Date: Sun, 26 Jul 2015 21:55:37 -0400
From: robin reed <robinreed1951@gmail.com>
Subject: Willing Prey (Adult Youth)

This is a story about sexual relationships in the mid-1960s. The behavior
depicted is that of those times, not now. Be careful and be safe. Wait till
your Father gets home, young man!

 The Standard Disclaimer applies here: this story features graphic
depictions of sexual activity between males of differing ages. If such
material is inappropriate for the jurisdiction where you live, please exit
immediately.

 This is a work of fiction, though I sigh when I recall how much of it is
so painfully true.  Names and events have been changed to protect the
innocent (and guilty). This is copyrighted material and may not be used
without explicit permission of the author. I don't mind if you save it to
your hard drive and use the contents to enhance your own pleasure, but
nothing for further dissemination without authorization, OK?

 Also: NIFTY has been an invaluable resource for hundreds of thousands of
GLBT folks for years. It has provided a necessary outlet for all of us,
authors and readers alike. NIFTY needs your support. Please consider a
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<http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html>*

Willing Prey

I love Nifty. I have been a reader for years and occasionally contribute a
story here and there. Although they constitute one single narrative of a
life's journey through homosexual desire. It is played out against the
background of a society that was transforming itself into a virtual Sodom
and Gomorrah of desire and delight.

And pain, of course. We are human, after all and this isn't just tea and
biscuits, you know? Playing safe is a fact of life, even if we can dream
about how it used to be, spewing our essence in any and all directions,
willy-nilly.

Anyway, something I wrote the other appealed to a nice man a couple states
away, and through the virtual intimacy of the Internet, we began talk about
how we are formed as sexual beings. I mentioned a story- I don't know if it
is actually true and there was alcohol involved- that a friend told me in a
bar one time. At that particular moment she was dressed in little girl
clothes, short plaid skirt and white blouse with little pearls and Mary
Jane shoes and white anklets and a wig with pigtails. I told her she had
nailed the look, and wondered at how she was so adept at transforming
herself from average Joe to total queer jailbait.

She looked at me contemplatively and took a sip of her Seven-and-Seven. "I
was ten or eleven, just coming up to the big change. There was an older guy
in the neighborhood, and he enticed me into coming to his house to try on
some clothes to see what he might take to the Good Will. He tricked me into
modeling his daughter's stuff, and one thing led to another, all the cool
sodomy stuff with me on my knees and that big Daddy cock in my little mouth
and here I am."

I thought it was a compelling story, though I am totally and 100% opposed
to the abuse of minors, and would never countenance doing such a thing.
That said, I have absolutely no problem with being abused myself, and envy
those who had the opportunity to consent to such rich abasement. After all,
I have spent a lifetime that way, and I exult in it, and my freedom to
submit to what I crave.

Anyway, my new friend heard that and told me about the beginning of his
journey. His story was so erotic, and filled me with envy. He said he got
inducted early on into the Homo Cocksuckers League at the hands of several
older boys.  "They sort of handed me around among them.  I was a bit
reluctant at first but I warmed to it. Then one day after school one of
them took me over to Mr. N's place. He was into the modeling clothing
thing, too, and he led me over the same courses, and systematically abused
me in all the really cool ways, leaving nothing out."

I sighed in envy. I so wished I had the chance to model cute clothes for a
take-charge older guy. My new pal continued thoughtfully: "In me he had a
perfect playmate, I was stupid and horny and coming out of the shell of a
Catholic upbringing and I wanted to please, and I blush to mention the
things I did for him. But to mention a few - he was really into bondage,
which it turned out I had a taste for too.  He had a whole elaborate
procedure for me to suck him off - hands on his balls, fingers playing with
his anus, fist moving up and down his stiffie with my mouth until he bathed
me in cum."

"I later came to understand over the course of 25 or 30 years he'd been the
go-to pervert for a series of young homo-inclined boys, like me. He liked
to keep young recruits coming in by pressing his current pets to think
about who might be approachable. Like me. Blush."

Like I said, I cannot imagine violating a minor under any circumstances;
yet I have always had a yearning to be used by older men. Always. I hear
about the pedophile Priests and wish I too had been Catholic! I had a lover
once who had been on the seminary path to ordination and he told me stories
about what went on in the all-male dorms and in the Priest's study and I
kicked myself for being too dim to know what was really going on right in
front of us all.

Missed opportunities!

And I wish I was slight and effeminate, and attractive like some of the
boys, but alas, I was a buff and fit lad who played guard on the football
team because it seemed like the thing to do. I was better than average,
channeling my inner turmoil into sanctioned aggression on the field. I was
also a bit shy and artistic, two traits I attempted with some success to
conceal with the usual adolescent braggadocio. Which came down to why the
two predators who taught at my high school did not approach me, though I
dreamed of it often.

Here was the deal: one of them used hot cars to attract the young men. He
had a Dodge Daytona Super Bee, one of those absurd air-foiled hemi-powered
rolling fantasies sold to the public in a small number in order to qualify
for NASCAR races on the track as a "production car."

Two of my friends were enticed to drive it, and none of them had the sense
to check the oil and blew the engine on that magnificent vehicle. Questions
about why the teacher was allowing the young men to get so involved in his
personal life and at such great expense raised some questions and concerns,
and I recall him fading from the nexus of the conversations we had about
the drama teacher, whose name caused me to bluish then and now: Richard
Sack, whose nickname was the unbelievably graphic "Dick."

