Date: Wed, 22 Jun 2005 18:36:05 -0700 (PDT)
From: thunder boy <thunder151@yahoo.com>
Subject: Jockboy Mike: Chapter 1

Disclaimer: If you are under 18 or it is illegal to read this material in
your area, please leave now. This story contains material describing sexual
activity between teenage boys. Material may not be reproduced without
author's permission. Responses/suggestions/feedback to:
thunder151@yahoo.com.


               JOCKBOY MIKE: CHAPTER 01

     Back in high school, I was a golden-boy. Small. Just five-foot-four in
10th grade, and I think about 118 lbs. Dirty blonde hair, hazel eyes, lean,
lithe and supple. I had a tight, defined, muscular build even before
puberty.  I was good-looking, strikingly good-looking, and yeah, the
consensus was that I was cute and all that. Okay, I was still a boy, a
late-bloomer, just a few grateful months into enjoying a fledgling bush of
pubic hair. I was 15 but looked about twelve. Absolutely no facial hair.
Picture a 12-year-old teen idol Or maybe a pre-teen idol. With a fresh
growth of pubic hair. Name of Mike.

     I grew up in a regular middle-class suburban neighborhood. Genteel,
staid, conservative. Baseball and barbecues. Lots of church. Everyone with
their roles all steamed, pressed, and laid out to wear. I was a regular guy. I
hung out with all the other regular guys through the long hot summer: riding
bikes, hiking trips, long swims, baseball, basketball, skateboarding,  B.B. gun
battles in the woods and treks through the dark, cool concrete drainage
sewers under our housing development. I was a masculine dude    a tough,
bright-eyed, cute little guy grounded in my black  scuffed converse sneakers,
with the first blush of curly dark hairs sprouting around my ankles.
                                 
     My staid little suburban world was starting to show signs of anxious
singularity from way deep down. Have you read that story by Dr. Seuss?  The
one about McGillicutty's pond? It's a story about a small pond nestled in the
country, with an overhanging bank where you could lean back on an old tree-
trunk and hold your fishing pole out over the still water and listen to the
dragonflies buzzing .... and dream about the fantastic world under the shining
surface. Your own private happy place. I wondered at the realization that my
own pond was fed by a deep spring, a spring that bubbled up through ancient
caves. Caves that interconnected deep in the earth, caves that ran to the sea.
                                        
     I was not a TOTAL innocent. In my fantasies, I had  fished this pond
off and on since grade school, so I knew it was deep. I had pulled out fish
that were never stocked for this pond, wild fantastic fish that came from the
deepest ocean trenches. Fish from alien seas, with long, sharp teeth and bold
geometric designs, strange fins and hairy tethers. Some even glowed like
neon in the dark. When I fished this pond,  I did not dream of the common
catfish or trout. The fish on my line were deeper,  more spectacular. They had
an intensity that gripped my fertile teenage imagination. These fish had a
barely perceptible aura, glowing purple. And they were all male.

     Fish stories.... Heh.... I won't start with the earliest stories. Not
yet. I don't even know when it all began, my interest in guys. I just
remember watching them from an early age, feeling an animal attraction and
yet always aware that it was taboo. I suspected this attraction was more
than just awkward. It was a matter of deep-down jungle taboo, a subject of
tribal shame. And so I spent a lot of time hanging out with guys
.... attractive guys ....  quietly drinking in their animal presence
.... with wide-open senses ....  and craving them ...  all in secret.

     I would find myself in a certain type of situation. I would notice a cute,
masculine guy with just the right qualities to inspire hero-worship, hang out
with him and discreetly watch him, feasting on his unassuming masculine
charm. Then I would swell with lust,  working myself  into a fever of sexual
urges. Often enough, my heroes were either oblivious or indifferent to my
self-imposed torture. It became a matter of my straight-boy self-image
holding the line against deep, hidden gay-boy secrets. The secrets thrived in
the dark, longed for recognition, prayed for ownership. It became a waiting
game. Kind of like fishing. I would linger, straightboy-like,  grooving on my
boy-hero, waiting for him to claim ownership of my dark gay secret. And the
passion would build.

