From: janus@greynet.net (janus znaiu)
Subject: NEW STORY ~~ Beatin' It With Barry ~~ m/m: teen, mutual j/o, jockeys.
Date: Tue, 28 Jan 1997 11:57:37 GMT

Disclaimer: This reminiscence contains descriptions of consentual
sexual activity between teen males. Ironically, if you happen to be
one yourself, you're not allowed to read about it, so get back to your
homework.

Some of the sex isn't safe, but the events described happened in the
sixties. 


BEATIN' IT WITH BARRY
by janus znaiu

Barrett Llewellyn was actually my older brother's friend before
he was mine. In much the way that my wardrobe consisted largely
of things that used to belong to Nils, Barry began to befriend
me when Nils outgrew him. A two-year difference in ages, one
that's no big deal when we're eight or nine, can become
positively generational when we hit the mid- to late teens.
That's what happened between Barry and Nils. My brother, at
eighteen, now had his own razor, a part-time job, and a steady
girlfriend, Sheila, the cheerless, ferret-faced daughter of our
local Baptist minister. Barry had paid only passing attention
to me for the three years he and Nils had been buddies, but
when my brother went on to other things, Barry just kept coming
over to the house and hanging out like he always did, except
that he did it with me.

Although Barry was more than a year older than I was, sixteen
at the time this story takes place, he still exhibited a
healthy distrust of girls, a quality I admired in a friend and
one that was becoming increasingly rare among guys my age. And,
as it turned out, he liked a lot of the same goofy kid things I
still did; things like building scale-model tall ships, poking
about in the woods and going for long bike rides around the
countryside. Ten-speed touring bikes were still a novelty back
then and, other than Nils and me, Barry was the only person I
knew who had one-- a beaut of a Peugeot painted a metalic gold,
the showy twin to my plain white one.

That he was a much stronger cyclist than I was hardly
surprising considering that he stood more than a head taller
and outweighed me by twenty pounds, most of it in the form of
thighs and shoulders. I usually wound up riding behind him, but
I would have placed myself there anyway. I was happy to be able
to watch the way his tight butt would rise up off the seat and
sway from side to side whenever he leaned into the pedals to
climb a steep hill. Barry was always fun to watch.  His basket
never had the same shape any two times I sneaked a look at it,
but he always seemed well-packed into whatever he was wearing.
Barry might have looked tempting alright (suddenly, as if the
plain boy who had been Nils' friend had been someone else),
but I kept my sexual cards pretty close to my chest in those
days, particularly around someone with whom I'd only officially
been friends for a few weeks.

Then, one late-summer afternoon, we dropped shirtless onto the
grass, out of breath and sweating like hogs, grateful for the
small roadside rest stop at the top of a particularly grueling
hill. We'd lain there for a few minutes without speaking when
Barry suddenly propped himself up on one elbow and faced me
with a strange look. Right out of the blue, he asked if I felt
like jacking off with him. Now, masturbation wasn't a subject
that had really come up between us very much, though our
friendship had progressed to the point where we'd admitted to
each other that we "did it", and often. But it wasn't as if I'd
spent a lot of my wanking time watching movies of a romping,
bareass Barry play in my head. I had a pretty hot catalog of
jackoff memories and recurring fantasies stored away, even by
that time. Barry wasn't in any of them.  From that afternoon on
though, he was to be their central focus for some time.

There wasn't anybody around, so I told him sure. I remember
blushing a little, because of the way my tone betrayed my
enthusiasm. Now that Barry had taken it upon himself to break
the sexual ice (tacitly raising the possibility of an assisted
orgasm), I was suddenly all for the idea. My sex life, such as
it was at fourteen, stank.

We both began scanning the environs for someplace suitably
private.  The little park we were in was surrounded on three
sides by fields of ripe grain and consisted of little more than
a weedy patch of grass with couple of picnic tables, a water
spigot and one of those blue portable toilets they put by the
highway. It wasn't the presidential suite at the Plaza, but it
would do. Before I even got the door closed and locked
behind us Barry was offering to "get me off real good", if I
agreed to stroke his for him. I was certainly no stranger to
that kind of trade-off, in fact I'd been more or less counting
on it.  Again I told him sure, little caring this time whether
my enthusiasm showed or not.

