Date: Wed, 4 Feb 2004 04:40:54 +1100
From: Janosz Poja <jgdavies@optushome.com.au>
Subject: Love Among Boys: Part 2

	My sleepover at Rowan's house is the last clear memory I have of our time
together.  The events following it are foggy, but I will relate them the
best I can, and try not to spoil my account with the youthful indignation
that still burns in my breast when I recall them.
	When I arrived at Rowan's house, I noticed that he wasn't smiling, and
seemed apathetic.
	"Hey Daniel," he said, barely looking at me.
	When we entered his room -- which was so cluttered as to make the color of
the carpet indiscernible -- I asked him what was wrong.
	"Nothing," he replied, with uncharacteristic terseness.
	"C'mon Row," I said, touching his arm.  He looked at me, with bright, wide
eyes, and flashed a brief smile.  This was enough to make my heart soar, and
restore my confidence that Rowan's spirit was intact, and merely stifled.
	"Nothing's wrong, Daniel," he said, "because you're here," and he kissed my
cheek.  My penis came to life as if a switch had flicked on somewhere;
indeed, at that stage of my life, I often marveled at the body's efficient
responses to these things.  I discovered, in bed one night, that if I kept
the image of Rowan's body in my mind -- his golden skin, smooth ass, lithe
form -- I could generate an amazing feeling between my legs, and would spurt
like a gunshot, with little aid from my hand.
	That night, Rowan and I occupied ourselves as best we could until it was
time to turn in, but sex was always on my mind, and I daresay his also.  A
game of Scrabble quickly degenerated into a test of whose vocabulary
contained the largest amount of swearwords -- we both agreed that this was
"kids' stuff", but by the end of it, Rowan was his old self.
	"Hey," he said, when the board was tossed aside.  "Do you wanna see if I
can sneak one of my dad's porno videos?"
	The idea sounded great to me.
	Fear went with it, though -- Rowan's dad was scary.
	We snuck into his parents' room, pushing the door open with care, and found
the video beneath a pile of magazines in the closet.  This operation was
easy -- it seemed like every door in Rowan's house was busted and always hung
ajar.  Rowan's dad snored like a bear months into hibernation -- he seemed so
separate from us, with his fat gut and shorts barely covering him, that I
hardly saw him as dangerous.  Rowan did, though.
	Our treasure was called "Lucky Boy".  It was about a young man who had to
make love with six different women in order to collect the fortune his uncle
had left for him in his will.  Some of the women had underarm hair.
	"Do you wanna get into bed and watch this?" Rowan asked.
	"Sure," I said, not wanting to sound too excited.  Now, I wish I had dived
on top of him like a wild animal, not bothering to hide the enthusiasm I
felt.  Rowan kicked off his bulky sneakers and pulled his baggy jeans down,
showing the white briefs he always wore underneath.  He left his tight green
t-shirt on, and got under the covers.  I quickly stripped down to my boxer
shorts, and joined him.  There wasn't much room in the bed, but we made do --
I lent against the wall and he spread his legs over mine.  I loved being so
close to him.
	The movie had hardly started before I had a large, uncomfortable erection.
The film itself wasn't too arousing, but back then sex felt like a
confusing, exciting whirlwind -- everything was part of the one entity, which
brought me to excitement at the mere thought.
	After a little while I turned to look at Rowan, sitting up against the bed
head.  The screen illuminated his face in the darkness.  He turned to me and
smiled.
	"Do you think this guy is good looking?" he said, pointing to the actor on
the screen.
	"Not really," I said.  Some of the women were all right.
	"I think you're better.  I'd rather watch you."  These words shocked me.
He giggled.  "Do you have a boner?"  He started feeling around under the
covers -- light fingertips brushed my thigh, and then my penis.  I bucked my
hips against his touch, and decided I had to get some relief.
	"I need to take care of it," I said, and pulled the covers off us.  Raising
my ass, I pulled my boxers down past my knees, and starting stroking my
prick.
	"I can help you," Rowan said, and slid his shirt over his head.  Watching,
I stopped masturbating, and climbed on top of him, feeling his chest.  His
nipples beaded under my touch and his skin felt like silk.  I kissed and
tasted him, moving downwards.  He arched his back to meet me as I did so.
When I found the fabric of his briefs with my mouth I saw that his young
organ was stiff inside, and decided to lick it right through the cotton.
Rowan clawed at the bed and moaned painfully.  Neither of us had the
composure to last in this manner; we were both at breaking point.  I skinned
Rowan of his briefs and lanced his young member with my tongue, enveloping
it with my mouth, and then released, pouncing with my body over his, letting
his hand find my sex as I kissed his face, nibbling his neck.  We panted in
unison like a machine.  Before orgasm I replaced Rowan's hand with my own,
stroking harder and faster than before, as though possessed, and the two of
us ejaculated simultaneously.  The sweet smelling, copious semen took with
it not only our sexual desires at that moment, but also our energy.  We
collapsed on the bed, a comfortable, warm tangle of limbs.  The bed itself
was a mess from our activities.