     Just as an example, I remember hanging out one day with my friend
Cooper. Coop was my bosom-buddy, dating back to the third grade. When there
was time to kill, he was my accomplice. Cooper was built like me a little
taller, lean and toned, with blonde curly hair, cute, and cheeky.  He had a
talent for hatching adventures just on the edge of mischief. The BB gun
fights had been his idea. Anyway, this time we were lying on our backs,
side by side on the carpet, watching TV through our feet, heads propped
against the couch.

     We lay there in baggy shorts, sweaty from an afternoon of summer
football. I smelled his fresh sweat. I snuck lingering glances at his legs
and the profusion of curly blonde hairs on his ankles. I strained my
eyeballs looking to the side, my head never moving, to catch a glimpse of
his smooth, flat, hard stomach and the fledgling treasure trail entering
the dark gap at the waistband of his loose shorts. I scanned the crotch of
his pants for the outline of his cock. My heart pounded as I absently
brushed my leg against his, feeling the fuzz against my skin. I would
discreetly maneuver so I could admire his defined chest, his hands behind
his head, a tuft of dark blonde hair displayed in the cradle of his
armpit. I would say something, turning my head towards him, and breathe in
deep, slow lung-fulls of his scent.

     He seemed unaware of my quiet, desperate craving. That made it all the
worse, leaving me to twist and spin in the wind, hoping he would make some
bold move to satisfy my longing. After all, he was cute, strong,
attractive, and virile. Surely he could see the unspoken yearning in my
eyes. Surely his quiet strength and quick wits would command the
situation. But nooooo. Instead, he let me stress out until the straight-boy
shell cracked and crumbled.  In my mind's eye, I could see myself
belly-crawling to him.  I imagined myself kissing his bare feet as he laid
back and watched. The image gave me a full- blown boy-boner.

     So I lay there beside my teen-buddy Cooper with a hard-on pulsing
uncontrollably in my shorts and my face rushing with blood.  My heart
pounded in my little chest through long moments as I tried to contain my
breathing. It did me no good   my teenage pecker steeled against my logic
and went even harder. There was no way he could miss my sexual flush, and
if there was any doubt, a quick glance at my crotch would confirm my queer-
boy excitement. Holy shit.  I was at his mercy. And still, no response.
Through it all, he let me hang by my fingertips on this cliff-edge, my hard-on
aching for him, clearly outlined in my shorts, ready to accept any terms he
wanted to offer.

     The question being: did he notice? Probably so, but maybe not.
Sometimes he could be totally oblivious.... And even if he did notice, he may
have no gay interest whatsoever.... OR he may  be interested but scared.... OR
he may be interested but thinking I'm just having a random teenage hormone
surge ....  The situation left plenty of time for my strong, proud straight-boy
ego to wear under the strain. Damn I was stubborn. And scared. Scared of
being caught red-handed in forbidden territory. 

     This fish story doesn't end in one day, though. That day passed like
many days spent fishing for  rare and exotic catch. There was teasing and
baiting, but no bight. There was passion for the sport, the sights and sounds
and smells burned on my mind for future reference. And there was much time
spent in hopeful waiting; fantasizing how that fish story would go when it
finally happened.. When I was 15, and looking 12, I had a healthy ego and a
growing sex drive. I was in awe of my more developed classmates. I was in
puberty while they were in adolescence.


               ********************************


      I really don't want to keep referring to my crush-object as fish.
Referring to them simply as 'guys' seems too generic. 'Stud' is overused
and overburdened. "Friend" is inadequate, "boyfriend/lover" is too
vanilla. I like the term 'dude' in conversation, as in "Dude, I see you're
gettin' a little hard-on," but it falls short for describing a heroic
crush-interest. "Bud" and "buddy" are too fraternal. "Crush" itself seems
too puppy-boy, but starts to come close. The English have their own terms,
like "mate" or "bloke," neither of which captures the sexual undercurrent
needed here."Avitar" is too spiritual, too obtuse. "Ubermenschen" is too
Nietzschean.

     I am trying to get at a word here that conveys sexual attraction as I
know it. Something that gives an image of strength and sultriness, of boyish
vitality and virile sexual presence, of toughness and tenderness, of hero-
worship, cuteness, animal grace and calm self-assurance all rolled into one. 

      "Fine young cannibal" has real possibility, calling up many of these
attractive qualities in a very primal way. "Hero" comes close, but doesn't
really convey the shadow qualities required. Just remember, though, we are
talking about the kind of guy that makes the synapses in my brain sizzle.

