From: janus@greynet.net (janus znaiu)
Subject: NEW CHAPTER: ~~Beach Blanket Barry~~ m/m, teen, cons j/o, oral, underwear.
Date: Sun, 16 Feb 1997 17:05:28 GMT


BEACH BLANKET BARRY
by janus znaiu

Labor Day '64

My gears clicked in an ever-diminishing tempo as I coasted my
ten-speed to a stop at the top of the driveway. A battle-weary
electric lawnmower lay on its side on the flagstones leading to
the front steps. Barry's father, Jack Llewelyn, was sitting on
a tufted outdoor ottoman on the whitewashed porch,
wiping a wrench with an oily rag. By way of greeting, he stood
and raised his tumbler of what was supposed to pass for simple
orange juice. He took a long drink from it. Barry's dad was a
loquatious alcoholic with an educated Welsh accent, a
gregarious manner and a legendary repertoire of dirty jokes--
all qualities that probably stood him in very good stead as a
car salesman. Having a dad who ran a car lot certainly stood
Barry in good stead. Only two days before, Mr. Llewelyn had
given my friend a three year old Volkswagon beetle, an
appropriately-colored lemon yellow convertable that had come to
him as a trade-in.

"Barry's still in bed, Jens. I've only just called him for the
third time. Probably pounding his hound." Mr. Llewelyn said
with a conspiratorial wink. He opened the front door, stepped
into the foyer and bellowed up the faux Tudor staircase,
"BARRY!" He listened for a few seconds, then shouted, "Geddup
ye pimpled lout! The president of your fan club's down here!"

Then to me again, "I see your dad's turning that delicatessen
of his into a regular department store these days," He was
referring to my father's expansion into the building next door to
our deli in the city. I knew he'd want to pump me for
information about how much pop had spent on the renovations and
so forth; for Mr. Llewellyn, any human undertaking was
instantly reducible to a clear-cut matter of dollars and cents.
"All that Italian tile and plate glass sure must have set him
back..." he insinuated."BARRY!" he shouted again over his
shoulder.

"Yeah, I guess," I said. It was my generic response to almost
any adult comment. Fidgety, my hands in my jeans pockets, I
rocked uncomfortably on my heels and peered past him, up into
the relative darkness of the staircase, hopeful that Barry
might appear from the gloom at any moment and rescue me. Mr.
Llewellyn chuckled at my obvious impatience. "Aw, you might as
well go on up and build a fire under him yourself, Jens. Tell
the bugger he won't be watching any more late, late shows again
until next summer. Looking forward to being back in school?"

"Yeah, I guess," I told him. I sprinted up the stairs and past
Barry's sisters' rooms. If Barry *was* beating off, I meant to
catch him at it. We hadn't seen each other for two days because
he had to clean and polish cars for his dad. I was very keen to
have his dick in my hand again-- and more.  I stepped into his
room and quietly clicked the door shut behind me. He wasn't
jacking off, but even fast asleep, Barry looked no less hot to
me right then than if he had been.

He snored on lightly, seemingly oblivious to the whining and
thwapping of the electric lawnmower that Mr. Llewelyn had
started up just below his open window. His breathing was
utterly undisturbed, remaining deep and even through the sudden
din. He'd covered his eyes with part of a pillow against the
wide-open blinds, leaving only his strong, square jaw and his
half-opened mouth exposed. An intense, narrow shaft of
late-morning sunlight played back and forth across his exposed
torso with each September gust that stirred the cutains. It
accentuated every ripple of his abdomen, emphasized every one
of the sparse black hairs that grew in a light, fuzzy ring
around each of his nipples.

Barry's blanket lay across him, well below his waist but
revealing only the slightest hint of his pubic patch. A sexy
trail of wispy black hair joined his navel to his bush. Below
that, the blanket's folds followed the contours of his
plumped-out dick so exactly that it was as if he'd been
handling himself through the covers just before I came in. The
fold that covered his thick cock formed what seemed to be a
slender third leg as it continued towards the foot of the bed,
but you could see exactly where the fat, flared head of his
cock was by the way it bulked out the fabric. I sat down across
from him on the edge of his kid brother's bed and visualized
Barry's goods as they must look under that blanket. I drilled
his bulge with my gaze and pretended I had x-ray vision: his
dickhead would be partially skinned now, in sympathy to the
expansion of his half-erection. His balls would be warm and
therefore low-slung; they'd be resting against the nearest
inner thigh, dangling in whatever way gravity would have it.

