Date: Mon, 24 Jun 2002 22:06:33 -0400
From: SJ
Subject: Paul

There he was--the love of my life, with a photograph even! I stared at
the monitor, taking in that familiar kindly and handsome face, a face I
hadn't seen for over twenty years until I managed to track him down on
the internet. Paul was still alive--he hadn't died of the terrible
genetic disease that had killed his father, a young medical doctor--and
he was obviously prospering as a Neurologist in a fancy California
clinic. His bio listed his medical degrees and mentioned his love of
sports, of golf, of fishing and camping. Paul was the same as ever.

I knew him as a young kid from when we were both about ten years old,
just another one of the neighborhood kids until he came to my attention
by breaking his leg tobogganing. The news of his accident shocked me and
fixated my interest in Paul. Then there was the rumor that his family
might be moving. This shook me to the heart, and I prayed in childish
sobs that he wouldn't move away. "Please, please God, no...." It was then
I realized how strong my attraction to him was. But I didn't understand
then what kind of attraction it was. My prayers were answered, though:
Paul not only stayed, but suggested that I go to summer YMCA camp with
him.

That was the first time I saw him naked, his little undeveloped cock
sticking out like a prong as we were getting into our pajamas the first
night. It wasn't so much the look of his cock, then, but the easy
unselfconsciousness of his nudity. I was painfully shy myself, and
bashful about taking off my clothes in a cabin full of boys; but Paul set
the standard for everyone, not shy, not showing off, but just as natural
without clothes as he always was with them. For two weeks, I looked
forward to these times of changing--morning, night, swim time--watching
to get another glimpse of his cock, and usually succeeding because he was
so open and spontaneous. Other guys in the cabin would tease him (this
sort of thing went on all the time), and he would nonchalantly
counterattack, naked as he was, and then proceed getting dressed as if
nothing had happened. It was during this time that my emotional
dependency on Paul began to increase. I looked up to him as a model,
tried to imitate him, envied his charm and universal friendliness, his
easy banter, as I tried to break out of my own awkwardness. I felt
honored he took notice of me.

We were walking-to-school friends for several years after that, walking
nearly every morning and home nearly every afternoon, rain, snow or
shine, Paul, myself, and two other guys. These were my own special times,
and if something interfered with the pattern, I suffered agonies. We were
all A students, serious and highly "virtuous"--none of us drank, or
smoked, or used coarse language--so we talked about schoolwork and
teachers, sports, the doings of other students, the news of the day. But
almost never about sex. Maybe the closest we came was the year we all
took Biology, when we had to learn the terms of gross anatomy--"vagina"
and "clitoris," "vas deferens," "epidymis" and "seminal vesicals"--words
that Paul tossed off with clinical nonchalance. I remember once his
groaning at the thought of testicular cancer: "Imagine," he said, "an
overproduction of sperm cells." His medical vocation was already in the
picture. But on the subject of real sexual activity, Paul seemed as
diffident as I was, though he could have had any girl in school he
wanted, I think. I suppose it had something to do with his father being
dead. Still, he was friendly with everybody, had a gentle, kidding sense
of humor, and was becoming killingly handsome, with his dark permanently
tanned complexion, penetrating blue eyes, wavy brown hair, athletic
build. Part of his beauty was his erect posture; but Paul was straight as
an arrow in every way, and he remained secretive even when all of us
began dating girls. In those days, at least in our crowd, sex talk was
taboo.

It was in grade nine that Paul and I were put together in the same gym
class and I got to see him naked again. I always parked myself in the
locker next to his and watched as discreetly as I could manage. Paul's
cock, no longer the undeveloped little prong I remembered, was now far
more fascinating. It was good sized, though not enormous. Graced with a
bush of dark hair, it hung down with just a hint of forward dangle, and
most of the time it appeared to be circumcised. But it was not. Paul's
cock had a foreskin that just barely covered the somewhat elongated
glans, with a small opening at the end, and mostly it just slipped back
on its own. But sometimes the foreskin was fully relaxed, and these were
the times that made me most excited. Since I was circumcised, like almost
everyone else in the locker room, foreskin mesmerised me. I had to be
very careful not to get aroused, and more often than not I even denied
myself the pleasure of following Paul into the showers--both out of
shyness and fear of a telltale erection.