     Wait! I think the word I may be looking for is "daemon,"  in its original
sense. Someone poised between light and shadow, a figure of strength and
godlike beauty, glowing with an inner light. Someone with a purple aura.


                    ********************************


     There was one daemon that occupied my thoughts for endless hours.
Sean.  I had known Sean since grade school a skinny little half-Irish,
half-Japanese kid who was in all my grade school classes, just another one
of the bright, athletically-inclined kids from a nearby neighborhood. We
had the common fate of being the shortest boys in our grade, always in the
first row of class pictures. By ninth grade, however, Sean had shot well
ahead into puberty, leaving me in his dust. He was still short, still
smooth-faced, but he had developed the muscles and deep voice of a tenured
teenager.

     He was kind of preppy. In school, he always wore pressed khaki pants
and pressed powder blue oxford shirts that seemed a size too large. He
needed the larger shirt to accommodate his muscled neck and shoulders. He
wasn't body-builder muscled. He was lean and super-toned.  He was
probably five-foot-five in 10th grade, 118 pounds, with a 28 or 27 waist. He
was cute, had an infectious smile and clear, dark brown eyes. His hair was
Japanese jet-black and regulation haircut-length. His skin was naturally
bronzed. Damn he was cute. He was like an anime cartoon hero, in the flesh. 

     Seeing him in a bathing suit the summer before 10th grade was almost
unbearable. It was a night-time swim-party, in the dog days of summer. I was
not a member of his circle, which tended more to a  jock-and-prep crowd, but
I just had to check him out. I tried to mingle, tried to be discreet, tried to
blend in with the little group, but my eyes fairly popped out of my head
looking at him. His movements were smooth and sinuous. He had the
penetrating gaze of a predator.  He had the assured animal grace and relaxed
strength of a tiger.

     Against my better judgement, my eyes caressed his flesh,  fastening
immediately on his chest.  Dime-sized nipples, a little stiff in the night air,
poised on a chiseled chest. A six-pack stomach, with a treasure-trail going
down from his perfect belly-button. White board-shorts sagged low on his
hips. The contour of his hip was hypnotic, a brownish bronze with reflected
highlights, seductive shadows, and surprising undertones of blue and purple 
He had killer hairy legs.  Killer. Hairy. Legs. There was a filigree of thick,
black, curly hairs that caught the light and shone like a testosterone aura on
his legs. It was just amazing.  

      He was barefoot.  He nudged a small stone around on the cement with
his big toe, casually following the conversation . I watched, savoring the
supple agility of his movements, the subtle tensing of muscles in his foot
and calf. I was entranced. He pushed the stone toward me, and held it there
under his big toe. Finally, he grabbed the stone in his curled toes. My
glassy-eyed stare broke free. I looked up at his face. I was mute. He was
already looking at me, his head cocked a little to the side, the hint of a
smile on his lips. This silent interchange went unnoticed by his
friends. He ended it with a deep breath, looking away from me.
     
     Then he took one step back into shadow and gestured with both hands,
hip-hop-gangsta-style, fingers splayed, making the love-horn sign in front of
his crotch for about half a second. He looked straight at me. He could see my
infatuation, and the uneasiness at being caught. He had my secret held fast in
his teeth. I looked away suddenly, my face burning, my heart pounding. This
was not the place to exercise my dragons. But I knew I had just been visited
by a daemon.

     I spent the rest of that evening goofing off with friends, swimming,
socializing, even flirting with some of the girls. Remember, I was fairly hot
myself, and nominally "straight." But I also spent the rest of the night with
one eye on Sean, always aware of where he was.... Hmm. Always aware of
what he was doing.... Hmm.. He spent a lot of time hanging  with a couple of
hot girls. As the party broke up, I tried getting close enough to say something
intelligent. I managed to force a "hey, see you later" from my frozen mind.
My emotions tripped over each other in embarrassment. I think I blushed. 
     "Later, Mikey," Sean replied casually, his voice a deep whisper.

               ******************************************

     That night I lay between crisp, clean sheets with my hands behind my
head, replaying images of Sean. He was so fucking lean, hard, and tight.
When he had gotten out of the pool at the party, he looked sleek as an otter,
totally fluid, beads of water studding his chest like diamonds. I threw a
boner. I shucked my underwear and lay there in an exhilaration of nakedness. 
I teased my straining hard-on with deliberate slowness, calling up images of
Him. I wanted to touch him, taste him, breathe him, and hold him. I wanted
to lick him all over and massage his honed muscles one by one, from his head
down to his toes. I wanted to feel the smoothness of his chest and the
roughness of his hairy legs. 

