Date: Sat, 29 May 2004 10:43:14 -0700 (PDT)
From: Robin Reed <any_mouse2003@yahoo.com>
Subject: A Guy Named Joe

This is a work of fiction. It contains descriptions of
graphic sex between men. The disclaimers apply: if you
are too young or a repressive government does not
permit you to read it, stop. You have been sternly
admonished.

All right reserved. Comments welcome. Why else would
we do this?
Any_mouse2003@yahoo.com


A Guy Named Joe

There are times and there are people that are the
pivot-points in life. You know from your own. There
are the events you know from your own life. You are
reading this here because you either came out or you
didn't.

Either way, you wouldn't be reading it if you weren't
queer.

You have either acted on it or not. If you did, you
remember how, and who you did it with. If you haven't,
in those moments when your eyes clench before the
spunk boils up out of the cock you are stroking, you
know who you would like to be fucking or whose dick
you would like to be sucking.

So either way, you are here. You are queer. Get used
to it.

I am not unlike you. I'm a queer of a certain age, but
I forget that when I am not forced to look in a
mirror. When I wake in the night I am the same as I
have always been, young and lean, and with that
chestnut brown hair with the bangs that flip up at the
end.

Blue eyes like a mountain lake. Not rheumy and ringed
with a pale yellow. A nice, solid cock, thick around
and cut so the tip is proud and prominent, and it can
spit fierce man-cum five times in an encounter.

I forget that when I rise and hobble the first few
steps from the bed toward the bathroom. I don't wear
my glasses when I am in front of the mirror. Sometimes
it takes a while to remember to put them on. Only when
I have to read something do I remember that I have to
wear glasses at all.

But I am lucky to be alive, and that is where Joe
comes in.

He was the first boy I had a crush on. He was in my
band class. He was slight and a little dreamy. He wore
straight-legged corduroy pants and tie-shoes, which
was an epithet in those days. It meant that your
parents would not trust you to dress yourself, or they
were afraid you would grow pigeon-toes. He had fine
sandy hair and he wore glasses with thick frames, but
I could see the fine dark lashes that made his gaze
sweeter than any of the girls.

He was shy and diffident and he held himself with this
thin shoulders back. He usually wore a cardigan
sweater, even when it was warm. I made me think that
he was sheltering himself from something.

I couldn't tell him I had a crush on him. The whole
thing confused me. Our middle school was just starting
to pair off and date. We did that then, rather than
what the kids do now, which is to run in a pack and
hook-up when necessary.

We were much more linear in those days. I went on a
couple dates because that is what we were supposed to
do. I remember the new couples sneaking off to the
furnace room to neck by the machinery at the first
boy-girl parties, and I remember my first kiss from a
girl.

It was exotic, that first brush with passion, that
fumbling around. But what confused me was what I
thought about when I masturbated in my bed at night. I
tried to think of the girls at school naked, or of the
Playboy women in the magazines we stole from the store
because that is what was expected of us.

But I found myself thinking of little Joe, and what
his cock might look like, and if it was as long and
elegant as the fingers I saw him run up the neck of
his violin in band class.

They said that Joe's dad had played professional
football, that he was as rough and tough as they came.
I heard that he came down to watch us practice on the
football field in the fall, and I heard once that he
made a comment about my aggressive press to cut to the
head of the line in the hitting drills.

But I never knew precisely what he looked like, and I
never could put a face to him.

I could not imagine that Joe's fair skin and delicate
features came from a man that had played in Soldier
Field on a Sunday.

The kids were not kind to kids who were different.
They called Joe a sissy, and a homo, and other cruel
things. Sometimes I thought I should defend him, but I
could never figure out how to say it in a way that
wouldn't have my big rough friends call me the same
thing.

I could imagine it clearly: "Oh, so you like the
little faggot? You a homo, too, Bob?"

I thought about a lot of things when I jerked off. But
I always thought about Joe, one way or another in the
days I waited to get my drivers license and start the
road to being a grown-up.

I used to have a fantasy that I would consider as I
waited for the drum part to begin in band class. I
would be watching his fingers dance up the neck of his
violin, and I imagined my cock being massaged by my
fingers. It would get me hard in class, but I didn't
care, since my snare drum blocked my crotch from view.

I wondered if I could write him an anonymous note, say
that someone who cared about him was wearing some
unique piece of clothing, maybe a tie or a particular
color sweater. Then I would see him the next day in
school, in the hall perhaps, and he would imagine me
looking at him from the back of the band, or in the
math class we shared.

