Date: Sun, 27 Jun 1999 19:27:19 -0600
From: jwhstloo@ix.netcom.com
Subject: "Fishin' Tale" (t/t) by Jack Fellowes

ASSGM codes: (t/t)(interr)(oral)
Nifty: Young Friends/Interracial

USUAL DISCLAIMER:  You might be too young, this stuff might be illegal,
you're upset to find out that sex for love and pleasure happens between
anybody, let alone boys, etc. You know where you are and what you're
reading--if you don't like it, just go away!

Author's note: This one came to me (back to me) last Memorial Day, when
I started thinking about some people in my life who are no longer with
us, and what might have been if they were. As usual, some of it's true,
some of it's not.  I'm not going to tell you which is which. Comments to
jwhstloo@ix.netcom.com, please.  Thanks to all who've encouraged me to
keep writing these stories.  (More are in the works!!) --Jack


Fishin' Tale (t/t)(oral)(interracial)(young friends)(relationships)
By Jack Fellowes
Copyright 1999 by the Author; All Rights Reserved.

I passed by the tombstone while heading to the back field of the
cemetery to let my two "retired" racing greyhounds off the leash to get
some of the running out of their systems.

A friend of mine and his wife were the organizers of a local chapter of
Greyhound Rescue, which tries to stop dog racers from putting older dogs
down simply because they are no longer fast enough to race for money.
And somehow I ended up with Flip and Tag. They proved that Rich and
Helen were right--greyhounds are great, loving, loyal, and lovable dogs.
But Flip and Tag sure as hell liked (and needed) exercise a lot more
than I did. Our town's cemetery was the only place I could let them run
free without worrying about whether they might bound across a busy
street.

Seeing Donnie's grave reminded me of when I used to come through this
part of the cemetery property as a boy, on my way to a deep pool in the
creek than ran along the back edge of the property. That pool was the
best fishing hole in the county, but hardly anybody ever went there to
fish. Mom always said that it was because most of the cemetery property
drained into that creek, and people were just too darned afraid of what
they might pull out of the water. She laughed at their superstitions,
but I noticed she never drank out of the drinking fountains when we came
to decorate graves on Memorial Day.

Flip and Tag were off on their merry way, chasing a flock of obnoxious
scolding starlings, so I stood there for a moment to look at the
gravestone again:

DONALD  POWELL GRAHAM
BORN FEBRUARY 13, 1954
DIED APRIL 24, 1968
BELOVED SON OF ROBERT AND CAROLINE POWELL GRAHAM
DEAR BROTHER OF CYNTHIA GRAHAM
"HE SLEEPS IN THE ARMS OF GOD"

It said a lot about the Grahams, but it didn't say very much about
Donnie. Donnie was fishing on the creek bank on that day in April, when
a flash flood swept through the creek gorge and washed him all the way
to the county line. It was three days before they found his body. I was
supposed to have been fishing there that day with him, but I guess God
wasn't ready to take me in his arms, too.

I don't think you could say Donnie and I were best friends. In those
days, in my hometown, it was okay for a white kid to have black friends,
but they couldn't be best friends. So I played baseball and joined
scouts and went swimming mostly with my white friends, but I went
fishing with Donnie. And he probably ended up knowing more about me when
I was 12 or 13 than any of my other friends, or even my family.

See, Donnie knew I was gay before anyone else did. After we'd know each
other for a while he said, "I knew't'ya liked peter first time ever saw
ya." Donnie's perceptions really formed the basis for our relationship,
it seems to me now.

				    ***

The first time he saw me at the creek was when I was just 11, and Donnie
was an older 12. I had just come home from spending some time at my
Grandma's farm, the first time without Mom and Dad, and I had suddenly
become a dedicated fisherman. Grandma loved to fish. Every morning after
breakfast she'd drag me back to the farm's pond, which Grandpa kept
stocked from the state fish nursery, and make me sit and fish with her.
It had to be the most boring time of my life...  until about the third
day when I caught a string of crappies and bluegills that were big
enough to fry up for our family supper. Then I was hooked, so to speak.

Once back from the farm, I decided I was going to keep up the routine by
heading off to the creek every morning to "wet my line," as Grandma put
it. I'd get up early, go out and hoe Mom's vegetable garden ( that was a
bonus that kept her from discouraging my daily fishing excursions)
looking for nightcrawlers, and put them in an old coffee can. Then I'd
gather up my pole and line, my canteen, and a pack of Fig Newtons or a
bag of roasted pumpkin seeds, and head off to the creek.