I was burning that image into my mind when suddenly there was a
loud, abrupt clunk outside, followed by a gnashing of metal on
metal and then the lawnmower fell silent. "Christ in a friggin'
sidecar!" hollered Mr. Llewelyn. There was the sound of a
lawnmower being picked up by a very pissed off Welshman and
thrown across an asphalt driveway.

Barry woke up then, filling the room with smug, subdued
laughter. "I told you it wouldn't last the season!" he shouted
with a sing-song tone, his voice still thick from sleep. He
scratched his adam's apple and fell into a fresh outburst of
not-so-private, self-satisfied cackling.

"Get your lazy arse out of the rack, you cheeky monkey,"
shouted Mr. Llewellyn from outside.

His eyes still covered, still unaware of my presence only a few
feet away, Barry stretched deeply, arching his back obscenely,
almost touching my knee with his outstretched hand. He sighed
contentedly and reached under the blanket. Then he scratched
his bag, causing his cock to bob under the fabric. My that got
my confined dick bobbing too. I reached inside my jeans to
squeeze it some comfort. Barry tossed the blanket back to
mid-thigh, exposing his meaty, upturned pecker to the rare
tactile dichotomy of warm sunshine and cool breeze. He thumbed
his tits a little and then slid his palms very slowly downwards
along his chest. They passed across his belly and continued to
his inner thighs, which he stroked a few times before grabbing
his fat, semi-tumescent pole with one hand and tugging at his
sac with the other.

I could have cheerfully continued this fly-on-the-wall game
indefinitely, but Barry chose that moment to pull his head out
from under his pillow. He glanced first at his cock, then at
me, then at my hand jammed into my fly. "Good afternoon," I
told him, though it was barely eleven am.

"Hey Slim," he said, grinning broadly, using what was fast
becoming his pet name for me. "What's goin' on?" He asked
casually in mid-yawn, as if he always awoke to find someone
feeling themselves up three feet away.

"Not a lot, Bar'. Like some help with that?" I licked my
grinning lips and nodded at the fat, skinned dick in Barry's
hand, the one I'd sucked in my dreams a hundred times in the
past week of nights. He swung his legs off the bed and I
stepped between them. Barry slipped one arm behind me, lay his
cheek against my belly and palmed the front of my denim-clad
thigh, from my knee to my crotch, while I lightly stroked his
tousled, curly head.

"Mmmmm. Missed you, Slim." then, suddenly, "Fuck! Are you ever
boned!" He backed off a bit and grasped my flanks. "Listen,
man, we can't do fuck-all here, Nicholas could walk in any
minute." I knew Barry's eleven year old brother was loose about
the place; the little shit had flipped me the bird out on the
street when I first pulled in. "We could go for a drive
though." he suggested, staring up at me with that voluptuous
leer I was becoming more and more familiar with. He pronounced
"drive" in a low, growling timbre that almost made it sound
filthy. I knew he was itching to show me his new wheels, but I
also knew he was thinking about the new mobility his having a
car would give us.  The idea of being able to get away
someplace, someplace nearby but private, any time we liked,
kept my bone alive the whole time Barry was in the bathroom
getting washed. That, and my discovery of the briefs he'd slept
in.

Well, maybe he hadn't slept in them at that; they looked more
like he'd slept *with* them. A nearly new pair of Stanfield
whites, Barry had likely been breaking them in-- he never
seemed completely happy unless his drawers had some kind of
major rent or some irreversable blemish to them. Two large damp
spots adorned the inner pouch. A third still glistened in the
sunlight like a slug trail higher up, near the waistband. I was
just bringing them to my cheek when Barry came back from the
bathroom.

"Caught ya!" he said, grabbing them from behind my back when I
tired in vain to hide them. He teased, "You'll be nose-divin'
my bicycle seat next, I expect."

