Date: Tue, 9 Oct 2012 20:31:54 -0600
From: Rob Ioveboy <robloveboy@gmail.com>
Subject: Survival Of A High School Freak

Survival Of A High School Freak

By Rob Loveboy
 <robloveboy@gmail.com>

This true story is dedicated to those brave men and women who fought long
and hard and at great personal sacrifice for a cause. The dream of a
tolerant society seemed far fetched, impossible to obtain in their own life
times, but a torch that was carried on by a few equally persistent
generations that has seen leaps and bounds in changing non-conformist
attitudes, and a safer environment for today's gay youth. A long way to
forge still, but a down hill trek.

Maybe I'm a dreamer in believing the harmonic future of a live and let live
culture is entrusted to those being born every hour of every day, innocent
of ignorant past influences of a learned hate and prejudice instilled by
past societal views. Today's parents will rear these babies and toddlers
much differently than ever before, as they themselves have accepted a
certain tolerance to diversity. The up coming brood will ensure it!

Hope you enjoy this personal biography, feedback loved and
cherished. Please contribute whatever you can to help keep Nifty.org's head
above water and continue to offer your favorite genre free of charge no
different than us writers contribute our stories for your reading
enjoyment.

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                            *************************



Setting: 1976, South Shore Community of Montreal.

I Knew it was a bad idea when seventeen-year old Kyle suggested it. He
begged and pleaded until I gave in, my weakness not only being the common
sight of his tight Levi jeans stretching the buttons as if he stored a
tennis-ball down there for safe keeping, but the added enticement of the
material down his left thigh jutting the denim with the girth and length of
two rolls of silver-dollars stacked end-to-end, instead of the usual
ten-dollars worth of wrapped quarters.

Yes. My fourteen-year old gut instinct warned me about his chosen,
spontaneous venue for me to pinch open those buttons one-by-one, hook my
thumbs in both sides of the loosened waistband and struggle them down his
hips and over his plump half-moon cheeks until his manhood sprang free.

Nope. He couldn't wait until after school. After a short drive, the front
or back seat of his car parked down by the river had always provided an
element of privacy since the first time he produced it and I seduced it. My
first taste of cock; balls; stray hairs that stuck to the roof of my mouth,
and the intoxicating scents that emitted, not to mention my just reward for
a job well done that spewed forth in gobs at a surprising volume and
velocity.

His desire for a fifth-period blow-job located me in the cafeteria, half
way through my peanut-butter and jelly sandwich and carton of milk. Odd,
was the fact that he seldom acknowledged me in public, preferring that we
rendezvous after final bell outside the Jiffy gas station three blocks
west, well out of sight of his chums.

He insisted we go the boys' washrooms in the south wing that housed 'Shops'
classes where the entire area perpetually smelled of car exhaust, burning
wood and metals, with a sometimes hint of baked goods, depending on what
the girls were preparing in 'Home-Economics.'

With its 'T' shaped design, the battery of toilet stalls tucked to the
right and left end of the bank of urinals and sinks, was probably a more
prudent choice as any in the least inhabited part of the 1,400 student and
faculty campus.

Perched on the throne with my face between the tails of his denim shirt and
a mouth full of prime senior-grade beef that I knew every vein, ridge,
ripple and crevice of like the back of my hand, I slurped over the length
to the encouraging sounds of Kyle's coos and whimpers heard over the din of
machinery of classes in progress.

It was that same clamor and perhaps my obliviousness of anything other than
my task at hand that prevented forewarn knowledge of imminent danger
lurking in our midst. The distinct tee-hee caused my eyes to open and veer
down to the right where two beaming faces stared up at me from under the
separating partition. Busted!

The silence was shattered, along with my life as I knew it. "It's a fucking
guy blowing the dude!" a blond teen exclaimed,, "Not a chick like we
thought!"

Humiliation would be an understatement, I wanted to flush myself down the
toilet. Adding insult to injury, two more heads appeared above, obviously
standing on the toilet in an effort to confirm the unfathomable plaint of
their buddy.

Lowering my head into my hands in shame, Kyle stooped to gather his jeans
heaped at his ankles, painfully bumping my head in the process and
struggled to pull them up. Any other time it might have been comical seeing
the slimy semi-hard cock and one shirt tail hanging out the gap of his fly,
followed by the laborious effort to house it with shaking hands and fingers
toiling with the taught buttons.

Kyle was a semi-jock, not good enough for the senior football team despite
his neanderthal mentality, but excelled in school popularity as captain of
the wresting team. His evil look of contempt was enough to send the four
teens scurrying from the washroom.

As it it was my idea to do the nasty in such a risky place, Kyle glared at
me venomously, shook his head in disgust before opening the door and
leaving me to wallow in my own misery. All of which, I knew was unbecoming
of a scrawny, long haired seventh-grade newbie who flunked and repeated the
sixth year elementary class while his class-mates advanced.

