Date: Mon, 08 Feb 1999 11:36:14 +0900
From: Andrej Koymasky <andrejkoymasky@geocities.com>
Subject: 25 years 01

--------------------------

I started writing gay stories in 1985 and to
now I wrote about 80 of them. Being Italian, of course I wrote them in
Italian. Now, many of my friends asked me to translate them in English.
But my English, also if understandable, is surely not a "literary" one:
I can't know all the nuances and literary tricks I can use in Italian. I
need somebody revising my translation. Now, I found a person that is
kindly helping me with my stories. But I can't ask to one single person
to help me with all of my stories. So, if amongst you there is somebody
(with a good English style) that thinks this unpaid work worthy, and
wants to help me, I would be really happy. If such a person exists, can
send me an e-mail at:

andrejkoymasky@geocities.com

----------------------------

LIFE BEGINS AT TWENTY FIVE
by Andrej Koymasky (C) 1998
written the 27th of June, 1994
translated by the author
English text kindly revised
by Jacques du Bois.

-----------------------------

USUAL DISCLAIMER

"LIFE BEGINS AT TWENTY FIVE" is a gay story, with some parts containing
graphic scenes of sex between males. So, if in your land, religion,
family, opinion and so on this is not good for you, it will be better
not to read this story. But if you really want, or because YOU don't
care, ore because you think yo really want to read it, please be my
welcomed guest.

-----------------------------

ONE - PROLOGUE

"Look there! Another piece of the park disappears along with a good
piece of the city ecological campaign! Bah! For sure one of those fat
cat politicians paid off by someone so they can fuck the law." Jacques
mother grumbled, while finishing to clean the window glasses.

She went to the kitchen with her dirty water basin and her dusters.
Jacques heard her busy in the other room. He took his telescope aiming
it at the park, towards the point where a crane and the concrete pillars
emerged from the trees. He adjusted the focus and finally could clearly
see the man in the control cabin. Bare chested, a helmet on his head, a
little fat, around thirty years old. It seemed he was singing. His
mother asked him from the kitchen what did he wanted for lunch. He
answered. He turned his telescope a few degrees focusing on the men
working on the scaffoldings. Who knew how high they would build that
building? Where they were now must have been the third floor. Almost all
were bare chested or in a vest. There seemed to be a nice boy over
there! He could have been his own age, about twenty five. Beautiful
torso, muscled and tanned. The helmet hid the hair color, but it had to
be light. Jacques wished he had a camera to use with the telescope to
take a picture of him, but his mother spent too much money buying the
telescope.

In the beginning he really used it to study the few stars that the
polluted air of the town allowed to be seen in the clear nights. The
darkness of the park, where the back of his house and his room window
overlooked, improved the viewing. He also succeeded in seeing some
planets, but above all he now knew the moon's topography very well. Then
he thought to use it to explore the park. At first he was disappointed,
it was not possible to put in focus the images, for they were too near.
But he had some notions of optics, so he thought to modify the internal
position of the lenses. So he disassembled and reassembled it several
times, until he succeeded. He transformed it into a giant telephoto
lens, just powerful as those of the paparazzi, used to take nude photos
of celebrities from the top of a hill two miles away, as if they were
just a few feet away.

He found that more amusing than to look at the stars. He could see
animals, flowers, people. Children playing, old women gossiping on the
benches, young couples quarreling or cooing, or flirting when the
surroundings were deserted. He remembered the emotions he felt, about
two years before, when he saw a couple sitting on a bench: the girl had
opened her boy's fly, pulled out his big, hard cock, and masturbated
him. He leaned backward, his legs spread out with his eyes closed,
blissfully enjoying those intimate attentions. Jacques saw him become as
tense as a violin bow and throw out, translucent and shining in the air,
small falls of liquid pearls. He seemed to be right there, at six feet
from him, and Jacques ejaculated soon after the youth, in his
handkerchief, ready for the purpose.

During the summer he could see big boys in shorts and bare chests
playing football or simply to taking in the sun. Desirable. That wasn't
the only sexual activity he got out of the park. They happened at night,
in the darkness of the park, with his telescope he just managed to pick
out faint, indistinct shadows in movement. So indistinct that it was
hard to tell who was the male or, at the most, if they were two males.
He could barely see them arrive in twos, intertwine, move at the rhythm
of coupling, part, leave. Some hurried up in few minutes, others
indulged in longer games. What games and how, he could only guess.

