Date: Fri, 9 May 2003 18:22:53 -0700 (PDT)
From: LZ <malou2003@hushmail.com>
Subject: Never Say Never, Nothing is Forever Chapter 1

The following is a fictional story based on real characters,
situations and events which existed some thirty years ago,
before the real insanity started. It has very explicit
boy/boy and man/boy sexual activity.

Michael Peterson

                          Chapter 1

    My biological father was an Irish gangster named Ray
Hoolihan, a lieutenant of the infamous Mickey Spillane who
ran the West Side Manhattan Westies gang during my
childhood. My racially mixed Puerto Rican mother was an
occasional prostitute, bartender or numbers collector
depending on her opportunities at the time. Fortunately for
me, she never became much of a drug user, as was the case
with many other Hell's Kitchen women in her situation.

     I was born on January 16, 1955, the third of five
children, all girls but me, one to three years apart. Only
two of us knew anything about our fathers. Mine was known
because my biological father wouldn't allow anyone else to
touch my mother for a year or so before my birth, and our
shared green eyes. Mother was his employee and one of
several mistresses. For her, my conception and gestation was
a time of numbers work. Mother accepted the slips the
runners brought to a Ninth Avenue bar not far from our Forty
Eighth Street 5th floor walk-up dump of an apartment.
Hoolihan stopped screwing her two months short of my birth
but she continued working for him collecting slips until I
was nearly a year old. That was when one of his current
extra-marital partners insisted on mother's job.
     Hoolihan, a powerfully built man with a crew cut and
penchant for violence, rejected his paternity until I was
five and developing a reputation.
    'Looks too much like a nigger to be mine,' he argued.
    'Then where he get green eyes from? Niggers don't got
green eyes. You got green eyes.' Mother wanted money.

     He did give my mother between twenty-five and fifty
dollars every once in a while claiming he felt sorry for her
and because they had been sex partners for a while, even
though, he claimed, she had obviously cheated on him with a
nigger. And, he boasted, he was always willing to help out
an ex-employee who'd been right by him. The latter meant
that she'd never ratted him out to the police. All
Hoolihan's ventures were illegal.

    A week or so before Christmas, he always gave her two
hundred dollars.

     Over time, however, as I grew and developed a
reputation as a tough little kid, he began to accept the
possibility that I had inherited my muscles and hardness
from him. By the time I was five, he was boasting that this
mean little quarter nigger kid was his progeny. 'If you
ain't fucked a nigger, you ain't a man', he quoted to his
racist friends. I have no idea how his wife took this, as we
were never introduced. I did see her a few times in the
neighborhood but she never displayed any recognition of me.
Hoolihan no longer lived in the area. His association with
Spillane and the Westies had been lucrative. His wife
convinced him to move away from the 'riff raff' she grew up
with. So he moved his family across the river to Elizabeth,
New Jersey, in reality a very small step up from Hell's
Kitchen. Hoolihan himself spent most of his time back in the
old neighborhood with his bent friends

     Our relationship was both sporadic and erratic. I don't
think my biological father ever came into the area just to
see me or even with that in mind. If he chanced upon me and
was in the mood, he'd invite me along to a bar or restaurant
he was headed to anyhow to eat and drink with friends. There
was very little conversation, just ridiculous admonitions,
mostly to impress his friends.

     'You don't never gotta take no shit outta nobody. Make
'em all respect you.'

   He never asked me how I was doing in school and rarely
mentioned my mother. But the food was good and I enjoyed
watching the camaraderie, hearing the boasting over
intimidations, beatings dealt or crimes committed. Deep down
inside, I hated Ray Hoolihan for not being a father like
other kids had but I admired him for his toughness and the
respect and friendships that elicited. I also liked the
legitimacy he gave me. I was the son of a top Westie, not
someone to be messed around with. I hung in restaurants and
bars with the gang. Other kids couldn't do that. The problem
with that exclusivity was that the other kids could never
see me in that setting. Not all believed it when I told
them.

     The Westies was an Irish gang with roots that went well
back into the nineteenth century. In their own twisted way,
they provided Hell's Kitchen Irish community with an
identity, albeit a nasty one. They were a constant

    My home life was generally unpleasant. The apartment
itself was a reflection of the misery I felt living there.
What furniture we had was dirty, torn, broken and, if
upholstered, smelled of urine. We had an old 14" console
black and white TV that stopped working when I was seven and
became an expensive table. There was no telephone, washing
machine or any form of electric kitchen appliance. There
were lots of cockroaches. I hated cockroaches.

    My mother, twenty years old at the time of my birth,
wasn't around much, especially when she was whoring. That
left my oldest sister, Brenda, four years my senior, in
charge. She hated me for my moodiness and the bad reputation
she felt I gave the whole family due to my misbehavior in
school and on the streets and for being half white with a
hoodlum father. Her long gone father had at least been
Latino. Brenda was also the only one who didn't inherit my
mother's tough body and good looks. Her father must have
been one skinny, ugly piece of work. At least she was tall.
The rest of us were sawed off short. Mother only measured
five feet in shoes.

