Date: Mon, 13 Jul 2015 07:31:37 -0400
From: robin reed <robinreed1951@gmail.com>
Subject: Slouching Into the 70s

This is a story about sexual relationships in the early 1970s. The behavior
depicted is that of the times, not now. Be. The Standard Disclaimer applies
here: this story features graphic depictions of sexual activity between
men. If such material is inappropriate for the jurisdiction where you live,
please exit immediately. This is a work of fiction and the author strongly
recommends following safe sexual practices. This is, as I said, a work of
fiction, though I sigh when I recall how much of it is so true.

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.

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*Slouching Into the 70s*

I have a little trouble sorting out college and the immediate time that
came after it.

We were awfully high, after all.

It is hard to believe it now. I honestly don't recall much about the latter
half of my Freshman year at IU, nor can I really unscramble Sophomore and
Junior Years. It was not until the awful specter of graduation loomed that
I started to clean up my act and focus on what I was going to do next.

Which is not to say that I don't have a fabulous warm texture for it all.
The dope was plentiful and inexpensive, the sex was likewise, and the music
was fantastic.

I was organized enough to go to class when necessary, and we always had the
ultimate card to play with our professors if things got a little out of
kilter. "What do you want to do to me? Hand me a rifle and send me to
murder little kids in an unjust war?"

Not that I cared that much, one way or the other. It seemed like the war
was going to peter out before my class graduated, and the Movement on
campus was a fun way to run amok without many consequences.

I began to live something of a double life in my Freshman year. I found a
string of lovers early on who met most of my needs.

Greg was the first. He was a very oral guy, and we had mutual suck-fests
from the first night we got together. He was a stud, with a firm cut cock
that was very much like my own. He was a sort of luke-warm political type,
sorta committed to the Liberation, but mostly committed to a systematic
undermining of the Illinois sodomy statutes.

We slept together, if that is what you call it, a couple times a week. With
my sexual drive covered, I continued to live a pretty normal life in the
Dorm and on campus. I pledged a fraternity because it felt like home and I
liked being around a bunch of macho studs, fitting in with them, and
keeping my life as a practicing homo- I mean a Gay- a separate issue.

Greg used to tease me, even as my Beatle-cut bangs grew out and my chestnut
hair began to cascade over my collar.

I might have got a haircut later in the year; I think I did around finals
times, and I got the bangs cut so that things evened out. I liked Greg's
pony-tail and he told me that there were really only two ways to wear your
hair: either short enough so that it didn't get in your eyes or long enough
to pull back and secure with a rubber band.

I found it pretty erotic. He liked me to fuck him, though that was not my
favorite thing. I preferred to be his bottom and all-round cocksucker, but
fair is fair, after all. I was ramming him from behind one afternoon in the
hour I had between Modern European History and Ecologic Studies when it
came into my mind how sexy his long hair looked all gathered together and
writhing over his back.

I gathered it in my hand and pulled back. Not hard, mind you, but enough to
bring his head up like a mare being fucked by a stallion, his eyes wide in
pleasure.

What struck me then was just how much I wanted him to do the same thing to
me. God, I shuddered when I pumped his bowels full of hot man-cream. After
I softened and slid out of him I turned him over and went down on his rigid
shaft, slobbering up and down with desire for my rich slimy reward.

After that, I wore a pony-tail from the moment I was able to get it all
pulled back in a rubber-band. And when he fucked me I insisted he slap my
ass-check hard, and pull my head back like he was reining in an
out-of-control mare.

We went to the big demonstration in Washington in his van, and the IU
students got their asses kicked by the National Guard. The Guard shot the
kids over at Kent State, and everyone had turned against the war. It was
just a question of time. Things weren't quite the same after that. The air
came out of a lot of people about the way the government responded to us,
and despite my best efforts, I preferred blowing Greg in the van to getting
my head split by a riot cops baton.

With the war winding down, Greg didn't see any impediment to graduating. He
had heard how cool it was out on the West Coast, and he decided that the
time was right.

