Date: Sun, 26 Mar 2000 19:39:10 BST
From: Jake Carney
Subject: LITANY OF LOVE

LITANY OF LOVE

by Jake Carney

Disclaimer:  Not a word of this is true. Bears don't shit in the forest. The
Pope is not a Catholic. And no boy has ever lusted after another boy. This a
work of the imgination. None of the boys described in this tale exist or
have ever existed except in the dreams, hopes, and experiences of so many of
us.

If you do not believe boys can love boys, or if the description of love or
acts of love is forbidden in your land or country, read no further. To the
pure all things are pure, and if in this account you expect to find only
disgust, do yourself a favour, go elsewhere, and find your own form of love,
wherever and however it is revealed to you.

To you who admit the possibility that there are as many expressions of love
as there are stars in a clear midnight sky, dream on.

This story is dedicated to Terry wherever it may find him.


LITANY OF LOVE

I am lying on a bed in a blue room with the sun dappling the pale blue
walls, striking through the dark blue curtains, partially open, lighting the
small album of photographs I hold in one hand.

Where do I begin? At the beginning? Or just flick through the pages, and let
chance bring back the memories from the corners of my mind. I would like to
begin at the beginning, but I have no idea where it all began. No idea?
Liar. And you promised not to lie. You may not know the truth, the whole
truth, but you do know when you are lying, especially to yourself.

Flick the pages. Find the memories. Face the truth.

There you are. Standing in a garden. Brown as a berry, skinny as a rake. You
are not alone. Standing in front of you, your hands on his shoulders, Luigi.
He is 9, you are 12. He is as fair as you are dark, his long blond hair
gleaming in the sun. His skin is creamy ivory, suffused by delicate hints of
pink. He is leaning into your chest, as he stands balanced on one leg, the
other raised as if poised for flight.

You are both wearing denim: denim jeans, denim shirts. You have open sandals
on, Luigi is bare-footed. If you could turn Luigi around, you would see
that, as ever, his jeans are slung so low that half his bottom is bared to
Mother Nature. Luigi is incapable of keeping his jeans up, they slip and
slide so easily down his narrow hips, and, as the boy never wears a slip,
the smiling moons of his bottom have become a familiar sight throughout the
summer school.

There are 12 Italian boys, 8 Spanish, 8 Germans, 5 Turks, 3 Yugoslavs -
brothers, and assorted odds and ends from Europe and beyond. There is even a
French-speaking boy from Montreal who knows only five words of English:
"Fuck you," and "I didn't do it." He is learning fast.

Their ages range from 9 to 14; they are here to learn English and have fun;
you are here have fun and provide a 'native speaker'. You get the holiday
for free; they get to talk to you.

Many of the boys are beautiful. It would be silly to argue with the word.
They are lively, energetic, mischiefous, bubbly, irrepressible, and
beautiful. They come from good families, if not good, at least wealthy, for
this is an expensive Summer School, located in a country house surrounded by
acres of woodland, deep in the heart of .......

It is Friday afternoon. You and Luigi are alone in the house. Everyone else,
teachers and students, have taken off in the coach for an afternoon's
shopping. Luigi is going shopping on Saturday with his mother who is
studying English at the university summer school. Lots were drawn. You drew
the short stick and have been left with Luigi. Almost since the first day he
has attached himself to you; you have not discouraged it, and the teachers
have welcomed it. Luigi is a handful. Loveable, but a handful.

After lunch you waved the coach goodbye, then played a game of badminton on
the lawn. The regulation hour passed, and you stripped and leapt into the
embrace of the pool.

Luigi is naked.

Given leave, he would spend the entire summer naked. Now he swims and
frolics like a playful dolphin, or slides around you like an eel, or stands
erect upon your shoulders before flinging himself recklessly into the
sparkling blue. He comes up spouting water between bee-stung lips and
perfect white teeth. The blue of sky and water is reflected in the blue of
his eyes. The boy is beautiful; he doesn't know it and wouldn't care if he
did. Italian boys are careless about their beauty.

You are becoming water-logged when Luigi climbs from the pool and goes
running naked across the lawn. Tight little buttocks set on sturdy legs. A
straight back leading to wide shoulders. Hair and water streaming down his
neck. He is running towards the house. Forbidden! No one may enter the house
directly from the pool. What's that to Luigi? For the beautiful there are no
rules.

You call to him. You are ignored. You climb from the pool and sprint after
him. Too late. He is into the house, into the warren of corridors and rooms.
Seek and ye shall find. Knock and it will be opened unto you, but it's not
going to be easy. Luigi is having fun!

I stroll from room to room, trying to maintain my outrage, but it isn't
possible. I hear his giggles, but he is too quick for me. I catch glimpses
of his bottom, hear the patter of his feet. It's a hot day, and whatever
damp there is will dry long before the shopping expedition returns. I stop,
think, take a chance, and head for my own room; I speak English, I get my
own room. I have always refused Luigi or any other of the boys access to my
room; has he been able to resist temptation?

No. He is sprawled face up across the double bed, legs dangling down the
side. He is reading the Beano. The English is beyond him, but the comic
strips are not, and he is giggling. As I slide down beside him, he turns his
head and smiles; the curtains are drawn, his smile lights up the room. He
returns his attention to the magazine.

I sit there and look down at him. My eyes wander across his body at will. Is
this what perfection is? Is this perfection before the rot sets in? He has a
small brown mole on his left hip; the tiny flaw only highlights the
perfection of the boy's body. Does the perfection of the body reflect the
perfection of the soul? Is this the geometry of innocent flesh on the bone?

I allow the fingertips of my right hand to brush away water drops on his
chest. The drops have gathered in a tiny hollow below and between his
nipples, pink starfish nipples. My fingertips return to the hollow, then
trace a line down to his belly button. Like a buttercup, it contains a few
more drops. I squeeze his button, lower my lips, and take away the drops on
the tip of my tongue.

Insanity? Yes, it is, and I know it is.

Luigi turns his eyes to me and smiles. Is it a conspiratorial smile? He
adjusts his bottom and returns to his comic. "Divertimento," he mutters. I
lower my lips again and allow them to graze across the silken meadow of his
belly in criss-cross patterns that dip into the hollows of his butterfly
hips.

There is a stirring, and I realise with thrilled horror Luigi is hardening,
stiffening, his penis elongates before my eyes, and rises like a grass snake
until it is sticking out directly from his body. He is not circumsized, but
the pink mushroom head of his penis protrudes from the foreskin. His cock is
ivory, with twists of blue vein, and a swollen little head. It rises from
clearly defined testicles that lie in the bag between the v of his legs.