Barry sat himself down on the lid of the toilet seat and
immediately started unbuttoning my jeans. Without looking up
from my crotch, he asked, "You've done shit like this before,
right?" But he said it more as a statement, as though he hoped
it to be so.

"Oh yeah, plenty," I said proudly, glad not to be the greenhorn
onanist Barry might have figured me to be.

Spencer, my regular jackoff partner of two years, was a kid
from my class at school who lived two farms over. But he and
his family moved away the beginning of that summer.  I missed
his practiced hand as much as I missed his cock in mine, but
there were a few guys I'd kept in contact with from our old
neighborhood who helped fill the void Spence left. I'd visit
them in the city from time to time or they'd come out to our
place, usually for sleepovers. We'd pump each others' dicks
under the covers after lights-out and sometimes even in the
barn or back in the woods during the day, but things had
clearly changed. Wanking with them wasn't anything like it had
been when we were younger, when everything connected with our
dicks seemed so new and scary. And many of the guys I'd grown
up with had become less and less interested in messing around
like we used to, now that they were beginning to discover what
girls had to offer, though for the life of me, I couldn't see
the allure. So I got used to just wanking by myself most of the
time. Now, as if in answer to prayers I was too agnostic to
utter, here was Barry, eagerly feeling me up with both hands in
this stifling port-a-potty out in the middle of nowhere. I
guess if we'd been hanging out together a little longer, if I
hadn't still been so afraid of his reaction, I might well have
proposed this very thing myself.

I'd been taken by surprise at Barry's suggestion and things
were progressing fairly quickly, so I wasn't yet fully hard
while he fumbled with my fly; but looking down at him, I could
see that the fat knob of Barry's boner was already sticking out
the leg of his blue gym shorts, all red-tipped and shining. All
steamy and pungent from our strenuous uphill ride. His taut
foreskin hugged the widest part of the glans, pale in contrast
with the crimson head and the even deeper-hued lips of his piss
slit. I was happy to see that he was uncircumcised, as I am. I
always prefered jerking one like my own; I gave me a better idea of
what the other guy was feeling. I also knew it meant that Barry
would take it easy with my cock. Cut guys at that age,
accustomed to applying maximum friction to their own, are
almost always too rough on the bared rim of an uncut guy's
dickhead, at least until they've had "the lesson" a few times.

Barry's hands played here and there across the front of my
jockeys, outlining my spongy bat against the bleached cotton. I
felt it pulse under the pressure of his flattened palm as it
plumped up to full erection. He closed his fingers around my
meat and began kneading it through the fabric while his other
hand slipped around my legs to fondle my cotton-bound bag from
behind. When he began lightly dry-jacking my wrapped dick in
earnest, I let out a groan they must have heard back in town.
"Oh man, keep that up and I'm gonna hose right into my shorts!"

"Promise? I really dig that!" Barry flashed me a lascivious
grin from beneath a perspiration-soaked mop of Welsh curls. His
fingertips were working their way into the peehole of my
jockeys. "I do it all the time. Blow my stones into my shorts,
I mean. On purpose like. My mother just thinks I just have a
lot of wet dreams."

"My mom would have a fit if I ever did that!" I told him. And
then again she might not have, but she'd never have gotten the
chance. I'd have walked off a bridge in them before I'd have
let my mother find a pair of my cummy drawers. On those rare
occasions when I actually had a wet dream, I'd gather up enough
other items of clothing to make up a load and put everything in
the washer myself. This raised my parents' eyebrows whenever it
happened, but their bemused curiosity was preferable, by far,
to the stilted lecture I'd be in for if they had reason to
suspect I was masturbating again-- I was already a three-time
loser on that score. My folks held some pretty old-fashioned
notions about the practice that made me devious far beyond
necessity.  From the time I first began shooting, I was so
paranoid about being found out that I actually used to dispose
of my used kleenex or paper towels in a public trashbin on my
way to school every morning, just in case my mom ever got
inquisitive about the contents of my wastebasket.