*Dick Sack. *

It was almost too much direct entendre to endure without bursting into
nervous laughter; so out there for the later 1960s. He was an elfin little
man who dressed with exuberant elegance, thinning hair swept back behind
his ears and a knowing and mischievous smile.

This is an absolutely true story, so help me, and if he survived the
plague, he would be in his 80s now. I don't know about the statute of
limitations, and I don't want to cause him any trouble. He filled me with
desire then, and I often daydreamed about him, wishing he could have filled
me with something else back then.

This doesn't feature any graphic sex- my first experience with an anal
invasion of all-beef man flesh was years away in another town with a dreamy
Spaniard, and that story is equally true though much more satisfying.

But here was the reason I was never in a position for Dick Sack to dick me
or get me in he sack. Football season conflicted with the big Fall Play
Production, and that was the means by which Mr. Sack (we had to call him
that to his face) attracted an enthusiastic circle of handsome, outgoing
young sophomores to get involved with his Theatrical Arts program. The
older students- Juniors and Seniors- got their ultimate rewards with lead
parts. There was nothing unseemly in the public process. Girls and boys
were treated alike and with professionalism. But come the time of the cast
parties and the great intimacy of having put together a credible (if
juvenile) production of West Side Story, there was a natural intimacy of
shared experience.

In some cases there were whispered rumors that things went further, to
small and select gatherings at his town-house in the adjacent suburb.

The time I discovered that there might be something going on was Junior
year. The football team I was on was mediocre, but we won enough games to
be able to hold our heads up. The Sharks and the Jets were standing tall on
stage though, and they were reaching for the stars. The wardrobes were
spectacular, a combination of Guys and Dolls styling and a fantasy of what
hip urban gangs might wear on their best nights. Mr. Sack wouldn't let the
clothing be worn to school prior to the limited run, but once the play was
done and went into the account written for the annual Year Book, it was
fair game. The cast members cruised through the preppie-clad garb like real
sophisticates.

Which is what the rumors were about. It was said that a small group of
young men would gather on weekends at Mr. Sack's house, and being
accustomed to being dressed by the teacher for role-playing, there was that
and more. And beer.

The school was agog one Monday morning as the holidays approached.
Apparently the little group had gathered, and Mark, one of the boyishly fey
cast members had a bit too much to drink and could not drive home safely.
He wound up staying at Mr. Sack's place overnight.

"Did anything happen?" we asked breathlessly. Well, it was breathless in
tone on my part, anyway, since I tried to imagine myself being seduced by
that sexy little man, and submitting to his desires, all of them, including
ones I could not even articulate. All the erotic fiction I was able to find
in those days- remember how different it was?- was relentlessly
heterosexual. I found that I could make it arousing if I cast myself as the
ravished maiden. It just felt right somehow, and I experimented with
penetrating myself with a variety of phallic-shaped objects when I was home
alone and reading porn. With something hard buried deep in me I felt
complete in a way that felt so totally natural.

But as to staying at Mr. Sack's palace of passion, the word was: "Well,
Mark is saying nothing happened. But he could have been queered when he was
passed out on the couch. But we don't know."

That is what us allegedly straight guys called it then. "Being queered."
There actually was nothing I wanted more than that, whatever it actually
entailed.

That one got me scheming. I didn't play winter sports, except for that
extremely unsettling attempt at joining the wrestling team one season-
there is some raw teen eroticism for you, all the clinging body suits and
sweat and the smell of all those young pheromones. I was wrestling up in
the unlimited category, though I was only 175 pounds of lithe muscle at the
time- and wound up with 225-pound tight end Biff's sweaty and enormous
genitals pressed in my face one afternoon, an encounter that made feel
humiliated and simultaneously and aroused.

I don't know if Biff noticed.

It would have been like that time riding a snowmobile at a friend's cabin.
There were more guests than machines, so I was driving one of them with
Bill hanging on behind me and realizing he was poking my back with
something really hard and really intimate. My goodness, if only I had acted
on some of the most obvious things I could have saved myself a lot of
trouble!

Sometimes in the privacy of my own bed at night I thought I should go try
out for the cast of Mr. Sack's big Spring show. By summer time, I imagined,
stroking myself to an achingly good erection, I might be lucky enough to
"have too much beer to drive" one night and wind up on Mr. Sack's couch.
There I could be vulnerable and see if I could get 'queered,' too. It was
soooo hot to think of it.

I wondered how it would work. Would he bring me a blanket to be more
comfortable? Perhaps say that it wouldn't be right to be there alone, and
wouldn't I rather just get some decent sleep in a real bed, and help me up
the stairs and out of my jeans and slide under the duvet? And feel his
questing hand gently caress my stiffening cock? And cover my mouth with
gentle kisses as he presented his mature manhood to my questing hand as I
gasped at its size and heft and as he realized with a sense of triumph that
I wasn't too drunk at all, but just wanted to be under him, his lean man's
body pressed against me, totally subject to his direction and command.

It would have spiced up high school a lot.

It never worked out that way, much to my disappointment. My Dad got
transferred to a smaller and much more conservative city at the beginning
of Senior year, which completely sucked, and my deflowering had to wait
until I was nearly nineteen and able to legally visit the sole gay lounge
on the east side of the state, where I met my virile Spaniard who was the
first to insert his slim and elegant cock into me.

That story is around here someplace if you want to look for it.

Oh well, late bloomer is better than not blooming at all, right?

Why don't you come and sit next to me here and chat? We might find
something we can share.

Copyright 2015 Robin Reed. All rights reserved.