And it would not be until the end of the day that he
would ask if it was me who sent the note. Sometimes in
my fantasy I told him, and sometimes I was cruel.

The fantasy I liked was that I nodded and smiled and
told him I thought he was handsome and would he like
to walk home from school with me. When I was really
hard, and ready to spew all over myself, I imagined
what it would be like if we went to his house and it
was empty and we could kiss and take our clothes off
and rub our cocks together.

But I could never figure out how it got beyond that,
or how I could live in the world I had to live in and
be a part of his at the same time.

Reality in 1966 was a lot different than it is now.

I played football, hung around with my idiot buddies
who joked at what I secretly desired. I would see Joe
at the big high school where we went after middle
school, but I dropped out of band and only saw him
occasionally in my masterbatory imagination.

I got decent enough grades to get into IU and

As it turned out, the summer before college was the
time I finally found a man like me, and became what I
knew I was then, a practicing fucking homo.

Alexander brought me out and taught me how a man likes
to have his cock sucked. He taught me how to fuck with
abandon, and how to take a strong hard dick up my ass
and writhe in passion, panting for more.

He was a man, though, and he waltzed off to his
college without a backward glance. I was hurt, and
homesick when I went to college. Having found real sex
I did not want to live without it, but things were so
new and so overwhelming that I was quite stunned by it
all.

I saw a note on one of the bulletin boards for a Gay
group on campus with a phone number. That was the
first time I saw the word capitalized, and the first
time I saw the words that seemed like there might be a
way to be proud about being a homo.

I thought it was worth a try. I called from the phone
in the hall of my dorm, and I wondered what my
floor-mates would think if they knew what I was doing.


The phone rang three times and a soft voice came on.
"Hello?"

"Hi. Are you, er, ah.." I stammered as one of my three
assigned roommates from downstate walked by toward the
common men's shower area.

"Part of the Gay Liberation Group? Why yes, I am. Can
I be of assistance?"

"Uh, I think I am a homo and wanted to know if there
was someone I could talk to about it."

"We don't say it like that. We are Gay. But yes, in
answer to your question. You can come over and I can
tell you come of the resources available to our
community."

"Gee," I said. "That would be great." He gave me an
address and a time the next day and I wrote it down on
a piece of paper. I could have written it on the wall
with all the other notes next to the phone, but I
didn't think that was cool.

Once the lights were out and my roommates settled
down, I thought of the voice. I became engorged and I
thought of Alexander and his proud hard cock planted
deep in me and I thought about Joe for the first time
in a long time and I came in a sweet flood all over my
hand and belly. In the darkness I licked it off my
hand, and drew my index finger across the rich viscous
pool on my belly.

The next day I showered early and went to my geology
lab and the big Frosh English class. My appointment
was at lunch. The address was off University Street in
an apartment on the second floor of a battered
Victorian house that had been subdivided from a
single-family residence. It was not run-down, per se,
but it clearly had been used by generations of IU
students.

My heart was pounding as I knocked on the door. A
voice from inside said "Hang on, I'm coming!" I waited
there with my heart in my throat. I heard footsteps
coming, and then the door opened on a chain. I saw
dark eyes and dark hair.

"Are you Bob?" asked the voice from the phone. I
nodded. "OK then, come on in."

The door closed and I heard the chain slide off and
the door opened wide.

In the frame was a tall slim man who I thought might
be in his early twenties. He looked like a grad
student, or maybe a teaching assistant. He had a wispy
dark beard and fair skin and dark hair that reached
down to his shoulders. He wore a T-shirt that said,
"Stop the War" and faded jeans. He looked like a guy
that my football coach would have called "Sleeping
Jesus" which was his term for the hippies in town.

"Hi" he said, sticking out his hand. "My name is
Steve. I am a volunteer for the Gay Pride."

I shook his hand, thinking that his fingers were long
like Alexander's had been. I made the connection
between the length and dimension of the fingers and
the penis, and would have blushed if he had not
ushered me through the door.

"It is like a Pride of lions, get it? The Gay Pride."

"Yeah," I said. "I got it." Though frankly I did not
have a clue.

Steve gave me all the clues. He sat me down at a tiny
table in a sun-lit kitchenette. He gave me an instant
cup of coffee and he talked like he was on speed.