After the accident, Jacques had to develop a remarkable fantasy life to
compensate for the loss of the use of his legs and of his freedom of
movement. God knows why people think that a handicapped person doesn't
have a sexual life. He had been a normal and healthy boy until fifteen.
He reached puberty at twelve and half and joining with his friends in
the usual reciprocal masturbation games, the contests where it was
determined who could come first or who could spurt farther. He did that
until he was thirteen when he met an older and more cunning companion,
that taught him to have sex. At first they just sucked each other. He
loved that very much, and as soon as his companion invited him, he
happily accepted. Then his friend persuaded Jacques to accept
penetration; he loved very much to feel his friend's member invade him,
fill him and then move inside him. He didn't think it was possible to
feel so delightful a sensation than be penetrated. He was fourteen and
half when he penetrated another friend for the first time. He also found
this to be very enjoyable and he didn't miss a chance to do it, with the
enthusiasm of his young age. He clearly understood that, in the erotic
field, he was attracted to his own sex. He clearly understood what it
was to be gay. He accepted it with serene joy.

Thanks to an occasional lover, an university student that hooked him at
the movies and brought him to his home, that in his small bed made love
to him for a very long while, with real skill, making him rejoice very
much, he discovered the magazine "Gay Pied". He was too young to buy it
at the newspaper stand, and when he met the young man again, he asked
him get a copy as gift, one he still had and jealously guarded.

Then, at fifteen, a car accident that took his father's life and reduced
him to a wheel chair. Eliminating in that way, in a single stroke, his
possibility to have any partner, a sexual life, or a relationship. He
could only masturbate and daydream. He became very skilled in
daydreaming. So skilled that he began to write erotic gay stories, when
he was seventeen. That was exactly when his mother discovered to have
not only a handicapped son, but also a gay one. She didn't find that out
because of his novels. As thirsty for sex as he was, he did tried do it
with the male nurse that went to his house to assist him, a really
handsome twenty six year old man. This one didn't content himself with
just leaving that house, he also told Jacques's mother why he left.

The woman, at first, was shocked. She shouted, cried, and was upset.
They spent months of tension, and sometimes ferocious discussions.
Little by little, the woman surrendered, accepting. So much that she was
easily convinced to go to buy him a copy of the magazine "Gay Pied"
(even if she felt really ashamed) and later to make a payment at the
post office for a subscription to that magazine.

So Jacques started to send his stories to the magazine, that published
them under the pseudonym "Marc Jaures", the same initial letters of his
real first and last name, but reversed. The magazine sent a reasonable
check for each published story. With that money, Jacques had bought a
personal computer, where he typed his stories. A magazine editorial
staff, wrote him one day asking him to try to write a full length novel.
So he published his first work, entitled "An Old Tree Talks". He
imagined he was a tree in the park, watching the love story between two
boys start, seeing them coming back during the night to make love under
his foliage for many years. Watches their reciprocal love grow until a
night they are caught by a gang of thugs and one of them is slaughtered.
A sad story, but written with skill and sentiment, that had a fair
success and him some good money.

Jacques, ended his studies at home with his mother carrying him in his
wheelchair at school for the exams once a year. He found more work at
home, thanks to his personal computer: he had to revise the floppies
that a publisher sent him for proof reading. This work did ask him an
average of three, four days per week, and procured him a small but
useful salary. And above all it occupied his time.

At twenty one he had a very short love affair with a boy he had met
through the ads in "Gay Pied", but the boy, after a few encounters, said
to him that he didn't feel like to have a steady relations with "a very
likable person, but one who couldn't even go out for a walk". Jacques
had suffered for that, because he was starting to fall in love with him.
But he had understood that it was better for him to give up dreaming to
have a partner. His mother, that even if she never talked about it with
Jacques, knew of their relationship (when the boy came, she, with an
excuse or another, left the house to leave them alone) tried to comfort
him, even if rather awkwardly. Jacques, after that delusion, never again
put ads on the magazine to beg a little of sex, if not love.