I was lucky enough to get scheduled in Paul's gym class for three years,
able to observe his unknowing strip tease. His lack of embarrassment
about nudity was an inspiration, and his cock enthralled me. I never knew
until he pulled down those immaculate white jockey shorts whether I would
see foreskin or not, or how much he would dangle. I watched carefully for
the least sign of arousal. Paul never suspected the effect he had on me
and my fantasy life. But disaster struck in grade twelve, when we were
put into different gym classes. I was no longer able to feed my fantasies
on his dazzling and variable penis. And during this exciting and sad
year, we all knew that we would be going to university--I had to settle
for the state university at home while Paul had plans for Columbia and
medical school--and we would probably be separated forever.

This was when I began and ended my short career as a Peeping Tom. Dressed
in black, I walked over to Paul's house late one summer night after
graduation, trembling with fear and sexual excitement. Paul's bedroom was
on the first floor, and he kept the window open a crack. As I crept up to
his lighted window, I could see him quietly reading, fully dressed, at
his desk. But after a few minutes (they seemed like an hour), he began to
yawn and stretch, then got up and started taking off his clothes. I was
shaking in my bones. In his underwear, he disappeared out the bedroom
door, and the light went on in the next window, the bathroom. This was an
interval of agonizing frustration, because I could just make out that
Paul was taking a shower, but the steam on the window blocked any view of
detail. When he finished showering, Paul reappeared in his bedroom
wearing only some kind of shorts he apparently planned to wear to bed.
But this is where my luck turned. Paul began doing some squat exercises
and tugged at these shorts, obviously uncomfortable. In a second, he
pulled the shorts off and stood there naked with a full erection pointing
almost directly upward. I had to stifle a gasp. Would he start
masturbating? No, no, Paul was too pure and I could almost swear he never
masturbated; instead, turning his bare ass toward me, he reached into a
drawer for some pajama bottoms. When he put them on, his erection stuck
out from the slit . . . and then the light went off.

I lost touch with Paul completely after university. We were not letter
writers, and I knew I could never mean to him what he meant to me. Then
after our freshman year, Paul's mother moved to another city. I was
emotionally shredded during first year by this separation; but eventually
the vacancy was filled by other friends. I realized that my passionate
dependency was unhealthy, and that the separation was forcing me to grow
up. But I never completely got over my infatuation with Paul. He is
probably responsible for my habit of falling hopelessly in love with a
succession of straight untouchables.

II





Now Paul's photograph was smiling at me from the computer screen. I
rejoiced that he was alive, that he was successful--even that he had a
wife and four children. Somewhere along the way, I was glad to learn, he
had discovered sex. Paul's universe was unfolding as it should. But what
to do?

I wanted to get a look at Paul again, to see his successful life first
hand, maybe even behold that gorgeous nudity one more time; but I had no
desire to rekindle the old infatuation--I had been through it too often.
And, friendly as he was, I had no reason to think Paul would welcome me
with open arms into his evidently fulfilling and crowded life. Besides, I
had no way of knowing how life might have changed him. I am certainly
different from what I was. No longer that gauche ninety-eight-pound
adolescent, my body has filled out (with some serious effort in the
weight rooms), and I have grown a trim continental mustache and beard.
Most important, I somehow overcame the shyness that crippled my youth
and, equipped with a degree in Business and good professional training,
became quite a successful chef and restauranteur, assuming a Gallic
alias--Jean--even making appearances as a public speaker and as frequent
guest on one of the local TV talk shows. Paul's years of coaching in
sociability had made their mark, and few of my many friends guess at the
shy soul who still dwells within me.

Wealthy, no longer closeted, with no personal entanglements-- my partner
of the last six years just decided to split, and to tell the truth, I'm
not broken up about it, since my real crushes always seem to lie
elsewhere--there was nothing to prevent me from spending some time in
California.

Finding Paul's clinic was no problem, and his home address was listed in
the phone book. But I couldn't sit in a parked car and watch for him: in
that neighborhood, I'd be reported immediately for suspicious behavior. I
couldn't pose as a neurology patient or a gardener, and unfortunately I
never learned to golf--so how could I get a look into his personal life?
The answer was easier than I ever hoped: on the same street as Paul's
grand palm-treed suburban villa was a health club, and, guessing his
habits, I joined.