The boy lays aside the comic, clasps his hands beneath his head, sighs and
closes his eyes. His arm pits, like his pubic area, are as smooth as the
inside of the chalice my father uses in his church.

My lips are on his belly. They slide into the hollow of each thigh. My
thumbs stroke his hips. I feel the tip of his cock touch my cheek. I lay my
right cheek gently on his tummy; his engorged little penis is millimetres
from my lips. I let my tongue slip out. Does the tip of his cock feel the
heat from the tip of my tongue? It would be easy, oh so easy, to let my lips
slip lower, mouth open, to let him slide in, almost of his own accord. The
stillness in the room is overwhelming. Is that Luigi's heart or my own I
hear?

I feel his cock brush my lips. He has raised his hips to push himself
against me. If I open my mouth, I will be in Paradise; if I open my mouth I
will be in Hell.

I jerk myself up from the bed. He looks up at me. The little bugger raises
an eyebrow, then grins. I dive on him. We wrestle furiously but gently. His
hard-on is poking against my belly, my chest, my face, but this is fun, this
is the way it is meant to be. Then I heave him over my shoulder, stagger to
my feet, stagger downstairs and outside, stumble across the lawn with this
yelling, heaving mass of boy flesh and limbs struggling to get free. He
knows what is coming! I reach the pool, raise him as high as I can, and
throw him as far as I can into the sun-struck water. There is an explosion
as he hits the surface. Before the ripples die away, another smaller
explosion as Luigi surfaces, blowing water, and hurling Italian obscenities
in my direction. But he is laughing, he can hardly breathe for laughing, the
laughter releases me from the thrilling terror of what might have been.

I leap into the water, unsure whether I feel relief or emptiness; then
realise it is both.

Another image slides into view from a corner in my mind.

"I like having a hard-on," were Joseph's words. He lay there, stretched out
on his back on the carpet in my bed-study room. I knelt beside him,
massaging his shoulders. It had been a hard training session, the start of
the rugby season was full of them, and I, as the Under-13s captain, had
worked them particularly hard.

The House matches would soon be on us, and I was determined my House would
do well. Joseph as captain of the team, and myself as Captain of the House,
made a formidable combination in energy and enthusiasm. Although I didn't
have the twelve-year-olds startling good looks, I was a figure held in
respect and some awe by the juniors. Thrown together by chance and fate,
Joseph and I loved each other's company though no explicit word of affection
had yet passed between us. Why I had got into the habit of giving him
massages, I can't remember, but they quickly became an agreed and agreeable
part of our relationship.

Joseph lay on the carpet, a pillow below his head. I had worked his
shoulders, back, legs and buttocks, yes, that degree of intimacy was already
established. He rolled over, slipped his hands beneath his head, and chatted
gaily while I worked on his chest, my thumbs sliding over his risen nipples.
All was comfortable, all was well, all was safe; and in a moment, everything
was changed.

"I like having a hard-on," he repeated, as blandly as if he were asking for
two sugars at tea.

He still wore his tight rugby shorts, and the outline of the afore-mentioned
hard-on was clear enough.

I chased the implications of the remark around in my head like hounds in
pursuit of a tricky fox. My voice leapt an octave as I strangled out a
response.

"Well, you're not a baby. We all know what to do about that?"

Joseph sighed, "Oh, I know what to do, but I'm just too tired to do it for
myself."

My fingers ran across his stomach and traced the line of his rugger shorts.
I toyed with the top button. He pushed himself into my hand. I slipped the
button open.

"Sprry, the zip's a bit tight," he murmured.

I edged the zip downwards, praying it would stick, praying it would slide
open easily. Neither prayer was answered as it jerked open in little jumps,
unaided by the pressure of the column of flesh beneath. Unasked, Joseph
raised his arse from the carpet and allowed me to edge the shorts down to
his knees. His jock strap bulged. A junior jock strap, yes, but it bulged.

I gripped the elasticated sides of the strap. He raised himself again. I
edged the pouch over his genitals. His hard cock sprang up, surprising me by
the intensity of his erection. Joseph was hard, very hard, and his cock,
though slim, was close to four inches. The few brown hairs straggling
delicately from his pubic area indicated puberty had set in though his penis
itself still look dauntingly child-like in its texture and colour.

Raised in boarding houses since I was six, the smell that rose from Joseph
was nothing new: sweat, a touch of urine, and those indefinable sex odours
of post-pubertal boys. Normally I ignored them; the smells from Joseph
intoxicated me.

My fingers closed round the column of his desire. I was momentarily taken
aback by its solidity, by its heat, and by the pulse I felt beating in my
palm. I gave a few tentative squeezes, and Joseph thrust himself into my
hand. I began tossing him off. Is that statement too indelicate, too brutal
for what, on my part, was an act of affection as well as lust?

Joseph lay there talking to me, talking to me about the team selection for
Saturday's match.

For God's sake!

"You can put your finger up my bum if you like," he said almost
off-handedly. "I really like that."

I loved that "if you like". I was going through agonies of desire, panic and
ambivalence, but I could shove my finger up his bum "if I liked".

His cock palpitated in my hand, but there were more serious palpitations in
my heart, physically, and in my head, metaphorically. I jerked my hand away
as if Joseph's cock had metamorphosed into an unhooded cobra.

"What...?"

He dragged himself up on one elbow and gazed at me inquisitively. "What's
up? What's wrong?" he asked.

This time the strangulation of my vocal cords was terminal.

"Oh, drat it. Guilt," he said. Still, propped on one elbow, he reached for
his cock, and with a few jerks shot himself expertly into his jock strap. He
pulled himself to his feet. Slipped out of the strap, slipped up his shorts,
and slipped the strap into his pocket.

"Well, who are we going to play at scrum half?" he asked, lowering himself
into an armchair.

I never massaged Joseph again. We substituted backgammon for the massage
sessions, and became, as far as it is possible for junior and senior boys,
friends.

The curse of ambivalence had struck again. Or was it simple cowardice? I
knew that at Joseph's age, I'd been grateful someone reached out and touched
me, that someone had seen beyond the maask to the emptiness, even if that
somone was only Gerald.

I'm twelve again. At a new school. It's September, but it's as hot as
mid-July. We are playing football at the bottom of the quarry. Strange no
one ever questioned why a quarry was sited with a school's grounds. A
disused quarry, but a real one, though thick grass, burned beige by the
summer, disguised its fiercer slopes.