     The hairy legs really got me. Being a late-bloomer, I was proud of the
early showing of man-hair on my own legs, but that was nothing compared to
him. He had a dense, curly forest of leg hair, right down to his hairy
ankles. It was like a whole new dimension of sexuality, a badge of hormonal
accomplishment, an adolescent certificate of merit. Even his toes sprouted
a few lively hairs. It contrasted with his totally smooth chest. Half boy,
half man, like a young satyr. It put him in a league beyond my paltry
pubescent showing, my embarrassing boyishness. The mental comparison made
my dick go rigid. Five and a half inches of boy-boner arched up over my
belly, over my meager patch of pubes. I pushed my little steel rod
downward, towards my feet, right on the edge of aching hardness. I had
masturbated before, had made serious attempts at cumming, but my
experiments up til now had been bone-dry. So I teased myself mercilessly
under the sheets with no specific end in mind.

     I imagined myself licking him all over, tasting him completely, every
inch. Licking his face, my tongue lapping at his cheeks, his chin, his
ears. I dared to imagine my lips on his lips, sharing the same breath, the
same heat. I began licking his neck, then his shoulders, my tongue
following the curve of his collarbone. I slathered his chest with my
saliva, and felt his hard little nipples under my tongue. I continued over
the complex ridging of muscles and ribs down the side of his torso. I was
giving him a tongue-bath, and that meant licking everything, it meant
licking his armpits. This was new territory, but I was stoked and hungry
for his flavor. I sucked the precious sweat out of his tufted armpit. I
savored his rippled abs, down the ridge of his hip-bone, and into the
valley beside it. I felt his treasure-trail tickle my lips and licked the
coarse hairs with long, broad strokes, right down to the sagging waist of
his board-shorts. I continued down his legs, his famous furry legs, kissing
and sucking his fuzz all the way down to his feet.

     I imagined him watching me as I licked his feet. I imagined the sweet,
salty, slightly acrid taste of his foot-sweat.  It seemed totally right that I
should be on my knees at his feet, awash in his scent, and paying homage
while he watched. I was a half-pint punk boy and he was bonafide. I sucked
each toe with devotion and cleaned between them as I looked up over his
chiseled torso into his eyes, a cocky grin on his face. He knew my gay-boy
secret.

     I saved the best for last. In my fantasy, though, it was him giving the
orders. He grabbed  his hard cock through his shorts with a significant look.
He was a daemon of few words. He leaned back in his chair and pointed right
at the ridge in his pants. My mouth went to it. I worshiped it hungrily,
squeezing it with my lips, biting gingerly, anxious with the humiliation of
giving another guy a blow-job. Since I had never seen his actual package, I
simply imagined some of the finer packages I had seen in gym class.  I
pictured a 6-1/2 inch cock, bigger than mine, of course, nestled in a healthy
bush of frizz-curled pubes. He had low-hanging balls, like mine, only bigger.
His skin was moist with sweat and Sean-hormones. I licked his crotch with
the same attention I had just lavished on his feet. My tongue on his hard
cock, my tongue on the silky skin of his balls. My lips in direct contact with
his sex. I was deep in taboo territory. He had commanded my demon, and I
was his. I sucked and slurped his fine hard cock while I tortured my own. It
was wicked-hard, with no relief in sight. Finally, I rolled onto my stomach, 
my relentless boner forced downward like a third leg.  As it finally softened
to something manageable,  I imagined sleeping with him, my head in his lap,
my lips on his precious cock all night long. I drifted off to sleep with the
heavy smell of boy-sweat and sex in my bed. My erection waxed and waned
all night. 

     This fantasy replayed in my mind every night for weeks. The rest of
the summer was lifted out of the ordinary. Each new day was fresh with
possibilities. I was more aware of the sexual jungle around me. There had
been an attraction to hot guys before, but now a slumbering dragon had
awakened and was taking notice. He was still hiding, but he was peeking out
of his cave. I started getting boners at little or no provocation. Waiting
on the street corner for the light to change got me hard. The feel of the
wind on my skin got me hard.