It was a gym-class detention for repeatedly forgetting the proper
regulation attire in one form or another that I had to serve a week as
locker room attendant after school. Discarded shower towels and paper
towels, ensuring toilet paper and soap dispensers were stocked and mopping
up the endless puddles lest one of the naked, extracurricular sport-jocks
slip and fall headed to or from the communal showers.

During my extended stay in grade six where puberty commenced and ultimately
blossomed, my sexual orientation was also being mapped out for me. Girls
were pretty, but boys were much more attractive, I discovered during the
transitional phase from primarily asexual to a full sexual awareness.

It was in my thirteenth year when I became fully cognizant of male
splendor. Adam, a newly acquainted school chum a year younger, invited me
to his home. His sixteen year old brother and five of his friends got drunk
that night during a weekend absence of parents. The teens decided to shed
their clothes for a swim in the backyard pool. Without a care in the world,
the six frolicked and horse-played in and out of the water as Adam and I
watched the spectacle.

Having occasionally been exposed to, and intrigued by the site of naked men
and teenagers at the recreation center and conscious not to stare at the
curious display as any respectable boy would, the antics of the six only
invited attention to my lustful eyes. They climbed each other in attempted
pyramids, or vied for supremacy to knock the other from his perch atop a
partners shoulders. The diving-board granted me the unrestricted view of
full genitalia bouncing about, or simply hanging mere feet from my ogle as
they stood around sipping beer.

I fought those strange demons that haunted my masturbatory fantasies
thereafter, only to have the engraved mental images resurface and in
greater detail that only my imagination followed up to visualizing them
sporting erections. The more I allowed my mind to wander in immoral
fantasy, the greater my orgasms intensified in pleasure, but soon after
ejaculate, shame wracked my brain each and every time.

Months later, my obsessive crazing for cock drove me to feeling up Adam in
his sleep during a sleepover at my house. My back-hand went from an
innocent flop over top the covers and by not getting a reaction in his deep
slumber, an accidental palm plant under the covers and directly over his
underwear. My own cock felt like the bone was going to burst through my
piss slit as I gingerly fondled the dough-like mound that I had never even
seen exposed during our short friendship.

Adam, dead to the world, never stirred. My bravery intensified, sliding my
fingers under the elastic waist band and finding sparse pubic hair. I was
so close to busting a nut without even touching myself when snailing
forward, the base of his shaft was felt. Daringly, I wormed ahead until my
hand enveloped the warm, soft flesh that stirred in arousal subconsciously
stimulated by touch alone. The moment of truth of feeling another guys
genitals caused shock waves up and down my spine, the familiar sensation of
orgasm couldn't be averted.

I hadn't even finished soiling my underwear before that other familiar
sensation of shame superseded any of the carnal pleasures derived down
below. I withdrew my hand and rolled over, disgusted with myself and
counting my lucky stars he never woke up, and very thankful that my
uncaring mind set was thwarted before going out on a risky limb and going
down on him.

Adam and I drifted apart after that night, perhaps he had indeed woke up
mortified and paralyzed. Even as early as the next morning, a certain
aloofness was detected. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I
was that he knew my secret and it scared the hell out of me. Truthfully, I
was paranoid enough to hope he would meet with an unfortunate accident and
take it to his grave before the incident slipped from his lips and made
public.

Adam and I averted eye contact the balance of that fretful year of final
elementary school. In order to keep up appearances, I dated a pretty girl
from class. Angie was infatuated by me, the older, more masculine boy with
a thick mat of black hair under his armpits. A good score for a grade six
girl, with certain bragging rights among her peers.

Almost thirteen, she was well into puberty with developing tits that I did
admire, but was never allowed to touch. The mystery of what lay between her
legs was exactly that, a mystery. Making up my mind that my past was all
just a misguided homo phase, thoughts of doing things with Angie almost
purged clean the other, unsavory vibes. I was cured!

Until that is, the very first afternoon of serving my detention The torture
of thirty or forty older naked teenagers milling around me was
unbearable. How they would just loiter around in small clusters in no hurry
to dress, unlike my own first year high gym class where everyone was timid;
hands concealing gonads in the shower and then hastily pulling on underwear
over wet bodies.

The after school teenage smorgasbord of everything from cocktail-wienies to
bratwursts, flaccid and semis alike, was overwhelming. Gawking was
unavoidable and like the time at Adam's house, the teens seem to demand
attention with wet towel whippings, wrestling, and more than once, tossing
a kicking and screaming naked boy into the public hallway and holding the
door to prevent reentry.

Once most of the boys had left, I was treated to the gym teachers and
coaches in all their glory as well as other faculty staff who took
advantage of the workout equipment, although, there was just something
weird about sitting in math class knowing in great detail what the man
looked like out of his suit! No, the torturous punishment of my detention
didn't fit the crime, I had a relapse into homosexuality.

That's where I saw Kyle for the first time. Ruggedly handsome, well toned
body with a tuft of black hair between his pecs and a treasure trail from
his belly-button to the thick mat of curlies above the perfectly
proportioned uncut-cock coddled by a flared 'V' shaped pink
scrotum. Amusing was the reddish glans that played peek-a-boo from the thin
foreskin whilst he stood idle talking to friends.