Familiar with the rituals of weight rooms, I felt comfortable in this
environment, even as a newcomer. Locker rooms always offer sexual
potential, and so for a week I scouted this one out, carefully varying my
time of day so I could sense the rhythm of the place. The clientele had
its usual contingent of unattractive older men; but this being wealthy
California, many of these had a distinguished, athletic air about them.
There were almost no teens--they had other facilities at their
disposal--but there were a number of young marrieds and fortyish men like
myself who seemed to be regulars, and many of them were stunning. I
enjoyed daily long hot showers checking them out, but unfortunately there
was no sign of gay interest. This was definitely a straight club. And I
was somewhat disconcerted by the number of fathers who herded their
children--daughters as well as sons--through the shower room. The
daughters especially stared without shame at this nude newcomer, until I
felt my adolescent awkwardness coming back.

After a week, I was giving up any hope of spotting Paul--maybe my
assumptions were all wrong. Then I saw him. He was standing by a locker
wearing black boxer-type swimming trunks, waiting for a boy about twelve
years old, his son apparently, to get changed. I recognized him
immediately, with that tanned complexion, sturdy upright build, and still
intense but now fatherly face. His hairline had receded slightly, but
otherwise his youth and physique survived with amazingly little change.
Then, for a moment, as his son stripped and stepped into his trunks, I
glimpsed a little uncircumcized prong. Latent pictures flooded my brain.
I am not sexually attracted to young boys, and I was not at this moment;
but the deja vu was overwhelming. Father and son trooped off to the
shower room, then into the pool. I acted quickly, opened my locker and
moved my belongings to a locker near Paul's. Then I slipped on my trunks
and headed for the pool.

I had changed visibly so much over the years that I felt little danger of
being recognized, though inwardly I somehow felt transparent. Quietly
swimming my laps, I kept my eyes on the two. Paul's son was on the high
diving board, leaping time and time again into the water; he was no
budding Olympian, but he was fearless. Paul alternated between taking
laps and swimming around the diving board encouraging his son, who
between dives was trying to talk him into diving. Paul refused at first,
then got out of the pool and used the low diving board, and then finally
climbed to the high tower and dived headfirst in a graceful arc into the
water. After a few more laps, Paul got out of the pool and called to his
son, heading for the shower room. I quickly climbed out of the pool,
grabbed my towel, and followed.

The showers are arranged on poles, four showerheads to each, in a
conveniently open space. Paul and his son basked under the hot spray,
still wearing their trunks, and I positioned myself nearby for the best
view. "Would he take them off?" I wondered. For a few endless minutes,
they simply relaxed under the water. Then, in a familiar gesture, Paul
reached into the front of his trunks and pulled at the string. Slowly,
turning away from me, he slid them down, giving me a view of his firm
round ass; then, standing straight, he turned again. His cock was as
ravishing as ever, foreskin in place, a dangle more pronounced than I
remembered. His foreskin created an oval frame around his pee-slit. So
familiar, so far away. As the two began shampooing, eyes closed, I etched
the vision on my memory. Paul's son kept his trunks on--boys that age are
often bashful--but Paul was giving him the same lesson in unembarrassed
nakedness that he had taught me. He stood there tall like a pagan god. As
he soaped his body, he casually slipped his foreskin back, where it
remained. Neither paid me the least attention, and as the ritual came to
a conclusion, they turned off the showers, towelled off, and headed for
their lockers. Paul's son put a towel around his waist and slid off his
trunks underneath, but Paul walked casually with towel draped over his
arm, shaking his hair, his firm posteriors bobbing glamorously as he
went.

I followed, naturally enough, and appeared by their locker; going through
the motions of dressing, I kept my eyes askance on Paul as he slid into
his underwear--Calvin Kline specials--when suddenly . . .

"You're new to the club, aren't you? I hope you enjoy it."

His friendly greeting glinted in his eyes, as he offered his hand. I
hadn't expected him to speak. He had paid me no attention before this,
but of course the etiquette of shower-rooms requires a kind of imaginary
personal space. Here in the locker room, I was a newcomer in need of
welcome, and Paul was not one to hold back. I shook his hand and thanked
him, hoping my voice would not give me away, and then Paul introduced
himself and his older son, Paul Junior. I gave my French name.