One of Barry's hands disappeared up a leghole of my jockeys
and he squeezed my shaft with it while the other teased the
underside of the head from outside. "What a nice fuckin' bone,
man!" he cooed, his breath warm on my belly. Barry's compliment
broke the trance I was in and reminded me that he had one too.
I bent over slightly to reach for it, but he gently
straightened me up again. "Plenty of time for that, Jens. Just
relax for now and let me check you out. I *knew* you'd be into
this stuff. You're so different from Nils."

"Thank Gawd!" I cut in.

"I mean it, man. He's such a fuckin' tightass. I lost track of
the times I tried to get him to whip it out." Nils? One half of
a two-man circle jerk? Not in this lifetime.

Barry kept rubbing my cock and balls, from inside my jockeys
and from without, once again limiting his pallette to the flats
of his palms. He was clearly in no hurry to whip mine out
anytime soon. He'd just stare at my boinked jockeys and pose my
cock this way and that under the cotton, pulling his head back
slightly after each rearrangement to inspect his work. I was
wishing he'd just pull it out and start pumping it, but it was
plain who was in control here. I could only put my hands on my
hips and let him have at it.

Barry went on, "One night last summer, my parents left to go to
some stupid geezer dance or something. Anyway, Nils and me got
into my grandfather's barrel of peach wine. Before too long we
got to feeling pretty good and he was, you know, letting his
hair down a bit, for once in his life. I tell ya' Jens, I
really thought I had him talked into beating off with me that
night. And he *almost* went for it too, but he chickened out
right at the last minute. By that time I was way too fuckin'
horny to stop, so he ended up sittin' there watching me while I
spunked onto a pile of dirty laundry. He didn't say anything
much, except that he thought lickin' the juice off of your
fingers afterwards was *gross*".

I snickered at that. Nils could be brought to the gagging point
by showing him the scum off a baked custard. Or by any of
several dozen other things, to my continuous delight.  He'd
have shit himself on the spot if I'd ever gotten into his face
with a fresh load in my palm and calmly horked it back, the way
I did in the shower just about every morning.

"Nils never even got a bone-on from lookin' at me either. Not
that I could notice anyways-- and I was checkin' him out pretty
close." Barry added, still fingering my dick and nuts.

I could picture Nils' hesitation and embarrassment vividly. I'd
only seen very occasional flashes of my brother naked in all
the years we were growing up and I'd certainly never seen his
dick hard, if indeed it ever got that way. The bathroom we
shared adjoined our two bedrooms, but Nils had always been in
the habit of locking my door to it when he was in there. If we
had to change into our swimsuits or undress for bed on family
vacations, when we were forced to share a room, he'd always try
to do it under a bathrobe or behind a blanket. I had a vague
idea of what his dick looked like, of course: it was long, slim
and uncut like mine, with slightly more extra skin at the end
of it than I had. But I hadn't actually seen it since long
before I had hair above mine. I remember how shocked I was when
the towel he'd been wearing fell open and I saw that he had
some where I didn't.

"Still," Barry continued, almost off-handedly, "it was cool to
get him drunk. He's usually so full of Jesus and all that
friggin' Eagle Scout shit. We just sat around in our underwear
and told dirty jokes til my folks got home."

The image of Nils lounging around with a buddy in just his
skivvies struck me as so out of character for him that I almost
refused to believe it outright. Nils had no experience with
alcohol that I knew of, so he must have gotten some rocked on
that peach wine to let himself be that free. He probably prayed
over it for weeks afterward.

It suddenly occured to me as Barry spoke, that the pair of
jockeys he was currently rifling might well have been the same
pair Nils had had on that night. In the normal run of things I
didn't inherit my brother's briefs, but he'd just grown so much
in such a short period that my mom couldn't bring herself to
throw them out. It did make me feel a little weird the first
few times I wore any of them, knowing someone else's cock and
balls used to call them home, but I never gave it another
thought until Barry mentioned Nils in his underwear.