He was not really sad, just resigned. Then he wrote the story "Chaste
for Destiny" where he described a boy that becomes a friar thinking to
have the vocation, and that discovers to be attracted to boys. He
doesn't have any relations, not because he didn't desire them, but
because he finds himself prisoner of the situation, that he accepts with
resignation. Jacques described the young friar's desires, troubles,
fantasies, describing the in reality his own self, his own situation. He
got another excellent result. "Gay Pied" sent him letters of his readers
with their comments on his stories. Marc Jaures's stories always
received a remarkable success.

So Jacques had reached his twenty fourth birthday.

He liked the mason up there on the scaffolding, who was now wiping his
sweat with a white cloth. He had pulled away his helmet; Jacques guessed
right, a fall of soft, very light brown hair shone in the sun, making
the spring more luminous. He seemed so near, through the lens, that it
gave the feeling that it was enough to stretch out an arm to brush the
beautiful, wide, muscled chest, barely sprinkled with a fine blond coat
of hair. Or to caress the curve his fly made at the right point. The boy
his helmet back on, put the cloth on his belt and went back to work, at
times disappearing from his view.

Jacques imagined a love story between two masons, born up there between
the scaffoldings suspended in the emptiness. He left his telescope,
moved his wheelchair to his desk, started his computer and opened a new
file. As temporary title he wrote "masons-01". The real title would have
come out while writing the story, as usual. He decided in wide lines the
plot skeleton, invented the names, the ages, some more detail he wrote
in a scrap paper, and started to write:

"From up there, the reality of the surrounding city seemed to assume the
characteristics of a relief model, much more beautiful and complex than
those he admired when a little boy, his eyes wide open, his nose pushed
against the glass of the toy shop window. Yves took away his helmet and
wiped his sweat from his tanned face, his strong neck, his wide
shoulders and then, with a kind of sensual pleasure, from the broad
naked chest. Unaware of the look full of desire with which Karim, his
Algerian co-worker looked at him from the control cabin of the crane..."

Yes, instead of the fat man, Jacques imagined that there was a handsome
Arab about twenty eight years old, with a lean and sensual body that,
notwithstanding he was married and a father of three children, was a
lover of his own sex. He would describe how Karim courted Yves, and how
he could lead him to discover, little by little his latent sexuality and
finally how he succeeded in taking him. A love and passion story, that
would culminate with Karim's wife attempt to kill Yves and with the flee
of the two lovers in a village of Provence where they would live working
as servants in the villa of a rich gay man, an ex lover of Karim. His
stories, usually, were always with a happy end, because Jacques thought
that, for the sad ends, everyday reality was enough. And anyway the
majority of his readers loved both his stories and his endings. Jacques
used to write his stories in one go. Then he read again, corrected,
polished giving them the definitive form according the style he had
thought in advance. While he was writing his stories, the young man fell
in love with his characters. He felt them alive, real, animated by their
own life. Once they were born, he couldn't constrain them to do what he
wanted. He was conscious of that and he was also rather amazed. It
seemed to him as he could just create the situations and then just
observe how his characters will confront them, and resolve them.
Sometimes, occasionally, there were the few sad endings he could not
avoid. Who knows how it would really end between Yves and Karim? he
asked himself while he was continuing to describe the french boy, his
emotions, his ideas, his reactions.

He broke off for lunch. His mother told him about price increases, about
the neighbour wife quarreling with her husband, about the backer son who
was about to divorce and other similar trivial things. Jacques listened,
intervening with a couple of words just to give his mother the
impression he was talking to her, and he asked himself what would become
of him the day when his mother would no more be. His mother was still
young, she was just forty three, was in good health, and as long as an
unforeseen event didn't occur, she would live still for a long time.
Egoistically, he hoped to die before her. Of course he couldn't say such
things to her. But what could he do the day he was alone? Probably he
would be admitted into some bleak institution where the nurses would
lose their patience with him, where about twice a year the charity
ladies would arrive bringing the inmates the leftovers of the wealthy
society, pretending that was generous charity. Where he would have to
put up with, and to be put up, other unlucky people like him. Patience!
He could do nothing for that, and that was to be his end. And there in
the institution, quite likely, he could not even follow in writing his
stories, neither to spy on handsome masons with his telescope...Yes, he
really hoped to die before his mother.