"O.K., the first thing you need to do is raise your
consciousness. This is not about sex, although of
course it is, but it is mostly about the politics of
Straight Calhoun County. The pigs are out there,
enforcing antiquated sodomy laws, busting us. We have
got to stop the war and we have got to stop the war
against us."

I blinked. I had thought about the war hardly at all
at home, except to register for the draft and get my
2-S student deferment. I wasn't going anywhere, as far
as I knew, and certainly not to Vietnam. I had come
over here to investigate finding other young men who
liked each other. Not to join the war on war.

But he was a fascinating man, very intense. His
fingers were elegant and I found my self watching them
intently as he drew them across his cheeks and
gestured with them as he described the injustice of
things.

He explained that there was a social activity at the
local Unitarian Church that Saturday, one of the first
mixers of the season, and that there would be a lot of
the right people, activists, Gay thinkers and maybe
some music.

I realized this was not the place to find a joint and
a joint to suck. This was a hub of activist politics.
I was interested by the energy, quite swept away by
it. He told me which bathrooms on campus were hot to
cruise, a notion I found curious. Going to a public
toilet to find sex? It didn't sound very romantic, I
said, and he responded that in anonymity was power,
and a way to get to the straight guys and let them
experience the power of cock-suckers and their own
latent Gay sides.

He was still in mid-sentence an hour later when
someone knocked at the door. He went over and removed
the chain. I realized that there was a little paranoia
in the air. A tall woman entered. She was black as
night and she wore her hair in a vast corona of an
Afro. She looked at me cooly.

"Who's the frat boy?" she asked.

"Oh, this is Rob. He called me on the hot line. I
think he is Gay, he just doesn't know how yet."

"I know how it works," I said quietly.

"Honey, you don't know the half of it," she said, and
gave me a thin smile. "C'mon, Steve. We need to get to
the meeting." He shrugged and looked at me.

"Listen, that is what is going on here. Remember the
Social this week. If you have any questions, give me a
call. Maybe we can have coffee some time."

"I'd like that," I said, realizing Steve was going to
be too busy stopping the war and injustice to slow
down for me. "And thanks for your time."

I walked to the door and let myself out as they began
to talk about strategy, and how the Black Lesbians
needed support and how The Man would be watching
everything they were doing. They didn't pay any
attention at all to my going.

I confess I looked over my shoulder as I walked away.
The Pigs could be watching everything, after all.

The Unitarians

I had been to a Unitarian service one time. I went to
a nice Presbyterian Church and one of the Sunday
School activities was to go to other churches and
discuss them from a theological perspective.

I wasn't here this Saturday night to discuss secular
humanism, though. I was here to meet other homos-
Gays, I corrected myself, and maybe find a friend.

The Church was a long low building and didn't look
much like a traditional place of worship. It looked
like it could be a union hall.

I had walked by the place a couple times, looking over
my shoulder to be sure I was not followed.

It was pretty crazy. I had been to fraternity Rush the
night before, visiting several of the more popular
houses on campus. I liked the Lamdas and the Dekes,
and they seemed eager to hand out the beers and get me
to like them. Rush would go on for another week or so,
and I thought I might find a group of people to hang
out with.

But there was this Gay thing to deal with. I was so
horny, and all I wanted was someone like Alexander to
fill me up. Of course, he had been Black, even if his
skin was almost as light as mine, and the politics of
that were something I didn't fully understand in this
very political campus.

The frat houses didn't even seem to be aware of the
war, just the necessity of staying in school and away
from the draft.

I finally screwed up my nerve in the darkness and
walked up to the double door on the lobby. I went in
and there was an easel set up that said "Gay Pride
Mixer in Activities Room" with an arrow pointing to
the corridor on the right. I walked down the hall
toward the sound of voices.

There was an open door and a smooth-shaven guy with
his hair in a long neat ponytail sitting at a card
table. He had a coffee can with a sign that said
"Donations."

"Hi" I said. "Is this the Gay thing?"

"Yes it is," he said and smiled broadly. "I'm Greg and
I suck cock. Two bucks in the recommended donation."

I fished my wallet out of my slacks and found two
wrinkled bills. "I'm Bob, and I do, too." I said
weakly. I didn't have much cash and wouldn't until I
got a bank account set up in town so I could get at my
summer money. I dropped the bills into the can and
Greg smiled again. "Thanks" he said. "Hope I see you
inside." He looked me up and down and didn't seem to
mind what he saw. I swallowed and walked in.