As much as I tried not to be so obvious appreciating their bodies, it was a
struggle. Mostly, they ignored me other than a few regular antagonists that
threw sopping wet towels at me, accusations of staring, call me a fag,
wiggle their dicks at me asking for sexual favors that if they only knew
how badly I would have taken up the offer. I wasn't sure if they actually
detected my obsessive interest, or teased every detentionee in the same
fashion. Even Kyle caught me scanning his body more than a few times over
the week. He would smile, I would blush and turn away.

It was Friday, the last day of my penance, and being the onset of the
weekend, the locker room was sparsely inhabited. With little to nothing to
do, I was sitting on the bench twiddling my thumbs when Kyle entered,
lifting my spirits as I didn't think he would show considering none of his
team mates had.

When he headed in my direction well past where he usually chose to locker,
my heart was in my mouth. He smiled at me and took a locker four feet from
where I was seated and began to strip making small talk. I was gaga, unable
to form any words to jointly converse, just smiles and grunts, not really
comprehending what he was saying, a deaf-mute. Down to only his tight jeans
that I already knew his preference was commando, was the only barrier from
being totally naked, my cock responded uncomfortably angled toward my
asshole.

He opened his gym bag and pulled out shampoo and 'Irish-Spring' brand body
wash, surprisingly, not his spandex wrestling uniform that stretched and
accentuated every grand feature from his shoulders to his knees, other than
the protective cup that bulged, unfortunately, shielding his truer virtues.

Kyle wasn't there for any other reason than to shower, explaining that his
dad was renovating the family bathroom and that he hated bathtubs, the only
option, he relayed as he opened his jeans and slid them down his thighs. A
quick adjustment placed everything that had been confined back into
prospective before sitting down to yank his legs and feet free and clear. I
was dumfounded when he stood, gave it another tug and winked at me before
traipsing off.

With the lame excuse of adding another bale of towels to the clean stack
already conveniently placed outside the shower: that sadly, weren't going
to be drying many nuts that day, I watched him caress himself in
body-wash. Special attention was applied in such a way that alluded to a
slow masturbation, not erect, but a noticeable inflated arch effect, like
the curve of a sausage. I had the uncanny feeling that he was aware of my
ogling presence not fifteen feet away.

Swabbing the already dry floor near the locker where he was toweling off
looking at me looking at him, I swear his dick was a little thicker and
longer after the lengthy, attentive toweling of that area. I made a kinky
mental note to steal that towel and take it home for later use, maybe even
fortunate to find a loose pubic hair or two.

Kyle rummaged his bag and retrieved a pair of gray sweat-pants and a
t-shirt, carefully folding his jeans and Wranglers' shirt and placing them
in the bag along with his toiletries. Sitting with his legs spread wide,
first putting on his white socks followed by the t-shirt; all in all, a
particularly odd systematic approach to dressing oneself . All the while he
rambled on something about wrestling, an upcoming competition and a
scholarship, I politely listened taking in the view, even forming three
syllable words like, aha, yes, aah, and even a wow! But I think the "wow"
was my response to his knob doing the turtle thingy again.

When Kyle asked where I lived, and then offered me a ride home, I
completely disregarded the final hour of my detention duties, and sadly,
his soiled towel. I followed him from a distance like a puppy-dog in
deafening silence through the maze of hallways before exiting the school
and walking the block distance to the student parking lot.

Who was I to argue when he produced a baggie of pot from under the seat and
suggested a detour. Adam and I often pinched a bit from his brother's
stash. Trouble was, neither me or Adam had the knack for rolling it and the
end results were anything but a finely rolled joint. Ours always caught
fire, the contents falling out in clumps if we didn't hold it straight up
with tweezers and crane our necks to take hits from below.

Stereo blasting, Kyle either had a very heavy foot, or he was anxious to
get where we were going. My head came very close the the dashboard at stop
signs, made contact with the passenger window, or his shoulder more than
once turning corners.  On open stretches, the little Toyota zoomed like a
race car as far as a rutted dirt road that he traversed at a crawl for a
good mile before coming to a stop at a river. A rather long, overly
precautions trek to smoke some weed, but the scenery was very nice.

Kyle formed a decent size stogie in his lap, the mound in his sweats served
the purpose well. Reclining his seat for comfort, I did the same. The pot
was smooth, barely choking on it after exchanged puffs. I heard the birds
tweeting and the frogs croaking, even the crisp Autumn leaves rustling and
falling. I was as stoned as never before, but fully conscious of the
uncomfortable silence.

Pulling off his t-shirt and laying back in a peaceful daze, unmoving with
his eyes closed, Kyle broke the quiet. "Fucking shit always makes me
horny!" he confided, his hand went to his groin, "I could beat one off
right now!"

Shock couldn't describe the moment, it was more of a wallop to the senses!
Intrigued, but no idea how to take things further. Without really thinking
I blurted, "Go for it!" then shyly added, "I mean . . .if ya want; --no big
deal."