I leaned in and stifled his coarse chortle with my mouth. He
half-responded, but with wide-opened eyes staring uneasily
past me at the door. Realizing his heart wasn't in it, I broke
it off with a profound sigh.

"I know," Barry said sypathetically. "Soon..." Spinning on his
heel, he turned away and yanked his top dresser drawer open.
Curiously, he put the soiled briefs I'd been admiring in with
the tangle of underwear in the drawer.

"Now, why would you go and put a dirty pair of shorts in with a
bunch of clean ones?" I had to know.

"Who said they were dirty, Slim? I haven't worn 'em. They're
just a little cummy, that's all." Barry told me, as if that
ought to be explanation enough.

He pulled out an older, clean but vastly more stressed, pair of
briefs and let the damp towel fall from his waist. I ogled his
dick for the brief instant it was visible, licking my lips at
the prospect of having it in my hands again sometime soon. He
slid into the whites and carefully arranged himself to the
right, both nuts to the left. Barry sniffed the armpits of a
few t-shirts that were strewn about until he found one that
didn't make him wrinkle his nose. Then he yanked on a pair of
paint-spattered cutoffs that were cut so high that the bottoms
of his front pockets hung out a little.  Stepping sockless into
a pair of low-cut Keds, he opened the door to the hallway and
said with a flourish, "M'lord, your carriage awaits."

Mr.  Llewelyn was pushing the remains of the deceased lawnmower
into the garage, a large, twisted section of the blade tucked under
his arm. "Curfew's two hours earlier tonight.  Remember that
Barry." he warned, as we headed towards Barry's new bug in the
third bay. "I'm serious, kiddo, any later than ten pm and
you'll be back to riding the school bus and that car'll be back
on the lot."

"Yeah, yeah, and you'll have 'my balls for bookends'..." Barry
said wearily.

"Exactly! Ha-HA! School tomorrow! Oh, you boys are SO LUCKY!" I
hated having unpleasant things rubbed in by gleeful adults at
the best of times. Barry's dad made it that much worse by
mussing both our hair and unleashing an evil, histrionical
snicker, like the moustache-twirling villain in a cheap
melodrama.


I fiddled with the dials of the car radio as Barry pulled onto
the highway. He grinned at me, fingering the knob of the
stickshift like it was a big round dickhead. "So where to,
Slim?" he asked, shouting over the sudden, rushing gust when he
sped the convertable up to join the stream of holiday traffic.
"The beach? Toronto? Wanna get somethin' to eat?"

"I'm pretty hungry. Why don't we leave Toronto for another
day-- everything'll be closed anyway. Wanna grab something to
eat at the beach?" I knew what I wanted to eat most of all. I
stared at Barry's well-packed basket.

"Your wish is my command," he said. I certainly hoped so.

We picked up a couple of burgers at Hutch's Dingley Dell and
drove up and down the strip a couple times, chomping our lunch
as we went. I was impatient to find someplace we could be
alone, but Labor Day Monday, and the observance of the official
farewell to summer, brought everybody and their dog down to the
lake, as though it would somehow freeze over the very next day.
There were even line-ups to play bingo or to get on the cheesy
old rides near the lift bridge. I had a different kind of ride
in mind-- I pictured myself sliding my lips up and down on
Barry's shaft.

I don't know if he'd been reading my thoughts, or having just
having similar ones of his own. "I know a spot," he said,
rubbing his crotch.

We'd been messing around together for only a week and a half,
but under the combined influence of Barry's patient, tactile
coaxing, his logical arguments and my own innate randiness, I
had, only the day before, made my mind up to suck him off
the very next time we were together-- this time without the
reassuring layer of cotton underwear between my lips and his
cock. On the half dozen occasions we'd sixty-nined, that few
millimeters of fabric always somehow helped me to convince
myself that I wasn't *really* sucking his dick. Barry didn't
seem to mind the barrier; he was happiest when he was blowing
his stones into a pair of drawers anyway. I was aware of how
tenuous my rationalization was, of course, but not turning "too
queer" was a major preoccupation with me in those days. I
vacillated erratically between being the wanton,
can't-get-enough Jens whose first cogent thought after an
orgasm was the next one, and the uneasy, trepidatious Jens who
stewed endlessly about the queer label and all the hideous
consequences that discovery could bring.