     My grandfather, 'the nigger in the closet' as Hoolihan
called him, was a large man, especially along side my puny
grandmother. He finally drank himself to death at fifty-one.
My grandmother, who anyone could see had been very pretty
when she was younger, was one of those women who never
complained about anything, took whatever happened in stride.
Until my grandfather died when I was twelve, they lived a
block below us on 47th Street. Much as I disliked being
around my grandfather when he was drunk, which was most of
the time, their apartment was a haven away from the madness
in my house. And the food was better. My grandmother was a
cook at a diner on Eleventh Avenue. On her day off, my next
youngest sister, Delia, and I and sometimes the others would
go there for a big meal with chicken and rice and different
kinds of salads.

     Grandmother was the religious person in our family.
There were statues and pictures of the Blessed Mother all
over her apartment. She tried mightily to convince us to
accompany her to Catholic mass on Sundays. Delia and Maria,
my two younger sisters, were the only ones who did so at all
after reaching what the nuns in Sunday school called the age
of reason, seven, the age at which we were capable of
committing sins and putting those dark stains on our little
souls.

    I never bought into any of it. Religion was just too
inconvenient. Jesus, Mary and Joseph never rose to more than
television sitcom characters in my mind.  God was too much
like a cop.

    I don't ever remember my mother going to mass though,
being one to cover all the bases, she did have us baptized.
Very few of the kids in my school went to church. The few in
the neighborhood who went to Catholic school were generally
considered fairies.

     After an argument with grandmother about attending
mass, Brenda, then twelve, told us, `Jesus and them nuns
never did nothing for me. Just talk, talk, talk.' I was nine
and already a couple of years out from under the visage of
the `veils' as we called the good Sisters of Charity.

     Eating, however, was something I never tired of. At
home, the diet was not bad though hardly as tasty as the
meals grandmother served. We ate a lot of rice and beans and
a variety of inexpensive vegetables with weak Kool-Aid
drinks. Breakfast was generally eggs and day old bread.
Sundays, we were allowed breakfast cereals. If mother made a
good score or it was payday, we might get a little chicken
mixed in. Several times a week, grandmother would drop off
different kids of cooked meats, quarts of milk or juice and
fresh fruits she said they gave her at the diner. The meat
looked to be remnants of uneaten meals but the milk, juice
and fruits were fresh. I always suspected grandmother was
stealing them for us but never knew for sure.

     With mother away working or whatever most of the day
and only we kids to do the laundry and dishes and clean the
house, the place stunk pretty bad. I'd wear socks three,
four days in a row then take them off in the kitchen area
just to piss off Brenda. We had to wash our own socks and
underwear so I hardly wore underpants or undershirts,
especially during the warm months and when the building's
boiler was working well. Underpants were a dress up item to
me.

    I ran around the apartment and even the hallway bare
assed until I was eight and my big sister Brenda started
smacking me to put on at least a pair shorts. I loved the
feeling of air on my totally bare body. I disliked underwear
because it didn't allow the sensation of clothing sliding
back and forth against my skin. Many a time I'd stand nude
in front of the open bedroom window, legs apart to let the
air flow between them and over my little balls. I did stop
doing it during daylight after neighbors complained. Even in
the winter before going to bed, I often raised the window
and let a blast of cold air cool me down to make the warm
bedding feel better.

   Delia, my supposedly religious sister, would lie on her
bed and comment on the muscles in my legs and gut. I'd
challenge her to try and hurt me with a punch to the
stomach. She never would but, each time, did look over my
bare crotch as I stood, hands on hips, in front of her.
However, if I got her mad enough about most anything, she'd
lay into me with pointy hard fists that really hurt no
matter where they connected.

    My favorite pants were a pair of skimpy elastic band
shorts. The air flowed easily up inside them and, if I sat
cross-legged on a chair or with my legs up, everybody could
see my dick and balls. It pissed off Brenda something
terrible. Delia just laughed. And, it was easier to stick my
hand in and play with myself.

     Except for Delia, none of my sisters liked me. One
reason was I was prettier than them. It wasn't just my wide
set green eyes that wowed the women. I had a head of flaxen,
curly dark brown hair that hardly ever needed brushing. It
just popped up nice and even first thing in the morning or
as soon as I dried it after a bath. My face was a typical
broad mixed race face with smooth lines and lips that even
turned me on later in life. At age five, I was muscular head
to toe with a flat tummy even my grandfather liked to touch.

     Being the middle kid was a bitch, especially with girls
above and below. They could all punch me but I wasn't
supposed to hit a girl or anybody younger. It did help me
develop a high threshold of pain. I never wanted to give my
sisters the satisfaction of seeing me cry. We fought over
everything you can imagine from what radio station to turn
on to which bowl we were going to eat from. Always petty
stuff. It would start with words, motherfucker being a
family favorite from toddlerhood, to pushing, hair pulling
then throwing things. Brenda broke it up when things got
really rough or something got broken. Then she'd dictate
what was going to be done. Her decisions never went my way.