The lunchtime bell rings. We dive for our blazers, tucking in shirts and
knotting ties as we scramble up the slippery slopes. Gerald grabs me from
behind and we go tumbling down the slopes again. For a few moments I am
winded. I try to get to my feet but Gerald is straddled across me, his hands
stretching my arms wide above my head. What craziness is this?

The sound of the bell dies away. The sounds of the boys' voices die away.
Only the birds in the woods disturb the silence, only the birds and our
broken breathing.

Gerald sits astride me, looking down into my eyes. His eyes are hazel. I had
no idea what the colour of hazel looked like, but his eyes are brownish gold
with green flecks. I imagined that was the colour of hazel. I know I should
say something, but for the life of me, I can't think of a single thing to
say. Gerald grinds his arse gently into my groin. His heat communicates
itself to mine.

My face is on fire as I feel myself stir and stretch beneath is flesh. I am
not big, but he must feel it. Surely he is as embarrassed as me. Still, he
sits there, grinding gently. I look away from his eyes, and in doing so I
see the bulge at his crotch. He must be hard, very hard.

"We've missed the start of Period 4," he whispers. "Hide in the woods?"

Dumbly I nod.

Gerald releases me, stands, brushes himself down, and helps me up. His touch
is electric. We move quickly into the cool shade of the woods, deeper and
deeper until we come to a small clearing. Gerald sits on a fallen tree.

I move to sit beside him, but he keeps me away, keeps me standing in front
if him. His fingers brush my flies; I should move away, but I don't.

He keeps his eyes on face as he unzips me, and eases me from my Y-fronts. I
can't take his gaze. I look up into the light and shade playing through the
treetops. He is squeezing me, running his fingers across the slick liquid on
the head of my cock, easing the foreskin back as far as it will go. His left
hand plays with my balls. I've learned to masturbate; I'm no fool, I'm no
baby, I know what's coming. Me!

Suddenly I gasp. There is a hot wetness around my stiff penis, and a sucking
feeling that brings a lump to my throat. I gulp noisly and look down. Gerald
has taken half my hard-on into his mouth; he is sliding it deeper until his
lips brush the hair at the base. He looks like my hamster, jaws crammed with
more than he can hope to handle. His head is bobbing now, up and down, as my
cock slides into his throat, back to his lips, and deep into his throat
again. The feeling is wonderful, as if my brain was fully of fluffy clouds
or candy floss, as if my own hand was only a shadow of the pleasure this
sucking mouth can bring.

Gerald's fingers slide from my balls into the crack between my buttocks,
probing the hot little tunnel that leads to... I clench by buttocks. It
feels good, but it feels wrong, like trying to have an extra helping of
trifle when you're already stuffed to the gills. The hand moves away and
returns to my balls; the other hand is pumping the base of my cock when
Gerald's mouth makes room.

My knees tremble and buckle; I think my legs are going to give way. I feel
myself rushing hotly from below. I try to warn Gerald, but he doesn't want
to know, and suddenly I am spitting, spurting, jetting into his mouth. He
takes is all, all of it, though some bursts from the sides of his mouth to
run down his chin. He keeps on sucking till I am so sensitive I have to push
him away. I am panting, ashamed, thrilled, and panting. I let myself fall to
the fallen tree, sitting there, head in hands, fly open, my cock dripping
onto... onto a handkerchief Gerald has placed in my lap. How thoughtful.

In time I look up. Gerald is standing in front of me. His trousers and
underpants are around his ankles. He is jerking his cock furiously.
Fascinated, I cannot take my eyes from him. The head of his cock is like a
swollen purple mushroom; the foreskin makes slurping noises as it blurs over
the head; there are little white bubbles of slime. Suddenly he turns
slightly to his left, and shoots his load in spurts that travel at least six
feet, splatting against a defenceless beech tree. He reaches for his
handkerchief and wipes the end of his cock.

"Christ, I needed that," he murmurs.

He throws me the handkerchief. I find a  dry area and wipe myself clean.
We do ourselves up. Gerald sits down beside me and pulls out a packet of
cigarettes. He offers me one. I take it. I have never smoked a cigarette in
my life, but then I'd never been fellated till that afternoon either. There
is a first time for everything.

Gerald lights me up. I cough and splutter for a few moments, but I get the
hang of it and drag deeply in the fag. Christ, it's good. Sex and cigarettes
are spiritual experiences.

We sit there for the next forty minutes, talking about this, that and
everything except the sex we've just had. That doesn't seem so important now
that it's over. We hear the bell go for Period 5 and reluctantly raise our
arses. Sugar 'n' shit, I've got another hard-on. I'd like Gerry to do the
business again, but I'm too shy to ask. Never mind. There'll be other days.

There were no other days. Although I dropped hints to Gerry, he seemed
entirely uninterested in sex with me. For a few weeks I was disappointed,
diastressed and desperate. Then I heard that Gerald had sucked off 17 boys
in the First Year, and never sucked the same boy twice. That was a relief.
It had nothing to do with whether I was good-looking or not, nothing to do
with whether I was desireable or not. It was nothing but sex. And anyway,
the grind of the rugby season left me with hardly enough energy for a quick
wank in the showers.

In the showers I first noticed Eric. Not true. Eric was in my class. Though
we were not close friends, we sat together in some classes and enjoyed a
passing acquaintance. He was not my type; though I didn't know then what my
type was.

Eric was a gifted athlete. We were skinny thorteen-year-olds. Eric had the
body of a well-developed fifteen year old. Square of build without in anyway
being squat, his regular features were lit by a smile as generous as his
personality. He was intelligent but not clever; I may have been the reverse,
and we formed an undeclared partnership in which my academic skills were
traded for his physical proximity. Eric was handsome in a very masculine
way; I was attractive in a way, not feminine but sensuous. Eric burned
brightly, I smouldered dangerously.

Eric had a ten-inch penis. Even as I write this, I find it hard to believe,
but having measured it myself, I know it for a hard fact that attracted me
as a moth to a flame, a magnet to a bar of steel. Perhaps I would have been
taken aback had my own dick not swung a good six inches between my legs. In
fact, it was a relief to discover in the school showers that the object of
awe was no longer my male appendage but Eric's.

Did we flaunt our dicks? I blush to confess we did. Standing close to each
other, towelling ourselves down with long strokes down each leg, and fast
strokes across our backs that set our dicks swinging, conscious of so many
glances, gazes and frank stares edging our way.

