Date: Mon, 20 Jul 2009 15:00:24 +0000
From: Neil N. Blow <neilnblow@hotmail.com>
Subject: New Shoes (M/b Incest)

For young gay men growing up in rural areas, adolescence can be a
nightmare. Sometimes it seems that you are all alone in the world, and
finding a partner to have sex with seems all but impossible.

I've collected a number of stories from friends in the country about
growing up gay there. This one still continues to turn me on.

I have written this in the first person, although the story was told to me
by another. The other party involved verified the basic facts....

If incest stories are disagreeable to you, read no further.  Otherwise...

Enjoy!

* * *

NEW SHOES

It was a long argument with my Mother to buy these shoes, but I finally won
out on my 18th Birthday, when she agreed I could have them as my Birthday
present. Big deal, other kids got cars.

But they were expensive shoes, even by today's standards. White leather
Adidas "Country" running shoes, with three green stripes on each side. I
thought they were the coolest thing in the world, and they cost an
astonishing $68 back in 1976. Heck, we didn't even have Nike's back then. A
good pair of "redball Keds" was all that we needed for gym class.

So, here I was, riding home with my new shoes, feeling like the coolest guy
in the world. I was pedaling my other prized possession, a green Schwinn
"Varsity" 10-speed that I had bought with my paper route money. I had saved
for years for that bike, and back then, it was considered pretty state of
the art.

So with my new Adidas clipped into my "rattrap" pedals, I headed out from
school, taking the long way home. Most of the other kids rode in their
cars, going out to the woods to drink beer or make trouble. I guess I was
different, in more ways than one.

I had grown up in this area - rural Michigan. My Mom and Dad had a "farm"
outside of town - only 50 acres or so, most of it leased out to other
farmers. Dad worked as a tool & die maker in Lapeer, and we kept a few
chickens and such.

I loved riding my bike on the long country roads, getting into that 60
stroke per minute aerobic high, the bike just flashing along, climbing the
hills effortlessly and then flying down the other side. I usually rode 10
or 20 miles on the way home. It gave me time to think and be by myself. The
only interruptions were the occasional barking dog or maybe an empty beer
can tossed my way by one of my fellow students out joyriding. I learned to
ignore them.

But today, it was quiet as I rode out along the lake road. In addition to
my new sneakers, there was something else I was excited about. In my
previous travels, I had stopped at a rest stop out by the main
highway. When I say "highway", I mean a two-lane blacktop - a truck route
that went from Flint to Lapeer in rural Michigan. Trucks heading to Canada
and back flew down this road at 70 mph or more. I learned early on to avoid
it on bicycle.

Out along the road, the town had erected a picnic site. I guess at one
time, they felt that tourists would stop by here and picnic, but I never
saw any. There were three concrete picnic tables set in the woods, all
buzzing with black flies. Each had a stained concrete canopy over it, with
an inverted V roof, sort of Jetsons style. It was all very 1960's looking
and all very dilapidated and overgrown.

But in addition to the picnic area was a restroom. It was a concrete block
affair, with a flat roof, two stalls, and a urinal - on the men's
side. From the tire tracks in the dirt parking lot, it was apparent that
the only folks using this spot were the truckers. I had found the spot
earlier from a side road which crossed the main highway. I had stopped to
take a piss, only to discover a wonderland for a young man who liked cocks.

I had been playing with my dick for years, thinking about the cocks of the
guys I saw in the locker room at school. I particularly remember my gym
teacher's cock, thick and long and hairy. I knew that my feelings were
"wrong" and that even if they weren't, there wasn't much I could do about
them. I had seen what happened to kids identified as "fags" in my high
school, and it wasn't pretty. One family had moved away from the area
because their son was tormented as a "faggot" in school - private schools
there being nonexistent, even if they were affordable.

So I kept a low profile and tried to fit in as best I could. I went out for
track and I rode my bike. That made me different enough to attract the
wrong kind of attention. But I still fit in - for the most part.