There wasn't a single thing in my orbit that said being a
homosexual was an acceptable thing to aspire to. Gays hadn't
been invented yet; all we had were faggots and fairies.  They
ran florist shops and made good, if prissy, hair dressers.  I
knew I wasn't anything like them, though my older brother Nils,
so far the only one to have picked up on signs of my inversion,
implied that if I continued on my present course I would turn
into just such a nelly caricature as Mr. Sweeny, the old
undertaker who'd been our neighbour in the city; as though
mincing and lisping were a natural and inescapable result of
any sexual activity or undue affection between males. Yet, if I
had so little else in common with the few self-acknowledged
homosexuals I'd seen, why was I so driven to do the other, more
private things they did? And why were those things seeming so
less nasty with each passing day? Why did they occupy my
thoughts so, waking and sleeping?

It never occured to me that all around me there were hundreds
and thousands of others being eaten up by the same fears and
longings I harbored. There was no sure way to spot them
(although it was universally alleged at school that anybody who
wore red socks on a Thursday was definitely "one"). And even 
if I'd known who they were there, if there had been some secret
way to communicate with them, I didn't have the decoder ring
required. Like a lot of kids of my generation, I spent years
convinced that what was happening to me-- the constant inner
struggle between forbidden lust and propriety-- had never
afflicted anyone else before. And if it did, they didn't have
it half as bad as I had it.

Far more than by anything Barry and I actually did together, I
was distressed about the emotional element of our relationship.
I knew full well, from everything I'd seen, read or heard, that
the things I was feeling for him ought more properly to be
directed towards girls. Although it was never discussed as such
(only mentioned in passing, and rarely), it was assumed between
us that we'd each eventually get married and have families one
day, even if we didn't feel anything in particular for girls at
the moment. I sure didn't. And Barry didn't either, by all
appearances. Still, our intrinsic heterosexuality was the tacit
assumption, despite the contradiction posed by the steady
escalation of our passion for each other.

All of the stuff we were doing was as new to Barry as it was to
me, but he seemed so much more self-assured behind it all, as
though he'd sussed out exactly what he wanted and was willing
to do almost anything, make any dumb compromise necessary, to
get it. If we could only mess around in secret places and in
stolen moments, that was no big deal to Barry, merely an
annoyance. That time of our lives is filled with many such
logistical irritations.


We passed ever fewer groups of bathers as we drove along the
paved road where it followed the rougher, rockier shoreline.
When the paved road veered off to the right, we continued to
follow the shoreline road, even after it turned into a simple
graveled access route leading to a huge hydro transmission
tower. A few hundred feet from the foot of the tower, Barry
left the road and pulled into a the middle of a splendid grove
of cascading yellow-green willows. A house had stood among them
once, but all that remained now was the driveway, a low heap of
rubble and a crackled cement hole that had once been a swimming
pool. Barry shut the engine off and leaned back with his eyes
closed, breathing deeply and listening to the loud, rasping
drone of the cicadas announcing their sexual availability to
each other in the trees all around us.

"We used to live here, until I was twelve, like," he said
finally. "Then that thing went up," he nodded in the direction
of the unseen hydro tower. "C'mon," he grinned, grabbing a
rolled-up straw beach mat from the back seat and tucking it
under his arm, "I'll show you someplace cool."

We followed an overgrown path into the brush and emerged some
moments later at the edge of a large pond rimmed with cattails
and rushes. Barry unfurled the beach mat and spread it atop
some tall spikes of goldenrod that carpeted the open, two-acre
meadow. He flattened the stalks horizontal by treading all over
the mat. When he was done, he'd created a rectangular, box-like
depression about the size of a twin bed in the undergrowth, one
that would render us virtually invisible, even to someone
standing a only few meters away. I lay down on my back,
suddenly reducing my field of vision to one of only sky,
foliage and Barry.