In class, seated side by side, Eric let me push my thigh against his as our
lowered heads pored intimately over a German edition of 'Emil and the
Detectives'. My hand resting lightly on my own right knee would casually
brush his left until he hissed good-naturedly, "Fuck off, you're giving me a
hard-on."

Why did he decide to let me go further? The relentless pressure of intimacy?
Amused affection, for we did grow to become friends of a sort?
Simple boyhood lust? A desire to see how far I was willing to go - or how
far he was willing to let himself go?

A Saturday morning in November. We arrive at the school sports grounds an
hour early. We have a rugby match. I dislike rugby, but the squalorous
clamour of it ends in 30-odd boys scrambling around under the hot showers,
and Eric's ten-inch prick demanding submission from the visitors regardless
of the score in the match itself.

We are going to some place-kicking, but it's fucking freezing, and we
scramble through a rear window of the pavilion. It is snug and warm inside.
We are both still sleepy-headed. We dive onto a huge heap of rubber mats in
the storage room. Eric is on his back, eyes closed. I am lying by his side,
eyes wide open.

I run my fingers across the thin flannel of his school trousers. It's a
school match and we have to wear full fucking uniform even in sub-zero
temperatures. There is no sanity in the adult world. I am running my
fingertips from his knees to the V of his crotch, waiting for the imperious
command, "Fuck off, you're giving me a hard-on."

The command does not come; the hard-on does. Growing, swelling, stretching,
elongating until it looks as a length of rubber hose-pipe has been jammed
down his trousers. I take a deep breath and run my fingers its length, half
wincing in the expecation of a punch in the mouth.

The punch does not come; a command does.

"For Christ's sake, get on with it. They'll be here soon."

My brain is as frozen as the icicles outside thw window. I ease open his
buttons, part his flies, find the slit in his underpants, and ease out that
monstrous cock. It is a thing of beauty, a thing of power, and thing of
silky softness and steely hardness. I begin jerking the top three inches of
the shaft, the foreskin is loose and slides easily backwards and forwards.

Eric's cock is already palpitating. I feel it swell my fingers apart.

"Hold on, I'll get some loo paper," I whisper.

"Fuck off. Keep going. Find something else. Don't make a mess." Its a long
speech for a boy whose arse is already writhing against the rubber mats
beneath his cheeks.

"I don't have a hankie," I whisper hoarsely.

"I don't want a mess," he hisses.

My face is inches from his cock. I can feel its heat against my... against
my lips. I know what he means. I know what he wants. It is disgusting,
repellant, and I want it, too.

I open my mouth until my jaws crack, close my eyes, and lower myself until
he slides in. I close my lips around the head of his cock and slide them
down the shaft until I gag, then ease back a little.

This must be Paradise. The simple act of taking this hard flesh into my
mouth is Paradise. I could lie here forever, Eric pushing himself rapidly,
rhythmically into me... into me, inside me! Coming! Cumming! Inside me!

The spurts hit the back of my throat, the roof of my mouth. Four, five, six.
Eric jets his most intimate self inside me. His sperm, his semen, his cum
slides down my throat towards me stomach. Eric is becoming part of me.
Little Erics are swimming around blindly inside of me. Of me. Of me!

"Christ, that was good."

I am lying on my back, deeply ashamed.

Eric scrabbles open my flies, flips out my hard dick. His big hot hand is
round my hard-on. He is jerking me hard but with care. I am so ashamed, and
so utterly transported by the memory of his cock in my mouth, his hot jets
of sperm in my throat, the long slow sliding towards my stomach.

"O, O, O."

I feel myself coming uncontrollably. My body spasms. My bum beats its own
little tattoo on the rubber mats. I look the length of my body and see Eric
has wrapped a handkerchief around my throbbing cock. His own handkerchief.
How kind. How thoughtful. How generous.

Eric is on his feet, pulling me to mine. The freckles on his face are
stretched by a wide grin.

"That's not allowed, you know," he laughs. "Least not BEFORE a match.
Remember your body is a temple. It is to be worshipped, not abused."

Eric has the Rev. Ramsden to a T.

The Rev. Ramsden is not only the school chaplain but our rugby coach, and a
mean bugger in both roles he is.

"Let's get changed, and get in a few practice kicks," he laughs. "That's
what we're here for, or have you forgotten?"

I laugh, too. It's as if someone has thrown open the window, and let a rush
of clean, breath-taking, forgiving air into my life. Eric is an athlete, a
demi-god, a hero, and he likes having his cock sucked by me!

Fuck ambivalence! Fuck guilt! Fuck shame!

I'll get back to them - later. We've got all the time in the world.

Eric was killed seven days later. Coming to another school match. I was in
bed with influenza. Eric took a short cut across the railways lines, eager
to get in some practice kicks. The lines were frosty. He slipped, fell, and
died, they say almost instantly.

I didn't masturbate for nine months after his death.

Two things I have never been able to resist are temptation and hot sunny
weather. The following July the combination of both proved irresistible. Or
maybe Robert would have been irresistible wherever I'd met him.

Crammed with 72 boys and teachers from our school,  double decker bus
barreled its way south through a hot humid night on a series of French
motorways that took us from the gloom of London to the sun-stunned beaches
of Cap D'Agde and Summer Camp.

I'm looking at Robert's photographs now, and the same sun seems to glow from
his tanned skin. Two photographs survive from that summer. In the first,
Robbie is sprawled on his back across an unmade double bed, flowery summer
shorts low on his hips, his grin as inviting as the clear blue sea that
sparkled only twenty metres from the ramshackle caravan in which we hid
ourselves.

As seductive as that photograph is, I prefer the second. We are outside,
Robbie has his back to me, but his head is turned to me in close-up. His
cropped blonde hair is repeated in the fine hair along his back, fine golden
hairs bleached by two weeks hot summer sun. His smile is sun-kissed, lips
parted just enough to show even white teeth, eyes as blue as the azure
above. But it is the raised eyebrow and the protruding tip of the tongue
which make it pure Robert.

Can innocence be a form of lust? If it can, it is the word made flesh in
Robbie. Here is no guilt, no shame, no ambivalence. Robbie wants his burning
flesh pressed against my own; it is in the smile, the raised eyebrow, the
golden hairs on his back. My eyes slide from his broad shoulder to the silk
of his chest. One innocent nipple is turned towards me. Even now my lips
remember the texture of that nipple.