     One of the great continuing battles was over what kind
of music to play on the radio. Brenda loved popular romantic
ballads. Lisa, the next down wanted Salsa, I liked anything
I could dance wildly to. Delia liked to watch me dance so
she liked whatever got me moving. Contrary little Maria
wanted whatever no one else wanted.

     All that is not to say there was no brotherly or
sisterly love in our dysfunctional family. If mother really
laid into one of us or some outsider hurt or threatened to
hurt us, the rest could come to the injured party's aid with
a ferociousness that frightened the meanest bully and even,
sometimes, my mother. Once, when I was eight and Delia was
six, an eleven year old girl on the second floor was beating
on my sister Lisa who was just short of ten. In seconds we
bloodied her nose and shin and sent her screaming to her
mother. The mother called the cops claiming that all five of
us had assaulted her daughter. When the police realized what
happened, they laughed it off and left. The girl's mother
then called the welfare department. She was on welfare. The
social worker brought another social worker who badgered my
mother so much that she shoved her out the door and threw
her files all over the hall. The social worker called the
cops back. The cops refused to get involved and said they
ought to get a lawyer to settle the matter. They did. The
lawyer took one look at our very humble abode and decided he
was in the wrong part of town. In the end, the matter died
of inertia. Everybody but the girl's mother just lost
interest, or, I suspected, were afraid of my mother.
Meanwhile, after a day of pouting, the eleven year old was
playing with Lisa again like nothing happened.
     Delia was particularly protective of me. Many a time
when the other three were really pissed at me over something
and about to do harm, Delia would wrap her arms around me
and scream. That always stopped the attack. Then Delia would
look at me and smile or, sometimes, if she was angry too,
kick me in the shin. Shins were a favorite family target.
     We didn't fight much when my mother was around because
she'd get really angry and smack and kick everybody whether
they were involved or not. And you didn't dare ask her for
anything. Her eyes would open wide and she'd go into a
tirade about our poverty.
     'You see a fucking clothes washing machine around here
somewhere? I got on fifty-dollar shoes or something? How am
I going to feed you and buy shit too!' All this was in
staccato Puerto Rican Spanish except 'fucking'. She used
that word a lot, like 'fucking lavadora' or 'fucking ninos'.
She saved special names for my biological father and his
'fucking putas' or whores. She hated him more than the other
men who had passed through her life. It took me years to
figure out why.
     Having put up with all that crap in my house is
probably the main reason I was such a son-of-a-bitch in the
street and at school. School 212, where I sort of studied,
was only a block away so my school and street reputations
were well known in that limited area. It took very little
for me to start beating on some poor kid, including bigger
ones. I wasn't afraid of anybody. I got my ass kicked many a
time taking on kids with friends nearby or too big even for
me. But I was lucky; both my parents endowed me with a
muscular body and the athletic ability to use it
effectively. I was always small for my age but my fast fists
made up for it, and kept me in trouble at school and with a
lot of kids' parents. There were whole sections, even on my
block, where I was shooed away by anxious mothers if they
were on the street when I came by. When I got older, I
wished I had gotten into sports instead of fights. Trouble
was, there wasn't much in the way of sports in our part of
the city, especially for a part black PR kid.
     At school, I was the most feared boy through third
grade. Extortion was how I got spending cash. 'Gimme a
quarter, motherfucker, an' I won't kick you ass,' was my
third grade line. I used it mostly on the better-dressed
boys. I hated anyone in nice clothes; especially if they
wore those Jack Purcell shoes that my mother refused to buy
due to the price. I hated kids whose fathers took them
places. I hated being poor and fatherless.

     Fourth grade was when the O'Reilly brothers moved into
the neighborhood and, during the first week of classes, beat
the shit out of me in front of the whole school. I'd like to
say that we became friends after that but we never did. It
was probably more my fault than theirs. Being hard headed
and never wanting to give up on anything, I sought them out
individually and beat them up knowing full well that they'd
eventually get me jointly on the playground. And, of course,
they did. Ray Hoolihan himself put an end to that ridiculous
cycle.

     'You're stupid, Junior,' he told me in front of our
tenement one evening with other kids looking on. 'You get
help when you can't solve a problem by yourself. Now you
stay the fuck away from them two and there won't be no more
problems.'
    I was nine and didn't see any sense to that. The last
points had been scored by the O'Reillys the day before.
Obeying my biological father meant they won. 'But they beat
on me yesterday!' I declared angrily.

     Hoolihan smacked me lightly on the side of the head.
'Do what the fuck I say. Them kids ain't gonna bother you no
more!' He got back into his car and was gone.
     The O'Reilly brothers didn't come to school for two
    days. I had fantasies that my
biological father had killed them. When they did show on the
    third day, one had the
remnants of a black eye. They glared at me but kept at a
    distance. I strutted past them,
rubbing against one once but getting no reaction, I forgot
    it.

     I didn't have any real friends at school. The white
third of the student body didn't play with me because I
wasn't white. Ray Hoolihan took some chance claiming pride
in being my father. It was the early 60's and spics, as
Spanish speakers were called, weren't generally socially
acceptable with the Irish, especially those who had black
blood in them as my dark curly hair advertised. In fact, my
nickname at school and among the whites that knew me was
exactly that, Spic. The Latinos, mostly Puerto Ricans,
called me Gato, cat in English, for my green eyes.