Kyle ran a finger up and down the shrouded backside of his expanding
member, inch by inch, raising the material along its path forward. Snagged
at his waistband, he pulled the bow-tied draw-string to let the cobra exit
and slither ahead before coming to the impressive length hovering above his
navel. The one-eyed turtle proudly exposed it's raw, tender looking crimson
head atop the sleek shaft that I would learn to be a very sensitive area
for those wholesomely kept males.

It couldn't be happening, my stoned eyes were playing tricks on me. I
clenched my eyes and opened them moments later to the same magnificent
pageant, only better. Kyle had lodged the waistband under his well
pronounced masculine spheres, the taught shrink-wrap-like skin highlighted
the protruding multi-colored, spider-web of veins as well as the mid-sack
seam that his finger repeatedly grazed the scar-like path of. I marveled at
the masculine beauty seen in a whole new perspective.

"You . . . you have a really nice cock, Kyle." I dangerously
complimented. Guys just didn't say those things. An ounce of self
preservation prevailed to tread carefully. "I- I- mean girls must
. . . must like sucking it for ya, --and stuff."

Kyle chuckled, continued to finger his gems, never opening his eyes. "Never
had a blow, the bitches I've been with won't go there, --or anywhere, for
that matter!." he confided.

Kyle's revelation of virginity floored me. Most guys would brag of their
conquests, fact or fiction, or merely the exaggeration of minor trysts in
order to gain an edge of envious superiority over their peers. I'd heard
all the bullshit professed by even my own age group, whom most likely did
get felt-up over his pants, but stretched the truth and brag of a hand-job.

Deciding to push the pendulum with a spine-tingling, sixth-sense that the
odds were stacked in my favor, I dared to say, "I just thought . . . well,
a nice looking guy like you, --I would have thought . . . ya know, ya
wouldn't have to jerk-off much. --I mean . . . if I was yer girlfriend
. . ." daringly said, I left the connotation open.

"Nope!" he exclaimed, turning his head to look at me, his eyes barely
slits. "But I want one so bad, ya know? I'm so fucking horny for it lately
that any mouth would do!"

Like a sudden epiphany, I knew my purpose for being transported to his
little Eden at the end of a desolate road. It wasn't fate, or karma, or
good fortune.  It was premeditated seduction. Kyle's appearance in the
locker room was deliberate. No scheduled Friday after-school sport
practices; his choice of locker within the near empty venue; the
unprecedented friendly chit-chat; the shower excuse to peacock his body,
most likely for his final affirmation as to my suspected sexuality, and
then the offer of a ride home with the afterthought of a detour to
inebriate us into a sedate, devil-may-care, marijuana induced state of
mind. He was offering himself on a sliver platter, reclined naked from the
thighs up. Even more revealing was that he was not carrying forth the plan
of masturbating himself.

The moment of truth had arrived and his shrewd manipulations hung in the
balance. Kyle had nothing more in his arsenal of bait tactics, other than
perhaps a blatant verbal request, that if I denied, he would bare the
shameful repercussions of the suggestion, not unlike the aftermath of
emotions that I experienced with Adam.

Sounds strange, but it would have eased my conscience if he would have
asked, or even forced me into it, placing some onus on himself as
initiator, but a gut feeling told me that neither was going to happen. To
much was at stake for Kyle. The decision was squarely mine, and if
anything, that's the only way it was going to happen.

What made me impale the gear-shift in my gut without further ado, was the
possible scenario that he may tire of the cat-and-mouse game. Develop
abrupt moral thoughts and repackage the goods cutting his loss of dignity
with some inane excuse for it all, ultimately, denying me years of pining
for the opportunity that was within my grasp.

And grasp it I did. Thick and meaty and feverishly hot in my left hand, the
passion juice smeared my lips before my tongue absorbed its flavor. An
impatient hand atop my head needn't have encouraged me down the shaft, I
had far greater designs than merely nursing on the ample supply of sweet
slime being manufactured by the firm testicles clutched in my right palm
and fingers.

No fantasy, or imagined concept prepared me for the reality. No shame or
guilt prevented even the slightest hesitation to explore my unmanly
perversion by trial and error. His first blow-job, and my first time
performing one left any preformed expectations to chance, we were both
virgins to our common vice.

Far too soon, disappointment flooded my mouth without
warning. Disappointment, meaning I was really getting into it. A latent
talent discovered for an obscure art. Warning, meaning that unless another
deep sigh of many could be construed as fair notice. Taking his load wasn't
an option anyway. He held my hair in both hands even through my burst of
vigorous oral enthusiasm, my mind already set on milking him to the last
drop.

Servicing Kyle became a mutually appreciated bond. We passed each other in
the hallways at school unacknowledged by the other. If he didn't pick me up
at the gas station after practice by five o'clock, I would sullenly make my
way home. Like a junkie, I was addicted and he was my dealer.

I welcomed his spontaneous late-night weekend visits crawling through my
bedroom window. It was on those occasions that we would get completely
naked together and I would rub his hard upper body with hand-cream and
later, tongue-bathe his lower extremities without inhibitions.