I found out later Donnie had almost the same routine, but we didn't run
into each other until I had worked my way down the creek from the
railroad bridge to the pool behind the cemetery, trying to find a good
fishing spot.  When I finally did make my way there, he was surprised
that anyone else would go fishing so close to the cemetery, or the
graveyard, as he called it.

At first, he acted like I was invading his private property, and we kept
to opposite banks of the creek. But a few days later, as I was trying to
get a particularly wiggly nightcrawler on my hook, he said in an
exasperated tone, "Boy, don't ya know how to bait a hook? You're gonna
kill that worm and there won't be no wiggle left to 'tract the fish."

Equally exasperated, I said, "Well, why don't you just come show me how
to do it, smarty?" And he did--he made his way to a row of stepping
stones just below where we were fishing and came over to my side. As he
came closer, I noticed that he was taller than I thought, and not as
bulky as his baggy clothes made him look. In fact, when I saw him
jumping from stone to stone, and kind of loping back upstream toward
where I was, I realized he was kind of lanky and pretty agile.

But my burgeoning fascination with his physical appearance didn't get a
real start until the first real warm spell a few weeks later.  By that
time, we were fishing side by side, and making meager conversation: not
really friends yet, just being polite to one another. He just suddenly
sat back and looked me up and down.  "How c'n ya stand wearin' that
heavy ol' shirt in this heat, boy?" he said, indicating my "fishing
shirt," a long-sleeved denim shirt I wore almost every day.  He stood up
and started unbuttoning his frayed cotton work shirt, which had the
sleeves cut off about half-way.

What I saw when I looked up made me catch my breath. My dad would have
said he was "black as the ace of spades," but he wasn't. His skin was
like melted semisweet chocolate, really dark, dark brown with a glossy
shine to it. I could see every muscle in his chest and arms ripple as he
worked the shirt off and tossed it on the rocks behind us.

When he saw me staring, he got a funny grin on his face, but all he said
was, "C'mon, boy, take off ya shirt and get comfortable. You need to get
some color on that white skin anyway." I didn't know it yet, but what I
really wanted on my white skin was him.

There was a subtle growth in the level of intimacy between us after
that. We still didn't talk much, but it seemed more like we didn't have
to.  Each of us knew what the other was thinking, and it only took a
word of two to complete an unspoken conversation.  He wouldn't sit right
next to me, but about five or six feet away, and angled so that he was
almost facing me. He did that, I knew, because he knew I liked looking
at his shirtless torso. He'd catch me staring, and he'd flash that
little grin that seemed so bright because of the contrast between the
whiteness of his teeth and the blackness of his skin.

I guess that I acknowledged that he knew I was watching him with my own
little smile--at first, a forced grin of embarrassment, but later, a shy
"oops-you-caught-me" smile of confession.

I did get to feel that lean, muscled body against mine a couple of times
when I managed to hook one of the big deep-hole catfish that made its
home in that part of the creek. One time, I was caught unawares, and
nearly got pulled into the creek by a mighty tug on my line.

Donnie was quick to jump up and straddle my back and put his arms around
me to help grip my pole.  "Boy, I think ya've caught Ol' Satan himself,
" he breathed in my ear.  "Been tryin' ta catch him for a coupla years.
Pull, boy, pull!" His hot breath on the side of my face made me feel
almost faint, but I braced myself and pushed my bare back against his
sweaty, slippery chest and lay my head back on his shoulder. We strained
together almost as one being for a few seconds... until my line snapped!
Donnie went sprawling backward, and I landed on top of him, my neck
pillowed by a huge, semisoft mound in the crotch of his thin jeans.

After a simultaneous gasp of surprise, we both just collapsed in peals
of laughter, shaking so hard that we both flopped around against each
other.  We laughed and laughed, uncontrollably.  I stopped laughing when
I became aware that the mound under my neck was stirring, and that a
part of it was uncoiling, transforming from a soft snake into a rigid
staff that seemed bigger than I imagined a boy's dick could be. He
stopped laughing when he realized my whole attention was focused on what
was happening inside his jeans.

I sat up just a little, and turned my head around to look at the huge
tent that was growing in his pants.  The only thing I could think to say
was, "Whatcha got in there, Donnie? A pry-bar?"

The expression of neutral caution on his face melted into a knowing
leer. "I know yer purty dumb, boy, but ya gotta know 'at's my dick. Ya
got one, too, dontcha?"

"Not as big as that!" I exclaimed. Then I blushed and turned my head
away.