    Being illegitimate didn't help either. The mothers of
legitimate kids with respectable fathers, which meant, in
our community, having a job, didn't want their little
darlings  playing with a disreputable bastard with white
blood who was the bad fruit of a whore and a reputed
criminal.

     However, my greatest social liability had nothing to do
with anyone but me. I had one lousy personality. Having
nothing, I wanted what the others had. I bullied kids into
giving me school supplies, toys, money and food and tried to
force them to hang around with me. All that nastiness netted
me was many hours of detention and lots of avoidance. Even
in physical education where I excelled, I was always chosen
after half my classmates. I could win a game with my ability
but just as often lose it due to bad sportsmanship. I made
my teammates miserable by insisting on being first at
everything and playing a position I didn't necessarily want,
but one that I felt someone else wanted badly. Everything
had to be done my way. The truth is that I actually believed
that I knew the best way to win, that my ideas were the most
effective, that the others were wrong in not excepting my
leadership. I stayed friendless for years.

     I did want friends, desperately, but selfishness and a
lack of control over my nasty ways along with a terrible
reputation ruined my most wholehearted attempts. During the
beginning of my second pass through the fourth grade, there
was a boy who I truly wanted to make my friend. He was a
nice looking blond boy from out of the area who didn't know
anybody. I was a year older than him at ten. I had nothing
to give him so I bullied sweets from others. I convinced Mr.
Martinson, our teacher, to let us sit together. For a while
the boy accepted the social isolation that came with being
associated with mean Gato Molina. But I'd get moody when he
didn't play the games I wanted, go where I wanted, or do
what I wanted. Finally, I hit him hard in the stomach right
after lunch one day when he left me to play with a pair of
boys from the other fourth grade. He rarely spoke to me
again. I hated him from then on.
     In short, I was an oppressive bully.
     My first attempt at sex at the unripe age of six was an
indication of things to come. I convinced two other six year
olds from the block to join me in a basement where I tried
to fuck one with the promise that he could screw me
afterward. My strongest memory from that brief encounter was
the smooth roundness of the boy's ass as he pulled his
shorts down. There was a small glob of shit on his hole when
he spread his cheeks. Unfortunately, it never occurred to me
to lubricate my dick with spit or something so, try as I
did, with him pulling the hole open wide as he could, my
little prick just wouldn't go in. Frustrated, I reneged on
the deal and walked away. When the two protested, I knocked
the one with his pants down to the floor. The other just
stood there looking down at his buddy's stiff cock.
    From then on it was solitary sex. My main problem was
privacy. There were always sisters in the house and just
because I was taking a shit or a bath didn't keep them from
walking brazenly into the bathroom. All of us kids slept in
the same bedroom until Brenda started getting bubs at eleven
or twelve. My mother moved my younger sisters and me into
the spare room. I was seven then and Delia and Maria were
five and four. They were in the room a lot and the door
didn't have a lock.

     Having a separate bed allowed me to do some things
under my covers at night. As I mentioned, I slept naked so
there was no need to pull down anything to get to my joy
stick. I developed a number of quiet ways of making myself
feel good using soft T shirts to masturbate with or hump
into. For humping, I came up with elaborate knotting
arrangements that provided a hole for my peter. With my
hands I'd hold the bottom corners of the T shirt down by my
thighs and pump into the opening provided by the knots. I
achieved my first orgasm that way a couple of weeks after
moving into our new room.

     The next step was using some of my mother's makeup
remover, a slick paste in a blue jar, inside a piece of
cellophane inside the hole in the T shirt. When I added
spit, it stopped the cellophane from pulling out so often
and allowed easier orgasms.

    From the age of five, I was sticking things up my ass
hole. First, I used soapy fingers in the bathtub. I tried
them all, pinky to thumb, both hands, from the front and the
back, seated, standing and bent over to see which one would
go in the furthest and which one felt the best. Before my
seventh birthday, I was pushing objects up inside, from
pencils covered with cellophane to candles of different
sizes to a small broom stick covered with my mother's cream
and spit.

     By the time I was seven, even before the separate
bedroom, I was sneaking into basements where I had greater
privacy for longer periods of time. The problems with the
basements were the filth, my fear of the dark and big
cockroaches, no water to clean up, and junkies. For the
dirt, I hid cardboard boxes and newspaper in my two chosen
places. The dark and cockroaches were problems I never
really completely solved. The dark kept me from seeing the
bugs but not from hearing them when they crawled across the
cardboard. Most basements with windows had people living in
them, often supers, but I eventually found one on Forty
Seventh Street in the block below mine that could be entered
from the back of the building, had two small windows in the
rear wall which, even partially blocked, did let some light
in though not enough to see the most of the cockroaches.
During the cold months, it was well heated toward the middle
by the building boiler. Although occasionally used by
junkies for getting high and older kids for sex, it was
always unoccupied when I wanted to use it most, right after
school.

