Date: Fri, 7 Feb 2003 12:01:40 -0500 (EST) From: J <burlguy@excite.com> Subject: Through the Looking Glass THE USUAL DISCLAIMERS: This is a work of fiction. I am not I, you are not you, he or she is not him or her or anyone else. Enjoy, and tell me what you think (I really do welcome comments, suggestions, ideas, even criticism) at burlguy@excite.com Through the Looking Glass by Jef Blitzer I have been afraid of my son for a long while. It is not a normal relationship. Never was. And when he entered that long journey we call adolesence, the relationship grew rough and dangerous. That was when the fear began. Fear, coupled with no small amount of lust. Lust on my part. And loathing for the lust. But the emotions were all there, mixed together, and I could not sort them out. But I was afraid. Definitely afraid. I knew all my life that I was gay. Even before I knew the word, I knew the longing for men and their bodies. I craved strong, virile men. Hairy, muscular daddy types. I remember trying to make friends with older kids, athletic boys, almost anyone who gave off the slightest hint of masculinity. Not that they wanted to be friends with me. I was a shrimp, a small, weak kid, and I knew it. I also knew the nicknames. Fag. Queer. Gay. But I would seek out masculine guys, trying to please them, trying to fit in with their games, even trying to play football. Anything to be around them. To feel their masculinity, to smell their male bodies, to seek something I didn't have. But it never seemed to work. So I seemed to spend my life in a perpetual search for something. I never could place it. I still can't. Puberty didn't change anything for me, except to give my emotions a place to go. When I was 7 or 8, the older boys I sought out were prepubescent like myself, though there was still the hint of manhood in them that I liked. But when I was 9 and 10 and 11, and the older boys were 13 and 14, there was another factor, and that was sex. The boys I sought out were high testosterone men by this point, and now I could get their masculinity straight from the tap, as it were. My mouth craved their intensely stiff erections, and the love juice that flowed from them when I sucked them. How did I learn to suck? I don't know. Most guys -- even confirmed gays -- initially find the idea repulsive. I never did. Sucked my first when I was 11, and I've never looked back. I think it started when this guy -- he was probably 15, and I didn't even know his name -- jeered at me when I saw him at a public restroom. "Fag," he called me, "Stupid fuckin queer, why don't you suck me off, you freak?" And I did. Put my mouth on it, reflected briefly on the different sensation, and began to lovingly nurse that beauty. And it was a beauty. Long and thick, and immensely hard, like most guys are at that age. He was silent as I squatted before him, his masculinity in my hungry mouth. It took only a minute before I felt the surge and then the spray of his sweet jizz in my mouth. I held the sperm in my mouth, savoring it, and looked up at him, but he was already ready to run, pulling his zipper up, and he was gone. I spit his seed on the floor of the restroom. That restroom became my hangout. I knew nothing of what cruisy spots meant, and the internet was far off in the future, but this place was at a deserted area of a busy shopping mall, isolated enough that the few who came there came with a mission, either to suck or get sucked, and I was there, ever, always wanting the sweet taste in my mouth. Later on, after I got home, would be the time when I would gently masturbate my own penis to spray. Like the rest of my body, my penis was on the small side. I initially thought it was because the other guys were older -- I never saw anyone my own age there, and many I sucked were late teens or adults -- but I came to realize that there was something I would never have, and that was the thick, dangerous-looking penis that I craved on others. So I sucked. Any man who came through the doors and was willing. And there were many. I came to love the taste of their semen, and secretly hope that by ingesting their salty juice, I would grow. Grow to be like the men and boys I saw and pleasured there. But the growing -- at least what I wanted -- never occurred. I got taller, but only marginally. I finally topped out at 5'5". When I was a senior in high school, I weighed 127 pounds. I was intelligent enough to be able to assess in a mirror what was obvious to others: I looked like a boy. No beard to speak of. Virtually no hair on my arms or legs. Only my treasured wiry bush, and my underarm hair. And I also knew enough to know that at 18, it was not going to change. So how did I get a son? There are lots of men out