Date: Wed, 9 Apr 2008 00:36:59 -0500
From: t s <stoicactor@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Invitation: Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Dear reader, this first chapter sets the stage for an intense
sexual relationship between two consenting fifteen-year-old gay boys. It is
loosely autobiographical. If you object to same-sex relationships or if you
are too young to read this legally, please abandon this story now without
reading it. I have no desire to offend anyone or to influence the sexual
attitudes of under aged boys. Your comments are welcome at
stoicactor@hotmail.com. Thank you.

The Invitation, Chapter 1.

The time was the Fifties, 1956, to be precise. And the setting was the
American South, bastion of the prudish. Gay meant merely happy or cheery.
Homosexuality was a word that most ordinary folks said in a whisper. Even
in a large high school like the one I attended, there was to my knowledge
only one openly homosexual boy. I don't think he ever came out and said
it. More likely, he just didn't waste time denying it. Why try? He was a
plump, dramatic, effeminate fellow who must have been terribly lonely. The
tough guys, the hoods, called him Queenie. I don't know what became of him.

My secret sexuality somehow escaped notice. When I finally walked across
the dais to pick up my diploma, I suppose that if the crowd assumed
anything, they assumed that I was a "normal" boy destined to choose a bride
one day and raise a family. But there was a tall, slender young man a few
steps ahead of me who knew the truth about the shy, bookish kid who
stumbled and nearly tumbled off the platform as I accepted my diploma from
the principal.

I watched the boy walk briskly away and imagined how his most intimate
parts were moving under the blue gown and the required black pleated pants
and white, button-down dress shirt. And I thought of how he had looked the
first time I saw him standing in a doorway in his white briefs three years
before. On that earlier day, I stepped into another dimension of life,
another world, forbidden and irresistible. Together Oliver and I opened a
door we could never close.

Even now, more than half a century later, I can still awaken old sensations
from that Saturday morning--the pungent smell of his mother's house
deodorizer, no doubt mercifully vanished from the market long ago, and the
lotion, her lotion, we used in our encounters, the sight of his room with
dingy pull-down shades and very old lace curtains, and the sound of his bed
the first time he stretched out on it in his underwear, leaving so little
to my fevered imagination, the sparks from his fingertips skimming over my
sac. The outside world, unwilling even to think of boys like us, was
utterly excluded from our lonely rendezvous. Two lamps with brown shades
combined with the window treatments to cast the entire scene in sepia
tone. Sometimes I wish that I could travel back in time to that first day,
knowing what I know now, and be a 15-year-old again.

Oliver never told me why he had thought to invite me to his home. It was
only years later, in reflection on those halcyon days, that I began to
wonder. The question came too late. Oliver was lost to contact. My guess is
that he had noticed me stealing longing glances at his crotch. I was an
incurable aficionado of the bulges of other boys, a habit that began so
early in my life that I cannot recall its origin. I loved to see boys
naked. As puberty began to strike around me, I became obsessed with how
other boys were faring with this wondrous blessing. I studied their bulges
for signs of growth of penises and testicles and scrotums. And I was
totally captivated by the sprouting of pubic hair. I studied boys' faces to
see if the peach fuzz over their lips was darkening and tried to peek at
their armpits to look for hair. I wondered if they masturbated and how
often they did it. And I would look at a particularly appealing guy and
wonder if he had done it the night before and how he would look sprawled on
a bed, penis in hand, bringing himself to a glorious orgasm. Alone, I would
examine my own genitals, daily discerning the slightest signs of growth and
trying to note the appearance of each new black hair over my still small
penis.

Then came the day when I reclined in a warm tub of water, echoes of a
conversation about masturbation I had overheard between two classmates
reverberating in my hormone-soaked brain, and became the most aroused I had
ever been. My sparse little row of hair had thickened and even had some
curl and the characteristic coarse feel to it. I poured some old Richard
Hudnut Egg Shampoo on and slathered it all over the area, finally focusing
on my penis. Guided by increasing pleasure, I knew I was on the right
track. Electricity surged through my mid-section and almost without
warning, a watery, pale white liquid squirted onto my belly. I had done
it. I had jacked off. Since I was alone for the entire evening until nearly
midnight, I kept returning to the bathtub and pouring on the egg shampoo. I
came five times before I felt exhausted and went to bed. Life was never the
same again.

By the time I got to know Oliver, I was an accomplished masturbator. And
when I masturbated, I had vivid, though ill-informed, fantasies of the most
beautiful boys I could imagine. It was in the day before easily obtainable
pornography in print. And the Internet was years away.

The fateful invitation came one fall afternoon as we were leaving school.
As I walked to catch a city bus to go home, I saw Oliver standing on the
lawn obviously looking at me.

"Hey, Winston," he said, motioning for me to join him.

"Hey, Oliver," I said as I approached him.

I glanced at his bulge, which was as inviting as always.

"Whatcha doing in the morning?"

"Sleeping late, probably. Why?"

We had never really had even this much conversation. I was puzzled. What
could he want with me?

"Why don't you come over to my house? You know where I live, don't you?" As
he spoke, he looked me over. I thought his gaze lingered briefly just below
my belt.

"Yeah, I know where it is. You really want me to come over?"

"Well, yes, that's why I invited you, silly. So will you come?"

My dirty little mind played with that last question briefly, but I didn't
make anything of it to Oliver.

"Sure! Sounds great. See ya tomorrow!"

I had no idea how much of him I would be seeing.



Chapter 2 is in the works: "Winston acts on Oliver's invitation."

This is my first submission here, and I welcome any feedback. Thanks for
reading. stoicactor@hotmail.com