Date: Fri, 21 Sep 2001 15:00:03 -0700
From: Jimmy TenEyes <j10eyes@hotmail.com>
Subject: Scratching an Itch

SCRATCHING AN ITCH
By Jimmy TenEyes
September 2001


"Shit!"

I glanced up from my book.  Frank's expletive was the first
word either of us had uttered in almost an hour.  Even
though it was Friday, we were out of school -- one of those
rare teacher-training days. That was the good news; the bad
was that it had been pouring rain since early morning, so
if you were 16 and flat broke, as we both were that day,
there weren't a whole lot of options.  Frank and I were
best friends -- had been since sixth grade, so driving over
in the rain to hang out with him was what I would do
anyway, but fortunately, it was also something I could do
without laying out any money. Frank's mom was at work (his
dad had died the same year we met), and with his sister
Marlene away at UC Santa Barbara, we had the house to
ourselves.  With nothing better to do, we'd each latched
onto a book and stretched out on opposite ends of the couch
to read.

"What?" I asked, responding to his outburst.

"Arrgh!" he growled in annoyance and began to thrash around
noisily.

"What is your problem, Dude?"

"Itchy ass!" he mumbled, and began pulling at his jeans,
apparently to free them from his butt crack. "You know I
can't stand that," he said.

I just shook my head and went back to my book.  Both Frank
and I were proud of the fact that we could confide these
kinds of silly, childish intimacies to each other, no
matter how much they might make more mature people wrinkle
up their noses in disgust.  We both took it as a badge of
the depth of our friendship that we could engage in graphic
discussions about our respective pimples, or complain to
each other about jock itch (or "itchy ass") and know that
we wouldn't shock or gross each other out.  At least that
was true up to a point.

See, I could easily tell Frank if I were worried I might
have B.O., or confide to him weakness for occasional (sure,
right!) masturbation, but I could never, ever tell him
about my most vivid sex fantasies -- the one's that
involved me and Frank together. Yeah, I was hopelessly in
lust over him, but I knew it was just that: hopeless.
Frank was straight as a string, and we were both products
of our strict, Catholic upbringing.  As much time as I
spent fantasizing about sex with my best friend, I spent
just as much time and effort trying to resist temptation
and keep my thoughts pure.  Quaint?  I suppose so.

Pathetic?  Maybe, but we were part of a culture and a
generation that viewed "The Exorcist" as a documentary.  Of
course that doesn't mean we were particularly successful at
avoiding the wiles of Satan.  As a teenager it sometimes
seemed like I spent every minute of my free time
masturbating like crazy -- a mortal sin every time I did
it.  There had also been those occasions when Frank and I
had spent the night together and I'd feigned sleep for
hours until I worked up the courage to reach out and
explore as much of his sleeping form as I could get to
without waking him.  Afterwards, I would be consumed with
guilt, but Frank never caught me, so of course I did it
again.  And again.  And while I continued to hold my book
in front of my face, Frank's complaint about his itch had
diverted my attention away from my novel and focused it on
my bud's bottom and what I'd like to do with it.

So it was that when Frank jumped up a few minutes later,
and again started pulling at the crotch of his jeans, I
heard myself talking without ever consciously meaning to do
it.

"Man, are you still having a problem?"

"Are you kidding, Jimmy?  It's driving me crazy."

"Well, if you want to do something about it instead of just
whining, I could fix it for you in a hurry."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your itchy ass, Man.  I know what causes it; I get it
myself.  If you want, I'll clean it up for you and put some
stuff on it to stop the itch.  In three minutes you're good
as new."  Was this really me?  If I'd had time to think
about it, I probably would have left for home, but Frank's
response was just non-committal enough to make me keep
pursuing it.

"You? You clean my ass?  I'm not letting somebody touch my
ass.  What do you think  I am?  Besides, my ass isn't
dirty; it's just itchy."  Probably like most boys who are
somewhat bookish, and who spend a lot of time with a
particular friend, Frank and I had been accused of being
gay before either of us even knew what it meant.  Over the
years, we'd learned not to let that kind of crap get us
down, but Frank's way of dealing with it was to go
overboard the other way.  I was more likely to be touched
by one of the nuns at school than I was by Frank.  And if I
happened to brush against him, he would pull away as if
burnt.  He didn't mean anything by it; it was just his way
of showing the world -- and me -- that he was straight.
Sometimes, when I could force myself to do it, I did the
same thing.