there who wonder if they are gay. But they find women attractive, and can date and mate them, despite their perhaps secret love for mens' bodies. I never wondered if I were gay. Women were not attractive to me. I had no desire to date them, much less mate them. But my parents were convinced otherwise. I had hinted at my secret life, but they were either clueless or chose to ignore my hints. And they were determined that I would marry, have children, be normal. It is difficult for many guys coming of age now to understand my feelings. And how I went along with my parents. I think it's normal to think that, perhaps, when all is said and done, my parents knew better. Perhaps this was a phase, a spell, something to be outgrown. After all, they had lived longer, seen more, and knew more. Or so I hoped. They genuinely loved me, that I knew. And so I went along. To be real honest, the marriage was arranged. A girl from church, shy and sheltered, was the candidate. She was nice and pleasant, and fun to be around. And I, who had had little normal relationships with either men or women, had a reasonably good time with her. We talked some, got to know each other, went out, and within six months, when I was 20, did what was expected and hoped for all along: we announced our engagement. I was studying accounting, and it was thought best to wait until I graduated. I had worked hard in college, and could finish in 3 years, and did. In May, I got my bachelors in accounting, and in June we married. Carol marveled at my sexual "restraint," as she put it, and insinuated that other guys were not like me, and were only interested in fleshly matters. Of course, my restraint toward her was no chore. And while I went for 6 long weeks during our engagement when I avoided men, I finally went back to my double life, and I consistently enjoyed my own fleshly pleasures my last year of college. After all, I thought marriage would magically cure me, make me better, make me normal. Whatever curing there was to be done, marriage did not do it. Our honeymoon, spent at the beach, was a horror to me. I was afraid of her body, fearful that what little manhood I had would be swallowed up into her body and taken from me. I performed reasonably well, but that was a big part of the problem. I was performing, like a trained seal. I would imagine what needed imagining, and my penis, small as it was would enter what seemed like a gaping hole. I managed several times during our four day honeymoon, and chalked up my failures to "being a little nervous," as I told her and myself. After a while, we both knew this was not working, whatever "this" was. And so we called it off. After 3 months. She didn't know what was the matter with me, and why I was so sexually reticent. We made excuses, both of us, to the parents. Both families were saddened, and I felt an enormous guilt over the pain I knew they were feeling. When we broached the news to them, they all encouraged counseling, time, whatever. But somehow Carol and I both knew that no counseling, no time, none of the usual marriage workings would change this very bad situation. I knew it. And somehow, she did, too. And somewhere deep inside, I think that Carol knew what was the ultimate problem. She did not ask. She did not pry. She was too kind for that. But she knew. After we were separated for 5 weeks, she called, seeming distraught, and said that we had to talk. I assumed it was something related to the separation, and I went over that evening. It was, of course, the one thing I had never imagined I was capable of, and that was that she was pregnant, and me -- probably the queerest man I knew -- had fathered a child. And oddly enough, in the midst of all the turmoil of feelings that night, there was a slight edge of pride that while I was not a man in anyone's eyes, I could at least pull this off. It was very, very odd. She wanted this child, and, on some very deep level, so did I, so there was never a question of adoption. I took care of the money, and told her that whatever happened, I would be a father to this child. The next 8 months went by in a blur, uneventful, but with an eager anticipation on my end. And there was that fateful day when she delivered a perfect baby boy. He was beautiful, big, and healthy. And the next day, when a man shot in my mouth, back at the restroom which had a certain sentimental attachment for me, the semen tasted somehow different, and I wondered as I stared at his wedding ring how many babies he had shot out of that well-formed penis. There was no question that the baby would be raised by Carol. She never asked about custody, and it was always assumed. I made a reasonably good living, and was generous with them both. I was