The legislature changed the drinking age around that time from 21 to 18,
and I was retroactively legal.

Oh, we could vote, too, and I seem to recall that was the point. But campus
got so crazy that it was remarkable that any of us graduated. Bars
proliferated. I would party at the Frat and then go downtown for as many
pitchers of beer as the allowance could afford.

The frat had a bar where we were regulars, and suddenly the local gay bar
was joined by two others that split the crowd into lesbian and Gay male,
and mixed. The frat guys wouldn't go near any of them, or better said, the
straight ones wouldn't, and when I tagged along with Greg to the bars I
made some notes on who I might be able to look up later.

I got a job on the University landscaping crew for the summer so I could
stay on campus. It didn't pay much, and the town pretty much emptied out.
So I didn't have to worry about keeping my lives and friends separate.

It was a sorrowful parting with Greg and the emotion was all real. The last
night we were together was quite extraordinary. He lubed me up and fucked
me forward and back, but the last act of love we made was the same
sixty-nine we had done the night we first hooked up. It was tender and
sweep licking him and suckling on him as he did me. It was the best way to
feel life was a circle, sucking and being sucked, his tongue lapping my
balls, me capturing both his orbs in my mouth and gently sucking them both
like a large mouth bass.

He drove me wild with his tongue and I gave him as good a load as he gave
me. It was with a lot of sadness that I saw that luscious cock disappear
into his briefs and watching him fire up the air-cooled engine on his
Beetle bus and head west.

I assumed the lease on his little apartment and abandoned myself to
mindless work and more partying through the summer. I had to find a new
lover, and I gravitated to the usual suspects who were full time residents
of the town.

Rob the Campus Radical was there, of course. He was sort of the anti-BMOC,
or big man on campus. He tried to keep his Coordinating Committee on top of
everything, and keep everyone's consciousness elevated. But what with the
Paris Peace talks and the prospect that the war was going to die down, what
they mostly did was sit around and get high.

I was welcome enough, a familiar youthful face. Since they knew that Greg
had been fucking me almost exclusively for a year, they figured the Pigs
could not find a confirmed undercover cocksucker to infiltrate their group.

I think they were right on that. This was years before anyone was really
out and in the establishment. Gay cops at the time seemed like a complete
impossibility.

I hooked up with Rob because he was bored and horny, which I think is why
we all hook up.

I'll confess I had a hankering for him, and had been impressed the first
time he talked to me at the mixer the year before, and then watching him
from a distance at the speeches and demonstrations through the year. I knew
that the cops were watching him, and that gave things the sense of danger
that was a real turn-on. Rob was a real Revolutionary, though for exactly
what I wasn't sure.

He had a sense of humor, and after a political strategy session which
turned into a mini-hash bash, he waggled his finger at me, summoning me to
his inner sanctum.

He had a room in a commune decorated with a big white cat. The commune
styled itself the IU chapter of the White Panther Party run by John
Sinclair. John was a dude who was going to overthrow the government of the
United States and wound up getting put in prison for ten years for selling
two joints to an undercover cop. His conviction was overturned thanks
mainly in part to John Lennon and seven others who organized a movement to
set him free. Lennon even wrote a song about it "It ain't fair, John
Sinclair..."

I should have thought about what happens when you decide to overthrow the
government, but what the hell. I was rising twenty and bulletproof.

Besides, Rob was hypnotic handsome. He had dirty blonde hair that he had
trimmed up so he looked semi-respectable, like Tom Hayden of the Chicago
Seven. He had full, florid Dutch features and passionate full lips. He was
always well shaven and it must have been the speed that kept him trim,
since sex was the only exercise I knew him to get.

But he got plenty of that. I found out quickly that he liked being in
control of things, right down to the smallest detail, and as far as the sex
went, that was fine with me.

Oh, I'll confess it was irritating at times, but on the whole, it was great
to be along for the ride.

And ride me he did. The first time he took me was just exactly like that.
He waved me into his bedroom and closed the door and told me to strip. I
looked at him, a little stoned, and asked him what he wanted.