The scent on either side of his scrotum and inner thigh was intoxicating. A
slimy perspiration that clung and lingered in my sinuses and fingers long
after he'd left, compared to the perfumed soap that sadly washed away the
manly pungency having always showered before car sex.  Daring to explore
analingus on his whimsical suggestion, and finding that that disgusting act
drove him wild, it had become an expected foreplay during our bedroom
encounters, followed by a blow-job.

As did anal sex, requested out of the blue one night. Producing a bottle of
baby-oil and a condom, Kyle was insistent, persistent and impatient. The
excruciating pain and fear that my parents would barge in at any second,
forced me to muffle my screams in a pillow while he knelt from behind and
without mercy, forced himself into me.

Kyle's complete control over me was complimented by ego bolstering words
whenever he prompted. I said exactly what he wanted to hear; how I loved
his big cock in my mouth and, subsequently up my ass, and how I was his fag
boy. Never really getting used to the rough pounding of my innards and
bruising marks from his fingers on my hips, I did enjoy finishing off what
I started when, at the last second, he'd tear off the condom and fuck my
face. A generous compromise at my request.

It kept him coming back to my bedroom for more. Every Friday and Saturday
night after outings with the guys and gals, beer on his breath and a hint
of pot from his clothes and hair. After sex, he would pass-out and spend
the night on several occasions when too much alcohol was consumed. I would
suck his flaccid cock as long as it took and relish its gradual expansion
in my mouth and then practice taking more and more in my throat without his
hand on my head, inevitably gagging me. He never came, that would happen
later morning when he woke up with what he called, the hangover hornies.

Kyle never once touched me in a sexual way, I mean in the sense of genital
contact. However, afterward he would watch me pound my pug while he got
dressed, claiming credit for my powerful orgasms as the result of his
allowing me to "faggot" his body. In all sincerity, he was very correct.

When I tell this story, people often ask if I was secretly in love with
him. The answer is a blatant no. We served each others needs, no more, no
less. Our secret kept safe between us. Or maybe not. My mother!

On one of those morning-after a drunken sleep over, mom knocked once before
opening the door to tell me something of importance that I still can't
recall the nature of for the unprecedented intrusion. I wasn't quick enough
to come to my waking senses and pull the sheet over Kyle's naked
posterior. A look of embarrassment overcame a look of horror as she
apologized and departed as quickly as she came in. Thank God, Kyle never
woke up, sparing him the uncomfortable moment.

Later, explaining the much older, naked teenager in a single bed with her
fourteen year old son, I nonchalantly passed off as an acquaintance from
school who got locked out of his house and asked to crash with me. His
nudity was another, more difficult explanation to come up with.

I looked her in the eye when she questioned it and rolled my eyes back like
she was totally daft, exclaiming, "Dahhh, Mom! --We're both BOYS in case
you didn't notice!" grasping the last iota of fabricated truth and
shrugging my shoulders, I added, "I guess Kyle doesn't wear underwear,
. . . lot's of guys go commando nowadays, --no big deal!"

She thought about that for only a second, "Well, in the very least, he
could have slept on the floor."

My mind scrambled at that logical insight, "What, . . . on the hard floor?
--Even Benji has a doggie bed, mom!"

I may, or may not have gotten away bullshitting my mom, and she obviously
never mentioned the incident to my father, but getting caught in the act at
school closed that chapter in Kyle's and my relationship and opened a new,
horrific one for me. Amazing was the collateral damage that four unknown
teens could cause in a heavily populated high-school. Had it not been for
Kyle's popularity, perhaps only a ripple of scandal would have ensued and
been slowly forgotten.

Everywhere, people were pointing at me in greater numbers as the days
passed. My locker took on a graffiti laced object of homophobic slander
that the janitorial staff contended with on a daily basis. My assigned
share mate moved on to greener pastures. He need not have worried his
pretty little homophobic ass, all my worldly school possessions were
absconded from the locker and laboriously carried in my back-pack, never
having to stand idle in front of it like a sitting duck!

The few friends I had, kept a wide berth from me. Gym class attire, or lack
of it, was no longer an issue, I was permanently removed and placed into
study hall after I was beaten to a pulp in the showers. Had it not been for
the intervention by the same fashion-stickler gym-teacher that I
continuously frustrated, who prior to the attack turned a blind eye to my
verbal and physical abuses in his gymnasium, I escaped with only bruised
ribs, a ruptured testicle, bloody nose and other minor scrapes and
bruises. Those lesser physical lacerations would become a very familiar,
daily inflicted routine.

I would see Kyle going about his business as usual, the same circle of
friends, the same daily routine, the same ignorance of my existence, but
with an added sneer and gloat when some asshole would body-check me,
sending my books to scatter as I hit the wall of lockers.

Rumor had it that Kyle defended his involvement by claiming that I offered
him a blow-job while standing beside him at the urinal. Once inside the
cubicle, he planned on beating me up if I had, in fact, come through on my
offer, but the peeping Tom's interrupted just prior to his assault. Seems
the teens didn't actually see his erection in my mouth, his hands on the
back of my head, nor did they hear his well vocalized appreciation of
it. Lame as lame could be, people bought his account.