The woman, after her husband died and his son was alive but immobilized,
found those small domestic jobs: to assemble and package ball pens,
costume jewellery and other similar items. But with his father's
pension, his earnings and those of Jacques, they managed to go on with
dignity. And happily, they owned their small apartment. They couldn't
complain, in spite of all. Sometimes she brought him downstairs in the
old squeaking elevator, taking him for a stroll around the block,
pushing his wheelchair. Some neighbors greeted them with a belaboured
smile, but nobody ever stopped to talk with them. Nevertheless he knew
that when his mother went out alone, she chatted with the local people.
He was the problem, his infirmity that put ill at ease the others.

He managed to go to the toilet and to take his baths alone, thanks to a
set of handles his mother did have placed in the right spots. Sometimes
his cousins popped over to his place, but he didn't really get on well
with them. Their visits were a distraction to his days, rather similar,
but Jacques didn't have too much in common with them. He felt in them
more sympathy than friendship. He didn't charge them with that, but of
course he wasn't so happy with them for that. He soon understood that
people feel ill at ease in front of an handicapped person, almost
guilty, and they don't forgive the handicapped for those feelings. They
feel the duty to go to visit him, but then they long to rush off.
Jacques felt all that and accepted it, as he now accepted to be forever
relegated to a wheelchair. At times he had also thought to write a story
about an handicapped, but he knew that his readers would react badly, as
his cousins, feeling at the same time sympathy and annoyance.
Handicapped people should not exist: that the Spartans well understood,
hurling the handicapped to their death from a cliff. But Jacques was
happy not to live in ancient Sparta. He loved life.

What was a burden to him, was his sexual loneliness. But just like his
legs, he could do nothing to change that. His wheelchair did substitute,
a little and very badly, his legs; masturbation had become the
wheelchair of his sexual life. It was little and useless, but was better
than nothing. Who knows why, he sometimes asked himself with sad irony,
fate didn't paralyze his dick? All would have been lot more simple.

He was affectionate to his member, fellow of his loneliness, that at
times got for him even the illusion to placate his desire. Illusion,
because after a short while he again felt lonely and full of desire. He
knew desire very well, when it was too strong it seemed to be a purely
physical thing, and on the contrary it was something more vital, more
involving, more deep. It was the dream to exchange love. And you cannot
exchange love with your dick, Jacques Moiret, he thought with sweet
sadness.

When he got his GCE A level, newspapers wrote about him, about that
"brave boy" who was forced to live in a wheelchair, had succeeded in
continuing and completing his studies, by himself. Then his mother had
enrolled him in the university, but he didn't feel like to continue. He
passed with difficulty the first year's exams, then, little by little,
he didn't mind any more. His mother didn't insist.

At times Jacques asked himself how did his mother manage for her sexual
life. But to try imagining the sexual life of his mother gave him a kind
of embarrassment, of modest shyness. Almost like if parents had to be
asexual beings. And yet, if he existed, that was just thanks to the
sexual activity of his parents...

Widowed at thirty five years, she too had to feel the sexual urge.
Jacques had the faint sensation she had a lover: at times the woman
prepared with peculiar care before to go out. When she came home, she
was more serene and cheerful than usual. He had the temptation tell her
to bring him home, to introduce him. She never hinted at that, so also
Jacques thought more opportune to say nothing. Was the woman shy in
front of her son? Or simply he was guessing non-existent things? Did he
project his own desire for a mate on his mother?

Sometimes Jacques regretted being an only child. He would have liked to
have brothers and sisters to grow together. Older or younger, was not so
important. To have a brother, probably would have made him feel less
lonely. But then, why his mother presence didn't have the same effect on
him? And yet she took care of him, talked with him, loved him. Perhaps
because she was woman and of another generation? Or perhaps just
because, how big could be the love between a parent and a child, there
cannot be a real friendship as with a brother, or rather as with a
lover...

When the lunch was over, as his mother washed the dishes, he went back
to his room. He asked himself whether to continue his story or to do the
proof reading. He opted for that second activity, the sooner he ended
with that work, more time he had for his new story.