But when I discovered this restroom, all of that faded from my mind. The
writing on the walls was amazing - "meet here for BJ" it said. I was
flabbergasted. Blowjobs? What else could it mean? In the stall was the
greatest surprise - a neat hole made in the wall between the two stalls,
its purpose all too clear. When I first discovered the place, it was
deserted. I sat down and jerked off furiously, I was so horny. I left
later, feeling guilty and dirty, vowing never to return.

But today, I was pedaling in the direction of the restroom with my flashy
new sneakers on my slick little 10-speed. I was feeling pretty good about
myself, and thought I would stop by the men's room and see what it was all
about. Maybe I would jerk off again, but that was it. What was the harm in
that? I was kidding myself.

I found myself at the end of the crossroads. I looked both ways and turned
onto the main highway, pedaling furiously the last quarter mile to the
restroom before some large truck came roaring down behind me. With my front
wheel wobbling and catching in the sandy dirt parking lot, I coasted into
the rest stop. It was deserted as usual.

I pushed my bike around to the back of the place, and locked it to a pipe
coming from the oil tank back there. I had one of those dorky cable locks
with three cylinders and numbers on it. You could have cut through it with
scissors. But behind the restroom, no one would see my bike.

Sucking in my breath, I walked around the building and carefully went
inside, the spring-loaded screen door banging behind me with a start. The
place was lit by a bare bulb in the ceiling, surrounded with cobwebs and
the remains of various insects, and the occasional moth or mosquito.

My heart was pounding a bit and I was shaking a little. I went into the
stall on the end and saw that my semen stain from the week before had dried
to a brownish yellow on the floor, mixing with all the other stains on the
floor and walls.

Wiping the seat with a wad of toilet paper, I sat down, my gym shorts down
around my ankles. I looked around at the walls, searching for any new
writings. I saw a couple of phone numbers and more pleas for sex. "I need
to be sucked bad" one read, "Meet me here 4:30 Tuesday". I looked down at
my watch, it was almost 4:30. And it was Tuesday. My heart pounded. Would
this guy show up? And if he did, what would I do?

As if to answer my question, I heard the sound of a pickup truck entering
the parking lot, its tires softly spraying sand as it went. The
unmistakable burble of a Chevy V-8, I had heard it so many times before. I
heard the engine die off, and the truck door creak open on rusty
hinges. Soft footsteps in the dirt followed by the creak and slam of the
screen door. My heart was beating like a bass drum now.

"Relax," I told myself. I didn't have to do anything. As far as this guy
knew, I was just someone taking a crap. And heck, maybe he was, too. The
guy who wrote on the wall to meet at 4:30 was probably just fantasizing, or
maybe he meant last week. But of course, it wasn't there on the wall, last
week, I was pretty sure of that.

Steps approached and the stall door next to me creaked open. The stalls
were in such bad shape that the whole wall moved when he opened the door,
causing my door to pop out of the latch and swing open. In horror, I
reached forward and grabbed the door shut. I looked under the stall and saw
a brand new pair of work boots and work clothes - you know those "Dickeys"
brand that farmers and factory workers wear. The pants dropped and the guy
in the next stall sat down.

I leaned forward, so he couldn't see me in the stall. I was nervous as
hell, and all I could do was look at his brand new boots. After what seemed
like an eternity, I realized he wasn't crapping or pissing in the
john. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, I saw the right work boot toe rise up
and then come down. Twice. I knew from the writing on the stall divider
what this meant - "tap foot for BJ".

This man wanted a blowjob, or to give one, I was not sure. Slowly, I leaned
back, glancing through the hole in the stall. My first look shocked me, I
saw the hairy pockmarked legs of a middle-aged man, an ample belly covered
by a rumpled blue work shirt. In the middle, a large erect cock standing
straight up, being caressed by a worn hand. I thought I had seen that hand
before, but I wasn't sure. My mind was on that cock.

I leaned back and exposed my cock. This was more exciting than jerking off
in bed and thinking about my Gym teacher. Here, I could look at a real live
dick!

