It was so damn cold (there may have even been some occasional snow
flurries), a lot of the guys were hanging out inside the school bus to stay
warm. But the bus was parked quite a distance away, so actually stretching
and warming up for your race made it imperative to simply face the cold
closer to the track.

A few of the seniors on our team were super smart and brought tents. They
literally pitched tents just off the track beyond a fence on the adjoining
baseball outfield area, IIRC.

In any case, these tents (maybe two or three total) were fucking critically
important, but there was limited space of course. It was definitely a
feudal system of hierarchy. No freshman or sophomores were allowed - no
way. And very few juniors. Maybe myself and a couple others were extended
invitations. Damn, high schoolers can be so fucking mean, can't they? It's
truly a dog-eat-dog world out there.

So I have access. And it was glorious. I'm telling you, no amount of
typical "track" layers outside of full ski/snowboard gear can protect you
from cold & wind like that. You know that all too well, any of you who grew
up amid the massively shitty winters of the Midwest.

So, the regular occupants of my go-to tent were myself, Jim (one of my best
friends, a middle distance hurdler and fellow junior), and Rich (a sprint
hurdler and fellow junior), along with a senior or two. We basically just
hung out, chatted, told jokes and funny stories, ate snacks, etc. I think
someone even had a large thermos thingy of hot chocolate. I want to say
there were also playing cards.

Anyway, enough about the set-up. Let's talk about Rich.

Ahh, Rich. Motherfucking BABE. Thick, lush, curly, beautiful, dark brown
hair. Tight fucking body. He was in several of my classes. He was in my
sophomore fall semester gym class the year prior.

We did many weeks of swimming. I saw him naked at 16 years old. Teen
Adonis. One of the hottest guys in my grade (at least IMHO). Looked more
than a bit like Kirk Cameron. Only you'd have to specifically seek out pics
of Kirk in which his hair appeared darker due to poor exposure, as Rich had
deeply dark brown hair. Fucking gorgeous, really.

In any case, at some point, it's just him & me in the tent. Looking back on
it, I want to say it was a bit of a setup. It just had to be, didn't it?
Rich was fairly popular and generally got what he wanted.

So, without further ado...

Dialogue is added for Effect. I mean, there were definitely words
exchanged, but I wouldn't have even the foggiest memory what they actually
were. Some of what is typed below is probably not too far off in terms of
what was said in that tent way back in April, '93. But overall, it's funny
how your brain just kind of shuts off during the formative, supremely
erotic moments of our lives, especially during childhood or adolescence.

Anyway, other tent occupants have departed to stretch and/or warm up for
their events. Skipping the somewhat awkward chit chat & pleasantries (of
which there certainly were some, being in a tent alone with such a
hottie)...

Rich: "You mind if I jerk off? It helps me relax before a race."

Me: "No, not at all. Go for it. You want me to leave?"

Rich: "No, you can stay. It's fuckin' freezing out there."

(Uh-oh. Teenage Scuba Steve Jr. was already gettin' hard in my pants).

Me: "Fuck yeah it is." Or some similarly awkward filler on my part. Always
meet an f-bomb with an f-bomb, right?

Now, this wasn't like a Nifty story where the jerker gets naked or
anything. This was a simple yank down the sweatpants, second sweatpants,
silky track shorts, fag tights (we actually called runner's leggings
exactly that), and undies, all in pretty-much a single yank. And keep in
mind I had already seen Rich naked the previous school year in the locker
room & showers after gym class at my school's indoor pool.

But this time his dick was not flaccid. Oh no, baby. Anything but. Super
hard. Stiff as steel. And out it popped. Boing-g-g. Do you know how hard it
is (see what I did there?) not to stare? You try to look away, but it's not
working. You may think you're looking away, but you're really not. You may
think the ratio is 90% looking away and 10% sneaking quick glances. But the
reality is it's likely just the opposite. So you end up staring.

Rich: "God this feels good. Do you want to jerk off with me?"

Me: "Uhh...uhh...sure. I guess."

The reality is there probably wasn't an audible invitation. You just DO IT,
you know? (I always dug Nike's marketing, even as I wore Adidas). You do
the very same thing. Watch and Do, baby. Watch and Do.

So yeah, with the same yank & pull, I lowered my own 4 layers...not 5, as I
didn't wear fag tights. (How ironic is that)?

Rich: "I've seen you checking me out in the locker room."

Me: "Uhh...uhh.."

Rich: "Don't worry. I think it's nice. I like it." (High school jocks don't
use the word "flattering.")

Then he said, "You want to suck on it?"

Um, exqueeze me? Ah, baking powder? Did he just say what I think he said?
Allow me to verify my very confused brain. "Suck on what?"

Rich: "Suck on my dick."

Me: "Uhh..uhh...sure. I guess."

And with that, the conversation was over. All you do at that point is lean
over, kiss his tip – (he was circumcised – you NEVER forget that
aspect) – then you run your tongue around it to capture and lick up his
pre (of which there was a more-than-ample abundance), and quickly allow the
helmet & shaft to slide past your lips and into your mouth.

I distinctly remember him moaning when I did so. But less a moan and more
like a gasp of air. Relief almost. A quick "uhh", but not the stammering
variety. The erotic kind.

