Date: Tue, 11 Jun 2002 07:18:35 -0400
From: AG
Subject: Boy on a Bike

		       BOY ON A BIKE
		       A True Story

         If you know "Golden Girls," then you know "Sofia
Petrillo."
She's the grandmotherly type from Old Italy. She always
begins her stories with: "Picture it. Palermo. 1930  A
beautiful young girl-me-is walking down the Boardwalk by the
beach. Rossellini-he married Ingrid Bergman later, ya
know-comes up to me, asks me if I want to share a glass o'
wine with `im. So I
says." Etcetera.
        The trouble with Sofia Petrillo's stories is you
never know whethert they're true. Rest assured that any of
mine posted here on Nifty are pure reality, not fictitious.
I"d like to explain why. I'm not against fiction. Tolstoy,
Margaret Mitchell. "War and Peace" and "Gone with the Wind,"
fine historical novels. They read better than the raw
history in history books. They contain truths, although made
up by the writers, that have been distilled from real life.
It's something like arranging artificial flowers. What they
look like, their colors and shapes, the way they're put
together makes all the difference. From a distance or up
close, they are still flowers--even if made of colored
paper.
        A little philosophy here: I have to tell you I
prefer nonfiction when it comes to reading-and writing. Like
a steak cooked rare-no trimmings, no "flaming" this or that,
no fancy white sauce. Just a thick, tender piece of meat
(pardon the parallel)  right from the grill. You can't beat
that in my book. My stories may not be as tasty as that but
at least they are 100% authentic. As a history major in
college, that's important to me-truth--and maybe to you,
too, if you like it straight from the shoulder, with all the
unevenness, imperfections left in. So, that's life. Life is
not perfect and symmetrical but is kind of lopsided and
imperfect, right?
Isn't that what makes it beautiful, really? Remember, as the
poet Milton tells it, Satan couldn't stand heaven. It was
too nicey-pooh! Anyway, Santayana, the poet, once said,
"Life is not a party. It's a predicament."
        Well, into my story.
        Several summers in a row on Nantucket Island I rented
a tiny house nestled in a pine grove. Way out of the way,
almost totally isolated. You reached it by turning off one
of the main drags outside Town, going down a winding sandy
road (Nantucket is a huge sandbar 35 mi. out to sea off Cape
Cod), and after turning this way and that, as though snaking
around pine trees, you came to my
cozy, little cottage. The smell of pine was intoxicating. I
think every night I came home to the cottage after a night
out-playing bridge, supper-partying, or just convivializing
with friends--I got into a horny mood, "alone or with
somebody." Way in the back of my mind I associate pines with
a free, outdoor life of camping, canoeing, fishing, and
making abandoned love with a partner.
       This particular night, a weekday, saw the Moon
absolutely full, low in the eastern sky looking lick a Jack
o' :Lantern.. I had had dinner out with a couple of friends.
They were involved in bridge later that evening with two
other people, lady fvriends. So, when dinner was over, I was
on my own.
       Rather than go right home, I went to one of the local
bars, famous as a drop-in place for "boat people," day-
trippers, as well as landlubber, or non-boat-people
regulars. A word about boat people. They have to be the most
BORING individuals on earth. Yet if you're by yourself and
planning only to down one or two drinks-in my case, just a
post-dinner Sweet Vermouth (yuck!) on the rocks-it can be
amusing merely listening to their inane, mindless chatter.
Or there ,may be some cool-looking crewman off on his own
from someone's "yachet" (i.e., yacht), drinking away the
evening just to get away from the owners of the boat, or
from his parents or whomever. Sometimes there'd be an older
man by himself who has left apparently his wife back on the
mainland and is here for a romp with his sons, or is alone.
Such a guy may cruise you or engage in some chit-chat. An
invite to go to his boat may be in the offoing (I always
turned those down-exceopt once when it was a son of one such
boat person).
       But after while, such talk runs out its string. At
that point you say, "Good night" to whoever is talking wht
you at the moment, climb into your car, and look forward to
a nice vacation snooze in youre nice, comfortable bed by an
open window.
       Well, so I started up the road toward my turn-off.
But lo and behold, :I see a
guy in my heasdlights riding a bike just  in front of me as
I drive slowly on. It's close to midnight. I wonder why so
late he is out just riding around (for it was obvious the
way he was idly pedaling that he was simply "touring," not
going anywhere in particular. No one else was on the road
(my turn-off is some distance from Town).
      So, I slowed down and put him in my headlights, then
dimmed my headlights to parking lights, and simply pulled
over onto the shoulder and stopped. He stopped in front of
me. I leaned out the driver's side window and said, "Hi!