We were in the water, six or seven boys, horsing around. Throwing ourselves
and each other around. Robbie threw himself at me; were his words also
thrown at me. I can hear them still, in an unbroken treble, layered by the
husky patina of approaching puberty.

"Whoever wants me can have me."

And Robert is in my arms. And I am staggering backwards in the chest high
water. But I hold onto him as he clings to me, his arms draped around my
neck, his cheek to mine, his laughter mingling with mine. And as I bear him
up, I feel his hard cock pressing against my thigh. For the moment I am
startled and almost release him. But I hear his words in my ear again:
"Whoever wants me can have me." And I want him, o, how I want him!

He nuzzles his nose under my chin. It seems absolutely right. Then in a
single deft movement, he dives from me, slips under the water, and comes to
the surface, his face as crystal clear as chilled champagne.

"Come on, let's do the banana," he calls, and we are swimming together out
to the huge rubber banana being towed from the beach into deeper waters. We
scrambled aboard, just as the motor boat guns its engines. Several boys are
thrown headlong into the warm soup of the Mediterranean. I hold onto a grip,
and Robbie holds onto me, his chest pressed against my back, my buttocks
crammed into the hollow of his groin, his hot hard cock pressed into the
crack of my bum.

Like this, the banana is pulled at high speed through the water as the motor
boat frantically twists and turns in its efforts to dislodge us. Five, six,
seven boys go flying into the blue. Only Robbie and I are left, clinging to
each other, and to the wreackage of the inhibitions that have kept us apart.
As the banana slows down, he shamelessly presses his hard-on into me as his
hand slides across my crotch to find its twin, as hard as his own in its hot
desire. I feel his breath on my ear, and the words come again: "Whoever
wants me can have me... as long as it's you."

We are back at the caravan. The curtains are drawn. The shadows are backlit
by the Mediterranean sun prowling at the window. It is a teacher's caravan;
they have caravans, we have tents. But Mr Finch has left the camp. He is
town, probably blind drunk by now. He leaves the key under the second step;
all the boys know where to find the key, for when Mr Finch staggers back
from town, it is we boys who see him safely dumped on his unmade double bed.

The unmade double bed. It takes up most of the photograph. Robbie is
sprawled across the bed facing the camera, the window above and behind the
bed. There is one crumpled white sheet, two others, pastel blue and pastel
are are bundled in a corner. Robbie's legs hang from the bed, his legs as
wide open as his shorts will allow. His arms are raised behind him, but flat
on the bed. he is wearing the floral shorts, battered trainers and a
wristwatch on his right wrist. His smile is as open as his legs. His armpit
is innocent of hair.

I sat beside and above him.

"My skin is on fire," he said.

I reached for the bottle of suntan cream on the bedside table. It had never
been opened. Mr Finch did not take the sun. I twisted the cap open and
squirted some on my right palm. A delicate fragrance rose up. I ran my
creamy palm across Robbie's chest.

"Mmmmmmmm," he murmured. "That's nice."

I moved my palm around his chest, his tummy, his upper arms, refreshing the
cream every now and again. His skin was hot; my fingertips were on fire.

I slid my palm down to the top of his shorts and ran it the length of his
waist.

"Better not get cream on my shorts," he smiled.

He raised his bottom and pushed his shorts down to where the base of his
cock met his body. Traces of fine, blond hair. My trembling palm caressed
his pubic area. Ivory skin as delicate as a butterfly's wing. My palm slid
up his body again, his nipples were erect. Up and down his torso slid my
cool, creamy palm, my fingers recalling the path it took.

"Might as well go all the way," he smiled.

Robbie raised his hips and bottom, and pushed his shorts down to his knees.
His prick sprang up hard against his belly.

"That's hot, too," he laughed. "Needs a little cream."

I squirted cream onto my palm and fingers. I took his hard cock in a gentle
grip, and began drawing the skin up and down his uncircumsized penis. There
were already bubbles on the head of his cock, and his balls were drawn up
tightly in a hardly wrinkled sac. I stroked his shaft, and ran my thumb
around the slippery head. Robert's cock was just over three inches long, and
I was surpised by its thickness. The loose foreskin slid halfway down the
shaft.

He moaned and giggled. It was a beguiling combination. It set me free. I
lowered my mouth and let him slide between my lips. I was surprised as
always by the steely hardness of the shaft and the velvety skin that covered
it. His cock slid deep in my throat. I felt his hand carress the hair on my
head. I gripped the bottom of his shaft, making little jerking motions, the
kind Eric had loved so much. My free hand stroked the tissue-thin skin os
his inner thigh.

I felt him pulse and swell in my throat. I speeded up my ministrations.

"Not yet, not yet," whispered Robbie, his voice a husky giggle. He slid
himself from me and flipped over on the bed, his bottom raised, his shorts
stuck behind his knees. "I'm hot there, too."

I pushed down his shorts, and he kicked them away from his ankles. He raised
his rump and wiggled it suggestively. I took it as an invitation.

Putting aside the suntan cream, I prised open the cheeks of his bum and
peered at the little brown hole at its centre. What was this fascination
with an area which I'd always been told represented something dirty? How
could something so beautiful be dirty? How could something so small be so
beautiful. I prised Robbie's cheeks wide apart.

I lowered my face into his crack and ran my lips across the delicate inner
skin. Why did I do that? How did I know that is what I wanted to do? How did
I know that was what Robbie wanted me to do?

The musky smell of sun, sea, sand and sweat rose up to meet me. How fragile
the little puckered centre seemed. The desire to kiss the little brown
centre overwhelmed me. I ran my tongue along the serrated edge, then kissed
it gently, twisting my head so that we could be lips to lips in this most
intimate of kisses. I held my lips there for a long time, feeling them
tingle. and hoping Robbie felt the tingle, too.

Is that when it began? Is that when I was seduced as much by arse holes as I
was by the erect penis? It seemed to me then, it seems to be now, that one
male gives himself utterly to the other by this act of surrender. It is not
submission but surrender. It seems to say: "There is nothing of each other
that we do not find beautiful. There is no part of us that is forbidden, not
gentle act that is prohibited. I offer myself to you in a helplessness that
equals trust. I trust you so much that I surrender my most intimate part to
you. All else is public; only this act is ineffably private."

Of course at thirteen years old no such thoughts were in my mind. I was
frantic with inchoate desires, and I only knew that this was one of the acts
which slaked the thirst of that burning desire.

So I kissed Robert's arse hole. I licked it, kissed it, and thrust the tip
of my tongue as far in as it could go. Robbie pushed back to signal his
desire and to assure me of our shared need. How many minutes passed, I have
no idea; the minutes were centuries, the centuries were aeons, the aeons
became infinity.