     Gradually, I built a stock of things to be used for sex
including jars with lids for water to clean up afterwards. I
was always looking for smooth narrow things to stick up my
ass while I jerked off. When I was eight, I invented a
fucking machine operated by my feet. It was the pole and
handle I broke off a junked carpet sweeper I found on my way
to school one day. It was rare that anybody walked with me
so I could concentrate on finding interesting things. It was
the shape I'd been looking for. I got to school late after
going back to Forty Seventh, through a basement with a lock
that I could open by sticking my arm through a hole in the
glassless window grate of the door, out the back and down
three buildings to my hideaway. I was particularly
distracted in class that day by thoughts about how I'd use
that long black shiny plastic handle.

     After school, I ran most of the way and arrived
sweating even though it was March and still pretty cold. I
pushed my shoes off and pulled down my pants the moment I
got the cardboard onto the concrete floor. With some effort,
I twisted the plastic handle off metal pole. I was out of
cream so I used soap and water. I lay on my back. It slipped
in easily touching that special spot that made my dick feel
so good. I had felt the little lump with my finger but had
no knowledge of prostates in those days. The thick plastic
was cold at first but quickly warmed up. I slid it back and
forth, pushing it in father each time. Even though it was
nearly a foot long, by working it around, I was able to get
it in so far that I was afraid it would slip in to where I
couldn't get it out. The feeling came quickly all three
times I masturbated pulling and pushing my new toy in and
out of myself.

     The next day in school, I came up with the idea for my
fucking invention. Once again, I ran to the basement and
stripped off my pants. I twisted the handle back on the
pole, lubricated it with soap and water, put the tip against
my hole and tied the pole to my ankle with rubber bands I'd
stolen from my teacher's desk. Lying back, I bent my knee
and the handle slipped in but the angle was wrong and it
hurt. I tied my ankles together with my pants and tried
again. It went straight it. I was the best feeling I'd ever
accomplished. I felt like it went clean up to my stomach. I
was able to get off three times again then just lay there
enjoying the feeling of that thing inside me.

     Solitary play was just about all that was available to
me in those days.

     During the first three grades, I made attempts at
friendship with different boys and a couple of girls. My
goal was more sexual than companionship. I knew kids would
always want to do things I didn't want to do and piss me off
so sex was a more practical target. It was just a matter of
finding kids who liked sex, watching who played pocket pool
the most or, in the case of girls, who was always adjusting
her panties. The girls never lasted more than a day or two.
There was no way they were going into any basement with Gato
Molina. One of the boys, a skinny eight year old Columbian
with ragged teeth and so little English we had to
communicate in Spanish, showed me his long slim hardon in
the school bathroom, giggling all the while. He admitted to
playing with it every night, most mornings and always when
he took a bath.

    'How long you have to do it before it feels real good
and starts shaking?' I asked him on the way home.

    'Oh, it always feels good when I'm doing it.' It was
apparent to me that he had never accomplished an orgasm.

     'You want to do it now. I got a special place where
nobody can see us.'

     He agreed enthusiastically.

     In the basement, I was reluctant to show him my fucking
machine for fear he might say something to the other boys in
my class and they'd laugh at me. He pulled his pants down to
his ankles. I took mine off. We sat on the cardboard I'd
gotten out of its hiding place behind the boiler. He held
his hand above his cock, grabbed it with the tips of his
fingers and began pulling up and down, his foreskin covering
and uncovering his shiny brown cockhead. I tried it that way
to but reverted to the fist that I always used. He'd do it
hard for a while then stop, take a breath and do it again.

     'How come you keep stopping? You are never going to get
the feeling like that.'

     'I don't want to pee all over. If I keep doing it, I'll
pee.'

     'Mine don't pee. It just feels good.'

     'Let me see,' he insisted.

     I gripped tight but without something up my ass, it
took longer. He kneaded his but kept his eyes on my bobbing
hand. I thought about sneaking my finger in from under me
but knew he'd see. Finally I felt it coming and quickened
the pace. Then, wham, it happened. I quickly took my hand
away so he could my cock bouncing with my feeling. He got
close and touched the side.

      'Man, why's it doing that? What's it feel like?'

     'Really cool! Now you do it but don't stop. But take
your pants off so you can move your legs.' I wanted to get
him to take his shirt off too but thought it might scare
him. What little I could see of his tummy was smooth and
flat. It would have been nice to see it all, even in the dim
basement.

     He started masturbating and, this time, kept going.
Shortly, he warned, 'Watch out, I'm going to pee!'

     I backed up involuntarily but he didn't pee. He opened
his legs so they wouldn't get wet but they just stiffened
as, still working his hand, he felt his first orgasm. 'Oh
man, oh man!' he exclaimed in English

     We went there three more times before I decided to
introduce him to anal pleasure.

    'Do you ever put your finger here?' I pointed between
my bare legs at my ass.

    'Oh, no, man, that is dirty there. You would have to
wash you hands for an hour to get off the stink.'