there at least one night a week for dinner, and would take Derek on outings every weekend -- to the movies, to parks, to wherever. I enjoyed his company, and -- having gotten past the marriage issue -- even enjoyed Carol's company. But the bigger question was one we let pass, and avoided bringing up. It was safer, easier, somehow less painful that way. Life went very well like this for many years. I am a routine kind of guy, and I had this routine, and it worked. But my routine died when Carol died, in a car wreck, when Derek was 11. The next few weeks went by in a daze. So many feelings to deal with. There was genuine grief on my part. Though I could not say I loved Carol, I cared for her very deeply, and she had become a friend, in spite of our crazy history. And there was the sadness of dealing with my son's grief over the very sudden, very unexpected death of his mother. And there was the realization that my life, too, would change. I didn't know how I would do it, but I would care for him. But how I would, I did not know. But I would make it work somehow. Derek moved in to my place almost immediately. I spent a lot of time getting things fixed to his liking. I wanted him to feel at home. And I think he genuinely did. Carol and I lived close to one another, and he didn't even have to change schools. But my life changed. Big time. As I had never told Carol about my life, neither was I going to tell Derek, and that precluded a lot I had grown accustomed to. I had loved meeting men at bars, and bringing them to my place for the dark pleasures that thrilled me. That went right away, of course. And I think that I was like a lot of gay men, and wondered if somehow this life crisis might be something that would change me, too. It did not. The desires I had did not change, and they did not go away, but that did not surprise me. But I stopped bringing men to my place. I stopped cruising the bars late into the night. I had become a Dad. Or at least a little more of one. Derek had just turned 11 when he moved in with me, and he was just on the cusp of puberty. I did not know how I would deal with the raging hormones that would engulf his body in the coming years. What I did not realize is that they would engulf my body, as well. Women talk about how the hormones become dense in a place where a group of women live, whether it's a dorm, an apartment, or whatever. I think that they became a little dense with my son and I living together. That first year, he began growing taller. He bulked out, and his voice dropped almost immediately. It was surprising to have him answering the phone at 12, and having the caller think it was me. What I had not readied myself for was him getting bigger -- far bigger -- than me. But it happened. And very, very quickly. Derek was 5'6" by the time he turned 12, and in a year, he was 5'10". The next year, he was up to 6', and by the time he was 15, he towered over me at 6'2". He had begun working out, and the effects had become spectacular. At 15 years of age, 6'2" (and still growing), he weighed 245 pounds. His arms were large and solid, his shoulders wide, and his legs like tree trunks. What was more overpowering was the hair that had sprouted all over his body. His legs and arms were dark with hair, and his chest was quickly covered with a mass of densely curled black hair. His masculinity overwhelmed me in many ways. I could not begin to admit to myself the feelings I was having. They were too strong, too strange, too bizarre, and, in the end, too wonderful. If we had gotten along, it might have helped. We did not. We fought a great deal, far more than we ever did before he lived with me. He was a jock, a star rugby player, and with the weight lifting had come steroid use. He denied it, but I had found a container in the trash, and owing to Carol's insurance policy, he had plenty of money to get it. This in turn led to the occasional bouts of steroid rage which seemed to engulf him when he was crossed. These episodes terrified me, while turning me on in some dark corner of my mind. He would become furious, begin throwing things, and I began to avoid anything that might anger him. I knew in the end that I could not fight him off if he attacked me. What frightened me more was my interest in his body. I looked at him. I began to make excuses to see him undressing. The package that filled his pants intrigued me, incited me, aroused me. I wanted it, and was immediately ashamed that I did. I never saw him naked, but what I saw was enough to fill my thoughts before I slept, and while I dreamed. And what frustrated me was that he was just private enough to evade my stare. But as my twisted mind began to move, I thought of a way to see. A way he