"I'm a doctor at the University Clinic downtown. What kind of work are
you in?"

I explained about the restaurant business back home and said I was just
in California for a vacation. "But in my business with all that food and
wine, I can't let the exercise habits slide."

"I'm the same. I work long hours, but too much of it's behind a desk
these days. I try to get into the pool at least three times a week, and
it doesn't always work out. My resolution is to get my strokes in Monday,
Wednesday and Saturday like clockwork, if my wife and the office let me."

I fixed the schedule in my mind and said, "Maybe our paths will cross
again. Nice talking to you."

Wednesday took forever to arrive, and my hopes were high. I took the same
locker, expecting Paul's habits to be regular, and headed for the pool
just after it opened at 7:00. After an eternal hour pretending to swim
laps and letting my rest periods get ever longer, I was about to despair
when Paul appeared, this time with a smaller boy, maybe seven or eight
years old. A similar pool routine developed, only the younger boy mainly
used the lower diving board. Just once, I saw him risk the high tower,
and I thought the time right for me to head for the showers. It looks
less like following him, I thought to myself. Paul soon appeared with his
younger son, gave me a nod of recognition, and I then had a second vision
of my god. This time no foreskin. Just that darkish pink elongated glans,
with the slight jut forward. The boy skinned off his trunks without
hesitation, and Paul with his easygoing solicitude made sure he shampooed
and soaped properly, including his tiny uncut penis. I forced myself to
leave before they finished showering, and I was half-dressed when they
got back to their lockers, laughing, nude.

They were joking with each other the whole time, but Paul hurried the boy
along as they dressed, saying, "We're late. Your mother and the girls
will be waiting for us." To me he said briefly, "This is my son Peter."
The well-taught boy held out his little hand, and I said hello. "Nice to
see you again," said Paul, as they left the locker room.

My wish had come true. Not only had I once again gazed on Paul's naked
body and his enthralling genitals, but I had affirmed for myself that his
career and family life were flourishing, and that he had grown, very much
as I expected, into an attentive, loving father. His happiness made for
mine. I had no desire to reveal my identity, and no wish to intrude
myself into his life any farther. My intensest feelings for him were
still latent, and I did not want to re-activate the hopeless obsession of
my adolescence. I resolved to look for him just one more time on Saturday
and then head for home.

But was it Saturday afternoon or Saturday evening? It could have been
either, so I showed up at the afternoon pool hours and loitered around
the locker room, swam, showered, swam again, generally trying to avoid
the notice of the staff. No Paul. Luckily, when I arrived for evening
hours the staff had changed. I got into the pool and marked time once
again, until my heart gave a jump on seeing Paul arrive through the
doorway. He was alone. Plunging immediately into the deep end, he began
taking his laps assiduously, without distraction. When I thought he was
beginning to tire, I headed for the shower room.

Paul arrived a few minutes later, nodded in my direction, and began to
shower. But this time I feared he might never get naked. Without a son to
look after, he seemed to be taking his time. He left his trunks on as he
shampooed, as he soaped his body, even reaching the soap down inside the
back of his trunks. Finally, while my heart was half in panic, he turned
away as he pulled the cord of the trunks and slid them down. It was a
time before he turned around again. When he turned my way, he casually
soaped his crotch, looking once or twice in my direction as he did so,
but not breaking the silence. Then, standing up straight, he did
something I'd never seen him do: turning off the shower, he meticulously
rearranged his foreskin down the full length of his cock.

I finished my shower, and, not speaking, we towelled off simultaneously
(as if by accident) and headed for our lockers. Undoing my lock, I kept
my eyes on that gorgeous cock of his in an unspoken blessing of farewell.
Paul put on his shirt while still nude from the waist down--a charming
habit he retained from his younger days--and I had a clear view of his
cockhead peeking out the end of his foreskin.

"Why don't you take a photograph?--it lasts longer." I looked at his
face. He was serious. "John." I startled at my real name. "It is you,
isn't it?"

There was a long pause. "Yes," I stammered. "How did you know?"

"I didn't at first," he said. "But there was something--something in the
sound of your voice when we met, something in the way you hold your body
that seemed familiar." He paused. "And then it struck me when I saw you
staring at me in the shower-room last Wednesday. You used to do that in
high school, didn't you?"