     I tried to convince him otherwise, but he saw assholes
as the dirtiest of all places. So, that ended that. I
couldn't use my fucking machine with him there so only
brought him a couple more times a week apart. He didn't ask
so I just didn't invite him anymore. Anyway, he was hanging
around with a fat Ecuadorian that didn't like me. I think
the Ecuadorian told him he shouldn't play with me any more.
Apparently the kid never said  anything about my basement
hideout because no one ever made any comments regarding it.

     Then there was Susie Barlow, my brief heterosexual
adventure. She was seven, had a tough little tomboy body and
was a year behind me in the second grade. Susie liked my
green eyes and didn't object when I ran my hand up under her
dress and fingered her through her panties. She even went
into a boys room stall with me and stood on the toilet while
I pulled her panties down and examined her little vagina.
Unfortunately, she was so excited she told a few of her
friends who reported me to their teacher who reported me to
the counselor who tried to have me expelled. The principal
decided instead on a three day suspension and a week of
detention on my return. It was the beginning of an
unpleasant  relationship with skinny, big nosed Miss Peters,
the school counselor.

     I made another attempt at male friendship with a blond
Irish kid but that only lasted a week before I got in a
fight with his friend over him looking at what I was writing
in my notebook. I didn't like anybody looking at my writing
because I figured they all thought their writing was better
than mine. Generally, it was. Sometimes I could hardly read
it myself.

     I fantasized special friends, always blond haired boys
with long cocks, large rounded rear ends and white skin, who
would come with me to my secret basement hideout. We would
fuck each other with the plastic handle while using our free
hands to jerk each other off. Some of the fantasies got
bizarre with the entire handle and pole going up inside my
friend and him begging for more. Sometimes we'd put
broomsticks up our asses and rub wet, soapy bodies and
crotches face to face against each other until the feeling
came. The boys always kept hugging me long after we got off.
Finally, I daydreamed about the same blond boys with cocks
that, when they got hard, would get as long as the black
plastic handle. They'd lay me on my back and fuck me with
long strokes so I could see that dick, wet and shiny, going
in and out. I'd take hold on to their round firm asses and
pull them into me. That was my favorite fantasy.

     The older I got, the more deeply it bothered me that I
couldn't seem to make friends. Try as I might, I had no idea
what to say or how to act so others would like me. I'd get
so frustrated sometimes I'd sit alone and cry.

    When the Spanish language newspaper carried the story
of a man killing himself by jumping off a five story
building on West Eight-Sixth Street, I saw that as an
option. Several times, I went up on our roof and
contemplated how I might do it: sitting on the ledge and
falling off, taking a running start and jumping far enough
out to land in the middle of the street, or standing at the
edge with my eyes closed and falling forward. The last was
the one seemed the easiest. My mother would finally
understand how mean she was and my biological father would
know he should have done things with me.

     I never got close to actually doing it but the thought
of suicide was often in my mind after a particularly bad
human relations day.

     I was ten, a few weeks short of the start of my second
try at fourth grade after a boring friendless summer
vacation when, out of the blue, a twelve year old sixth
grader named Kenny befriended me, apparently on orders from
my biological father. I never had any definitive proof
Hoolihan was behind it but I heard partial remarks by Kenny
to the others like 'babysitting Hoolihan's kid' and 'lucky
he's Hoolihan's kid'. Kenny, athletic, well built and nearly
a head taller with light brown hair and a triangular face
with wide set eyes and a pointed chin, was, like me,
fatherless but had four older brothers, two older sisters,
and one each younger. His fourteen year old sister was with
him in the sixth grade. Of the older boys, all of whom had
dropped out of school by age fifteen, one, sixteen, was in a
state reformatory for armed robbery, the eighteen year old
had a legitimate job and the eldest at twenty worked for my
father. Kenny's eleven year old sister and eight year old
brother were in my school but doing poorly both having
failed at least twice. Nancy, the eleven year old, was in
the other fourth grade across the hall from mine. All but
the eldest brother and the one locked up lived in the
apartment with their mother. The father had died a few years
before at thirty-seven of liver disease after twenty plus
years of heavy drinking and violence against his entire
family.

     Kenny was on juvenile probation after two arrests for
shoplifting and burglary. He always had money in his pocket
and was generous with it. Rumor had it that he was in on
some of my father's burglaries.

    He let me hang with him and his friends in a basement
on 46th Street where they had cigarettes, beer and circle
jerks. We'd go there after school; smoke and drink then beat
off, in that order. I never got into smoking but the high
the beer provided pushed away a bit of the misery that
cluttered my life. The older boys were entering puberty and
had hair around their cocks and could fire a stream of cum.
I enjoyed watching the action more than participating,
especially a couple of blonde haired still prepubescent boys
I tried to sit close to when we were going to beat our meat.
One was blue-eyed Georgie Shannon who I considered the best
looking boy in the school. Georgie was stylishly a bit ahead
of his time with long, always brushed blonde hair was nearly
shoulder length.

     For some reason I couldn't begin to fathom, I found the
shape of the blondes' hairless hard penises very appealing.
It was hard to take my eyes off them. I wanted to touch
them, more, I wanted to smell them. I used those thoughts in
my private masturbation sessions in the bathroom or, more
often, in my secret basement hideout.