could not avoid. The more I thought, the easier it seemed like it would be. In the end, I just wanted a comfortable place with a clear view. I knew there was a crawl space above his room. I got a carpenter to drill a hole, and place a small spyglass in the ceiling. "To watch him in case he's using drugs," was my lame explanation to the carpenter, who didn't give a shit why I was doing it. I paid cash, and re-plastered the ceiling myself one weekend he was away, to disguise my secret. I was ready. Eager. Looking forward to many happy chances for my own private viewing. I knew the chances would come soon. And they would be well worth the couple of hundred dollars it cost me. I was there waiting when he got home from school the next Monday. I heard him burst through the door, heard the swagger of his stride through the house, and eagerly watched him come into the room. He had no rugby practice, so he wouldn't have showered at school. Very likely he would be tired. Maybe sweaty. Maybe horny. All three, I hoped. The spyglass was good. A very clear view, unlike those pieces of junk in the doors of apartment buildings. A wide view. I could see almost everything in the room. I licked my lips in anticipation. He peeled his tight shirt off over his head. I drew a deep breath. His body never failed to get this response from me. Beautifully built, both from good genes (which I always wished he'd gotten from me) and from weights. Hours and hours of weights had given him broad shoulders. And large melon pecs. Pecs I could watch all day. Beautiful enough by themselves, but these had the additional delight of being covered by a forest of tightly curled hair. I could not believe that someone just 17 had so much hair. But he did. Fuck. I moved my body slightly, to have access to my stiff cock. It would get stiffer. He stood there a few minutes, examining his own arm, probably admiring the muscles. He flexed them slightly. I stared at them, at his chest and back as he moved slightly, and at his full head of dark curly hair. Fuckin beautiful. Arrogant as hell. With a lot to be arrogant about. Fuckin bastard. And my son. He unbuckled his belt and let his pants drop to the floor. Lifting one leg at a time, he kicked his pants to the side of the room. And stood there. I was breathing heavily now. Fuck, I thought to myself, you sound like a peeping tom. Which is what I was. I could not believe what I was seeing . The beautiful stud was wearing a jock. A fuckin jock the only thing to cover his package. Damn. Take it off, I thought to myself. Take it off. Instead, he lay down on the bed. Face down. He pulled his pillow under his crotch. His jock ass up in the air, framed by the straps of the jock, his hips grinding up and down slightly, ever so slightly, his ass moving in a beautiful rhythm. I knew what he was doing, and imagined him doing it to me. His thick cock stiff and leaking, wanting out of his jock prison. Let him out, I thought. Let that sweet cum machine loose. I knew he would. And while I loved worshipping his muscular butt, all covered with curly hair, I smiled broadly when he turned on his back. He was looking straight up at the ceiling, but of course he could not see me. Rubbing his big hand roughly up and down the shaft of his meat. Take him out, I mentally implored him. But at the same time I knew the warm feeling of the friction of the jock's warm cloth, warm from encasing Derek's cock all day long. The jock was lucky, I thought to myself. Lucky to have been there all day, nestled up against that sweet mound of adolescent man flesh. I knew it would come out, and it did. He pulled the front of the jock down, and nestled the waistband under his large balls. His dick bounced free, the big fleshy tool curved up like a banana to his furry muscular stomach. His hand went to work. Stroking the skin up and down over the thick head. Sometimes stopping to play with the skin gently, pulling it hard at times. He had plenty of foreskin, and the sight of him squeezing it up was a big turn on to me. But he had been horned up for a while, I realized. It did not take long, and his eyes went blank, his mouth opened, and his breathing became faster. It was like I was watching something in slow motion. He closed his eyes. His balls -- normally so large and hanging -- pulled tightly against his sweet scrotum. His hand moved ever more rapidly until the moment came. His hand pulled the skin firmly over his dickhead, and a burst of spooge sprayed his face. Followed by 3 more hard squirts, coating his mouth and chest hair, and then a few more gentle emissions. His hand came off his dick. He lay back, exhausted, his eyes still closed. He breathed hard. I wondered what thoughts had gone through