	Rowan and I slept that night in each other's arms, the private place we had
made for each other.  When I woke up, however, all was not well.
	"Daniel," Rowan said, looking frightened, "Daniel.  Oh no.  I forgot to put
the video back before we slept.  My dad's gonna kill me!"
	I could hear Rowan's dad slamming around outside.
	"We have to escape," Rowan said.  "Just for now.  Then we can come back.  I
promise."
	I quickly got out of bed, my morning erection aching in the cold, and
pulled my clothes back on.  Our passage of escape was Rowan's bedroom
window.
	"I took the fly screen off last year," he said, "so I could get out easy."
	We ran around to the front of the house and jumped on Rowan's bike -- he sat
on the seat, and I used the basket at the back, my arms around his waste.
We still smelt, I thought, of sex.  It was a sweet smell.
	We stopped in the park.
	"I come here sometimes," Rowan said.  We sat on the swings.  "My dad just
gets real angry, and you need to keep out of his way."
	I wanted to talk about the night before, but couldn't find the words.
Rowan found them for me: "you were like a wild animal last night!" he said,
laughing.  "It was great."
	I made growling noises and pawed at Rowan's chest; we both laughed.
	Then, our history changed.  Rowan stopped laughing and looked over at the
field adjacent to the playground -- older boys were approaching.  "I know
those guys," he said, quietly.  "They don't like me for some reason."
	I observed that they were behaving just as every other bully I had
encountered did.  They walked in a group, five of them, swaggering and
jolly, and pretending that they hadn't seen us, all looking at the ground,
although it was clearly us they were approaching.  I heard a peal of
obnoxious, fake laughter from one of them.  Someone yelled, "faggots!" and
the peal rose.  They returned to their facade, though, as if we weren't
there.
	I felt truculence rise in me.  Who were they to try to spoil things?  Who
did they think they were?  Everything was going perfectly, and would
continue to, if I could help it.
	"Fuck them," I said to Rowan, and by that stage they were clambering over
the railing separating the field from the playground, pretending to tackle
each other, and generally playing around.  Finally their gaze fixed on us.
	"You two faggots, or what?" asked the biggest of the group.  The look on
his face was complete disgust.
	"No no, c'mon man," said another boy, whom I noted was better looking than
his companions.  "Here man," he said to me, "have you ever seen one of
these?"  He held a cigar proudly in front of my face.
	"Yeah," said one of the others, a little guy, "he probably thinks it looks
like a dick, man."
	"Yeah," I said, the word sounding louder than I'd intended, "I think it
looks like your mother's dick."  I was only young.
	"What?  Little fucker^Å"
	The bigger guy stepped forward and tried to grab the front of my t-shirt.
I leapt on my heels and let my fist curve through the air, my knuckle
grazing the guy's head.  It wouldn't have hurt him much, but it angered him
considerably.
	I heard Rowan call my name, and turned just in time to see him climbing
onto his bike.  Dodging the grasp of all six of my assailants, I ran and
jumped on, wrapping my arms around my friend's waste.  Something whizzed
past my ear.
	"Rowan, you little cock-knocker!  I'm going to fuckin' kill you!"
	Rowan's breath heaved.  He pedaled as fast as he could, over the rough park
terrain.  A rock struck the back of my head.  The pain was delayed by a
second, and then quickly made up for lost time.  Then a rock hit Rowan in
the temple and the bike tipped over.
	Voices/sounds:  A crash.  "I think you really hurt him, man."  "Good."
"Let's fuckin' go before we get into trouble."  "I don't like the sound of
that breath^Å"
	The assailants left.  I was stupid.  I didn't try to get help.
	"Rowan?" I asked, crying.  "Rowan, get up, please?  They've gone."
	He turned over on his chest, his legs still wrapped around the bike, and
grasped at his stomach, his eyes wide and startled.  I bent over and looked
at him, confused, scared, uncertain.  He managed a look at me, and said, in
a raspy voice, what sounded a lot like "I love you."
	"I love you too, man," I said, "but just try to find your breath."
	He had never told me that he was an asthmatic.  Kids don't find that stuff
important, it's uninteresting for them, just part of the everyday world.  By
the time he closed his eyes, I realized things were more serious than I
thought, and I started running towards the nearest street, screaming for
help.  A gray haired man came to my aid.  He had been washing his car in the
street, and called an ambulance when I told him what happened.
But there was nothing that could be done.  I cried like I was having a
seizure.  I still blame myself, and the memory still stings, but I was just
a kid.  I didn't know how serious things could suddenly become.  All that
seemed important was our love, and it's still here, right with me. But the
guilt burns there too.