"We used to whack off back here all the time when I was a
nipper," he said as he peeled off his t-shirt and cutoffs.

"We?" I asked, stripping off my jeans and shirt. By now I knew
enough to leave my jockeys on.

"Mostly just me and Jimmy MacDonald from across the street, but
there used to be dozens of houses along this road. A whole
bunch of us would used to camp out here and shit.  We'd usually
wind up circle-jerking each other." Barry knelt on the mat
between my jack-knifed legs and spread my knees until they met
the straw. He palmed my growing mound, his eyes half-closed and
distant in recollection.

"This one guy," Barry continued, "I forget his name now, but he
was one of my friends' cousins or something. I guess he was a
couple of years older than the rest of us and he knew lots of
cool shit.  He used to, you know, put his mouth on the knob of
your pecker while he was jackin' you. It felt so fuckin' great,
man. If I was ever alone with him, I think I'd have done it
back. But it never happened. I guess I just felt funny doin'
something like that with a bunch of my other friends around--
and nobody else ever did it to him either. They were probably
more scared of the size of his cock than what anybody would
say, like I was," Barry chuckled to himself at the reminiscence.

"Didn't you ever try it with your friend from across the
street?"

"Who? Jimmy? Nah, he was a real baby about most of this stuff.
But at least he was always around."

I saw a connection. "Kinda like me, I guess,"

"Not a bit!" Barry stopped rubbing my pouch and stared at me.
"He didn't even like to jack the other guy off. Most of the
time we'd just kind of watch each other while we beat our own,
and that'd be it. It's way different with you, that's for sure.
You've done way more shit with me than anybody, ever. That's
why I trust you so much. That's why I gotta do this..."

Barry choked on the last words. He drew my bone out of one
leghole of my briefs and, grasping it vice-like at the root, he
calmly enclosed the top third of it with his mouth.

Involuntarily, I gripped the back of Barry's neck with both
hands and half-sat up. He laid a warm palm on my breastbone and
urged me back to the mat. As if to restrain me in case I tried
to get up again, he left his hand there, with a determined
downward pressure. Barry's thumb felt around for a nipple,
found one, and began flicking it. I heard myself moan.

Just when I thought I couldn't bear another shred of pleasure,
Barry's lips began their agonizingly slow descents to to the
root of my cock. Just short of their target, on the third or
fourth delicious pass, Barry coughed and sputtered, his gagging
brought on a thoughtless upward thrust from me. At first, it
seemed like he'd be able to hang on. He stopped bobbing his
head and rested with his lips gripping my cock about two-thirds
of the way down, waiting for the spasms in his throat to
subside. But his rebellious esophegeal muscles contracting so
tightly and erratically around my dickhead caused my cock to
pitch and heave in delight. In the end, he was forced to draw
off me with a loud, explosive pop. He sat up slightly with
teary eyes and a red face. Still holding my dick with one hand,
he wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm. "Sorry," was
all he said.

Sorry? Sorry for breaking our 'agreement', or sorry for
choking? Sorry for making me feel better than I'd ever felt?
However wonderful it might have been, I still harbored a mighty
reservoir of doubt, one whose banks grew a lot more precarious
the moment Barry took his mouth off my prick, despite my
earlier resolve to blow him, unasked. That dreaded word:
'cocksucker' and the repugnance with which I'd always heard it
hissed, began echoing in my head again, horny as I was.

"Barry, I don't know..." I started to say, but he cut me off.

"Don't you dare tell me I gotta stop, Jens. Just don't fuckin'
say it." Barry rumbled, drilling me with a determined look.
But then he calmed right down, suddenly becoming diffident and
uncharacteristically tender, "You gotta know this, man. I've
been trying to find a way to be with you like this ever since
the beginning of the summer."

I'd been turning him on all those weeks? So. Underneath it all,
he was confused and frightened by all this shit too. I guess he
just had a higher tolerance for inner chaos than I did. He let
go of my dick, as if his holding it would get in the way of my
understanding what he was saying.