The hand that Barry had inside my drawers cupped my sweaty,
tightly-drawn nutsac in its warm, equally sweaty palm and he
rubbed my balls against one another. I reached down past the
waistband to give my dick a few pulls as soon as he let it go.
It felt a little odd, but very arousing, to bump into a strange
set of knuckles inside my own briefs like that. I went to pull
them down, to free my straining cock, but Barry stopped me and
firmly guided my hand back inside. Then he jammed both his
hands down the front of his shorts and leaned back against the
wall of the cubicle, just staring at my crotch and licking his
smiling lips.

"Just stand there playing with yourself like that, inside your
underwear. Yeah, JUST like that." I wasn't used to being
directed that way, but I was far too horny not to play along.
In fact, I gave him what I thought might have been the male
version of a hoochie-koo dancer. This was 1964 and we didn't
have a lot of role models in the male stripper field. Still, I
bumped. I grinded. I writhed.

In a shy, husky tone, his gaze suddenly cast downwards on his
own churning package, Barry said, "You have a much nicer body
than Nils did when he was your size."

"Jeez, I've never thought about Nils as having *any* kind of
body." I said, no longer gyrating my torso, but still feeling
myself up.  It was true enough. If it wasn't for Nils' two
dates a week with Sheila, the Born Again She-Weasel, I'd have
said my brother was about the most asexual person I knew.

As I continued my command performance behind the pouch of my
jockeys, I began staring pretty openly at the way Barry's hands
were roaming the interior of his school-issue gym shorts. Every
so often the full length of his thick rod would make its scary
self known, or the outline of both his nuts would suddenly
appear under the blue fabric. And up the leg hole of his gym
shorts, I'd occasionally get a flash of Barry's light blue
Stanfields showing the curve of a ball, the ridge of his knob
or a dingy white leg seam with dense black curls escaping from
beneath it.

Again I was seized by the need to pull my dick out and stroke
it in the open. There were many reasons to get things moving:
someone could have pulled in at any moment wanting to use the
john. I wasn't so far gone that the spectre of being discovered
exiting an outhouse with another guy didn't rear its head.
Besides, it was becoming very close and hot in the little
cubicle and the disinfectant fumes were starting to get to me.
"Hey, Barry, this ain't right!" I told him, "I'm standing here
poking a new hole in my drawers and you've still got your damn
shorts on."

Barry's face lit up, as though he'd just awakened and
remembered that it was Christmas morning. He leapt into a squat
on the seat cover and kicked his legs out one at a time like a
Cossack dancer, pulling his shorts completely off without ever
standing up. His man-sized dick formed a long, diagonal
cylinder that challanged the stressed white waistband of his
faded blue fly-fronts.

"Must be laundry day at your house," I joked when I saw them.

"Huh?"

"Your underwear. Those are some *beat* fuckin' skivs, man."
Barry's dad was half-owner of a Chevy dealership. It wasn't as
though he needed to wear tattered drawers.

"I guess these *are* getting a bit raggedy, but I they're my
favorites. I love the groovy way they let the cool breeze in
when I'm riding and the way they let my bag hang free." As if
to demonstrate, Barry pulled open the slack leg holes and stuck
the fingers of both hands in to jiggle his nuts.

Jiggling nuts or not, my attention was completely captivated by
that massive, sprung cock as it lay nearly horizontal above
them. It was easily the biggest one I'd ever seen; longer than
mine by at least a couple inches. But its most disinguishing
feature was its disproportionate girth. You could have put two
hardons the size of mine side by side and hidden them behind
it.

Barry tapped both sides of the small, raised platform into
which the toilet seat was set to get my attention. "Climb on up
here," he said.  Then he patted his lap. I watched a rivulet of
sweat as it trickled down the length of his torso to the frayed
waistband of his underwear where it stopped, soaking past the
elastic in a spreading, U-shaped wet spot. Again his cock drew
my eye, but how could it not? A dark blot of fluid defined the
inverted V of its upturned glans, seemingly translucent where
precum pasted the threadbare fabric to it.

I stepped out of my jeans and attempted once again to pull off
my briefs, but Barry's tsk-tsking stopped me before I could
drop them past the head of my bone. "Why are you in such a
god-awful hurry to get undressed?" he asked, with a cocked head
and horny smile, "Get right up here and let's rub 'em together
for a bit." That was something none of my other jackoff buddies
would have suggested, but I was certainly up for it.