He sighed and sat down on the edge of his bed. "I don't have a lot of spare
time, Bob. I didn't want to screw around with you and Greg, but he is gone.
I need someone to keep me serviced so I can continue to give my time to the
Movement. I have decided you are going to be my lover, and if you are
satisfactory, I may keep you with me as we move onto bigger things in the
Fall."

I looked at him for a moment, thinking about the implications. Then, with
the same level of careful attention most of us applied to momentous
decisions at the time, I peeled off my shirt, unbuckled my jeans, kicked
off my moccasins and stripped off my bell bottoms. Wearing underwear was
considered bourgeoisie at the time, and so there I was, buck naked. I
walked over to where he was seated and got on my knees between his legs and
unzipped his jeans and began to get into my new role in the Movement.

When I fished his stiffening cock out of his jeans I examined it closely.
It was a nice piece of meat, not overlarge, but full and pleasing in
aspect. He was cut and about six inches long and pleasantly fat, with a
satisfying girth and a nice ballsack nestled in fair pubic hair.

He stroked my hair as I took him in my mouth. I really liked that part, and
the fact that he would lecture me while I blew him, outlining the key
political issues and the corresponding direct action that the Coordinating
Committee was going to take. When he came, he came rapidly and with vigor.

I managed to keep it all in my mouth and swallowed hungrily. I loved to
suck his cock when I was high, and the rich reward and the acrid taste
followed by a Marlboro and a cold beer were heaven.

It was definitely an unequal relationship, but I really didn't mind. I did
a lot of hanging around waiting for him, and the other political players
seemed to treat me as a sort of groupie, someone to be accommodated but not
deferred to.

He wanted me to sleep with him regularly, and I became a fixture in his bed
at the White Panther House.

There were all sorts of people there from the Movement. There were angry
black people who were in an uneasy alliance with the white students, but
were not at all comfortable with faggots, a word I normally heard only
behind my back. But not far behind my back.

There were a lot of women, also angry, a lot of them Lesbians, but straight
ones, too. Some of them cute and since they all had Movement relationships,
they viewed me as no threat and let me into the club as a sort of sister.
And there were the rampantly heterosexual revolutionaries, and they were
getting as much pussy as they could handle.

When I would be at a meeting with Rob, I could see some of them look me up
and down, faded bell-bottom low-ride jeans, package nestled in a worn place
that highlighted it, Mr. Natural tank-top and heavy-lidded blue-eyed gaze,
my pony-tail luxurious down my back.

I could tell that some of them would have fucked me just for the
experience, and others, whether faggotry offended them or not, couldn't say
so because it wasn't politically correct.

So I suppose I shared a lot with most political spouses. He would be tired
when we finally got to bed, he wasn't very interested in my problems, and I
had to be attentive to his.

Sometimes all he wanted was a blow-job before sleep, and other times he
wanted a straightforward fuck. I would be laying there, wondering what
would come my way. If me stopped at the rickety bureau in the corner and I
heard the muted farting of the push-dispenser of the moisturizer, I knew I
would be rolled one way or another.

I think he had a preference for the missionary position, or maybe it would
just be his level of fatigue. If he was particularly spunky, he would flip
me over and take me vigorously from behind, driving my face into the
pillow. I loved that position, since it got his cock deepest into me. He
was not a premature ejaculator, but he also did not last a long time, and
my pleasure clearly wasn't the point. But his cock was fat enough and long
enough to hit my magic spot. Sometimes I would cum spontaneously and get to
sleep in the residue as his semen leaked from my sore but contented asshole.

If he had a hard day, or a bad one, he would run two fingers of
moisturizing cream up the crack of my ass, pull my legs up to his shoulders
and enter me roughly and expeditiously from on top, looking down on me as
he thrust into me roughly, my hair spread all around me on the pillow like
a twinky princess.

I liked either one just fine, and learned that I sometimes was going to
have to take care of my own hard-ons for satisfaction.

So like I said, it was very much like what other political wives have had
to do down through the ages of meetings and glad-handing by their
politician husbands. I honestly didn't mind. It was interesting.