"I really, REALLY like you, Slim. It's like I just GOTTA show
you how much." He peered down at me, as if wondering whether to
say any more. He bit his lower lip and averted my eyes.
He looked out over the tops of the goldenrod that
surrounded us. He practically whispered it, "Aw, fuck Jens, you
know it's way more than that.  You must feel it too, don't
you?"

"Yeah," I croaked. I felt like screaming. I felt like crying. I
felt like breaking into great peals of hysterical laughter. I
just knew that if I didn't pull Barry down on top of me and
hold him to me as tightly as I possibly could, that very
minute, the whole universe would implode. So that's what I did.

We shuddered against each other without kissing, our erections
stilled at half-mast even though they were touching, as if we'd
momentarily gone somewhere beyond the simple adolescent need to
get off.  And only a moment it was too. With snowballing
fervor, our balming embrace of mutual acknowledgement became
one of unfettered teen lust. Our cheeks and necks became
shiny with spit and we rolled about moaning, as the edges of
the mat and the walls of goldenrod would permit.

There was no need to stifle the urge this time-- all my usual
devilments were utterly absent. There was no Greek chorus in my
head foreboding disaster, no itchy twinges of muscular tension
near my tailbone. A completely new concept of "right" and
"proper" came to me-- it was suddenly right and proper (and
altogether necessary) to somehow express to Barry how much his
stilted words had meant to me. I knew only too well what it
cost him to say what he had. Taking his cock into my mouth
seemed such an easy, fitting thing to do after his sharing
something so priceless. It happened that he was beneath me when
I made my decision. I raised myself up and knelt beside him. I
peeled his Stanfields as far down as his position would allow.
I looked him square in the eye and said, "Raise your bum up,"

Barry knew precisely what I meant to do. "You're sure, are you,
Slim?" he asked. He said it like it was some requisite
formality, not as if he actually doubted my certitude.

"Never been surer of anything in my life," I told him. But it
was a lie. Oh, I was solidly behind the *idea* of blowing him
alright, but I knew the actual doing of it was going to be
another matter. There was his size to consider-- Barry had a
knob on him the size of a table-tennis ball. Getting that into
my mouth alone was going to pose a problem, not to mention
trying to swallow any of his thick, veined shaft. I'm afraid
the direct approach, the one I chose from among a very limited
field of options, turned out to be the wrong one.

After I'd pulled his briefs completely off (!) and shed my own,
I bent over his crotch and watched myself skin his pole from
only a couple inches away. His most intimate scent was, as
usual, that of a kid with a fairly relaxed attitude towards
personal hygiene. He wasn't visibly smeggy or anything close to
it, but his now-familiar pungency said he might have spent a
little longer rinsing behind his flap that morning.
Nevertheless, I skinned it back one last time and descended on
it hungrily. To my amazement, I *could* get his entire salty,
leaking cockhead in my mouth, but only just. And that only with
some stretching of my jaw-- something just this side of actual
dislocation. Unfortunately, I couldn't do it without baring my
teeth. Barry winced and hissed when I scraped the sensitive
tissue, yanking my hair with what was probably far more pull
than he'd intended. We both said "ouch" at about the same
instant. The overall effect, to someone watching us, would have
been more one of a Three Stooges routine than that of hot,
afternoon sixty-nine. We looked down the length of our torsos,
caught each others' eye and cracked up laughing at our own
incomptence.

"Sorry," Barry said finally. He shrugged and smiled me a modest
half-smile, as though he somehow felt it necessary to apologize
for his exceptional endowment. "I guess you *could* just kind
of lick it some," he suggested timidly. If that's what he
wanted, I'd have happlily licked it for the rest of the
afternoon, for the rest of our lives.

His hand curled around my shaft. He tugged at it and grasped my
flank. I took the hint. I rolled onto my side and presented him
with a face-on view of my twitching bone. "Try this," he said,
and fell into a series of long wet slides that began at the
back of my nuts and terminated with a sucking pop at the very
tip of my knob.

