Date: Thu, 3 Jul 1997 12:56:57 +1200
From: Ronald Thomas <edtext@manawatu.gen.nz>
Subject: THE STRANGER

As he relieved the pressure on his bladder, Max had the oddest feeling he
was being watched. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a tall man,
fondling himself. Max slightly turned his head in that direction. Yes, the
man was looking at him, and yes, the man was stroking himself.
"Interested?" he said.
Fear gripped Max. He'd been told from his earliest years not to speak to
strangers, especially men. Should he reply? If he did, what would he say.
The decision was taken from him as he felt his pansy bud growing rapidly
into full bloom. He'd called it his pansy since the day his mother said,
"Don't play with your penis, it's a dirty thing to do." At the age of three
or four, he thought his mother had said pansy. Regardless of the
instruction, he'd played with it ever since. Now, the rush of blood to his
crutch, stimulated by the activity along the urinal, increased the intensity
of his feelings. He turned a little in the stranger's direction.
"That's a nice one," he said.
Max felt confused. While the pounding in his groin said yes, his upbringing
screamed no. While Don't talk to strange men jabbed at his conscience, his
desire to have a gay encounter overwhelmed his good sense, exciting his
emotions. Could there be any harm in it? After the experience of Johnny
Thompson, a neighbour, yes, a very big yes!
Johnny, at the age of ten, went off with a man only to be savagely raped.
He'd been stitched, spending days in great physical pain, and months in
emotional turmoil. 
While Johnny Thompson wasn't gay, Max believed he was. After all, hadn't he
perved on other boys for years. It started, he remembered when he was about
eleven or twelve -  intermediate school days. How he loved to watch the boys
in the shower after sport. Were they as big as his own pansy? Some were,
while some were an insult to the owner. 
At high school it had been even worse. He found he needed to take the corner
shower so he could turn away when others excited him. He feared the teasing
if even the slightest hint of his being gay escaped his well protected image.
Imagine being called a fruit cake, or a faggot, or any of the other
unpleasant words boys used? He shivered at the thought!
Now, after years of longing, an offer confronted him. Without realising, his
mouth said, "Yes," and the stranger replied, "See you outside."
That clinched it! He'd done it. He'd made his first contact with the adult,
gay world. While his reasoning thundered stupid, stupid, his emotions
bubbled with excitment. While he feared the outcome, the pulsing in his
groin seemed to beat
out, in a pounding rhythm, "We're going to play the great gay way."
Seated in the white Nissan coupe, with its black leather upholstery, Max
felt apprehensive. It was one thing to speak to a stranger in the anonymity
of a gloomy gents, it was quite another to sit fully exposed to public gaze
in the man's car. What if someone saw him and told his parents? How would he
explain it? Frightened, he began to tremble.
"Your first time?"
"Yes." 
"You're terrified."
"Yes."
"Can't you say anything but yes?"
"No."
"Come on, man, relax. If you don't want to do anything, we won't."
"But I want to."
"Alright. We'll go up to the lookout. If nothing else, we can sit and talk.
The last thing I want to do is force you into anything."
"Thanks. I'd like to talk, but I'd also like to touch you. I've never
touched a man, even though I've thought about it for years."
"OK. Here we go."
Max found the stimulation of the man's hand on him, and his on the man,
overwhelming, far exceeding anything he thought possible. All too quickly,
he came, a release which outstripped anything in his experience. Not since
the first time, had he felt so good as the sap rose in his stem and poured
out into the tissues provided. Spent, his reasoning returned.
"Hey," he said, "let me out of here. What am I doing? Who are you anyhow?"
"Relax. It's over, and you feel ashamed. Frightened. I know I did. Don't,
please don't. You enjoyed it, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Then let's meet again."
"No!"
"Why not?"
"I'm scared my parents will find out. I'm sixteen, but they watch me like a
cat with a mouse. I think they suspect."
"I won't tell them, and I'm sure you won't."
"Of course I won't. I can't. I don't even know your name."
"It's best like that. No names, no way of contacting. Unless..."
"What?"
"Nothing."
Minutes passed in silence. The man held his hand, an action which soothed
and comforted. No-one had held his hand since he was a child. He liked the
sensation, finding he responed by squeezing the man's hand. Max relaxed,
completely.
"Now I've recovered, I think I'd like to see you again. I want to talk about
being gay. I don't know anything much about the gay world. I can't stop any
longer now or I'll have to think of a reason for being late home."
"I'll drop you off."
"No! I might be seen."
"I could leave you in the next street. Here, take my card. It's a silly
thing to do, but somehow I trust you. You're a nice boy. You might like to
talk some more. There's lots to learn, you know."
"Ta. That would be good. Thank you for trusting me. I won't say anything.
Promise."
Forgetting his mother played cards on a Wednesday, Max found he had the
house to himself. Sprawled on the couch, he sipped at his coffee and nibbled
on his peanut biscuit and thought about the afternoon. On reflection, it had
been
a brilliant experience, very satisfying and highly exciting, if all too
short. The stranger showed a deep concern for him and had trusted Max. This
gave him a warm feeling. As he thought about the session in the car, he
wondered what else the man would be prepared to do with him. Remembering the
card, he took it from his pocket and read, Winston Blake, Accountant. Among
the contacts was a cell phone number. He couldn't ring that from home, but
he'd try the ordinary
number. Three times he dialled six of the seven digits before he hung up.
His courage failed him.
As he lay there, thinking, the conflict grew worse and worse. He did so want
to explore the gay world, but to fully acknowledge that he was gay might
make him vunerable to all sorts of ridicule. Already, his parents had
expressed anxiety
about no girlfriend. He fobbed them off with excuses about not having the
opportunity to meet any. After all, he did attend a single sex school. When
asked about the girls at the church youth group, he shrugged his shoulders,
claiming none appealed. 
 "There must be at least one," his mother said.
"If you want red hair and freckles, or one with braces on her teeth, sure
there are, but I don't."
That usually quietened, for the moment, any further questioning.
The more he thought about the exciting climax with the man, the more the
blood rushed into his groin and the bigger his pansy flowered. This, in
turn, increased his desire to speak to this Winston Blake. Again he tried to
dial, but his courage failed. Fear of what such a call might lead to
terrified him. Visions of AIDS blotted out any other image. How easy was it
to catch? If only he'd listened more to the instruction at school. If only
he didn't feel he wanted to be with other men. If only he wasn't gay. If
only, if only, if only.... The turmoil in his head made him feel sick. One
way or the other, he decided, he needed to resolve the issue. After all, at
sixteen, he could do it legally, if he wanted to. Now, there was every
opportunity to do it, legally, with a very understanding man, who had
trusted him. This seemed to bolster his courage.
Unconsciously, as he thought about all of this, he'd undone his pants and
begun to stroke his flower. The stimulation increased his desire for sex to
such an extent he decided to further  explore the world his sexuality said
he belonged to and see what happened. Leaning over, he lifted the receiver,
dialled the seven digits and asked for Mr Blake.