So I stroked my cock with great excitement, and he stroked his. This went
on for several minutes, and then without warning, he stood up, letting his
pants fall to the floor. He turned toward me, and I put my head up to the
hole so I could get a better view. Before I could see his face, however, he
approached the hole and put his cock through, almost poking me in the eye.

I was pretty excited, but I wasn't sure I was ready for this. I had been
jerking off for years thinking about men's cocks, and sucking them. Here
was my chance. I opened my mouth and felt myself moving my head closer.

It was like a dream, and thinking back on it, I seem to remember it like an
out-of-body experience. I can see myself, as if from above, my head moving
closer to the stall wall, the warm flesh of a man's cock going into my
mouth.

I was not experienced in this at all, other than times I practiced on a
banana in bed once. I tried my best not to use my teeth. I had read the
Penthouse Forum in one of my Father's Penthouse magazines that I found in
the trash. In one of the letters, a girl wrote in asking for advice on how
to give blowjobs. I kept that magazine under my mattress and read that
letter and reply over and over again. I'm sure my Mother found it more than
once, but she probably thought I was looking at the pictures of naked
girls.

So I tried to remember what the article said. Use the tongue, time your
breathing, take it in and out, let the man establish his rhythm, and most
of all, no toothy blowjobs! I must have done pretty well for an amatuer, as
within a few minutes, my new friend rewarded me by ejaculating in my
mouth. I was estatic. It felt better than I imagined. It felt dirty and
naughty and yet so sexy and good. I could hear him let out a gasp as he
came.

Again, I got the weird feeling that I might know this guy after I heard him
gasp. When he was done, I quickly leaned forward so he couldn't see my
face. I don't know what I was worried about, he was probably married and
had more to worry about being seen by me than vice-versa.

He quickly got up to leave, and I heard the door slam, the truck door creak
open, and the pickup rev up and speed away. I laid back and jerked off, the
taste of his cum still in my mouth. After I came, I felt pretty ashamed of
myself. I had promised myself only to stop by to look, and here I was,
giving guys blowjobs through the hole. OK, so it was only one guy, but it
was wrong.

I glanced at my watch. It was after 5:30 and I was late. Mom would be
worried about where I was. I pulled my clothes on and left. On the way
home, I pumped my bicycle pedals furiously, maintaining a tremendous
speed. Maybe the effort of pedaling so fast would wash away the shame I
felt. In no time, I was pulling into our driveway.

Dad was home already from work. I could see his pickup truck in the
driveway, a 1973 Chevy Scottsdale, already starting to rust in the Michigan
salt. I put my bike in the barn and went inside.

"Dinner's almost ready," Mom called out. "Did you get your fancy new
shoes?" she asked. I sheepishly admitted I had. "Frank, come see Carl's new
shoes" she called out to my Dad.

Dad came around the corner, wiping his hands on a handtowel. He had been to
the bathroom to wash up. "Your Dad has new shoes, too!" she said, beaming,
"The Safety Shoe truck came to the factory today!"

I looked down and tried to disguise my horror. My Dad was wearing his work
clothes, his Dickey trousers, and his shiny new work boots. The same boots
I saw under the restroom stall. I looked up and glanced in my Father's face
and saw the immediate sign of recognition. He was staring at my running
shoes. "I...I didn't think they would look so...fancy" he said, stammering.

Mother interjected "Go wash up, Son, dinner is almost ready". I nearly ran
to the bathroom. I ran the hot water and soaked a washcloth and wiped down
my face. I had blown my own Father! How could I face him? How could I face
Mother? I was certain she knew - the comments about the shoes and all.

I calmed down a bit and splashed cold water on my face. I was being
paranoid. Mom had no way of knowing, but I rinsed my mouth with mouthwash
to be sure she wouldn't smell her husband's semen on my breath. But I was
sure it was my Dad I had sucked off. And I was sure he knew it, too.

It would be an awkward dinner. But the awkwardness would not last for
long. I would no longer have to go to a public restroom to find cock to
suck, not when it was available at home....