It was a critical text about the science fiction literature of the 60's.
Interesting. He wondered if there were gay science fiction stories. He
could even perhaps write one himself. But not now. He was too much
caught with his masons story, that was little by little taking shape in
all the details.

---o---

Monsieur Dumarne had a nice family and he was rightly proud of it: a
sophisticated and elegant wife, the elder son Alain, nineteen years old,
who one day would take his place at the mangagement of their gym chain,
a nice seventeen years old daughter, swimming junior champion, and the
youngest son, fourteen, brilliant at school and passionately fond of the
cello. A dignified middle class family, a model family.

Monsieur Dumarne started his gym with his father, an ex-champion in long
jump. He transformed it, with his wife's inheritance, into a place for
wealthy people to lose weight and to build a nice body. Then he opened a
second gym, a third one, with a successful formula. Now they had five
gyms in Paris and three in other towns. Just forty six years old,
Monsieur Dumarne was a millionaire, having used in a clever way the
initial family inheritance. So, he decided to have a new house built
just for them. Thanks to his political acquaintances, he obtained a
corner of the municipal park. At the ground floor he would have a new
gym. At the first floor the offices with the management and the
coordination of all his gyms. At the second and third floor, the flat
for his family and on the roof a nice garden with private pool and
solarium all designed by one of the best architects of the capital.

Alain had enrolled at the National Academy of Physical Education. As
sport, he carried out swimming, hurdles, tennis and judo. He was a
handsome boy, tall, lean, his body had perfect muscles. His father was
really proud of him. He would have been much less so if he knew that the
fact his son didn't chase skirts, was not because the boy was so serious
and responsible and dedicated to sports as his father believed, but
simply because he was gay.

Alain realized he was gay when he was barely sixteen. He always had been
a fan of the athlete Jean Chambard, silver medal winner at the world
championship for the hurdle. Once his father had hired the athlete for
six months for a tour in his gyms. Alain was extremely happy he could
now meet his idol. To follow his lessons, he followed him gym to gym.
Jean had a liking for the boy and they got in the habit of showering
together, after the other students left.

One day Jean asked the boy to wash each other's back, but they didn't
limit themselves to wash just that part of their bodies. The boy noticed
the hard on of the man and that aroused him too. After a few days , the
man had embraced and kissed him, the boy threw himself into the arms of
the man without hesitation, making love under the pelting water. When
the man said he wanted him, Alain allowed the athlete to penetrate him
and the boy lost his virginity happily.

For the remaining months, they became lovers. No more under the showers,
of course. Alain accompanied him to the hotel and there, on the bed,
under the skilled man's guide, he had applied himself with passion at a
different kind of joyful and much more pleasurable training.

When Jean left, Alain was conscious to the fact that he sexually desired
exclusively men. And he was also conscious, now that he had tasted the
sex between males, that he was arousing desire amongst some of his
father gym's clients. If he did specially like one of them, the boy
tried to approach him. He never missed a partner in those three years,
even if he never wanted to stay with anybody. He loved to feel desired.
He loved to change, to experiment. Little by little the sport where he
excelled was the one under the sheets, naked with a handsome naked man.
His conquests ranged from his own age boys up to men forty years old,
but all of them rigorously well shaped and handsome. He liked to court
the young boys and be courted by his elders. But if he realized that
somebody was becoming too attached to him, he slowed down until their
relationship died. He didn't feel ready for a steady and exclusive
relationship, because little by little he understood that, the day when
he would fall in love of somebody, he wanted a realationship based on
reciprocal fidelity. For the moment he wanted just to enjoy himself and
widen his experience, learning to make love in the most complete and
pleasurable ways.

At home he had a small notebook with the names of all the person he made
love with, be that only once. The first was of course that of Jean
Chambard, twenty eight (him sixteen) and four months of relations. Then
Serge, twenty two, for one month, then others, down to the last, Louis,
thirty one, until that day two months together.