Sneaking in one of the rear entrances at the very last sound of the morning
bell, eating my lunch in the privacy of a handicapped-use-only bathroom
awaiting the same bell that gave me some assurance of a safe trek to next
class, and run the gauntlet between all other periods had became honed
survival tactics.

After the beating, my mother entertained my desire of transferring me from
public school to the only other alternative, a private school at great,
unnecessary expense, according to my dad. Never divulging the reason behind
my bullying, that maybe mom had a sixth sense inkling toward, my accountant
dad did what all non-aggressive dads do; talked to the principle, whom
in-turn, assured would talk to my teachers. Dad drove me to school every
morning, and mom picked me up after. For a while.

They truly believed that the school administrators would protect me the
moment I entered the main doors of my living hell. I didn't want to upset
their very loving, but seriously naive, natural parental instinct to
protect their young. My parent's intervention only added to my misgivings,
the boys who beat me senseless were temporarily expelled, returning to
school with a vengeance and recruiting sympathizers to do their dirty work
for them. I kept my mouth shut and my injuries well hidden from then on.

I identified the mini-gang leaders in my mind, and there were plenty. Not
really gangs in the true sense of subversive criminals, but groups of five
or six chums that hung with each other, all having their ring-leaders, the
main bully who reined over his weaker minded followers.

Several of those ring-leaders, as well as a few of their rogue disciples,
would corner me in private. Niceties were offered, but not without the
hairs on my neck raised in guarded caution. An uncomfortable aura shrouded
them, almost comical was their dance from foot to foot, trying to be kewl
and maintain dignity, looking every which way in paranoia state and
ultimately, shyly asking me for a blow-job after school!

The first few times that happened, thinking they weren't serious and only
trying to humiliate me further, the requests were venomously denied. A
punch to my head usually followed with a feigned laugh to absolve their
hypocrisy when shot down.

The solicitations became frequent enough to take notice and reconsider the
sincerity of the remarkably similar presented propositions, leading me to
reason that perhaps Kyle wasn't the only teenage boy willing to let another
swing on his dick. A promise of protection by one of my more notorious
aggressors in exchange for sexual favors was a gamble worth taking, so I
decided.

Never a chance in hell would the bathrooms serve again, the privacy behind
a rear dumpster sufficed. It was almost laughable when "Doofus" Don, his
well attributed nick-name, suggested his premeditated locale to use my
mouth as a cum receptical. Don's claim to fame after eleven years of
schooling, a feat in itself, was how he could bite the caps off beer
bottles, or more adept was he at laying down and piercing beers cans with
his teeth, drinking the contents with hardly a drop spilled.

Being a great leader who leads by example, two of his lieutenants were made
privy and would serve as lookouts awaiting their turns to stand in front of
the cock-sucker sitting on a milk-crate behind the smelly dumpster. I felt
belittled, abused, and without recourse. None of the three held a candle to
Kyle's handsome looks, or his manly virtues below the belt, but the
residual effects of one less hostile posse to contend with was worth every
drop of semen consumed.

So much so that five other boys of enough significant petty-gang stature
who could thwart physical violence upon my body were serviced in their
cars, vans, or nearby woods. Juggling them was a challenge, but as the
novelty of a daily blow-job wore off to a couple of times a week, others
could be accommodated to the point where it was manageable.

The survival sex was only the tip of the iceberg as far as reduction in
overall abuses, but the physical assaults waned significantly, leaving
mostly verbal onslaughts by the peons. However, each new school year
produced new, uprising captains and mercenaries of homophobia, some got
sucked off, others didn't. Their loss, my pain!

I quit school at sixteen, never living down the reputation of getting
caught with Kyle even long after he'd graduated and gone. Followed by
others that openly bragged, having no druthers about who's mouth they
fucked: because, after all, that's what fags are for! A mouth was a mouth
regardless of gender to a horny teenage male with no other means.

The decision came rather easily. Walking home from my job at the
supermarket late one night, a car with four eleventh grade boys pulled
beside me. Behind the wheel was Curtis, a former fan of my mouth until the
day he reciprocated the favor. A sixty-nine in the back seat of the very
car he was coercing me to get into to join the guys for a bonfire party at
a desolate beach locale frequented by teens to drink and do drugs.

My first blow-job ended abruptly when Curtis came, losing interest in
following through on what he claimed he had always wanted to try. Curtis
couldn't look me in the eye after that session, I knew his secret. It was a
secret that he could be assured of my silence, who would believe me,
anyway? However he continued to live up to his word and controlled his
bully buddies from picking on my physically.

I don't know what possessed me to get into that car that warm, humid
fateful night in late August. Maybe because the guys were all real nice to
me, their sincerity seemed legit, the possibility of having friends
intrigued me. I was offered a beer and a toke that I accepted sitting snug
between the two backseat occupants. No derogatory comments to defame me,
rather, inquisitive of my part-time job to save enough to buy my own used
vehicle. One boy told me to see his dad, owner of a local dealership and
whom would give me a great deal if I mentioned that he, Kevin, was a friend
of mine.