I hopped onto the platform and squatted over his thighs,
lowering myself onto them until our cloth-covered dicks stood
belly to belly.  Barry's dampened knob was lined up perfectly
with my smaller one, the apparent similarity in our lengths
owing to the fact that I was sitting on his lap with my ankles
crossed behind him. As soon as I was settled in, he cupped both
our dickheads together and squeezed. I threw my head back and
instinctively humped upwards into his palm at the sensation,
grasping his broad shoulders to keep from losing my balance.
Barry's other arm slipped behind the small of my back to help
support me.

"Damn, you smell nice," he observed, and he pressed his cheek
against my breastbone, still rubbing our wrapped dicks
together. I didn't know quite how to take that. I was dripping
with perspiration and felt pretty funky. Nobody had ever said
anything like it to me before. But then, nobody had ever sucked
on my nipple before either, as he was doing. It felt
interesting, but coupled with the pressure on my cock, it was
far too intense. His tongue lapped at one of them for only a
moment before until he felt me flinch and eased off. Barry's
next target was my dripping armpit. He slobbered briefly on the
sparse tuft of dark blond hair he found. But that tickled like
hell and I was forced to pull back until he couldn't reach it
anymore.

Barry chuckled at my discomfort and let go of our dicks to put
both arms around me and draw me back to him again with a horny
growl. The tightness of his hold on me mashed our dicks
together all the more and we kind of rocked like that for
several minutes, making simulated fuck moves against each
others' bodies. The whole time, Barry was busy licking at
whatever part of me he could reach. I deliberately held my face
away from him, simultaneously hopeful and fearful that he'd try
to kiss me on the mouth. He'd already sucked at my neck and my
chin a few times and it had given me goosebumps.

This was a new thing for me: "sex" and such unabashed affection
in combination. With all of the other kids I'd ever jacked off
with you just dropped your laundry and you got on with it. You
stood, sat or lay side by side and pumped away until each of
you came. Then you wiped up, got dressed and went back to
whatever you were doing before the urge came over you. We
didn't confuse what we did with lovemaking.  Indeed, we had no
idea what that was.

But late at night, under the covers and behind closed eyes, I'd
begun to try to reconcile what I did with my friends physically
with the new kind of fondness I was beginning to feel for them.
I envisioned myself doing other things with them-- stuff you
were supposed to do with girls. But I was far too apprehensive
to caress any of my sleepover buddies beyond the limits we'd
established over the course of our boyhoods.  That meant: no
touching, except the genitals and *certainly* no sappy displays
of gratitude or inverted affection. Now, here with Barry,
normal was nowhere to be found. I began to feel that warm rush
that comes from knowing one's on the shore of untested waters.
Again I was experiencing the thrill I'd been missing from those
early days of: "... right, you show me yours and I'll show you
mine. Okay then, on the count of three..."

Instead of just using his shoulders to balance myself, I
dropped my arms lower and allowed my hands to pass slowly
across Barry's glistening upper back. Tentatively, I drew him
to me in a barely perceptable requital of his embrace. I
nuzzled my cheek against the top of his curly head and closed
my eyes. My nuts were getting crushed every once in a while by
our rocking on the toilet seat but the novel sensation of
having another guy's gunting, sweat-soaked body against mine,
just as I'd imagined it, would have made almost any discomfort
a minor one.

I took in a deep, decisive breath and, boldly reaching into
Barry's briefs at the same time, I clamped my lips onto his
neck, just below his ear. Barry hummed his approval and sucked
his abdomen in slightly to give my hand better access to his
dick, much of which stood above the waistband anyway. I grabbed
his sticky tool, even more amazed by its dimensions now that I
had my hand around it. Barry moved my fist to its head and
grasped his shaft below my hand, as though we were choosing
first-ups for a game of baseball. He'd already slipped his
other hand past my waistband and was treating me to some long,
gentle overhand strokes behind a veil of cotton.  We jacked
each other like that for some minutes. Barry's sweat was salty
on my tongue.