We were nearing the end of the summer. I quit the job on the grounds crew,
since Rob said he needed me to be more flexible in my schedule. There was a
big meeting in Chicago in the middle of August to kick off a new round of
protests and public actions. My folks had been bugging me to come home and
visit. I told him I was going to go home for a few days and meet him at the
crash-pad the Coordinating Committee had rented in the big city.

He sniffed a little, but had enough kindness in him to say that he could
spare me for a couple days. I went down on him in thanks, and he came an
astonishing amount, and it tasted slimy and sweet and I stayed down on him
until I had lapped him all clean again.

The trip home was another one of those coincidences that life pivots on.

I was getting the fish-eye at the family reunion barbecue even though my
hair was neatly pulled back and I was wearing a collared shirt. I got the
lecture about responsibility and inquiries about what I was going to do
after Senior Year, which was going to start in just a few weeks.

I gruffly said I was going to use my degree in Journalism to start a career
with one of the local papers and work my way up and be an international
correspondent. It sounded like a plan that I had thought about, though the
dimensions had largely floated through my brain that moment. It sounded
vaguely glamorous, if unprofitable, and my folks let it drop. I hung out
with my girl cousins who were visiting for the reunion, and we got along
famously.

I was a little concerned that I was losing the ability to change from one
role to another. I honestly identified with some aspects of my cousin's
lives. I was a little unsettled about changing more than I had intended,
getting those mannerisms that were just fine in bed, or in a group of other
Gay people, so I watched myself and stayed out of the family limelight. The
visit appeared to be coming to an end without disaster.

At least for the family.

The morning before I was supposed to join Rob in Chicago, I was reading the
local fish-wrapper and nursing a headache from too much alcohol and too few
drugs the night before. I saw below the fold that the Chicago police had
busted a crew of Revolutionaries who were Going To Overthrow the Government
and presented a Clear and Present Danger to Public Order.

The article implied it was going to be as big a deal as the Chicago Seven,
but this time the Yippy Bastards had dope and weapons.

A shotgun, cocaine and marijuana were found, the article went on to say,
and there was evidence of homosexual activities. Rob's picture, him looking
defiant and cute like he did when he fucked me energetically, was alongside
the article. Additional suspects were being sought by the authorities, the
story concluded.

My heart raced. Aside from the drugs and sodomy part, I had no interest in
the Revolution. I rose from the table and went up to my room and flushed my
little stash of pot. Then I looked in the mirror and decided that I was not
going anywhere near Chicago.

That afternoon, I drove over to the mall where I had worked with Alexander.
I wondered how he was doing, and if his exploration of Black Power had
landed him in jail, too.

I went into one of the new uni-sex boutiques and got my hair cut off and
bought a set of chinos from a young sales guy in the store where I used to
work.

I thought he was sort of cute, and wondered what he thought when I asked
him to measure my inseam "just to make sure" of the proper length.

I went up to the cabin my family owned for the last week before school
started and laid low. When I went back to campus, everyone commented on how
young Republican I looked. I arranged to move back into the Frat House and
stayed the hell away from anything to do with the Coalition and the White
Panther House, which appeared to be vacant.

I was jumpy as a cat, though no one came after me, which I suppose meant
that the cops had their tip from an informant in another organization. And
I was just a political wife, anyway. Not worth the trouble.

But with my hair gone and the possibility that the cops could stage a
follow-up bust, I was on the straight-and-narrow, at least for the time
being. I even started going out with women once in a while, though it never
led to anything serious.

I watched the papers. Rob got ten years, just like John Sinclair. They
convicted him of trafficking in cocaine and possession of marijuana. I knew
the pot was possible, though he was normally more clever than carry his
own. He normally had me to do that. I suspect the cops planted it on him,
along with the shotgun they found.

They did not give him bail, either, since he was considered a risk of
flight.

All things considered, I considered myself the luckiest faggot on campus.
But I sure missed Rob's fat cock and the taste of him in the night.

I didn't know what to do about that.

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