And I have no idea if he threw his head back in ecstasy, as I was focused
110% on his dick. I mean, one can assume. And I certainly didn't perform a
fellatio concerto you read about on Nifty. I just bobbed my mouth up and
down on his erect penis for approximately two minutes. No deep-throating;
not even close.

It's funny what a virgin cocksucker assumes a beej is all about. You adapt
the same principles as a rapid-fire jack-off session. Bear in mind I had
oodles of experience shoving a vibrator up my ass by that point, but this
was the very first cock I'd ever sucked on.

Rich: "I'm gonna cum."

He definitely said that.

We learn early on to warn new sexual partners about our impending orgasms
for some odd reason. Boyfriends or LTR partners? Generally you just moan &
groan a bunch of gibberish and ejaculate.

And with that I pulled back just in time for him to shoot his load. He shot
a shit ton, easily as much as me at that age, which was even more copious
than nowadays. I remember him getting some on my cheek and track hoodie
near the drawstrings, but mostly he shot on himself and his own hoodie.

And that, as they say, was that.

I did not cum myself. But my dick was insanely hard and dripping. I just
quickly yanked up my many layers. Not too many words were exchanged. No
"that felt so good," no "thanks." Just a contented pull-up on his part
too. No kiss. Not THAT. Neither of us were faggots. Just a brief, mutual,
awkward understanding.

I want to say I was absolutely mortified. Sure, I'd been shoving
Vaseline-coated sticks and vibrators up my butt for six or so years by that
point. And jacking off to photos of Corey Haim and Wil Wheaton in rags like
Tiger Beat and Bop. But that was all just theoretical. This was real. I was
a cocksucker now. Maybe if I got out of there quickly I could make it go
away.

So I probably said something really stupid like, "I should probably go get
ready for the Mile."

Rich: "Yeah, okay. Cool. Catch you later."

No fist bump, no high five, no low five, no handshake. No anything except
looking haphazardly in all directions except his.

Unzip tent door, step outside into bitter cold & wind, zip tent door back
up.

I don't exactly recall, but as I walked away from his presence, there was
very likely a super goofy smile that washed over my immature face. And
possibly a feeling of tingly warmth that raced through my entire body, all
the way to my Adidas running shoes-clad feet & toes.

I'd sucked a boy's dick whom I'd fantasized about for a year & a
half. There might very well have been some Irene Cara "What a Feeling"
shit, but I'll do you the favor of NOT linking the song.

In any case, I remember being overly paranoid - almost terrified - of the
drying teen semen on my hoodie. I'd like to think I wiped the spooge glob
that hit my cheek somewhere more discreet, but it was probably on my damn
sleeve. But yeah, the cum on my hoodie near the drawstring? Jesus, would my
teammates see it? Would they smell it? Would I be outed as a cocksucker? I
don't recall how I resolved that extreme unease. Probably nothing. Just
hoped & prayed.

And then the next day I was worried about Rich blabbing it all over the
school on Monday. Only later did I surmise that he was one calm, cool,
collected customer. Was it all a setup for privacy between us? Did he ask
the few others to leave so he could try to get a beej from the good-looking
guy with no girlfriend? Fascinating unknowns.

And unlike Nifty, he didn't fuck me the very next week. He didn't even ask
for another blowjob. I never sucked his dick again.

That Monday after the meet, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach, almost a
painful ache. But the first time I saw him in the hallway, it was like
nothing had happened. He even said hey (not hi). My stomach ache went away
after that. No more unease or awkwardness. Life goes on. We weren't part of
the same social circle, so I didn't see him at all that summer. Then we
moved to Detroit in late summer just prior to my senior year.

Would I have sucked his dick again? Hells to the Yes. Any time, any
place. Would I have let him fuck me? Sure as shit. I'd been wanting that
for YEARS. But I never saw Rich again beyond the last day of school junior
year. I wonder how many other boys he got to suck his cock?

After that frigid April night in a tent in center field of a high school in
Chicago's far northwest suburbs, a sort of weight had been lifted from my
shoulders. I had sucked my first dick. And as much as I didn't want to
admit so immediately afterward, I enjoyed it.

I started looking at boys in an entirely different light. More of a pervy,
"I wonder if he wants to get his dick sucked" light. I would suck more dick
later that year, in the autumn in Detroit ("In the Autumn in Detroit" from
Sony Pictures Entertainment). And I would lose my anal virginity soon
thereafter. That first cock is always a slippery slope, isn't it?

But yeah, it wasn't like Nifty in the least. It was morbidly awkward and
far too quick. A grunt and a cum ("A Grunt and a Cum: The Scuba Steve
Story," now available on DVD and Blu-Ray), and even though I didn't wear
fag tights, I knew deep down I was a faggot. And I needed more cock.

So you got me on a technicality, Mr. Hunting. It wasn't on the "mean
streets of Chicago". Or on an El train like in Risky Business. And it
wasn't my "true" virginity. That would come later in '93.

But it was most definitely losing my virginity as a straight boy.

Those days were over before they ever got started.

Inside a tent. In the freezing cold. No fucking joke.

Heeelarious.

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