I blushed. "Yes," I said. "I'm gay, if you don't mind."

"I know, and I don't mind. It all came together back in twelfth grade,
just before we finished high school. I knew you leaned on me a lot, being
so shy and all, and it worried me sometimes. I knew you were smart and I
liked you and wanted to help you do well for yourself. It made me feel
good. But then I began to realize it had gone a whole lot farther. I
didn't really know how far until I saw you outside my bedroom window that
night."

I froze.

"You almost caught me jerking off, you bastard," he said in a hoarse
whisper. As he spoke, I looked down at his cock hanging beneath his
shirttails, while his foreskin slowly receded back along his glans of its
own accord. "I was so backward about sex at that age I felt humiliated.
And back then homosexuals were just a rumor. You didn't really know
anyone . . . . You're not the type that goes for little boys, are you?"

"No, definitely not," I said.

"I didn't think so--but I left the kids home just to be on the safe side.
You know, that night I saw you, I was shaking with rage, confusion. I
finally had to talk to someone and I didn't know who. My mother could
tell I was bothered about something, and she broke the silence. When I
told her I'd seen you peeking in my window, she made me see it wasn't my
problem but yours. She made me feel sorry for you. She's a great woman,
my Mom. But she made it clear I had to keep distance between us, for my
sake as well as yours."

As he spoke, his cock began to rise slightly, and he looked at it. "You
like to look at it? Well, look at it then. I've never cared. I've seen my
share, handled them too--clinically, of course. We have to put our
fingers everywhere, you know. I'm not gay." He unbuttoned his shirt.

To my astonishment, his cock rose up further as he talked, gradually
reaching that full vertical rigidity I'd seen through his bedroom window.
My own was following suit, rising to its usual horizontal crescent, and
in a moment we were standing there, two forty-year-old naked men with
full erections holding conversation in a locker room. Though we were out
of sight unless anyone came round the corner, the flagrance was still
surprising.

"But how could you do that to me? Why? I was your friend! And what in the
hell are you doing now? Stalking me? I felt betrayed--raped. I should be
mad as hell now. . . ."

"I knew I was going to lose you, Paul," I burst out. "There was nothing I
could do to help it. You were going away, and I'd never see you again. I
never meant to reveal myself or hurt anyone, really . . . . I'm going
home tomorrow. I can show you my ticket." Tears welled up in my eyes as I
described how I found him on the internet, how glad I was he was alive
and so successful and so happy with his family, how I just wanted another
look at him.

"You've got one hell of a way of going about it," he said.

He reached out and touched me gently, meaningfully, on the shoulder, one
of those intuitive gestures that had thrilled me three or four times at
crisis points during my younger life. I reached out impulsively and put
my hand on his rigid cock, sliding the velvety skin up and down the stiff
shaft.

Paul recoiled in surprise when he felt me grasp his erection. But then he
relaxed and said, "All right, if that's what you want," making no move to
back away, or to touch mine. I continued in fascination for a few
moments. I gathered the foreskin into a pucker, then shinned it back down
the shaft, developing a rhythmic motion, slowly back and forth,
increasing the speed, the pressure, feeling the live response--when a
look come into Paul's face. Suddenly, he thrust in my hand and spermed
all over his locker door, once, twice, three times, four, five . . . .

"God, I've never had hairtrigger problems before," he said when he'd
caught his breath. He looked at his semirigid cock wilting, and the white
creamy liquid dripping down the metal door. "Well, you've had your show.
We've got a mess to clean--and you've got your own problem to take care
of," motioning at my erection. "But don't do it here."

He dried his cock while I wiped up the semen in my towel. We both began
to get into our clothes without speaking.

When Paul was fully dressed, he looked at me: "John, I hope you have a
decent life to go back to. I always liked you, I respected your
intellegence, and the way you felt for other people . . . I don't think
you'd ever hurt anyone intentionally. Now I understand where you were
coming from all those years growing up, I understand better, and I know
how it must have been awfully hard on you. If that's the way you are,
it's OK with me. But I have my own life . . . ."

"Yes," I said. "And it's everything I hoped for you."

He nodded in silence.

"All the best to you"

"And you."

"Good-bye, John," he said, and took my hand in his. Then, looking
straight into my eyes, he gave me another one of those thrilling squeezes
on my shoulder, turned, and walked away.