his mind. Then he got up. Going to shower, I thought, and that gave me the chance to quietly come downstairs while the shower was running. He must not know about my lair. I would enjoy it many times more in the future. What I saw that day excited me, and the thoughts continued. Though I would not touch him (in fact, I feared his violent reaction if he found out about my hiding place), I was more and more going to places where I could please other men, and enjoy their bodies. I found a truck stop on the outskirts of town that had a reputation. Owners who didn't care, secluded, isolated restrooms, and plenty of horny men on the prowl, or so the web site I read told me. And I was there that evening, and found it all true, and more. Men. Lots of men. And a glory hole in one of the stalls where they eagerly inserted their erect cocks for my mouth to take care of. And I did. Sometimes a dozen anonymous men would shoot into my mouth before I would finally ejaculate my small squirts and creep out of the truck stop and drive home. That, along with the mall restroom I had frequented for so many years, became my hangouts, the places that never failed to provide what I wanted, and when I wanted it. And I wanted it often. I would often be waiting on Derek (I probably knew his schedule as well as he did), watching his room. Sometimes a buddy would be with him, and I would watch eagerly as they perused the porn he hid under his mattress, and stroked their hard cocks to completion. But whatever happened, I never tired of watching, and I never tired of driving out to the places that were like second homes to me, where I could get what I so desparately needed and wanted. One evening was so ordinary that what happened afterwards stood out in such sharp contrast. I had not gone to the restrooms. It was raining hard, and I -- for once -- didn't feel like going. I fixed some dinner, and Derek scowled at the food, and took it with him to his room to play video games. Sometimes he was nice to me, but the rejections hurt. And brought out my ever restless need for a man. So off I went. There were no other receivers there, but a big man walked in the door with me. We knew the clues, and I was in the stall, down on my knees, and his large, erect penis was quickly through the hole. He must have been a long time, because he was nearly insatiable, and I enjoyed the big load of cum that shot out of his slit. Several others followed him. And then another. The cock big and stiff, and curved up like a banana. Young guy, I thought, probably college. But I glanced down. The shoes. Doc Martin's. Derek had just bought them the night before. No wonder the cock looked familiar. I hesitated a moment, but not long. There was no turning back. I sucked him. Eagerly, quickly, and voraciously. He was equally quick to shoot, and that penis that I had made withdrew, and I heard the door slam. I waited, savoring the taste in my mouth. I was glad no one else was there. I needed a few minutes alone with my thoughts. I was scared. Fearful. And excited. I waited long enough that I thought it safe to assume that he had already gone, got into my car, and drove home, "from the office," which was always my excuse to him when I was gone in the late afternoons and evenings. And in the months to come, he became one of my regulars, one of a number of men whose cocks I knew and loved. His, especially. I longed for it, and missed him those times when he did not show up. I wondered how he had found out about the place. And strangely -- or perhaps not so strangely -- our relationship changed, as I became even more compliant and submissive to him, this 17 year old man child. He became less raging, perhaps because he didn't need to. I did what he wanted. It only seemed right. He had no idea of our newly-found strange relationship: I knew that. But I could not bring myself to stand up to him in any way. It would have done little good. He was now 6'3", and probably weighed over 260 pounds. The weights had done him good. His pecs were enormous, and burst at the t-shirts he wore constantly. Likewise his massive legs. What intrigued me, though, was that his penis seemed to be getting larger. Not so much in length, although I thought that was there, too. It was definitely thicker than it had been when I had "met" him months before. The glory hole was big, but now he barely fit through it. I pondered what might be going on, and realized that I was a submissive observer to Derek's last bit of pubertal growth. I did what I could, gently guiding his penis in through the hole, and out when he -- and I -- were done. Intriguing me also was the buddy he had begun to bring with him. I could hear them speaking softly, and it was obvious that this