Robbie flipped himself over. His cock was so hard it burned a fiery purple
and red. My mouth covered him again. His hand grabbed mine and forced it
between his cheeks. For a moment I failed to understand what he meant. Then,
as I sucked him fiercely, I jammed my middle finger up his hole, and worked
it in circles. I raped his cock with my mouth, and fucked his ass with my
finger.

His whimpers became moans. His head rolled from side to side, his body began
to thrash. I leaned my weight across his legs, and finger-fucked him
ruthlessly.

"Please, please, please..."

His legs juddered. His cock swelled in my mouth. I choked but kept on
sucking hard, my lips running the length of his pulsating shaft.

"Oh... Oh... Ohhh..."

He was squirting against the roof of my mouth. I gulped as jets of semen
coated my tonsils. The 'glue' stuck to the back of my throat. It became
harder to keep it all down. Some of it burst from the sides of my mouth. For
thirty seconds Robbie rolled and thrashed and bucked as he emptied his ball
into me. Then he lay still, no, not still, for his frame trembled, and his
stomach muscles fluttered. I let his still-hard cock slid from my mouth. I
looked up at him. His eyes were still open, but the pupils had rolled back
until he was showing almost entirely white. For a moment I was afraid, then
he shook himself like a drenched dog, reached for me and pulled me to him.
There was an awkward, silly moment as I disengaged my finger from his hole.
Then Robert kissed me.

Our kisses were long and deep, and as I pressed Robbie to me, he wriggled my
swimsuit to my knees. I felt my hot, hard, aching, throbbing cock press
against the softness of his deflated erection. I felt the slime of his last
few drops of cum lubricate my prick as it rubbed against him. It was my turn
to gasp and moan, my monas increasing as his finger found my hole and
penetrated me to the knuckle.

My penis throbbed, pulsated and squirted a stream of cum between us. I say
stream advisedly; I usually come in hot little spurts, but this time there
seemed to an unending stream of semen firing between our bodies. As we
pressed together, it felt like a trail of warm glue stretching from my belly
button to just under my chin. We could hear it squelch as our bodies rubbed
frantically together. My body shooked, trembled and juddered while Robert
held me tight, excavating the cavern of my mouth with his tongue.

At last we lay still, satiated for the moment. Our noses touched, our eyes
blinked open, the grey-blue of mine gazing into the cat-like green of his.
Our sighs were deep and long. Robert murmured in my ear, words
unrecognisable but meaning passionately clear.

Did we fall asleep? I know Robert did. His breathing grew shallow, his lips
parted, and a faint bluish tinge spread beneath his eyes. When I came to
myself, the shadows were aslant the bed; they hinted of early evening.
Gently I shook Robbie awake. Sleepily we slid into our swimming gear,
slipped out the door and padded down to the sea to wash away the evidence of
our passion before the gong for tea. Later I retrieved my camera from the
caravan. Mr Finch lay comatose on the bed. I wondered if the scent of our
love-making had filled his nostrils. Perhaps given him a hard-on. I laughed
to myself. Each to his own, I thought, each to his own.

The trip home was possibly the most contented 24 hours I have spent in my
life. Robbie and I commandeered a front seat on the upper deck of the bus.
Magnificent views. Lots of leg room. And the chance to cuddle up together on
that long summer's night as we swished onwards to our ordinary lives in
England. But for us nothing would ever be ordinary again. We had tasted the
fruit of the forbidden tree, and we found it good.

The summer holidays were upon us, and as the bus was greeted in front of the
school by relieved parents, Robert and I shook hands goodbye. The weeks
stretched endlessly and emptily away; they might have except I was staying
in school. Not our school, but an independent school on the Channel coast of
England. Let me explain.

My mother is a teacher. She taught abroad for seven years. Now, every
summer, she directed a Summer Course for students who came to England to
learn the language. She earned quite a bit of money during those six weeks,
and so did I. Not only did I live free at the school, but I was paid to
attend classes, take part in the sports and the excursions, befirend the
students, and generally make my native command of the English language
available to the foreign students. Money for old rope, as the metaphor has
it.

I have no intention of writing a chronological account of how I got from
there to here, but as I flick through the back pages of my album, there they
are: Matteo, Eduardo, and Akif. Not together. Each boy attended a two-week
course, and each boy ended up in bed with me. My cock hardens at each
memory.

Matteo was Italian. At fourteen, a few months older than me. But he was
bigger than me, better built than me, more handsome than me, and far more
nave than me. Almost unbelievably nave. Even as I slipped down his tight
white underpants, Matteo smiled up innocently at me, as if the hands which
had been massaging and carressing his legs, chest and belly, had every right
to massage and carress his groin and throbbing erection.

It began after our third tennis match. The heat of the afternoon was still
intense as we retreated from the sun-struck tennis courts to the shadowy
cool of my room. The boarding house was empty. Our footsteps and voices
echoed through the corridors as we made our way to the top floor. Matteo
threw himself face down on my double bed, chattering away merrily in Italian
of which I understood nothing.

He was a large, well-built boy of 14. Big-boned, not an ounce of fat. A body
that had been kissed brown under an Italian sun. His hair, straight and
longish, remained silky black. His huge eyes were of the same intensity,
sparkling black. Sparkling black - does that make sense? It is the closest I
can get to them. I am no writer; I can only report how they seemed to me.
His skin was flawless.

Matteo groaned a little, sat up, stripped off his white tennis shirt, and
threw himself onto his back, shielding his eyes. He groaned again, and
stretched his arms as if they were cramped. I sat down beside him, drinking
him in with my eyes.

His nipples did it. Huge and fleshy, without seeming in any way abnormal or
out of place, they rose like small pink and brown mountains on his upper
chest. I let my left hand stroke the length of his sweaty chest. He moaned
in pleasure, opened his eyes, smiled enigmatically and closed them again.
Bolder I ran both hands across his chest, letting the sides of my palms find
their own way over the hillocks of his nipples. I felt them stiffen and
elongate beneath my touch. I shivered in terrified delight; Matteo merely
stretched his arms above his head, revealing little shocks of silky black
hair in his arms pits. I licked my lips.

