Date: Sun, 25 Apr 2010 03:28:06 -0400 (EDT)
From: Clark Building <clarkbldg@earthlink.net>
Subject: Talk, Talk, Talk

The conversations started innocent enough and I was barely aware of the
direction we were headed until several weeks into our new friendship.  I
was intrigued by cars and Phil had a 1933 Ford Coupe that had some hot-rod
modifications to the engine and body. It was slightly lowered in front, a
"rake," as they called it then, years ago.  Anyway, his coupe was always
parked near the donut shop where he worked.  He was nearly twenty and two
or three years out of high school.  I was a sophmore in high school and,
when school let out, walked by the donut shop almost every afternoon,
frequently stopping to look over his car.  He usually just watched me out
the window of the shop.  I saw him watching, so I never touched his car,
just looked.

Then one day, when I came by, he was sitting in the car.  "Like my car?" he
asked.  "Sure." I ventured, not being real talkative to people I didn't
know.

"Wanna go for a ride?" he smiled big.  "Sure," I popped.  He started it up
and I quickly jumped in the other side.  He gunned the engine a couple of
times, slipped it into gear, and let out the clutch with a jerk and away we
went, zoom.  The thing seemed powerful and a bit noisy, the floor gear
shift was loose and difficult to shift without grinding, but we were
suddenly out on a main boulevard and moving swiftly in high gear.  Phil
seemed to know where he was headed.  He pulled into a parking area adjacent
to the Coronado boathouse on the Southeast side of town.

"I'll teach you how to drive, maybe, if you want.  Later, I mean, not
today," he said.  "Sure," I mumbled, wondering why he stopped.

The boathouse was more or less unused during the week, everybody at work or
school, the weekend was much busier, especially in nice weather.  Many
small sailboats were kept there by residents of Coronado.  It seemed
secluded and remote during the week or in months of bad weather.

"Tell me all about yourself," he invited.

"Like what?" I asked.

"Well, how long have you lived in Coronado?"

"Just a couple of months," I answered.

"Where did you live before?"

"Over on the east side of San Diego, for awhile, and then in Ocean Beach,"
I began to loosen up and talk more.

"What grade are you in?"

"Tenth," I replied.

He suggested we get out and walk around the boathouse or down on the beach,
so we got out and started walking.  He took off his shirt and I did the
same.  As we walked, he continued to ask me all kinds of things about my
life, friends, family, places I lived before.  I noticed that he was really
muscular, a body builder kind of physique.  I wondered if he took off his
shirt just to impress me with his big arms and bulging chest muscles.  I
was not ashamed of my little chest and arms, but he was clearly the one
lifting weights or something.

I don't remember where exactly we walked, but we were very far from the car
when I finally realized it was getting late and I had to get home before my
parents came home from work.  Phil had several times, as we walked along,
put his hand on the back of my neck and squeezed lightly.  It was friendly,
I thought, to be touched like that.  But the power of his hand was
noticeable and I had a fearful impulse, should I not be in his good graces
at some point.  I felt vulnerable and defenseless in the presence of such
strength.

More questions, his appetite for information about my personal life seemed
endless.  He drove me home and I was setting the table for dinner by the
time my parents came home.  They both worked for a big dry cleaning company
in San Diego so they commuted together.

Some days after that, Phil was busy in the shop after school and I would
visit with him there and he would give me donut holes to munch and stale
coffee to drink.  He must have had a good memory because he rarely asked me
the same question twice, but he continued to ask me every damn thing he
could think of about my interests, likes and dislikes, favorite this or
that.  Jeez, I wasn't really sure that there was anything about me that he
didn't know.

But days went by and at least once or twice a week, we would drive down to
the boathouse and walk around the beach of the small lagoon surrounding the
boathouse.  Phil would almost always remove his shirt, as would I.  He
would touch me more and more, caressing my back and shoulders, rubbing my
neck, sometimes running his hand across my chest very lightly, gently
pinching my nipples between his fingers.  I let him do whatever in that
regard, not objecting, but not touching him back.  Meanwhile, the
conversation turned ever so slightly to matters sexual.

Like, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Ever think about a certain girl at school when you're in the bathroom with
a stiff dick?"

"How often do you jack off?"

"What ideas turn you on?"

"Did you ever get a hard-on in the showers after gym class?"

Often, I just laughed a little and didn't answer him.  It seemed like his
questions would escalate in seriousness when I didn't answer. In one way or
another, he was repeatedly asking me about what sexual ideas I had when I
masturbated.  I was growing aware that he sexual ideas about me.  But he
seemed scared to cross that certain line.  But he was slowly inching in
that direction.

Finally, one afternoon in late spring, we sat in his car behind the donut
shop where we had some privacy and I asked him a question.  It seemed like
the logical place he was headed and I was tired of waiting.

"You want to know if I ever get aroused by guys?" I asked.  His face got
red, he just looked at me.  "You want to know if I would get naked with you
at the boathouse?  Is that what you want, Phil?" I could see he was really
embarrassed and short of breath.

"Well," he started, but I cut him off, "Yes, Phil, you can do anything you
want with me and I will never tell anybody.  You can do it in the car, in
the boathouse, on the beach, or in your apartment and in your own bed.  If
you want to stick your cock in my mouth, for God's sake, just do it and
quit talking about it.  Don't ask me anything, just tell me what to do and
then do what you want, OK?"

That day, when we parked at the boathouse, I sat on my feet on the
floorboard of his car and pulled down his trousers and gave him a lovely
blow job.  He gave me a lovely prick and a mouthful of hot cum.  It was all
I had wanted from him for months.  I am certain he had the same idea all
that time.  Turned out he didn't have his own apartment, lived with his
folks, so we messed around mostly in the boathouse, under the cover of
someone's sailboat.  He was very strong, but I made him cum very quick,
very often.