There were about forty people standing around in
little clusters. The lights were half on, in an
attempt to create an intimate atmosphere. There was a
table that had big jugs of soft drinks on it, and big
bowls of potato chips and napkins.

There didn't seem to be anything to do except stand
there awkwardly, so I went over to the table and
poured a Coke and munched on a handful of chips. I was
thinking this might be one of the larger mistakes of
my life when a young man with dirty blonde hair left
one of the knots of people and walked over to me. He
extended a hand and took mine and held it a second or
two longer than I was used to. His hand was soft and
his skin was moist. He cheeks were full and so were
his lips.

"Glad to see you here tonight," he said. "My name is
Rob. We are going to have some music in a minute, as
soon as the band gets set up, and I hope you will save
a dance for me. I'm with Student Coalition."

"Coalition for what?" I asked. "And my name is Robert,
too, though they call me Bob."

"Well, Bobby," he said, suddenly conspiratorial, "It
is a coalition to oppose just about everything." Then
he laughed. "And have a little fun in the process of
overthrowing the Old Order." He grinned an infectious
grin.

I smiled back a little uncertainly. I hadn't come to
overthrow the Government. I had just come to meet some
others homos. But at least some of the people here
sucked cock, so that was a start. And they say the
longest journeys start with a single step.

We chatted for a moment about the latest developments
on campus, the riots elsewhere and when we might
expect something to get going at IU. I heard the
squeal of an amplifier and some first brisk chords
being strummed on an electric guitar. Rob excused
himself, and walked over and tapped the top of a
microphone. It went pop-pop and was live. He took it
off the stand and asked everyone to come up close.

"We want everyone to dance tonight, and we want to
make some good noise. And we want some solidarity
tonight, proud that we are Gay and Lesbian!" There was
a murmur as people walked up and formed a broad
semicircle around him and the band. "Tonight we are
going to do some political dancing with The Pride
Band! Get down, brothers and sisters!"

He handed the mike to an emaciated woman in a tank
top. She had small breasts with large nipples and
nothing between them and the thin cotton. He hair was
straggly and she had a ring in her nose and eyes as
dark as the bottom of a coal mine. Lead guitar was a
white guy with an afro and a black man with big hair
and elephant bell pants slung low on his hips was
holding a Fender Jazz Bass. A kid with a hank of
blonde hair and a blank gaze looked like he was
threatening to play rhythm.

There was a sharp rap on a snare drum and a thickset
guy with sunglasses and a ponytail started to rap out
a drum riff.

The band stumbled into some muddy song, way too loud
for the acoustics in the room. The woman started into
something that sounded a little like "G-L-O-R-I-A" but
the words were different. I decided I didn't care. It
was too loud to talk to anyone, and I sipped my Coke
and tried to make sense out of the crowd.

There were couples, male and female ones. Most were
hippies, but there were a couple older guys in rumpled
sport coats and chinos. They were clearly academics. I
was scrutinizing the crowd and hoping to find someone
who looked like they needed a friend. The cutest was
the black guy playing bass, and I think he looked back
at me with a cool gaze, but it could be that is how he
looked at everyone.

I like men of color. Alexander set me up that way, I
guess. I wondered what he would be doing later, and
what it would be like if he made me his bitch for the
semester. That would cause a stir back at the dorm. Or
maybe it wouldn't. This was an altogether new world.

I felt a little flustered and then I felt someone tug
on my sleeve. It was Greg. He shouted at me over the
music. I think he asked me to dance. I nodded, since
there was no point in trying to talk over the noise of
the band. I finished my Coke with a gulp, turned and
began to shake with him, not touching.

It was the first time I danced with another guy. It
seemed perfectly natural, just like the casual way he
had announced that he sucked cock.

Dancing then was mostly just standing in one place and
gyrating at one another. We did that for a while, and
the band lurched into something else, and we kept
dancing through the rest of the set. When the chords
rose and crashed and ended mostly at the same time the
silence was deafening.

We got something to drink, more soft drinks, from the
table. "Is there anything more fun to drink?" I asked,
my voice sounding peculiarly loud. Greg smiled and I
noticed he had a dimple on his chin a little like Kirk
Douglas.

I also noticed that his hair was full and the same
color as mine. He eyes were set a little close
together and his teeth were radiantly white. Maybe
that is what set my heart beating a little quicker.