The party was in full swing, music blared from car stereos all tuned to the
same popular station, and about twenty other teen boys and a handful of
girls drank beer or hard liquor yelling conversations over the loud
music. Nobody paid any unkind notice to the stranger brought into their
soiree even though I recognized several faces from school. Everyone was
cordial, friendly, sharing their liquor, pot and even my first experience
with cocaine. I felt like a human being all over again, my past had been
put behind me, the senior students had matured beyond childish antics over
the summer. Or so I thought.

By 2am the girls had all left with their boyfriends leaving eleven of us
guys to finish off the booze. Someone suggested a swim in the lake. Drunk
and stoned, a trail of clothing was left from the fire-pit all the way to
the shore, white behinds glowed in the darkness as I followed their lead
shucking my own at random. I desperately tried to keep my eyes in check
when we huddled knee deep, one by one building the courage to plunge into
the frigid water. My expanding cock prompted me to be one of the first to
delve into the black abyss.

The ice-water was too much to bare, in no time flat we scurried up the
beach to the warmth of the fire. Searches for ones own clothing on the way
was futile, but a few guys manged to scoop up what they thought to be their
own similar blue-jeans only to pass them to the rightful owner who could
identify them by wallets or contents of pockets.

It was then that events turned sour. I thought about strangling puppies,
drowning kittens, stabbing babies, but my erection couldn't be restrained
and concealed in the midst of the nine naked boys in no hurry to resume a
sense of modesty. Stoned, liking the cocaine high perhaps to much and
indulging in more, since lines were liberally laid out on a halved log
along with a few rolled-up five-dollar bills.

Maybe I was so stoned that I imagined a few teens at half-mast, others
pulling at their lake-shriveled equipment in a vain attempt to keep up
appearances among peers, much the same as I surely witnessed in the locker
room. Talk of girls, sex, jokes about jerking off, not unlike Kyle's
ploy. The aura took on a erotic semblance to me, I truly believed each and
every one of them would be into some fun if it had been a one-on-one
environment.

It was Carl who pointed out my excitement, going so far as to restrain my
protective hands and expose me to all whom may or may not have noticed my
condition. The same boy that sucked my cock in the back seat of his car in
an alley a year ago, who was again taunting me to get on my knees and
service him despite the company in our midst.

If asked nicely, I most probably would have obliged the nine boys who took
a sudden interest in Carl's humiliation of me and joined by two of them
forcing me to my knees. The gravel ground painfully digging into my skin,
my hair clutched at my scalp in someones fingers forcing me into Carl's
crotch to a deafening unified chant of, "suck, suck, suck."

My refusal to open my mouth was met with a severe punch to my temples with
enough force to daze me for a few seconds. I complied, taking his semi-hard
cock that I was familiar with, the truth of which only he and I were privy
of.  Nor was he the the gentleman of past, his rapid growth being shoved
into my throat. I wretched, felt the bile and puke burning my esophagus
with no expulsion means, I was being suffocated.

Survival instinct kicked in and I bid down on the obstruction blocking my
air passages just before I momentarily passed out. Regaining consciousness,
I found myself held upright from complete collapse by my hair and hands
under my pits. Laughs ensued as he backed away much to late, projectile
vomit hit him squarely on his groin.

Once Carl had cleared my line of vision, the scene all around me became all
to surreal. The blazing fire eerily illuminated most of the teens hovering
about like zombies. Evil reigned sending fear through my entire body in
uncontrollable shivers. Four guys were hard, stroking themselves, bickering
of who was going to sexually assault me next while a few fondled their semi
erections. Two others had began to dress and ignored the incitement of
perverted mass-hysteria even when anal rape was suggested and unanimously
agreed upon.

A fallen tree served to psychically manhandle me to bend over atop of.  I
accepted my fate and didn't resist for fear of getting a beating worse than
the one sustained a year earlier. I was to blame for the drunken, stoned
sexually frustrated teens whom didn't hit it off with chicks like the jocks
did. I was the gay boy who had the rumored, as well as tried and true
reputation of being provocatively indiscriminate. At some point, word had
traveled the grapevine around the fire, some already knowing, others
enlightened.

Like a ton of bricks falling on me, I realized why I was so generously
invited to party with the guys. It was premeditated rape, my meeting Carl
and his thugs was purely by happenstance, although I believe that they had
seen me walking well before and a spontaneous plan was
devised. Conceivably, they hadn't even expected to share me outside of
their own secret circle connived for later, however, events festered,
inhibitions grew lesser as cocks grew harder. Not a doubt in my mind that
Carl used his influence and planted the seed; justifiable homophobic
retaliation with benefits!

Revenge is sweet. Carl was the first to drill his bitten dick into my
ass. Not near as large at Kyle, but without lubricant it was like a
broom-stick being forced into me as multiple hands held me from any
possibility of escape. I screamed bloody murder and began to cry. I could
see a group of boys who had dressed standing around in the glow of the fire
ignoring the rape thirty feet away in the darkness, seemingly uninterested
in sexually abusing me, but my pleas to anyone went on deaf ears.