"Hey, it's up to you, Frank.  I'm not exactly dying to get
next to your brown eye, you know," (more like panting with
desire),  "I'm just tellin' you, if it's really bothering
you, it can be fixed."

"Hmmph!"

Frank picked up his book and appeared to be having some
trouble finding his place.  So was I. Truth is, I was
scared shitless that I'd let the cat out of the bag. I
could feel the heat of a gigantic blush on my cheeks, and I
could feel as much as hear the pounding of my heart in my
ears.  What I certainly didn't expect in that situation was
the throb of a hard-on in my pants, but there it was.  I
was trying to decide whether or not to leave, when Frank
made the next move.

"Jimmy?"  He spoke about as softly as you can and not have
it be a whisper.

"What."

"Would it really only take three minutes?"

I put my book down and looked straight at Frank. "About
that. Yeah."

"How do you know about this?  Did somebody do it for you?"

"Yeah," I was blushing again. "Yeah, they did."

"Who? Your mom?"

"Yes, if you must know."  I was lying. It had actually been
Tess, my older sister, and it was a long time ago, when I
was about 10 or 11 and she was about 16.  At the time, I
just considered it a variant of "playing doctor" as Tess
and I had done as far back as I could remember.  I was
always her willing "patient" but those sessions were
especially memorable.

"Well, it's really driving me nuts.  If I let you try it,
would you swear never to tell anyone else?"

"C'mon, Frank, get real.  Who would I tell? You think I
don't know what would happen to me if I did?"

"Well, okay then. What do I do?"

It took a few seconds to sink in, but it finally dawned on
me that Frank had actually agreed!  What had started out as
in impulsive lapse of judgment on my part was about to end
up with me getting up close and personal with Frank
Petersen's warm, fragrant, beautiful, ass.  "Uh, well, uh,
just go in your bedroom and drop your pants and your
underpants, and, uh, lie down on your bed.  On your
stomach.  I'll get the stuff, and be there in a second."

As Frank got up and headed for his room, my eyes were fixed
on his crotch, but if he had any wood in there, it wasn't
showing.  I waited until he was ahead of me, because I
wasn't looking quite so inconspicuous.   I first went to
the kitchen and grabbed a stainless steel mixing bowl, then
I ducked into Frank's mom's bathroom where I collected a
wash cloth, a hand towel, some Q-tips, and a jar of
Vaseline.  I filled the mixing bowl with warm water,
dropped a bar of soap into it, and went to meet Frank.

I don't know what I expected to find, but Frank had taken
my instructions to drop his pants literally.  When I found
him, he was lying crosswise across his bed.  He was still
wearing his t-shirt, and hadn't even bothered to take off
his shoes and socks.  His jeans and the pair of white
Towncraft peter-pincher briefs he'd been wearing were
bunched up around his ankles.  I couldn't help it -- I
burst out laughing.

"What's so funny, dammit?"  He half rolled over and looked
at me, obviously annoyed.  "If this is all just some kinda
trick or joke, Jimmy, I swear, I'll--"

"Calm down, Man.  I'm sorry.  It's just that the way you
were lying there with your shoes on and your pants down,
you looked like a naughty boy who'd been sent to wait for a
spanking." But hey -- did I mention that besides wanting
Frank's cute bod, I also loved him?  I guess that's one of
those things that, like they say, goes without saying.

"Okay. Just hurry up and get it over with.  And you better
hope it works!"

I set my supplies down next to the bed and swished the
washcloth in the warm soapy water.  I sat down next to
Frank on the bed with my own butt wedged against the side
of his torso and my back to his head.  His little bottom
was shining at me like two halves of an immature honeydew
melon, smooth and perfectly white.  I was so excited I
could scarcely breathe, but I still had to smile when it
struck me that I was literally looking at that place "where
the sun don't shine."  I could just see the back side of
his scrotum and the thick tufts of soft blond hair that
stuck out from the area where his scrotal sac met his inner
thighs.