was someone he knew outside of this arena. Judging from the penile shape, I judged his buddy to be about his age or so. He was not as big as Derek, but the penis was fine, nonetheless. I knew this could not last forever, that at some point he would tire of coming here, and I feared that day. But it came to an end in an entirely different manner. I had sucked him late one afternoon, and was almost scared that he was going to get stuck. There was definitely a problem with the width of his very thick shaft. His cock barely got through, and filled the hole entirely as I sucked him. After he came, he softened a bit, and I helped the still heavy schlong back through. Goodbye, my friend, I thought to myself. I'll see you soon. But he was not there for a while. I did not see him for days, and wondered what had happened. My gently probing questions at home were rebuffed, and I feared that he had found something new, some other place or hole to take care of hormones that raged in his body. Weeks passed. It was almost a month when I heard 2 men, and a cock came in that I recognized as his buddy's. I eagerly swallowed it, knowing that Derek's would be the next. I could hear Derek's heavy, anxious breathing as he waited for his turn, and the sound of his breath excited me even more than I already was that night. The raw, masculine smell I had come to associate with these twisted meetings hung heavy in the air. His buddy spurted hard in my mouth, long and full ejaculations, and I savored his taste in my mouth. His breathing was heavy and labored as he pulled away, and they shifted positions in the next stall. I squatted eagerly at the hole. And when I saw Derek's rod there at the hole, I suddenly knew something was very, very wrong. His penis, swollen with excitement, could no longer go through the hole. I was torn by a feeling of frustration, tinged with animal lust for this cock now engorged beyond coming to me. He cursed, first softly, then louder and he began to bang his cock against the hole, like a dog after a bitch in heat. I could scarcely believe what I was seeing. Then he was down at the hole. I had pulled off into a corner of the stall, out of his line of sight. His whisper was strong, as he ordered me, "Come over here! I want to get off!" "I can't get through," he continued, softer, but still urgent, "Suck me over here, it's cool." "No," I found the voice to say, disguised as best I could, "No, I can't." Derek grunted hard, sighed loudly, and demanded again, "Get over here now. I mean it. Do it." I sat silently, terrified that something I had never imagined was close to a terrifying ending. What would he do if he found me? How would he react? I feared the sheer animal rage of knowing my deception that had gone on, not once, not even twice, but for months and months. His friend was now calming him, warning him he was getting too loud. Another man came in the bathroom, urinated loudly, and left, and Derek's demands became strident yet again: "Do it, man, I want it." I continued sitting silently, fearful of moving, thinking, of even breathing. Suddenly the rage I knew so well kicked in. He banged the wall hard, his strong arms working to destroy the sanctuary in which I hid. He was kicking, hitting, doing everything he could, a paroxysm of fury sweeping over his body. Then there was quiet again. He was breathing heavily, his friend again urging calm, "Don't do this, man, somebody might hear." A final explosive kick rattled the stall, loosened the screws, and then there was the steady rhythm of hand on flesh, as he masturbated his thick pole. The sound of his foreskin was sloppy, but urgent, and his breaths became more intense until the room was punctuated with the odor of cum as I heard the splats as he sprayed the walls. "Fuck," he muttered, and I heard him fling his hand, throwing the cum off with one motion. "It's cool," his buddy said, and they left, and I waited. Over an hour I waited. Finally I crept out, snuck out a back door, and I shook as I drove home. I never went back. That evening shook me up so that I didn't touch a guy for 2 months. It didn't change me. But it scared me. And when I went back to sucking, it was in places miles away. Whatever my son's interests, I had no desire to intersect with him again. Another change happened after that night. I began making efforts to restore some normalcy to our relationship. It was not easy, and we are still not terribly close. But I realized that this raging man needed me as more than a fuck buddy, and I wanted to be that to him. I would make it work. Whatever accidents of fate or genetics or whatever had made me what I was, I could still be a father, in reality as well as biology. I was determined to be that.