Date: Thu, 15 Aug 2013 07:38:37 -0700 (PDT)
From: Macout Mann <macoutmann@yahoo.com>
Subject: IT STARTED IN A PARK 1

There is a Sparta, Georgia.  It is located where the story says it is, but
that's where reality ends.  This story is completely fictional and any
resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.  The story
also contains explicit sexual acts between males, both adult and
adolescent.  So be warned!

This story is also brought to you through the generosity of the many donors
to nifty.org.  Without their contributions this site could not exist.
Please consider a gift to nifty.org today.  You'll be glad you gave.

Your comments and criticisms are appreciated.  Please write me at
macoutmann@yahoo.com.

Copyright 2013 by Macout Mann.  All rights reserved.



                           IT STARTED IN A PARK

			      by Macout Mann



                                Chapter 1
                                Christian



Christian Ballard was fascinated with Georgia's allusions to classical
antiquity.  After all, if you change the Latin ending of Atlanta, the state
capital, from first to third declension, you come up with Atlantis, the
fabled Lost Continent.  Change the ending of Augusta from first to second
declension and you have the name of the first Roman Emperor.  Athens, the
home of Socratic learning, is now the home of the University of Georgia.
Rome, Georgia, is so named because, like that town in Italy, it sits on
seven hills.  And Sparta, which in Georgia sits about eighty miles east and
south of Atlanta, was originally the home of the Georgia Military
Institute.  Sparta in Greece being the most militant of the ancient city
states.

GMI, as it was known, was founded to be a rival of the Citadel in South
Carolina and VMI in Virginia as a place, other than West Point, where
America's military leaders were incubated.  The other two are still going
strong.  Following the Civil War, however, GMI declined.  The same Georgia
common sense that prevented Sherman from destroying Savannah and allowed
Atlanta to rise from the ashes converted GMI in the 1880s into Sparta
College for Men.  Now it is the University of Sparta, a coeducational
institution that rivals the best colleges in the country in academic
achievement.

Now in 1980 Christian Ballard is to become an assistant professor at this
fabled institution.  He is a freshly minted PhD, twenty-seven years old, a
gay bachelor tossed into the Bible Belt, not knowing a soul.  And to make
matters worse, he is an art historian.

Christian has never minded being alone, except that he has always coveted
sexual fulfillment.  Often.  And even in high school, and throughout
college at Washington University and grad school at Stanford he found that
he easily could find satisfaction by cruising parks.  He was confident
Sparta would provide the same opportunities.

Sparta is a city of 110,000.  The university is its major employer.  Peanut
culture is its other major economic impetus.  Like most other American
cities, the downtown is decaying, but it does have three major parks.  One
is favored by families for picnics, by Little Leaguers for games, and by
joggers for workouts.  One is in "the wrong part of town" and has a
reputation for drugs and vice cops.  The third is a beautiful area left to
the city a by newspaper publisher "to be kept a pastoral landscape in
perpetuity."

Cranston Park is mostly a wooded area with walking and biking trails.  It
does have tennis courts, a grassy area for soccer or other games, a
children's playground, and at the edge of the woods a pavilion overlooking
an open area with restrooms nearby.  It was perfect for cruising.



Christian Ballard grew up in Cleveland.  His father was a first-violinist
in the Cleveland Orchestra.  So early on he knew all the hiding places a
kid could find in Severance Hall.  His mother was a painter, well known for
her portraits but world-famous for her seascapes of Lake Erie in the days
before it was the garbage dump of the Great Lakes. She was an
artist-activist.

From an early age Christian studied the fiddle with another member of the
Cleveland Orchestra violin section.  His dad thought it best that someone
else be his teacher.  Merritt Jensen, a boy not quite a year older, had
lessons just before Christian did, and they became acquaintances, then
friends.  Their relationship began with Christian going to Merritt's place
to practice together.  As they reached puberty, there were mutual jack-off
sessions, and then Merritt introduced Christian to the joys of sucking and
fucking.  Different kinds of duets than they played on their violins.

It started one afternoon when Merritt asked, "You ever tasted a cock?"
Violins set aside, they were each jacking the other.