Finally, he shifted uncomfortably beneath me, drew back from my
sucking of his collarbone and said, "God, you're getting heavy,
Jens.  Let's try this standing up." I scrambled off him and
before he got another chance to prevent me, I peeled off my
jockeys and tossed them on top of my jeans. My dick bobbed out
in front of me, the foreskin retracted of its own accord to
form a wrinkled collar just behind my cockhead.

"Hey, that's cheating!" Barry griped, when he saw I'd shucked
my jockeys and was skinning my pole. He tried to sound pissed
off, but there was a chuckle behind it.

"I had to take them off. I was starting to leak into 'em," In
evidence, I drew a clear, viscous string of precum off my piss
slit with a fingertip before smearing the exposed head of my
cock with it.

"We can't have that! Okay, have it your way then." With that,
Barry spread the pee hole of his briefs and watched himself
haul his entire package out.  He rolled his eyes upwards at me
and grinned momentarily at my gasp. He apparently knew full
well that he was exceptionally endowed and made a great show of
shaking it at me. Barry's cock was one of those very large ones
that never completely stiffen, as if the guy's body couldn't
spare enough blood to fill anything that big properly.  It
wasn't so flexible that you could fold it in half or anything
like that, but it stayed pretty spongy. I could tell Barry's
grip on it was tight by the way he compressed the flesh with
his fist. When he came to the end of one long, lazy upward
pull, the constriction of which made him tremble, his
partially-covered dickhead flared red as a radish and broadened
by a third. A long streamer fresh drool escaped it and stuck to
his hairs of his inner thigh.

I could have stood there watching Barry handle his one-eyed
anaconda like that for a week, but having so recently given
myself over to the wonder of full-body contact, I meant to have
some more of it.  As if he'd read my mind, Barry took the one
step that separated us and wrapped himself around me. Something
akin to an electric charge surged through me as the tips of our
bared dicks met. As we embraced, our cocks found temporary
homes for themselves: mine surged at the sensation of being
mashed between the heat of Barry's and the comparatively cool,
soaked front of his briefs. Barry's cock, hot and sticky,
pressed itself into a burning hollow up the center my abdomen.

We sucked one anothers' necks as before, but during one long,
spitty swipe of Barry's tongue along my chinline, I took the
plunge and impulsively welded my lips onto his. I hesitated at
the contact of our open mouths, a little tense and unsure
exactly what to do next.  As was to be the case for the next
year in all matters sexual, Barry took over. His tongue
explored my mouth for a few seconds and then quickly got out of
the way, leaving a void my own tongue instinctually filled.
Within seconds, the initial apprehension I felt about kissing
him left me altogether. I explored the contours of Barry's
molars until his tongue leapt out and playfully tried to wrap
itself around mine. All the while, we continued to grind our
crotches together and moan atonally down each others' throats.

Reluctantly, I broke the kiss when Barry did, opening my eyes
for the first time in ages and squinting at the sudden
brightness of the afternoon light as it streamed in through
the vents above us. Barry fired me a devious grin, his cheeks
smeared with our spit, his hair all flattened on the side I'd
been pressing against. He pulled his goods back into the front
of his briefs and jammed one hand in as well, down past the
waistband. Presently it emerged out the fly and Barry stepped
forward again. His hand sticking out the peehole of his
underwear like a puppet, he grasped my boner and pulled it
inside, flush against the upturned underside of own dick.

He bent his knees a little so our cocks lined up better and,
gripping them together with both hands, Barry began jacking
them energetically.  I sighed in weak-kneed acquiescence and
locked my chin around his neck. 

He spoke directly into my ear, "You're about to see how cool it
feels to blow your wad inside in a pair of drawers, and you'll
*still* be able to go home in dry ones." I only had a sketchy
idea of what he was proposing, but Barry's mention of blowing
my wad got my immediate approval.

He realigned our cocks, jacked them together a few more times
and then pulled his waistband open, so I could see inside. Both
our foreskins happened to be pulled back and his fist was
curled around the base of my shaft and the middle of his. Snail
trails of glimmering precum criss-crossed each other above
Barry's pubic patch.

"Spit." he ordered.