I lowered my face to his chest. My falling hair brushed his nipples. I
flicked my hair back and brushed his right nipple with my lips. Slid my lips
across his chest and licked his left nipple. I opened my lips and let his
nipple slide in. The flesh was warm. I gently nipped him with my teeth. I
sucked his nipple hard into my mouth, holding the base between my tightening
lips. Was this what it had been like suckling at my mother's breast? There
was something elementally satisfying about the action. My fingers brushed
one nipple, while my lips sucked and pulled on the other. How long did I
spend on Matteo's nipples? Time had lost its meaning. Only a subtle push on
the top of my head directed my attention lower.

My eyes followed the slide of my hands down his torso. A fine line of silky
black hair wound its way up to his navel from under his track suit bottoms.
Again and again I stroked his body with my hands. I watched the front of his
track suit stretch and swell. I let my hands flutter along the skin where
cotton met hot flesh. Matteo raised his bottom from my bed. I eased his
track suit, tennis shorts, and tiny blue slip down to his knees.

A fat, hard cock bobbed up before me; the smell an instant aphrodisiac.

I choked back a gasp. Though Matteo was only a few months older than I - his
Gemini to my Saggitarian - he had the cock of a young man. Seven, maybe
eight inches; as thick as a baby's wrist; uncut, throbbing and pulsing the
tiny veins that ran around the shaft. The loose foreskin already drawn back.
The thick mushroom head slickly purple.

Matteo raised his head from the pillow and looked down his body. he looked
at me and grinned. "Sorry, it's my body; she has a mind of his own." He lay
back, squirmed into a position comfortable, sighed and closed his eyes.

I continued my massage, fingers sliding into the thick, black, silky hair of
his pubic area, the back of my hand brushing the straning head of his penis.
It was unbelievable. Surely this boy felt the desperate lust in my
finger-tips. Surely he knew I couldn't stop there. Was he that nave? That
innocent?

His big balls hung loosely in the V of his crotch, his cock rising aslant
like some mini Tower of Pisa. I opened my mouth, cracked my jaw, and
wondered if I could even begin to take him. I let my hand slide casually the
length of his erection; it seemed to stretch even further at my touch.

"Aw, fuck this for a month of Sundays." I couldn't take it anymore. I leaned
over Matteo and ran the tip of my tongue experimentally across his exposed
glans, once, twice, three times.

The boy's eyes flew open. His expression was hard to read.

"What you do?" he whispered.

"I want to suck you cock," I said as blandly as I could.

"What is suck?" asked Matteo, who was always keen to improve his vocabulary.

"This is suck," I said, lowering my head to engulf half of his rigid penis
in my mouth. I managed a few short, sharp sucks. I raised my head, expecting
a powerful smack across my already-aching jaw.

"Suck, yes. Fuck, no."

Matteo settled himself back on his pillow, and thrust his groin up in the
direction of my waiting lips. I sighed and blessed whatever angel was
organising this mystery for me. My mouth closed over that big Italian
stallion cock. I would now demonstrate exactly what suck meant. My mother
would be proud of my TEFL skills!

Within minutes my jaw ached, but the ache was filled with pleasure. I
experimented, letting the head of Matteo's engorged cock slide into the back
of my throat, holding it there till I choked and gagged, then releasing him
to the head, bobbing up and down on his shaft - slow, slow, quick, quick,
fast as I could till my saliva ran freely down his shaft to mingle with
sweat and pre-cum. I could feel his cock thicken and swell.

Matteo pulled me onto him. Without freeing his cock, he pushed down my
tennis shorts and slip, then swung himself sideways on the bed until my
throbbing cock was at his lips. I felt myself engulfed to my hair and
wondered which of us was nave. We settled into a steady rhythm, Matteo
keeping pace with me, then urging me faster and deeper in response to his
own desires.

Another twist of the body, and I found myself straddling him from above,
supported by my knees on either side of his body. He jerked me forward until
he had my cock in his mouth again. He sucked me hard and fast till I was
there, almost there, then pushed me back until I was sitting over his cock.
I felt the hot hard head of his cock push into my crack until its mushroom
pressed against the ring of my anus. Fear trickled with my sweat down my
back. This Italian boy had said: "No fuck," but what this? Was he going to
impale me on his prick? I'd burst wide open. My mouth could hardly take him.
How could my virgin anus?

My fear must have shown on my face. Matteo grinned and said something in
fast, incomprehensible Italian. I felt his big hard cock slide up and down
the length of my crack, faster and faster it went, generating its own sweat
and grease, helped by saliva and pre-cum. Every few minutes he would pull me
forward, engulf my cock, and suck me hard and fast. Each time the cum rose
to my shaft he pushed me back, and rode his cock in the crack of my ass
again.

Without warning he gasped. I felt warm jets of cum shoot up the small of my
back: four, five, six. Before I could decide what to feel about this new
experience, he pulled me forward and swallowed my cock to the hilt, sucking
with what amounted to controlled ferocity. I had not time to think, only to
feel, and what I felt was an explosion of pleasure as my cock fired its own
jets of cum into his contracting throat. I leaned forward all the way, and
gasped as I felt his teeth round my right nipple; he bit it fiercely, and I
was ure he'd drawn blood. My cock pulsed out of control. I moved my ass back
and forwards over his cock, gathering the last of his cum onto myself.

I fell forward. Matteo's arms gripped me. He embraced me. I returned the
embrace and swooned in his arms. Swooned! What an old-fashioned word, but I
cannot think of a better one to describe my complete surrender to this
surprising boy.

Another flurry of movement and we were both under my thin cotton duvet.
Matteo licked my ear. "Now you teach difference from simple past to present
perfect, then we suck again."  For the next thirty minutes, I fulfilled my
share of the arrangement: Matteo got his English lesson, and I got his big
fat hard cock deep in my throat.

For the next two weeks we traded sex for English lessons. When Matteo left
from Heathrow, he was expert in the basic tenses of English, and I could
deep throat as well as any Italian boy my age. It was fun, good, dirty fun,
and nobody was robbed in the exchange.

Eduardo. Eduardo.

Even now the word for me is synonymous with elegance. Tall for his age,
Eduardo moved with the delicate grace of a giraffe, his patrician features
casting glances which kept him at a distance from the hurly burly of summer
school life. Eduardo was unconscious of his grace; he bestowed his rare
smile with genuine warmth, yet he never quite belonged, nor did he give any
hint that he wishes to.

Eduardo found me. He may even have sought me out. Eduardo was in England to
improve his English; I was the richest source of what he required, and
therefore he chose me. He sat beside me in class. He sat beside me at lunch
and dinner. He walked with me through the town, asking short questions which
demanded long answers. He absorbed the language as blotting paper picks up
ink, stained indelibly forever.