I copied his lapping as exactly as I could, mirroring every
nuance I felt, or thought I felt. When he ran the tip of his
tongue around the ridge of my glans, I did the same to him.
When he pulled my foreskin over the tip of his tongue and
swirled it around in the tight space between skin and cockhead,
I replicated his ministrations as though I'd been doing it all
my life. His increasing moans spurred me on to the point where
I began taking my own inspired departures from his wet, tactile
suggestions: I swallowed his balls one at a time while I wanked
him, I mouthed along the bottom of his shaft while working his
precum around his cockhead, then I thrummed my tongue all along
the length of the thick, bluish vein that ran the length of
him.  Satisfied that I could proceed without further
instruction, Barry went back to what he was attempting before
things had gotten serious between us. Once again I felt the
pressure of his lips encircle my shaft and the heat, the
wondrous moist heat, as he slowly drew me into him an inch at
a time. This time I resisted the strong urge to thrust and let
him find his most comfortable rhythm. Unfortunately, not long
after he settled into a nice, regular pace of sucking, I made
the mistake of sneaking a look at him to see how he looked with
my dick in his mouth.  The earnest, resolute concavity of his
cheeks and his brow, knit in concentration were marks of beauty
I couldn't deal with-- the sight of him sucking me with such
determination was sufficient to cause my dam to burst.

The first shot took Barry aback. He pulled off me as if to see
for himself that I was, indeed, spunking. He couldn't seem to
aim my cock and jack it at the same time. Jets that I'm sure
were meant for his gaping mouth ended up landing in his hair
and flyng over his shoulder into the foliage. Once again he
impaled his mouth with my rod, so as not to miss any more.

At that moment his own cock swelled and started burbling in my
hand. I pursed my lips and sucked at the twitching hole of his
piss slit as though it were the end of a straw and his load
were an extra-thick milkshake. I had to swallow a lot of it to
make room for more; his gentle, but generous flow seemed as
though it would never let up. When it finally did, I snuck
another look at him. Barry's grinning, half-open mouth greeted
my gaze. Two long strings of my cum hung off his canines as
though the were vampire's fangs. His face still flushed, his
abdomen still palpitating from his recent purging, Barry lapsed
into repeating, over and over, his catch-all, post-orgasmic
comment: "Fuck!" he said, several times.

"You can say that again," I told him.

"Fuck!" he said again. But he would have anyway.

We spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening on that
mat in the goldenrod, leaving it only twice; once for a trip to
the car for a couple of cans of soda and once to go for a swim
in the pond. We'd done that in our underwear and when we
returned to our beach mat afterwards we left them on to wrestle
a bit, the damp fabric cooling us where it clung to our asses
and our goods.

Our wrestling match soon escalated to another pair of blowjobs
that we performed on each other one at a time, instead of
sixty-nining again. The fact that I didn't have the
"distracting" influence of Barry's lips on my bone while I ate
him aided my concentration immeasurably. I managed to take not 
only his whole dickhead into my mouth for most of the duration,
I was also able to cram in some inch or so of his shaft a few
times. I knew that with a bit of practice, I'd get a lot better
at giving him head. I happened to be taking a little breather
to pull pubes from between my teeth when he stroked himself to
orgasm, but none got wasted-- I lapped the resulting spurts off
his chest and belly as they shot, before they even got a chance
to cool.

I dumped my second load down Barry's throat standing, while he
stared up at me from his knees. It's nigh unto impossible to
smile at someone when there's a spurting dick in your mouth,
but Barry did just that.

All too soon, dusk began to fall and we had to think about
getting home.

Barry got us back to my place just before nine pm. and we sat
parked in the turnaround between the our garage and the barn,
saying a long, reluctant goodbye. After the all the things we'd
admitted to each other that afternoon, after all the things
we'd done, it seemed wrong, somehow, to have to part until the
next morning, when Barry would be picking me up for school. I
wished we could turn back the clock, even just for a day. Then,
Barry and I could finish the night in my bed. I still had so
many things to tell him, to ask him. Volkswagon bucket seats
weren't designed with necking in mind, but we pressed our
contorted bodies together as best we could-- three rigid
stickshifts fought for the scant space between us.

"Oh shit!" Barry swore during one of our frequent breaks, "I
was supposed to tell you my mom wanted a couple of bunnies."