I worked up a good mouthful and gobbed it onto our cockheads.
Barry sprayed them twice more for good measure and then allowed
his waistband snap back with a wet slap. His other hand was
inside working our precum and spit into a noisy lather. I could
see new dark places forming on the front of his briefs where
our juices were soaking into the fabric. The biggest spot was
where Barry's drooling dickhead stretched the cotton near the
waistband.

I looked directly Barry's ever-grinning face. "I'm not going to
last much longer," I warned him.

"You're not meant to," he giggled, and somehow doubled his
rhythm on our poles. For several long seconds I was able to
stay in a kind of limbo: not cumming exactly, but experiencing
a lot of the same sensations without actually ejaculating. I
broke the spell when I snuck a look at Barry's busy hands under
the cotton. He was wanking us both, as madly as before, but
with one cock in each hand now.  The sight of those
cotton-covered bulges being flogged was all it took to send me
past the gates of Valhalla.

I braced myself by hooking one arm around Barry's shoulder and
pressing the other palm against the wall behind him.
Frantically, I sought out his mouth and only just managed to
plunge my tongue all the way into it before I began to lose my
load. In the confines of Barry's briefs, my deluge of spunk had
else nowhere to go but all over his knuckles. He stroked my
pumping hose several more times before switching hands. I could
hear him whimpering quietly as he worked my spew all over his
own ax-handle of a cock. All of a sudden he took a sharp,
whistling in-breath and presently I felt the first of his
squirts, hot as molten lead, coat my still-spasming dick.
Barry moaned long and plaintively into my sucking mouth. Barely
getting enough air in via his nostrils for a second moan, he
broke our kiss for a hasty intake of breath and exhaled it
profoundly as he sqeezed off the last of his wad.  Finally, he
fell backwards onto the lid of the toilet, leaving my slimy,
still mostly-hard cock hanging in mid-air.

"Fuck, Jens!  ...Fuck!" was all Barry could say as he slammed
his back against the wall. Two thirds of the front of his
briefs was saturated with spit and semen. Whole dripping
globules of our combined loads dribbled out one gaping leg hole
and fell onto the black toilet seat in a random archipelago of
round white islands. Barry's rapidly-defalting dick was
gradually forming a bas relief of slightly more human
dimensions under the soaked cotton. "Fuck!" he kept saying, as
if he felt the need to say *something* but was temporarily
unequal to the task of articulating anything that better
expressed his feelings.  Fuck, indeed.

I'd been giving my dick some casual pulls while I took in the
scene of Barry heaving in post-orgasmic rapture. Before long it
was stiff again. It throbbed and pointed proudly skyward as I
spread Barry's knees and stepped between them. I felt my cum
rising again, much sooner and with greater intensity than I had
reason to expect, given that I'd spent a load in the shower
that morning as well. Barry opened his eyes wide in burlesque
wonder when I announced quietly, "There's more."

Among my other friends it came to be considered bad form to get
any of one's load on the other kid, but it still happened from
time to time, despite the fact that we'd more or less given up
face to face wanking once we became capable of shooting jizz.
But I often found myself trying to get "in the way" of the
other guy's spurting dick and wished they'd ask me spray them
too. With all we'd been up to for the last half hour, I had no
reason to suspect Barry would have similar qualms.

My knees pressed hard against the toilet's unpainted plywood
platform. I leaned over Barry and caressed the ripples of his
lovely tanned abdomen while, with my other hand, I flogged my
cock for all I was worth. My eyes clamped shut in
concentration. My face contorted painfully. Flying drops of
sweat dripped off my forehead onto Barry's chest and belly.

"Oh yeah! Get it, Jens! Put it right here." I opened my eyes to
see that Barry had hooked the waistband of his underwear behind
his balls, exposing his sticky cock in repose. Even soft, it
was more than a match for the one I was so fervently jacking.
His foreskin had returned to what I was to discover to be its
normal flaccid state: covering his entire glans, but leaving
the tip of his urethra visible at the end of a short, puckered
tunnel. A meandering, bluish vein ran the length of his dick's
upper surface. Above it, the dense black curls of Barry's bush
were speckled with cum. He plucked some of it up with two
fingers and drew them across his tongue as he watched me beat
off.

