Date: Sat, 27 Aug 2011 11:36:06 -0800
From: samwise@inbox.com
Subject: A Stroll Down the Block

"That's a legal dare!" Timmy rasped in an angry whisper. In the
near-darkness of the garage, the slim 12-yo blond seemed an odd portrait of
indignation, dressed as he was only in shiny purple gym shorts. Several
hours of dares had left us both dressing minimally. My gym shorts were
boring blue. We were both commando, and rock-hard. We were in SoCal, it was
September, the Santa Anna was blowing, and it was hotter than Hell. I'm
Mike, btw, a year and a week older than Timmy, the son of my mother's
younger sister. Despite being cousins, we are generally friends.

"Legal, maybe," I said softly, "but disproportionate and unreasonable. My
last dare had you kneeling on your front porch licking my balls with your
right middle finger up your ass. The porchlight was on, of course, but
since nobody can see the porch from the street or anywhere else except the
front of the garage, your chances of being seen were nil. This ridiculous
obscenity..."

"You don't have to take your shorts off until the end of the driveway, and
then it's only a hundred yards or so to the corner," Timmy offered in what
he considered a reasonable tone. "There's only one streetlight, and it's on
the other side of the street. You know there's no traffic around here after
dark unless somebody is having a party, and you've seen that nobody is. You
just walk down to the end of the block, turn around, and walk back. I'll
walk beside you to make sure you don't cheat or stop being hard."

A little more sharply, he added, "You also forgot to mention that your last
dare had me in front of the porch security camera, whose memory stick is
now with your mescaline and your lock picks in that Japanese puzzle box you
carry in your backpack. And don't give me that shit about how you're going
to put the stick in my stocking come Christmas. The dare is legal and it
stands."

"And what if I say, 'Fuck you, your favorite little game, and the horse you
rode here on? Are you going to tell everybody what we've been doing since
dinner? That memory stick would be very popular. You're like the rabbi who
went golfing on Saturday afternoon and hit a hole in one. Who could he
tell?" I crossed my arms on my chest. Given how little I was wearing, and
my Harry Potter-style round glasses, the effect must have been a bit comic,
but Timmy seemed to miss that.

"Well..." Timmy paused in thought. He was very fond of Dares, as was I, and
quite good at it, though not IM-not-terribly-HO as good as I. His dares
were imaginative, often very funny, and commonly wildly obscene. What he
lacked was subtlety in the negotiating side of the game. He failed on this
occasion to appreciate that I was bluffing. He was quite correct about the
risks of the dare, which were small. I was objecting because I envied the
cleverness of his dare, and wanted to rattle his cage, and perhaps deprive
it of some of its eclat. As I soon found that I had.

"Well, let's make a deal. You walk down the block with your shorts off,
then put them back on. I'll take mine off then, and we'll walk back that
way. OK?"

"Fair enough," I conceded with well-feigned relief. "Let's do it." We put
on our birkies and he led the way down the driveway.

There, I took off my shorts, which he insisted on carrying so that I
couldn't use them as a shield, and walked briskly but without undue hurry
down the street, my hard dick bouncing merrily along.

Not a stranger to such sport, I found, as I always had, two little
problems. The first is that walking naked for more than a fw steps is
awkward because there is nowhere to put your hands and nothing to do with
them. As a lifelong hands-in-pockets guy, I find this annoying.

The second is that walking naked with a hard-on imposes an unnatural gait,
with that stuff flapping in an unaccustomed manner and bouncing off one's
thighs.

Still, there was no traffic (there are never pedestrians in leafy SoCal
burbs), few lighted windows, and no evidence that anyone saw us or, if they
did, gave even the slightest shit. As you can imagine, there were enough
weird goings-on in and around Timmy's house that the neighbors would
probably have ignored a UFO landing in the middle of the street and
disgorging the 82nd Airborne which then performed "Jesus Christ Superstar"
accompanied by a bagpipe band.

We reached the corner. He handed me my shorts, which I put on. He took off
his shorts, which he handed to me. We turned around and walked back.

I derived much pleasure from staring unabashedly at his flapping goodies,
splendidly hard dick and nicely bouncing balls. No reason not to oggle,
since this was the point of the game. He seemed to share my findings about
the awkwardnesses of this exercise, and I gathered that he had less
experience than I in coping with them. Age will tell in some things.
Returned safely to the driveway, and Timmy to his shorts, we made no
mention of further dares, and went inside in search of beer, not without
gratifying results.