He must have been staring at the back of my neck, because he said after
a while, "I know I said ya needed some color on that white skin a'yers,
but didn't think it'd be bright red." He slapped me on the back and
chuckled, and it broke the tension of the moment. "Now, get up, boy, I
gotta pee real bad, right now!"

He pushed me off his legs, jumped up, and took a couple of steps
downstream, unbuttoning his fly as he went.  He was three-quarters
turned away from me, but I could tell he was having trouble pulling his
still-hard dick out through the opening.  When he finally did, he stood
there for a while, but nothing was happening. Meanwhile, I was edging
forward slowly so I could get a look at what was sticking out of his
fly.

He finally said, "Damn, boy, yer rubbing agin me got me so hard, I might
hafta shoot a load before I can pee!" He looked over his shoulder at me,
then pivoted so I could see the huge dark shaft he held in his right
hand. He gave me that knowing grin, and said, "It's yer fault it's so
hard, boy, so why dontcha get over here'n help me out?"

I couldn't argue with his logic, so I scampered up and over to his side
as fast as I could. I knew I shouldn't be so interested, let alone
excited, about what was happening, but I didn't care. That trouser-snake
of his was something special, and I was going to do whatever he wanted
me to, whether it was proper or not.

He released his dick, and it just seemed to sway back and forth, bobbing
a little up and down with each pulse of blood. He put his right arm
around my shoulders and pulled me closer to him, the heat of his body
searing my bare flesh.  "Take hold of it, boy. Give it a squeeze and
stroke it a little," he said, hugging me to him and pushing me closer to
his front. My eyes were just about the level of his well-defined chest
and dark, protruding nipples.

I think I expected to burn my hand if I touched Donnie's big dick, but I
couldn't take my eyes away. from it His dick was darker that the rest of
him, almost blue-black, except for the head, which was a dusky rose
color. He was uncircumcised, and the skin was pulled nearly all the way
off the head, which shined with moisture. I could see more clear syrup
oozing out of his one-eyed monster, dripping down the underside of the
head where the skin was attached.

His arm around my shoulder urged me a little closer, my cheek against
his right nipple, which was poking me. My hand reached out to grasp the
thick shaft. I couldn't close my fingers around it, but I squeezed it
firmly. He still didn't say anything. He just started shifting his hips
back and forth--just a fraction of an inch either direction. The loose
skin between my fingers and the iron-bar hardness inside helped my hand
start moving back and forth easily. I began to take more generous
strokes, massaging almost the full length of his pole, about seven of
his nine or so inches. There was a slurpy sound when I pushed the skin
back over the head, then pulled it back off again.

As my strokes got faster and more forceful, little drops of dick-juice
went flying out toward the creek, looking like single raindrops falling
on the water's surface.  The faster I stroked, the more Donnie's knees
bent into a crouch, and the more I had to lean over toward his dick to
keep up the faster pace of whipping his meat.

Suddenly, he straightened up, which brought his dick almost right in my
face. "Oh, baby boy," he panted, "I'm gonna get my nut, you're gonna
make my stuff shoot, oh baby, oh baby!" He went rigid, as my hand moved
so fast I thought it would cramp up, and he roared,
"Oh-baby-here-it-comes-here-it-comes-HERE-IT-COMES!"

Volley after volley of thick white cum shot out of his rocket launcher,
making plopping noises as they landed about six feet out into the creek.
Before he finished shooting, a school of young bass were splashing at
the water surface, fighting over what must have looked to them like fish
spawn.

After the first six or seven jolts, Donnie slumped down into a crouch,
then plopped down on his butt. He still had his arm around my shoulders,
so he pulled me down with him. I ended up with my chin on his thigh, my
face just inches away from his still-oozing dickhole. I could smell the
man-scent and I was hypnotized by the sight of his only slightly
softening, dripping cock. I couldn't resist the urge to stick my tongue
out to taste the last drops of cum sliding off the end of Donnie's slick
and shiny dickhead. I gathered a drop or two, savored the sweet-pungent
taste, and thrust my mouth toward the head to suck more of the sapid
cream from the source.

I felt Donnie's hand on the back of my head, pressing my mouth further
onto the swollen head of his dick. "Ya, baby, clean it up f'me, get 'at
good stuff. You so sweet, baby, you so good to me." He stopped pressing
on my head and caressed my blond hair, but I kept forcing more and more
of his semi-rigid stalk into my sucking mouth, beginning to move my
mouth down over the head, working my tongue back and forth. I slid over
between his thighs, never losing my oral grip on his cock, and began to
suck in earnest. I'd never done it before, but it seemed so natural and
so right to me.