Whenever I thought I could get away with it, I'd fallen into
the habit of sampling my other friends' wads after I'd made
them cum.  This was easier to accomplish in the dark during a
sleepover, but even at other times, I'd slyly avert my head and
lick a finger or two while the other kid was busy wiping up.
The sight of Barry doing it, openly, staring me right in the
eye all the while, excited me more than anything we'd done
previously. He seemed to sense this and treated himself a fresh
bit, sucking his glistening fingers completely into his mouth.

Seconds later, pointing my stiff cock painfully downwards, I
spilled my encore wad onto Barry's crotch in three
comparatively feeble jets that trailed off to a few random,
nearly clear droplets. For the first time, I was able to lick
the goo off my fingers in the company of another guy without
fear of ridicule. I scooped up a blob the size of a half-dollar
and brought it to my mouth. Then I half-leaned, half-lay on him
and we kissed again, more gently than before, but not without
passion. I thrilled at the unfamiliar flavor of our blended
juice.

We didn't have the luxury of a completely stress-free recovery
period, however. We held each other for several minutes, but as
I'd feared earlier, a car pulled in just as we were beginning
to talk in terms of getting dressed and back on our bikes.
Giggling, we scrambled about and bumped into each other like a
pair of characters in a bedroom farce. Even so, we managed to
get into our clothes and get Barry out the door before the
car's engine shut off. The occupants, a middle-aged couple,
were busy consulting a roadmap. By the time they emerged,
carrying a picnic basket, I was joining Barry where we'd left
our bikes.

He stepped up to me, closer to me than I felt comfortable with
under the friendly but curious gaze of the couple at the picnic
table. He grasped my forearm and the opposite shoulder
tenderly, as if he meant to kiss me again, oblivious to their
presence. "That was too fuckin' cool, Jens." Barry gushed, in a
stage whisper I knew the couple could hear if they'd been
listening. Finally sensing my unease at his public familiarity,
Barry stepped back and sheepishly began to examine his cycle's
gears.

Without looking up, he cleared his throat and asked if I wanted
to hear a confession. Quietly, almost inaudibly, Barry said,
"I've had it off with a couple of other guys; well, lots
actually."

"So? Me too. No big deal." Some confession, I thought. It was
quite plain that I wasn't the first person he'd rubbed weenies
with, in fact, he'd already told me as much.

Again using the shy, husky voice I'd never heard from him until
that afternoon, "No, that's not it. I mean that's the first
time I've ever, you know, kissed another guy before. On the
mouth, like."

I was somehow reassured by the fact that Barry, too, had been
flying by the seat of his pants; or more properly, by the seat
of his underpants. "Me too," I answered him, just as solemnly.

As we rode home I flashed on a mental picture of Barry sprawled
across my bed, our whole household blissfully asleep while his
boned dick fleshed out a pair of my whites. Maybe I'd get him
to wear a pair of the ones that used to be Nils'.  Barry'd like
that. Maybe I'd get to try some of those other things, the
visions of which kept me awake at night, with Barry.

We were coming to the point in the road at which Barry and I
would have to part company for the ride to our own homes. I
leaned into the pedals until I was riding parallel with him,
"Would a sleepover at our house tonight interest you?" I asked
him. His ear to ear grin was all the answer I needed.

When we arrived back at our place, Nils was just getting into
the car in full Scout regalia. Sheila was standing by the
passenger side with a bible and a hymnal in her hand and was
berating him for not opening the car door for her. Nils slid
out of the driver's seat and walked around the front of the car
to let her in, apologizing as he went.

"Promise me you won't turn out like him," Barry said, jerking
his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the car as it pulled
out.

"No chance," I told him, and I knew I was right.

END


So, "Barry", if you've been reading this and you experienced
some jab of recollection, right down to the make and color of
our bikes and underwear, you'll see that I've used our middle
names. I still think of you, you know. Always fondly, and at
the oddest of times.  And lustfully at more predictable times;
like when I'm lonely in a hotel bed or late some Sunday
morning, when there's no particular reason to get up right
away. I like to think I occupy a similar niche in your pantheon
of first loves. Write me sometime.


comments heartily encouraged, flames cheerfully ignored
janus@greynet.net