"Yes there is, but we can't have it here. The cops
would bust the place if we had a keg. I have some
vodka back at the apartment. I am only committed here
until the next break. Maybe we could go over to my
house and smoke a joint and have a couple drinks?"

"That sounds great," I said. And then the band was
sawing at some Bad Moon Rising, and we were dancing
again. They even tried a slow version of something. I
honestly couldn't tell what it was, but it gave me an
opportunity to move closer to Greg and he put his arms
around me.

I felt a electricity as his arms closed around me, and
I put my head on his shoulder as we swayed on the
floor of the Unitarian Assembly Room.

After the next set he took my hand and we slipped out
the door, back down the hall and out into the cool
evening. We could hear those dissonant tones for a
block or more as we walked along under the green
canopy of trees.

Greg lived in another one of the old houses converted
to student apartments. The stairwell smelled like cat
urine and old carpet, but his apartment on the third
floor was brightly painted. There were posters on the
wall, an old tattered Oriental rug on the floor and a
battered couch that faced a small portable TV.

"It's not much" he said. "But it's home."

"I like it better than the dorm," I responded. "It is
nice."

He smiled and I realized how nice that was when he
showed those teeth. "The couch doubles as a bed" he
said and he smiled again and I felt a tightening in my
groin. He went into a kitchen that was about the size
of a closet and I heard the clink of glass and the
opening of a refrigerator.

"Here," I said. "Let me help." There was barely room
to turn around, and he handed me an ice-cube tray. It
had one of those handles that flipped up to crack the
ice loose and I pulled it. It was still frozen solid,
so he took it from me and ran some warm water over it
in the little sink. The he turned and faced me with it
and I found myself kissing that handsome mouth and
touching those beautiful teeth with an eager tongue.

We made out for a while and I got as hard as a rock.
He reached down and cupped my balls through the tent
in my slacks. I sighed against his mouth and I heard
the ice cube tray rattle into the sink. He put his
arms around me and drew me to him and I felt his cock
hard against mine.

We never did get the drinks.

We stumbled back into the main room and we fumbled
madly with our clothes. Our eyes were locked as shirts
and slacks and jeans tumbled into a heap on the floor.
He stood as watched as I skinned off my boxer shorts,
and he flipped the waistband of his Jockeys, drawing
them down over a cock of impressive size and girth. I
licked my lips and drew a ragged breath. When he
kicked off the underpants he stood proudly with his
cock waving toward me. I stepped over to him and
placed my eager cock next to his, side to side. They
were nearly comparable, pale flesh engorged, erupting
from a thick patch of dense pubic hair. A little trail
lead up to his navel, but otherwise he was smooth and
hairless.

We caressed each other, gently stroking, the sides of
our erections touching. It was electric. I wanted that
cock in my mouth so bad. He stopped touching me and
took me by the arm and we walked to the couch. He
grabbed the front and raised it to it slid down into a
flat surface. He rose and he kissed me again, and then
said:

"We both claimed to suck cock. Let's see how well we
do."

And that is how I found myself on my side, head
between his legs, with the rich smell of his sex in my
nose and his warm cock buried in my mouth, tonguing
him and suckling on him as he did me. It was
incredible, almost like sucking myself.

He had a wonderful taste, musky and slippery. I tried
to mimic the movement of his lips and his soft palate,
and when he took me deep into his throat, I ignored
the gap reflex and impaled myself on him.

God, he tasted good. Eventually, he moaned and I knew
he was going to erupt in my mouth. I wasn't going to
miss a drop, and his ecstasy made my gorge rise and
thrust and when his hot jets of jism hit the back of
my throat I shuddered and shot right back into him.

We drained each other, mouths warm and sucking on
softening cocks.

It was a while before we stirred. Greg got up and got
a joint and we smoked it on the couch, shoulder to
shoulder, thigh to naked thigh. Then we were at each
other again, sucking like mad.

Greg was one hell of a cocksucker. I blushed when he
said the same about me.

It made me feel as warm as his semen in my belly. When
we slept, we slept with our heads buried in each
other's crotches, breathing the smell of sex and cum.

We got hard again in the night, and I remember
shooting another load into his warm soft mouth, just
as he did for me. Then there was just sleep.

When I awoke, the first thing I did, the very first
thing, was take his soft penis in my lips and gently
kiss it good morning.

I had a feeling I might get lucky.

@ 2004 Any_mouse@yahoo.com