"Shit, no!" Christian responded.  And then after Merritt didn't say
anything, Christian added, "You're not saying you have, are you?"

"Sucking's no big thing," Merritt answered.  "And getting head feels a
hellova lot better than a hand job."

"That's sick!" Christian exclaimed.  But he had an entirely different
reaction when he felt Merritt's palm replaced by his lips.  "Damn.  You're
not kidding." Christian moaned.

Merritt's technique wasn't perfect, but he did use his tongue to heighten
the experience and he did slide rhythmically up and down Christian's tube,
gradually increasing the pace, until Christian cried out, "Hey man, I'm
goanna cum."  And then, "I'm goanna shoot in your mouth, man!"  And
finally, "Goddamn..."

Christian's copious load filled Merritt's mouth, and as he swallowed,
trickles flowed down his chin.  He lapped up the overflow with his tongue.

"Goddamn...," Christian said again.  "You fucking let me cum inside your
mouth!"

"Sure I did," Merritt replied.  "Cum tastes good, man.  Let me show you."

"I don't know about that.  I'm no fucking queer!"

"You think I am?" Merritt retorted.  "Try it.  If you don't like it, you
don't ever have to do it again," he added.

Call it "intellectual curiosity."  Christian just had to see what it was
like.  He sank to his knees.

Merritt took his friend's ears and guided Christian's lips to his own rigid
tool.  "Watch your teeth," he cautioned.

Merritt's fourteen-year-old hard-on filled Christian's orifice, almost
making him gag.  But the only taste he experienced was the not unpleasant
flavor of pre-cum.  And the sensation of having a dick in his mouth was
strangely thrilling.  He slowly began to move his head back and forth,
burying his nose in Merritt's stubby pubes.  "Yeah, man," Merritt
whispered, "suck that thing.  Suck it good."

Soon Merritt was fucking Christian's face, increasing the tempo until in a
frenzied thrust he finally dumped his essence down his friend's throat.
"Yes...," he yelled, "taste my jizz."

Both boys became hooked.

Merritt had gotten started with an older cousin.  He had learned well.  He
waited after his initial encounter with Christian, however, until Christian
broached the subject of again going further than mutual masturbation.  It
was about ten days later.  "How about sucking my dick again?"  Christian
ventured.

"If you'll suck me too," Merritt quickly responded.

They met twice weekly to play duets together, and twice weekly they drank
each other's cum.  In time Christian was no longer concerned about his
sexual orientation.  He accepted the fact that he was totally gay.

By the time he was sixteen, he also accepted the fact that he would never
become a competent violinist.  Merritt's technique was twice as good as
his, and although he enjoyed playing, he had lost his zest for practice and
discontinued his lessons.  And he was glad that that was all right with his
father.  His dad also realized that Christian could never become a
professional.  His other relationships with Merritt, however, continued
until they finished high school.




During high school, he also realized that he craved sex more often and more
urgently than Merritt could provide.  He couldn't afford to be exposed as a
queer to his schoolmates; so he found his way to a neighborhood park, not
really knowing what to expect, but having heard that "stuff happens there."

The first few visits to the men's room were uneventful.  He contented
himself by jacking off and reading the graffiti, which seemed to indicate
that something had to be going on.  Then one afternoon he saw a car parked
outside and found the single stall inside occupied.  He took his place at
the urinal and waited.  He could see that the man sitting in the stall was
wearing khaki pants and black loafers, and he heard his companion tap his
foot three times.  He watched as the taps were repeated, but he didn't know
what that meant or how to react.  Then he saw a hand extend beneath the
partition with wiggling fingers.  He continued to stand with dick in hand
as though he were pissing, but his companion could tell there was no sound
of urine flowing into the basin, and Christian's tool was definitely
responding to what was happening, even if his mind wasn't..

Finally, the man stood up and stuck his head out the stall door.  He was in
his thirties, dark haired, sort of Mediterranean looking.  "Come on, kid,"
he said.  "You want a blow job?  Get your ass over here."  Then he sat down
again.