"Easy as pie, if she'll settle for frozen," I told him. I sure
didn't feel like butchering rabbits at that moment, but Mrs.
Llewelyn was my best rabbit customer. In fact, other than the
old Italian couple who ran the mini-golf place down the road
from us, she was my only rabbit customer.

Barry pulled the car around to the barn's man-door and we went
inside, into what had been the milkhouse years ago, when the
previous owners still ran the place as a dairy farm. I unlocked
the freezer and pulled out three pink, frost-covered carcasses
wrapped in plastic bread bags. "Tell her I'm having a
three-for-the-price-of-two sale today," I told him, chuckling.
"Call it a back-to-school special."

"Gee, if that goes for blowjobs too, you still owe me one,"
Barry joked.

"The koostomer's alvays rrright," I said, borrowing my pop's
accent. I dropped to my knees as if by reflex and pulled his
meat out of the fly of his cut-offs one more time. I sucked at
the tip of Barry's swelling knob, jacking myself off inside my
pants while Barry stroked his own, bumping my chin with his
knuckles more and more often as matters gradually drew closer
to completion. We both came at roughly the same time-- me onto
the cement floor between Barry's feet, and Barry, onto my face,
the side of the freezer and almost everywhere else.

It never ceased to amaze me how opposite the nature of our
loads were. My first volleys could often exceed five feet in
distance if my mood was right and I'd been holding it back for
a while, but any subsequent orgasms usually netted
progressively weak and scanty wads. With Barry, it was as if
the force of his ejaculation increased with each orgasm after
his first, as his body were somehow offsetting the diminished
volume of his ejaculate by greatly amplifying its trajectory.
Barry licked the remains of his sperm off my face and we made
ourselves presentable amid impulsive, mushy kisses and sighs of
unwilling resignation at having to really, really say goodbye
this time.

My hand on the doorknob to the patio door, I watched the
tail-lights of his beetle dim as he took his foot off the brake
and turned onto the highway for the five-minute drive to his
place. My mom shouted a half-hearted hello from the kitchen
along with a reminder not to forget to set my alarm clock. Pop
could be heard in his music room, playing a bouncy Fats Waller
tune on the piano. Typical bank-holiday evening, by the look
and sound of things. They couldn't know how fundamentally
different the entire world had become in the past few hours.

Nils' bedroom door was open, so I stuck my head in to see what
he was up to. He sat at his desk with a brand new ring binder,
marking the colored tabs that separated the uniform sections of
virginal, lined sheets: Math, EngLit, Geog. He looked up when
he saw me in the doorway. "Where'd you get to all day? Pop made
me go to the deli with him to do the trash. That's supposed to
be your job, Jens. Next time..." he started to say, but he
stopped short. "Ugh! Pig! You better go fix your hair before
mom or pop see you. It's obvious you've spent the day with
'Barry', or should I say 'Fairy'?" He accompanied the last word
with a limp-wristed, flapping motion and an upturned hand on
his opposite hip; his taunting and increasingly familiar
pantomime of homosexuality.

I dismissed it with a, "Get bent, pencil-neck," and passed
through his room to the bathroom. I was bursting at the seams
to express to someone how utterly happy I was. He, as usual,
just wanted to be an asshole. I was far too pumped to get into
yet another row with him over the same tired issue. I loaded my
toothbrush and began brushing my teeth. It wasn't until I was
rinsing my mouth for the umpteenth time that I happened to peer
into the mirror and noticed what it was Nils had been on about.
A short white string of Barry's load still lay plastered to the
side of my head, just above my ear. That shot-spot would
certainly have been my undoing if I'd gone to have a word with
either of my parents when I first came in, instead of Nils.

I picked the goo out of my hair and rubbed it between my
fingertips absently as I stared out the open window, thinking
back on our long afternoon together. I guessed it would be
proper to call what we did with each other "love-making" now.
That simple realization filled me with a warm glow that blotted
out all traces of the profound relief I ought to have been
feeling at not being found out. For the first time in months I
fell asleep without feeling any need to wank myself there. For
the first time in my life I could fall sleep without once
wondering if I was the only one who felt like I did.

END

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