His cock began to harden again, and his hand once again found the back
of my head and helped me plunge further down the thick shaft, but never
forcing me any farther down than I could manage on my own.

"Baby, ya better be careful," he whispered. " Sweetie, yer gonna make
'at ol' snake wanna spit again.  I got plennya juice in there for ya, if
ya wannit."

I stopped my labors for just a second to gasp out, "I want it!" and then
I plunged back down on his huge cock once again, starting to use my
mouth to do what my hand had done before.  He stopped me for just a
second to rip open the top button of his jeans and slide them and his
baggy boxer shorts down to his thighs.  The instant he lay back again, I
was on his dick again, working harder and faster, trying desperately to
vacuum another load of his delicious cum out of his egg-sized balls.

I surprised myself by taking the bulbous head of his
spit-and-cum-slicked dick past my tonsils and down into my throat. I
gagged, and Donnie tried to pull me up out of concern, but I resisted,
snorting through my nose and trying to stifle my gag reflex. I kept at
it until I could take it all, let it climb back out of my throat and
then plunge back down on it again and again and again.  "Oh sweet Jesus,
baby, yer takin' me all the way, ya got it all, baby, sweet love, ya got
it ALL!"

I felt that long, straight, steel-beam-hard dick of his swell even
larger and thicker, and Donnie began to moan and pant breathily. Tremors
and spasms made his thighs pump back and forth on my chest, squeezing
the air from my lungs and out through my wide-stretched lips around the
base of his huge prick, like a burst steam valve. That extra stimulus
was all it took to pull his trigger again.

He shot, and shot, and shot again. I wasn't expecting as much the second
time as the first, but it felt like even more.  What didn't spray
straight down my throat, came back out my nose like an uncontrolled
sneeze. By the time Donnie finally pulled his limp hose from my throat,
his curly black public hair was soaked with spit, snot, and his own
thick cum.  I'd made the mess, so, even though I was exhausted,  I
plunged my mouth into his pubes to clean it up again, swabbing my tongue
through his hair and around his ball sack.

Panting and jerking and giggling uncontrollably, he pushed my head up
away from his crotch. "Stop, baby boy, stop!" he gasped. "Can't take any
more. Ya got all I c'n give!" He sat up and hugged me around the neck,
pulling my face toward his chest.

I let him hold me like that for a minute or two, resting, until I opened
my eyes and saw the nub of his nipple just above my lips. My tongue
automatically shot out to lick the hard little protrusion, and Donnie
jumped as if shocked by electricity. He rolled me off him, and jumped
up, yanking his jeans and underwear up as he hopped a couple of steps
away from me.  "Oh, no, ya don't," he laughed.  "Yer not startin' agin!
I gotta rest a while'n let m'balls fill back up."

I must have looked like a sad puppy dog, because he came back over and
sat down beside me, taking me into his arms. "Don't worry, baby, we'll
be doin' this agin... 'n even more, if ya wanna.  There's lotsa things
we c'n do together. I betcha ol' dumb you doesn't even know yer asshole
can make ya feel food, too."

"Geez, I didn't know that, Donnie," I said, looking up at his wide brown
eyes shining out of his sweat-sheened face. "I guess you're gonna hafta
teach me." And I pinched his nipple once before he pushed me over and
pinned me down.

				    ***

He did teach me a lot in those next couple of years. He taught me to get
fucked and to fuck, he showed me what it was like to be sucked by
someone who could keep me from coming until he was ready for me to
come -- and he showed me what it was like to reach an unimagined level of
passion just by hugging and caressing and sliding our firm young bodies
together without touching what I always considered our sex organs.

I thought I'd lost part of myself when he died. I cried myself to sleep
so many nights after I realized what I'd lost, that I'd never be with
that gentle, loving, sexy, happy boy again.  Every boy and man I've been
with since and been able to please in sex and in love owed that
pleasure, and any other satisfaction I could provide them, to a young
black boy who knew more about loving than any romantic hero I know--real
or imagined. I wondered what might have happened to us if he had lived
to adulthood.

Flip and Tag, leaping and bounding around the gravestones near me,
interrupted my reminiscence.  I called them over, clipped their leashes
to their collars, and let them pull me toward the cemetery gates.
Looking back over my shoulder, I blew a kiss at the weathered gravestone
and mouthed the words, "Thank you, sweet baby, Donnie, my love!"

THE END

(There won't be a sequel to this one. That's all I can manage to write
about this character.)