He was lying on his dick, so I couldn't see it, but it
excited me just to know it was so near.  With my right
forearm across the small of his back, I laid my palm on
Frank's bottom.  It was warm, hairless, and as smooth and
hard as alabaster.  It was obvious he was tense, so I
resolved to move quickly lest he get the idea that I was up
to any funny business.  Without further preamble, I used my
thumb and index finger to spread his cheeks.

It was true that I'd occasionally experienced the same
symptoms that Frank was experiencing, but there was another
reason that I knew what was causing his itchy ass.  To be
nice about it, when he went to the bathroom, Frank wasn't
always as careful as he should have been when it came time
to wipe himself.  I knew this because I had recently taken
the opportunity to liberate a pair of his dirty, skid-
marked underwear from the Petersens' bathroom hamper.
Sitting on the toilet, I held the dirty crotch to my nose
and inhaled the heady aroma that Frank had left in his
underwear, sweat and urine -- and poop -- while I
masturbated.  I realize that some people -- most people --
would think that was disgusting, but to me, if something
came out of Frank it was part of him and smelling it -- or
even tasting it -- made me feel closer to him.

Anyway, I knew his butt was going to be dirty, so it didn't
surprise me to see the dark-brown flecks of dried fecal
material that clung to the area surrounding his little pink
anus.  There were three larger slivers of the stuff that
were clinging to the crevices, and that were probably the
real source of his discomfort.  Although my hands were
beginning to shake, I gently rubbed and wiped him clean
with the warm washcloth. Then I rinsed the cloth and wiped
away the soap.

"Is that it?  Are you done?" he asked.

"Not quite.  That was just to get the general clean-up. I'm
gonna put something on it." I picked up a Q-tip swab and
dipped one end of it into the petroleum jelly.  Then,
spreading Frank's cheeks wider, I bent over for a closer
look.  Using the swab, I brushed the creases of Frank's
anus, and once, very tentatively, pressed it straight
against his puckered hole.  When I did, I could feel his
gluteals contract, and I even thought I could see his anal
ring tighten.  At that point I set the Q-tip down and
reached for the jar of Vaseline.

"It'll take forever if I do it this way," I muttered, as if
to myself.  Then, scooping a thick dollop of jelly onto my
forefinger, I pressed it firmly against the tightly closed
aperture of Frank's asshole.

"Jimmy! What the fuck are you doing to me?"  He was
twisting, as if to roll away from me, but I leaned on his
back and was easily able to hold him still.  It was only
later that it occurred to me that maybe he wasn't trying
very hard to get away.

"Relax, Frank. I gotta get this stuff on you to where it
will do you some good."  I didn't know what that meant any
more than you do, but that's what I told him and he seemed
to buy it, because he stopped struggling.  Using my finger,
I spread the goop with a rhythmic circular motion, but each
time I passed directly over the opening, I pressed down a
little harder.  After a few seconds, his breathing started
to sound sort of raspy-like, but at the same time, I could
feel him begin to relax beneath my finger. In a few more
seconds, my greasy finger slipped past the anal ring and I
was virtually inside of him.  I didn't press in any
further, as I knew that would freak him out for sure.
Instead, I withdrew, scooped up more Vaseline, and pressed
it into him again.  I did that three more times -- all that
I dared.  Frank was making little grunting  noises and I
wasn't sure if I was hurting him or what.  Finally, I
grabbed a couple of Kleenex, folded them in half, and
wedged them between his ass cheeks like a bandage.  "Leave
that Kleenex where I put it, okay? It will keep the goop
off your clothes.  That's it!" I got up, picked up the
stuff I had brought into his room, and left Frank lying on
his bed.

I had already found my place and was pretending to read by
the time Frank came back out. I waited for him to say
something else, but he just picked up his own book and we
both lapsed back into silence. Every couple of minutes I
made as if to scratch my nose, but of course I was really
inhaling the residual earthy fragrance from my unwashed
finger. It was a good ten or fifteen minutes before he
finally spoke again.

"Jimmy."

"What?"

"You were right."

"Huh?"

"It worked; the itch is gone."

"Oh, that.  I knew it would."

"One thing, though -- that was no three minutes."

"Well, a little longer." I looked at my watch and quickly
calculated that it had taken just over a half hour from the
time Frank gave his tentative okay.

About three weeks later, Frank was again suffering from
itchy ass. That time, though, the "procedure" took over two
hours and changed everything for us.  But that's a story
for another time.