Want to race?"
     When I said that I wasn't exactlyh flying blind. I got
a pretty good look at him
From behind in my lights. He was wearing a white dress
shirt, long, unbuttoned sleeves that were fluttering the
breeze as he rode. His broad shoulders, medium-trim build.
But when he came over to my car after leaning his bike
against a wooden telephone pole, I got a really close look
at him.
      "My God," I almost said out loud, "what a beautiful
boy!"
      Dirty-blond hair, sort of uncut and wind-tossed,
sunken cheeks, blue eyes, beautiful smile, tanned arms
speckled with blond hairs, shapely hands as he reached sort
of up high to the car window in order to reach my
outstretched hand over the window sill for a handshake.
      "Just out.riding around," he said kind of abstractly
while also catsing furtive glances at me. Then for some
reason he put his head right into the window and looked down
at my feet and inside my car. Then straightened up again.
     A thought entered my mind-which, as things turned out,
I'm real glad it did.
     "My place is just up the road. Want to follow me there
for a little nightcap?"
     "COOL!" he exclaims in a way that made me think that
was just what he wanted to do, like he had had it on his
mind just as I stopped to meet him ad we look at each
oither.
     So up the hill we go-I see him in my rearview mirror,
pedaling hard, his bare
legs pumping like pistons, his head down to hold down wind
resistance while looking up at my car just ahead as he
tailed along.
     I turn in on the winding sandy road. There he is right
behind me, bouncimng along, sometimes on the little grasasy
island in the middle of the sandy road, sometimes along the
roadside. He's so close behind my bumper  that the red glow
from my taillights--as I negotiate the various bends in the
little, curvy  road-- light up his bike, face, and body with
his legs-in-motion.
     Whew! Great! I say to myself, he didn't change his mind
or anything but is right on my tail!
     We reach the cottage and I get out of the car. He puts
his bike by the side of the house as though it's going to be
"parked" there for some time. Which it was. All night, in
fact!
     In the moonlight he looks so stunning, it actually
takes my breath away. He is looking me up and down since I
am now standing in full view next to him. He praises the
house. "Wow, this is a nice place. And so SECLUDED!"
     "Yeah," I say, as I open the wooden door and we go
inside.
     He immediately takes off his sneakers leaving his well-
shaped, white-soxed feet treading around my houise, pettuing
my cat,  as he looks over the "digs." I don't have a foot-
fetish, I don't think,  anyway, but I was even attracted to
his "tootsies." They looked sort of weathered and
"experienced" even throiugh his sox. Because his feet had
sweat somne pedalking so that the contoujs of his toes,
ankles, heels, and arches of his instep all showed up as
though carved in stone. It wqas, inb other words, just one
more sexy thing about him besides his curvy thighs and
subtly curved lowert legs. (Why is it women's legs can never
look that way? Sorry, gals!)
      We sat down on the so-called "love seat," which could
hold three people more or less close together. In the dim
light of the cottage he looked so stunning that it was all I
could do but remember to get up and serve us some drinks.
Scotch on the rocks-that summer my favorite-hit with soda
squirted out of a pressurixzed soda bottle that was always
left behind by the previous lessees (made in Czechoslovakia,
it said,  remember). When you depressedd the handle, the
soda came gushing out with a "pshissssh!" making bubbles in
the Scotch. This rather fascinated my guest.
       Whose name turned out to be Chip, as we introduced
ourselves.
      Our talking together-warmly, or excitedly, or
sometimes punctuated winks and with laughs, moving on and on
without any beginning, middle or end-- wandering all over
the place. Why is it, when you meet an attractive person
that the talk comes so easily, when the attraction is
mutual? When what he has to say is so damned interesting? I
guess if you wrote it all out, it woulkdn't have made
particulartly good reading: about canoe and camping trips
and incidents; extraordinary feats at fishing; a small-
airplane trip with a scary twist to it. All totally "non-
erotic" fare, to be sure. And while "leading nowhere," did
bring us together -- two young males, well he younger than I
by some 10 years, with similar outdoor interests and
pleasures.
      As I rose to pour another highball, I wondered to
myself how in the world we-if he wanted to, that is-would
shift things into bodily warmth since the spiritual warmth
from the conversation was certainly at a peak. The laughing,
touching each other to make a point, the unloosening effect
of the Scotch, and so on. So when I returned with our second
drink, I sat "noticeably" closer to him, doing a kind of
drop-sitting action, like an exclamation point, as I lowered
onto the sofa and looked at him.