Without a word Christian crossed over and entered the stall, his hard dick
still in his hand.  The man was sitting on the stool with his pants down,
but his hard-on said very clearly that taking a shit was the last thing on
his mind.  He quickly undid Christian's jeans, revealing his whole package,
and he fondled the boy's balls and kissed the tip of his dick.  "Nice," he
said.

Christian had never been so excited.  He was near panic for fear another
person would come in, but the experience of being in public with a person
he'd never seen before was about to bring him to an immediate orgasm.  The
man took Christian into his mouth without another word.  Christian's
excitement only heightened as he realized that, unlike when he was with
Merritt, he couldn't predict what the man's expert lips and tongue were
going to do next.  He exploded into the guy's throat, wishing that he could
hold out, but there was no way.  It was body over mind.

The man stood, pulled up his pants, said his thanks, and left.  Christian
was just coming off his high, when he heard the man's car speed away.

That experience was the first of many.  Sometimes Christian and another guy
would do it standing together at the urinal.  Sometimes, they'd suck or
even fuck in the stall.  Some of his partners were near his own age, some
in their sixties.  More than once they would be interrupted by the arrival
of a third person.  Sometimes that led to a three-way.  Occasionally he
would encounter someone he had been with before.  But mostly his
experiences were totally anonymous, never-to-be-repeated adventures.  And
he never lost the excitement that he felt that first time with the hot
Mediterranean guy.



Christian was also attracted to art, but unlike his mother, he was not a
good painter either.  She suggested that art history might be a field that
would appeal to him, and after reading several books, he agreed.  The fall
following his graduation from high school, he headed for St. Louis and
Washington University, which had a very respectable art history program.

The drive from Cleveland to St. Louis took over nine hours without stops,
so it was decided that he'd lay over in Indianapolis, which was close to
halfway there.  He didn't leave home until after lunch, and the sun was
already setting, when he pulled into an I70 rest area.  He wasn't all that
far from his motel, but he just had to take a piss.  It was there that he
discovered that roadside parks also offered opportunities to satisfy his
sexual needs.  He encountered a horny truck driver.

The driver was in his late forties.  He was standing a bit further from the
bowl than most guys would have, but appeared to be concentrating on his
business. He had massive shoulders and at one time he had had a trim waist,
but twenty years of drinking beer and sitting behind the wheel of an
eighteen-wheeler had given him a plump belly.  Christian went to a urinal a
couple of places down and unleashed a stream of hot piss like only an
eighteen-year-old can manage.  When he looked up at the truck driver, he
was surprised to see that the other man had turned to face him, and was
sporting eight or nine inches of hard meat.  As soon as Christian finished
pissing, he also turned to face the driver.

"Come out to my rig, kid," the driver said.  "We won't be bothered out
there."

Christian followed the trucker, climbed into the cab, and was shoved over
into the sleeper.  An hour later, after both men were satisfied, Christian
resumed his trek.



Once settled at WashU, Christian discovered that across Skinker Boulevard
from the campus was St. Louis' famous Forest Park.  No forest anymore, but
a huge space containing theatres, museums, so many attractions.  And
unlimited opportunities for hook-ups.  Go jogging, and you never knew.

After graduating with a near 4.0, Christian's mother encouraged him to go
for a higher degree, and at the Leland Stanford, Jr. Farm, he excelled
academically and sexually.  If a gay can't get laid in Northern California,
he might as well give up.

As is the case at most American universities, Christian's doctoral program
stretched from three years to five.  Cheap teaching assistants are needed,
and the approval of dissertations can be delayed indefinitely.

Now, however, he was at Sparta.  On tenure track.  Standing in the Cranston
Park Pavilion late in the afternoon, he wondered what was to come next.
Passersby would notice a tall blond with regular features, piercing blue
eyes and a t-shape with a thirty-inch gut that promised six-pack abs.  When
hard he was also nine inches long and over five around.

Christian had never been athletically inclined as a child, but when he got
to college and was faced with two years of mandatory gym classes, he
discovered swimming and fell in love with it.  He still swam every day when
he could, and had the body to show for it.