    A week after school opened, during my fifth or sixth
time in a circle jerk when one of the boys suggested we play
strip poker, the loser having to suck off the winner. I
hadn't the slightest idea how to play. Worst, I had on the
fewest articles of clothing. As usual, I wore no socks or
underpants. Kenny explained the basics and promised to help
me. He didn't.

     Everybody laughed each time I lost. The only
consolation for me was watching Georgie and his friend take
off their shirts and pants. I'd never seen either bare
chested. I couldn't take my eyes off Georgie's smooth
stomach and the flow of skin that disappeared so seductively
into his briefs.  It only took fifteen minutes for me to be
completely naked. The winner, Jerry, a heavy set, moderately
hung thirteen year old with a nasty look fixed on his face
and a tuft of red pubic hair over the top of his over four
inches of cock stood in front of me in stocking feet, his
pants down to his knees.

     'Time to blow, Spic. Come and get it. You know you want
it.' and on and on from everybody. I looked to my supposed
friend for help but Kenny was urging me on as much as
anyone. I dropped to my knees and focused my eyes on Jerry's
freckled gut, trying not to look at his stiff dick. But I
could feel the heat of it on my face. Jerry grabbed my head
and pulled me to him. His soft cockhead pressed against my
lips. I tightened my jaw and turned my face away.

       'Open up, Spic. You lost. You gotta do it,' he
insisted.

      'Or else,' said another as he took off his belt.

     My first reaction to the threat was to stand up and
accept the challenge. But quickly I realized that this
possibly phony friendship was all I had. These were my only
playmates and this was how they played. I cursed myself for
not seeing this coming. But there was no way out. I opened
my mouth. The boy jammed four inches of cock in. His prickly
pubic hair tickled my nose.

    'Fuck him, Jerry! Fuck his mouth! Suck! Suck! Suck!'
urged the boys, some rubbing their crotches.

    The teenager began pumping into my mouth, moving his
hips back and forth. 'Keep your mouth and lips tight. Use
your tongue,' he ordered. I wasn't sure what to do but
gradually realized that I didn't mind this as much as I
thought I would. One of the blonds, Georgie, sat crosslegged
beside us and watched closely. I wished he had been the
winner.

     Jerry bent over me and tried to ram himself even
farther up into my mouth. He yanked me toward him with each
thrust. The skin of his cock shaft was soft and smooth, the
head spongy over his boner. I wanted to hold onto his legs
but what machismo I had left wouldn't allow it.

     'He's gonna cum,' someone shouted softly. 'Make him
swallow it all, Jerry.' It was my supposed friend who had
come beside us and was peering down at the action. He
grabbed my hand and pressed it against his bare cock. It
shocked me. I looked his way out of the corners of my eyes.
His pants were down to his ankles. I pulled my hand away and
saw his cock, sticking straight up. It was beautiful, soft
flesh over a bloated shaft with the reddish head peeking out
from his foreskin. I let him pull my hand back over it.
'Feel that, Spic? I'm next.'

    I looked up at him best as I could, wanting to stare
him in the eye to see if he was serious, see if his
friendship had actually been a sham. But Jerry gripped my
head as he neared climax. The feel of the smooth lose flesh
of Kenny's cock excited me in a way I'd never experienced.
The tips of my fingers touched the gentle curve of his
abdomen. I'd seen his hardon several times before but only
briefly as my eyes were usually on the two blondes. I wanted
to feel more.

     Jerry came. He tugged my head to him so the sperm went
right down my throat. I could hardly taste it, just feel the
throbs and something warm in the back of my mouth. I don't
really know how much there was as I swallowed involuntarily.
What little I tasted was inoffensive, interesting.

     Kenny, my supposed friend, dropped my hand and pulled
my head to him. His cock was smaller than Jerry's by half an
inch and had no hair to tickle my nose. I was crushed that
he would do this but couldn't resist the desire to taste
this wonderful morsel. His cock felt wonderful against my
tongue. I sucked it in.

     But why was he doing this? He hadn't won the game. I'd
really believed Kenny liked me, that he was both a friend
and a protector. I shouldn't have been allowing him to do
this but couldn't bring myself to fight it.

     Rather than fuck my mouth, Kenny yanked my head back
and forth. I tightened my mouth and lips around his thick
pole. Georgie, the blond haired boy, remained where he was
and watched. I imagined his cock hard in my mouth instead of
Kenny's.

     Kenny stopped. 'I can't do it like this. I gotta lay
down. Get your black ass over here.' He pulled me by the arm
to one of two old mattresses by the wall. He let go and lay
back. 'Now, do me.'

     For whatever reason, I obeyed, crawled between his legs
and lay down, my arms over his warm, round thighs.
Immediately, I took his penis back into my mouth and let his
hands move my head up and down. It was a few minutes before
I realized that he'd let go and I was doing all the work
myself. The thing in my mouth had such a wonderful feel and
taste to it. I let my tongue explore the form, press against
the bulbous soft underside. My dick hardened. I closed my
legs so no one could see.

     The biggest boy, a chubby fourteen year old pimpled
adolescent named Ronny, came up behind me, pulling down his
briefs. 'I'm gonna fuck him in the ass while he sucks off
Kenny', he laughed.