A moist brushing of my dry lips, followed by an aggressive move by another
to plant his cock beyond my clenched teeth, I ceded and took it orally
after numerous slaps and convincing threats of losing my teeth if I didn't
comply. The bark of the tree scraped my belly and chest as Carl propelled
me forward and back with his strong hands digging into my hips.

Carl's ejaculate must have eased the next in line to push into me. It was
systematic, fuck my face until the boy behind had his way and then move
behind to penetrate me. I lost all sense of feeling, a numbness overtook
me. Everything became a blur. Exactly how many teens took advantage of me,
I don't know to this day. However I suspect the immoral majority had
eventually had a go at me in one way or the other. From what I could hear,
peer pressure assured that there would be no innocent bystanders at the
scene of the crime; feeling the coarse denim material and abrasive zippers
on my chin and cheeks were proof of that.

They drove off in three cars leaving me alone and naked, my torso
abrasively bleeding and burning. The search for my clothes was suspended
after horrifically seeing them burning in the fire. My sneakers weren't
spared incineration and I walked the two-miles home in the buff and
barefoot along the gravel forest road, then taking back alleys and hopping
fences praying that the break of dawn would hold off.

Seeing the police cruiser outside my well lit home, my heart stopped. My
parents had panicked when I didn't come home from work as usual, nervous
tension as the hours went by led them to wake the township's Chief of
Police, a family friend, with the confidence that irregular protocol would
be granted.

 The gig was up, exhausted and crying, I walked into my house, my bleeding
feet leaving a trail behind to a look of horror on my mom and dad's face
along with the two constables sitting at the kitchen table. The naked,
dirty, bleeding boy before their eyes caused a furor of panic to say the
least.

As if I hadn't had enough dignity violated and embarrassment beyond any
other, I laid in the hospital bed with my feet in stirrups being prodded,
poked and swabbed by doctors and nurses with another two policemen added to
the case, all bearing witness to a doctor's final conclusion that I had
indeed been violently sodomized recently, but scar tissue indicated it
wasn't the first time.

They tried to get my account of events, all I gave up was the location,
afterward I remained mum fearing retaliation. I heard two cops murmur
behind the curtain that surrounded my hospital bed:

"He has a rep for doing guys, we have numerous independent witness
statements all claiming the same facts; so I have to conclude it was
consensual. He admits that he went to the beach on his own free will and
that he drank quite a bit of beer and used cocaine. Things might have
gotten out of hand for the horny little faggot."

The second cop concurred, "Yeah, I guess so. --Boys will be boys, a hard
teen cock shows no inhibitions, especially drunk and stoned. Had he not
came home naked and scraped up and filthy, well, I'd say we wouldn't be
here now. He got scared of getting into trouble and blew everything out of
proportion."

Yes, that was the end of my high-school years. My parents enrolled me in a
vocational school the following September. I wasn't much into the "trades"
or its reject inhabitants destined to be blue-collar, pussy fucking, beer
bellied types. So I quit that and took full time employment at the
supermarket.

My dad really didn't give a shit about me after my rape anyway, no doubt
fed the official conclusion and all the gory details by his long time
friend and Chief of Police. He tolerated the little queer around the house
only because of my mom and under one inane condition, that I not be
permitted any more friends to sleep-over. Perhaps my mom had told him about
Kyle after all. Not that he had to worry, after the beach scandal erupted I
was a leper in my hometown.

We kept our distances from each other for the next two years until I moved
away to the city and rented a room in a seedy rooming-house. It was shared
by other gay guys who taught me how to enjoy life. For the first time in my
life, I was popular, and being hot young fresh meat, I must admit, a bit of
a whore . . . okay, a fucking huge slut!

By fluke chance, almost six years to the day I was gang-banged, I saw Carl
at a bar within Montreal's famous Gay-Village district. He had some
underage cute twink that management overlooked as good for business. He was
straddling Carl's lap giggling like a school-girl, both were bare chested
and sucking face. Unless the kid was blind or desperate which I didn't
suspect, no doubt, Carl had resorted to paying for sex.

Flashbacks overwhelmed me. I couldn't see him, but his voice reverberated
in my head egging on others to use me just as he had done and setting the
precedent for it, clearing their minds of any wrong doing.

I had filled out nicely over the years thanks to a moderate gym
regiment. Not proud of it today, but I walked over to him and asked if he
remembered me. He never saw it coming!

Just as he smirked, making the connection from his past, my fist made its
own connection squarely mid-face. His chair and table crashed to the floor
along with him and the hustler landing atop him.

I made a hasty exit taking advantage of the mass confusion, went around the
corner and ducked into a bathhouse where I fucked my brains out with a long
over-due sense of satisfaction and justice!

Unfortunately, I discovered that I had broken my wrist after I finally
sought medical attention the next morning, but a small price to pay for the
personal glory!


The End.