Louis was his sixteenth man. He was a local TV Personality, who was well
known. He was a client, like the others, of his father's gym. Alain
liked Louis so much that when the man used the sauna, Alain always
managed to be there. If they were alone, Alain took the towel away from
his groin, letting the other see the half erection he always got. Then
Louis started to pull out his towel as well, letting the youth see his
glorious erection. When he noticed that the boy was looking at him
without hiding his interest, the man stood up, went to his side and
started to caress Alain between his legs saying to him: "Do you know
that I like you very much?" Alain smiled, remaining silent, let the man
do as he pleased. Then the man invited him to go out together to have a
drink. Afterwards, he led the boy to his garonnire where they
immediately made love. In bed Louis was not as macho as he appeared to
be, in fact he loved the passive role. But Alain didn't complain, even
if the boy never refused to be the object of a skilled and expert
penetration.

Until that moment one of the men he had most liked was a young navy
officer, the son of a minister of the government, a young man of twenty
three he met when he was seventeen. Their relationship lasted five
months. The officer, Philippe, turned out to be a real stallion in bed.
He had not a stout body, but a handsome and strong one, and very sensual
with an inexhaustible erotic charge. They often practiced judo together
and while catching each other in order to immobilize the opponent, Alain
felt the turgid, imperious member of his companion to push against him.
The first time it had happened just by chance, but as he didn't
absolutely loose his composure the other started to do it on purpose.
Alain waited for Philippe to be more explicit, and that didn't happen
too much later.

After a practice session, Philippe approached him saying in a low soft
voice: "God knows why when I try to block you on the tatami, it gives me
that... effect!" and looked at him with intense eyes.

"Don't you think it's normal?" Alain answered, smiling.

"But it doesn't to you... Or rather, I never felt it..."

"I wear my cup. That's the way, I presume. But I too feel excited...
with you."

"Just with me?" the young officer asked.

"Yes, just with you, but every time." Alain lied in part.

"Would you like to come with me, next Sunday?"

"Where?"

"I asked a friend of mine for his motorboat. It is a cabin boat... and
we will be alone, you and I. We will go down the Seine to a quiet spot I
know, where it's good to swim."

They went, swam, went back into the boat cabin and while they were
taking off their swim trunks to dress again, Philippe made up his mind
to take Alain in his arms, to kiss him and, pushing against him his
erection, with the voice hoarse with desire, said: "I want you badly!"

For an answer Alain pushed him to a nearby berth where they started to
make love and where Philippe took him with all the vigour of his twenty
three years. Alain loved the joyful impetuosity the other had in making
love.

Later, they met in a small Montmartre hotel found by Philippe, and whose
owner didn't ask questions nor seemed surprised to see two boys asking
for a king size bedroom just for a few hours. They stuck together until
Philippe had to ship out with the fleet for the Antilles. They parted
without regret, for Philippe found in their relationship only reciprocal
pleasure and friendship, but nothing more. The young officer was a true
hedonist; he deeply loved sexuality and dedicated himself to it with
happy ardour. Alain, at times, thought that the partner was an artist of
sex; not so much because he knew the techniques well, but because
Philippe dedicated himself to sex with inspired delight. With the young
officer he felt all right also out of the bed: he was likeable, merry
and witty. Probably, at times he thought, if Philippe didn't have to
leave, he could even fallen in love with him. But Philippe, even if gave
him a warm friendship, didn't seem inclined towards a bond with Alain.
Alain knew very well he wasn't his only boy, accepting that without
problems.

Alain went to that little hotel other times, with other partners, when
they didn't have a place for them. In fact Alain could not bring them in
their home, where always somebody of the family, or the "tata" who is
the governess that saw both him and his brothers born, was around.

When Monsieur Dumarne showed his family the preliminary plans for the
new house, he asked each of them how they would liked their rooms. Alain
asked to have it at the third floor, with a window wide as the wall,
looking over the park. He also asked for a personal shower and toilet.
Without problems his father agreed, for space or money were not an
issue.

The house was growing rapidly. At the end of summer, just after the
August vacation, they could go to live there. At times, with his father,
he went to see the building grow and he liked it. It was modern but
cleverly inserted in that elegant part of the town, and above all,
surrounded on three sides by the park. So that, even if being in the
center of the city, it seemed to be in the countryside. Alain was really
pleased. The old house, in a big palace of the last century, jointly
owned with three other families, was too austere and not too very
bright. It was an Egyptian mummy's house, his little brother Didier once
said.