       'Fuck no,' said Kenny sitting up on his elbows.
'Hoolihan finds out he'll fuck us up.'

     It was years before I thought much about the meaning of
that. Raping my mouth was okay but not my ass. There was a
line somewhere not to be crossed.

     'Then he's gotta suck me too.'

       'Just wait'll I'm finished,' insisted Kenny, my
protector.

     Kenny didn't provide any sperm, just a crushing hug of
my head to his crotch when he reached orgasm. I wrapped my
tongue around his cock to more completely feel the
throbbing. I missed it immediately when he pulled out.

     The big boy yanked me up and around. His cock was twice
Jerry's with an ugly fat head and a mass of brown hair at
its base. He grabbed my hair and pushed his dick between my
lips. I opened my mouth without thinking and he pushed in. I
didn't close around it. Someone noticed my hardon.

     `Fuckened Spic likes it! Look at his dick!'

     `Shit, man, I'm next!'

     `Shoulda told us before, Spic. Your mouth gotta be
better than my hand.'

     'C'mon, Spic, suck me like you did Kenny,' insisted
Ronny.

     Ronny's cock went deep into the back of my mouth,
gagging me. I tried to push him away. Two teens grabbed my
arms. Ronny held me tight to him by my hair and fucked my
open mouth. I was finally ready to fight back and wanted to
bite him but couldn't close my jaw due to gagging and
gasping for breath. Ronny grunted loudly.

     Someone shouted, 'Get him, Ronny!'

     Ronny growled, 'Here I come!'

     He pulled his cock out and fired sperm back into my
mouth and all over my face. Several voices cheered him on.
The taste was terrible. My arms were released. I rammed my
head and shoulders into Ronny's middle, knocking him back
but not down. I stood and swung with all I had at his face
but he easily dodged and pushed me to the side. Laughter
filled the room.

    I straightened, cum dripping off my face and onto my
chest. I looked at my tormenters. All but the two blonds
were laughing wildly. One was smiling uncomfortably but
Georgie merely looked at me, absolutely no emotion on his
face.

     Humiliation poured through me. I wanted to kill them
all but, even in that rage, knew I was in way over my head.
I ran to my clothing and dressed as quickly as I could,
putting my shirt on inside out and having to twist the
fabric to pull through two of the buttons. The laughter and
remarks roared on.

     'C'mon, Spic, suck me too!' 'Look at me. I'm hard just
for you.' `Hey Spic. Gotta milkshake for you.'

     I stomped out the door and up to the street, at the
last minute remembering that I had sperm all over my face. I
lowered my head and furiously wiped my shirtsleeves across
my face. Unbuttoned, they slid over my arm and didn't remove
much. The air on my scum dampened chest reminded me my T
shirt was back in the basement. I couldn't go back.
Muttering and cursing, tasting the foul scum Ronny had
squirted into my mouth, I walked blindly down the sidewalk,
bumping into a couple of people, not wanting anyone to see
who I was. I spit every few steps.

     Conflicting thoughts swirled in my head. They had raped
me, tried to turn me into a fag. Why had I let Kenny do it?
Why had I enjoyed doing Kenny? Why did Kenny get involved in
that? I'd get them all. First Ronny and Jerry but then Kenny
too. They all laughed at me, Ray Molina, the toughest,
meanest kid in school. I could kick most of their asses
easy. They were going to find out they made a big mistake
trying to turn Ray Molina into a faggot. I'd cut their dicks
off, even Kenny's. A vision of Kenny's cock diverted me. How
come I let him do that? Why did I do him? If I hadn't let
Kenny, then Ronny wouldn't..Fuck, fuck, fuck!

     I jumped all five steps down into the areaway under the
stoop of the basement I had to traverse to get to mine. I
ran to the back of the building and violently swung the rear
door open before rushing across the concrete and dirt to my
basement hideout. I grabbed furiously at the door three
times before getting it open. Inside I screamed 'Shit! Shit!
Shit!' as I ran and kicked the wall. I snatched up a box
with trash and threw it across the room then chased the box
and kicked it further. I started to cry and smack myself in
the face to get the feel of the scum off it and punish
myself for getting involved in such a stupid thing and
enjoying some of it.

     I fell on the floor and cried harder than I'd ever
cried. How could I have let myself suck on Kenny! I'd even
wanted to suck on the two blondes. Why? Why? Why?

     Self pity pushed aside some of the desire for
vengeance. They had made a fool of me, totally humiliated
me. If I went after them, everyone would find out why. Then
it struck me. What if they told others at school? In no
time, everyone would know. Everyone would call me a faggot
homosexual. But they couldn't say anything. If my biological
father were to hear what they did, he'd kill every one of
them. They wouldn't dare. Nobody's that crazy.

     They had gotten away with it. I couldn't do anything,
but they couldn't brag about it. I had to get them back some
way. I couldn't let them get away with doing that to me. But
I wouldn't hurt the two blonds. They hadn't done anything.
Why couldn't it have been their cocks flashed though my
mind. Fuck! How did I let that happen?