      At that point-and I've never forgotten and will never
forget, I think, the tone of  the words as he spoke them at
that moment-Chip turning to me with intense look in his face
and with a bit of breathlessness:
 "Al, I think something's gonna happen. I want you to know,
"clasping my thigh on top,"that if it does, it's OK with
me."
     These "loaded" words, like a big morsel of delicious
food, took some time to chew, or sink in as I "digested"
them trying to fathom their ultimate meaning. Well, it
didn't take me long.
      Without saying a word, either of us, I put my right
hand on his left upper arm near his hard, deltoid muscle
that I felt over his shirt, and just grasped him there,
squeezing and holding onto his arm. He then simply let
himself fall forward, his head landing on my chest. I
enveloped him in my arms and me in his arms.
We sat their holding onto each oither so neither of us would
"fly away."
     I've been around, there have been in a lot of hugs with
boys and guys in my life since I was 14. But this for sure
was the hottest embrace I ever remember.
    "Oh, Al, yes, yes..yes," he wouyld mutter intermittenly
between kisses and licking and kissing around our necks and
the backs of our necks. At one point Chip even took one of
my hands and gently kissed it, inside and on top.
    This really innocent, freewheeling smooching and
romantic togetherness continued for 15 to 20 minutes, at
least. We both weanted it to go on and on and never stop.
     Then came the inevitable-exploring the rest of our
anatomy. Peeling off of clothes. The way we silently
undressed each other, not only on the love seat but while
standing. Then while walking slowly dropping clothes along
the way en route to the little bedroom with the wide and
narrow beds in it. What we both felt as we got naked were
taut muscles, quivering flesh (both of us werte shivering
with excitement), heaving, "high" chests.Our hands went
everywhere. A quick fondle of our totally-erected cocks
follosed by rubbing of bellies and abs, up to our pecs and
nipples, brushing their erected tips with our excited
fingers. Then more wild, ecstatic kissing. Grasping and
squeezing of ass cheeks as we walked. We'd stop along the
way for more feeling and kssing while somehow, clothes
dropping on the floor, still moving on toward the beds.
      By the time we got to the bedroom we were standing
bare-ass naked. I lit two candles. We stood back slightly
from each oither  looking each oither over head to tgoe
fully in the buff. Then we got into a mad embrace with wild,
slobbering kissing. We crashed onto the bed. It was the sort
of unruly love-making that can suddenly turn into massive,
joint cumming if it is not controlled!! But we botjh wanted
to control it because we had plans, not very definite ones
to be sure, as to how this would continue once we were in
bed together thoroughly into it.  Whatever it was going to
be...
      Now, is it possible to be so carried away with someone
that your erection sort of diminishes, even if only a
little, in the magic and wonderment of it all? Well, that's
what happened to me--but only momentarily. It happened when
Chip, now on his back on the wider bed waiting for me to hop
on him, said, "Al, please. Do whatever want to!"
     Well, I was quite sure what I "" and that was, frankly,
to fuck him-from the front. I like it that way. His legs up
on my shoulders, or as it tuirned out, around my waist, his
whole body facing me and mine him. That way we kiss, look at
each oither, feel each other--as we screw.
     Obviously, he had never done this before (though he had
told me earlier he had had sex with his g.f., who, by the
way as he told me, was due on the Island in a couple of
days) or had it done to him. I had to do some teaching. At
first, I had one helluva a time geyting into him, giving him
"instructions" about relaxing, and so on. I'm a little above
average in size, cut, quite thick, somewhere between 71/2
and 8". So, penetrating someone who is not totally loosened
up becomes a problem. This became an inhibiting factor with
my erection as well. I was cursing at myself for not being
at total hardness for this really exceptional event-for both
of us.
       After getting my penis head a little into him, I
pulled out and let him massage my dick. Which he did with
such zeal that my cock soon was up to its normal , rod-like
erection.
      All this time I am feelings that beautiful late-teen-
boy's body of his, licking and sucking on his pointy "nips,"
he exploring my high chest at the same time.
      Then I insert my head into his by-now more relaxed
hole.
      Ensues some of the best fucking imaginable.



Part 2

       Why is it that an inexperienced person soon "catches
on" so fast! Why is it that the RHYTHM of the screwing soon
becomes like one person, lalmost like fucking oneself
because the two partners are so completely in synch with
each other! I have screwed women occasionally but I've never
had that in-synch rhythm going as I have sometimes with
males. (It reminds me, actually of playing drums in a small
rock band, which I also did and do, when all the musicians
are in perfect synch making music and rhythm smoothly
together. It's a rare and sublime feeling!) It's like the
easygoing conversation between males, whether friends,
acquaintances or newly-met strangers: The talking is always
more intimate and freewheeling, and amusing, than it is with
women. Or so it is with me, but then our family was mostly
male in cmposition and also male-dominant-on both sides, and
going way back.