Of course Alain would have loved to have his own place, where he could
take home his conquests, but he couldn't possibly ask his father for a
garonnire. Even if he would have thought he was using it with girls
and not boys, his old man was too puritan to accept such a thing. His
parents could not talk with the children about sex, not even with veiled
hints. So he had to resign himself to go to the house to his lover's or
to use the little hotel for his sexual adventures. Who knows until what
age? And when would his parents start to talk him about marriage? How
could he manage to avoid that problem? Who knows why gay people can't
live their sexual dimension with the same tranquillity than straights?
Sometimes he read some articles in "Gay Pied" about that problem and at
times he also wrote letters on that subject. Using a pseudonym, of
course.

In "Gay Pied" he also liked the stories by Marc Jaures that were
published almost in every issue. He had read in the magazine the
advertisement of that writer's first novel and he bought the book. Alain
loved it. He kept the magazines, the book and some pictures of beautiful
male nudes in a drawer closed at key. His family was not curious and he
had no problem. They always had respected his privacy, as well as his
correspondence. They alway knocked at the door before entering his room,
so that, even if he was masturbating with his male nude collection, he
had time to make everything disappear before yelling: "Come in!"

That year he went on holiday with his twelfth man, Martin, a nice friend
from the National Academy of Physical Education who asked him to go to
the mountains for some canoeing, camping and to live in nature. At first
he accepted it just for the sake of adventure, but then his companion
made him understand that he was hoping for more from those holidays.

"Do you have a girl?" Martin asked him.

"No, and you?" Alain quietly answered.

"I'm not interested in girls."

"Hmmm, you too?" Alain asked with evident interest.

"No. I think we'll get along fine, you and I alone in the tent." Martin
answered with an allusive smile.

"I think so too, Martin. But I warn you, I sleep naked and I don't feel
like changing my habits."

"Good, I like to sleep bare ass naked. After all, we shower naked at
school, right? There is nothing new to see!" his friend chuckled.

"Right. And you have a really nice body, Martin."

"You too. You are well shaped, everywhere. Especially... in there!" his
companion said with a cunning little smile.

"You have nothing to envy me, anyway."

"Have you made love yet Alain?"

"Sure. Have you?"

"Yes, and I love it very much, especially if I'm with the right person.
I think we will enjoy those holidays."

"Sure. You and I are alone, with nobody to bother us."

They didn't explicitly talk of sex, but the message they reciprocally
exchanged was clear for both and Alain was happy with that, he liked
Martin.

On the first night they both lay naked in the three man tent, the
lantern was lit. At a certain point Martin sat up and without a word,
leaned over to lick the turgid member of his friend. This one, after a
while, had turned and so they united and gave each other satisfaction in
a long and hot sixty nine.

"This will be a nice holiday... right, Alain?"

"Wonderful. They begun in the best of ways. But, why did you invite me?"

"Two reasons. First, I like you very much. And second, I noticed the way
you looked at our friends, especially when showering."

"Was it so noticable? I didn't think..."

"It was to me... I really looked at you."

"Have you had many men?"

"No, a few, you are... the fifth."

"Who was your first?"

"Two years ago. My PE teacher at High School. A handsome man, thirty
years old. I got a football shot right at my balls. I went limp on the
ground, blueballed. So he brought me to the medical room, pulled out my
shorts and jock strap, then touched me to see there were no serious
damages. In a while it was straight and hard like a spindle. I liked the
way he touched me, very much. Feeling a little ashamed, I told him I was
coming. And he said, 'Be Calm. That's good... let's check if it still
works properly.' And... I completely forgot the terrible shot that
knocked me out. That was just the beginning. The following lesson he
asked me to go home with him. I immediately guessed why and at once
accepted. At his place he led me to his bed room, we undressed, went to
the bed and he was upon me... Without any ceremony, he put me in the
right posture and took my cherry... and I enjoyed it very much. Indeed,
by the way, don't you feel like fucking me, now?" Martin asked with a
tempting smile.

"Of course, Martin, with pleasure. Come here..."

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CONTINUES IN CHAPTER 02

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In my home page I've put some of my stories. If someone wants to read
them, the URL is

http://www.geocities.com/~andrejkoymasky/

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