        As I fucked Chip facing him, I jerked his cock in a
rhythm that jived perfectly with our rhythmic fucking. This
drove the boy absolutely wild. What with my cock thrusting
slowly, sometimes fast in and out, sometimes all the way out
then back in again; in and out, in and out, massaging his
prostate when I was all the way up in my thrusting-because I
was completely UP INTO him, to the very end, like the end of
a railroad track siding where there is a stop and you can't
go any further!
        I"ll tell you, it was so wild and divine I actually
pinched myself once to make sure I wasn;t dreaming. Since I
never drink much when I drink  (I have been drunk only once
in my life-when I got my wings in the USAF and the guys
werte tjhrowing tjhem down like water-short stint in the
USAF), I knew I was sober.  So this WAS really happening.
With this magical person. On this "transfigured" Moon-lit
night!
      When the sex was over after tg\wo go arounds, I lay
next to him in the big bedc. The smells of sex, the sweat,
the smell of Vaseline, his saliva still on my body, our arms
around each oithger as we lay on our backs-well, I knes I
woyldsn;t get miuch sleep. Plus he was staying with his
grandma. So I thought it best all `round-maybe he'd want to
get up and ride back to his grandma's house since it might
worry her that he was out so long--if I retreated into the
smaller bed. Which I did. And immediately fell sound asleep.
    The next thing I know I hear the morning birds
twittering away, dawn is breaking. I also hear loud pissing
in the little bathroom adjoining the bedroom. It's Chip, up
and doing his morning thing.
    Now here's the odd thing in terms of my own behavior.
"Know thyself," right? An unending process, I"ve found. I
just lay there, don't ask me why, like I was tortally
asleep. I'm not sure exactly what was running thogh my mind.
Maybe I felt he should make up his mind what he wanted to
do. If he chose to stay till I got up, fine, then  I'd make
a super breakfast for him (I love cooking breakfast for
people I like and, not to be immodest, make a very good
one-eggs any special way you want them, sagey sausage,
etc.).
    So I just lay there, occasionally opening my eyes a
crack, just enough to observe the little drops of dew on the
screen and the somewhat heavy fog outdoors. I didn't look in
his direction. Then I hear him trodding across the wooden
floor, the house shaking slightly with his footsteps and
nimble gait.
I wonder what to do. Lie thertew, get up, or what. Before I
can make up my
@#^&$@ mind, he has gently unlatched the wooden latch bar
and is opening the the two little slatted doors atop each
other.
       He's leaving!
     Then I hear the front fender of his bike rattling as he
pedals out and down the sandy road toward the main road.
      He has left! And I have no phone number for him, nor
he mine. He's with his grandmother but I don't know where or
what her name is.
      At first I feel exhilirated about our "transfigured
night." I know I will see him somehow again. Then showering
and getting my new-day's act together, I realize that I may
never see him again. Ever.
      I start feeling both warm and sexy as well as
melancholic. Which may not make sense but that's the way it
was.
      I dry off and start to get dressed as the Sun tries
to see its way through the fog.
      Then I feel totally sexy and horny! A narrow, full
length mirror is in the bedroom. I look into it, just in my
briefs, my body looking quite good, and I remember how at
one point Chip and I both looked in that same mirror
togethewr just before we piled into bed together.
      My cock sloewlyh harden as I stand there surveying my
own image. My face flushges with excitement, my body tingles
inb the ocol morning air. I still hear ringing in my ears
thay rattling bike fender.  I can't resist the urge any
longer.
      So, I lie down on my back on the wide bed where we had
made love and where he had spent the night. I sit up first,
looking through the bed, inspecting and smelling the sheets
and the pillow. I peel off my already tight briefs as my
cock just pops up once they were off. I reach over to the
window ledge where the Vaseline and the Baby Oil are
sitting.
      You know what I did then, I'm sure! I just wish I
could have photographed my
graphic thoughts as I fantasized running over every moment
of Chip's night with me-from that very first meeting on the
road to the conversation to the journey into the bedroom and
into the hottest-ever sex.
      That J/O session, I'll tell you, was real special. A
"third cum" can be quite titillating!
      What was not so good was the fact that-yep-I never saw
him again.
Not that I didn't keep my eyes open, evben driving off the
main road sometimes hoping I'd run into him or even see his
old bike leaning up against one of those old New England
houses on the Island.
       But sadly, I never did. That doesn't stop my memories
from popping into my head at any given time.

		  --------END------------