Eduardo decided I was to be his teacher. He took from me what he wanted, and
in return gave me what I wanted: hot, hard, dirty sex.

Eduardo was 13, a month younger than I. He came from Majorca; in fact, I
think his father owned most of Majora - though this information was gleaned
from his Spanish acquaintances rather than from Eduardo himself. Tall,
elegant, slightly Moorish in features, his arms were long, his fingers long,
his legs long, and his penis long and slim.

How did Eduardo know I wanted him? Did I give off some scent, the subtle
hint of pre-cum that oozed from me when I was in his company for any length
of time?

That room again. Saturday evening. The painted hordes savaged the weekend
disco three floors below us, the music pulsating through the building.
Eduardo and I sprawled on the bed, my double bed. For two hours I had been
explaining the mysteries of idiomatic English. What did "I wouldn't give a
monkey's" mean, precisely, and what was the origin of the expression? Was
"the cat on a hot in roof" as nervous as I? Why were Spanish curses based on
blasphemy while English obscenities were rooted below the waist?

Eduardo sighed, leaned back against the headboard, closed his eyes, took my
by the wrist, and placed by palm firmly over the hard, hot erection that
throbbed in his groin. I was about to learn just why Spanish is the loving
tongue.

His tongue licked the ring of my anus.

That is far too clinical for the passion that wracked my body. His tongue
licked the ring of my anus, and I twisted and turned, uncertain whether I
wanted a way, or whether I wanted his tongue inside me. Liar! I knew what I
wanted. To open up, to surrender, to submit. This most hidden, intimate part
of me I wanted taken by my fiercely insistent lover.

I have never understood the psychology of the arse hole. Why is it so
intensely erotic? Of course I love a hot hard penis deep in my throat. But
there is something so basic, so willing, so giving about opening oneself up
to one's lover's tongue, or to press one's own tongue into the musky
fundament of another male. What deeper surrender is there after this act? A
hard cock may thrust deeper, but it does not have the living warmth of the
human tongue. A hard cock conveys passion; a hot tongue is passion.

As Eduardo opened me with the wedged tip of his tongue, my own tongue ran
the length of his crack, then tickled tentatively at the brown, slightly
hairy bud that marked the portal to his inner self. I felt something give in
me, and his tongue slid inside me; as if synchronised, his rosebud open up
to me, and my tongue slipped half way in. I lay there motionless for a few
moments, shocked by the intensity of my feelings, but also wanted to feel
every wiggle and twist of his tongue as it scraped, or seemed to scrape the
inner walls my rectum. His smells overwhelmed me, and my tongue, as if by
instinct began its own searching inside Eduardo's hot musky hole, the tip
twisting and teasing as if it were checking for cavities in my teeth.

'Tongue fucking.'  I'd never even heard the expression but that was what was
happening to me. Eduardo was not only reaming me, but his tongue drove back
and forward like a hard prick in my mouth. My own tongue ached, but the more
it ached, the more I wanted. The more my tongue worked, the more he opened
to me, and the more he opened the greater was his surrender, and my own.

A twist of bodies as fast as eels ttrying to escape the net, and Eduardo was
sucking the breath of out me. His mouth clamped over mine, his tongue
snaking in my throat, his hot lips sealed against my own. I could taste
myself, or was it him I tasted? I tasted both of us, and it tasted good. How
could shit taste good? But this wasn't shit, this was our inner selves, the
creams and juices and sweats and darker fluids mingling in an aphrodisiac
that choked me. Had Eduardo sought to fuck me then and there, he could have
with my complete assent. My will was gone, resistance broken. I wanted this
boy inside me. And the key word is 'inside'. I wanted him inside me, all of
him inside me, and if that could not be, I wanted any part of him inside me:
finger, tongue, penis - it hardly mattered which.

Another twist and Eduardo straddled me. He lowered his bum over my face, his
cheeks split by my nose, my lips clamped his tiny fraternal lips. He rubbed
himself against me, my tongue carressing the portal it had penentrated
moments earlier. I could hear his short sharp gasps of breath, or were they
my own? I felt my cock spurt short sharp loads that must have creamed the
inner cheeks of his bottom or splattered against the arch of his back. He
shifted, I sucked him in, hard fast sucks and Eduardo was spurting, too. I
gulped them down like an over-fed infant. Our bodies shook so hard the bed
rattled, a double bed and it rattled, then we lay still, clamped together in
heated exhaustion till my Spanish boy slid down beside me, hugged me to him,
and promptly fell asleep!

I lay there looking at the dark blusih skin around his eyes, the heavy sweep
of his eyelashes, the high cheek bones, slightly hooked nose, and the faint
beginning of a moustache above his lip.

Was that the privilege of wealth and elegance: to rape the humble servant
and fall asleep childlike in his arms? Was I a youthful Sancho Panza holding
a youthful Don Quixote in my arms?

Later, in the shower, Eduardo washed me. I stood there below the hissing
water and he washed me from head to toe, taking infinite care, and
apparently infinite pleasure. What this signified about our relationship was
beyond me. I gave up trying to understand and surrendered myself to the
simple eroticism of being washed by another boy.

Simple eroticism. Is that what is looking out at me from Akif's photograph?
He is sitting on a child's painted rocking horse. He is wearing a green
track suit. How old would you think he was when I snapped that photograph?
Eleven? Ten? Nine?

Akif was twelve, but so fine was his skin, kissed by the Turkish sun, but so
utterly unblemished that he could be taken for a nine-year-old. A smiling,
laughing, confident pre-pubescent child though puberty had laid its touch
upon him.

The simple eroticism of being washed by another boy.

It was 'Spooky Night', and the staff had organised a section of the school
into a nightmare labyrinth of rooms where ghosts, vampires and ghouls jumped
you from the dark, where things went bump in the night just behind your
back.

Akif had volunteered for the rack. Stripped to a tiny loin cloth, he was
streaked with 'blood' and stretched on a ramshackle contraption which we-d
built together that afternoon. I was 'torturer in chief'. As each group of
boys and girls passed out room, a dim light flicked on, a spotlight picked
out Akif who moaned and groaned in agony. I stood beside him leering and
waggling a cat o' nine tails over his naked form. It was all great fun.

Great fun till it came to removing the 'blood' streaked across his face,
shoulders, chest and back. Blood as stubborn as paint, which of course it
was. And I was detailed to scrub the paint from the Turkish boy with whom
I'd so quickly made friends in the last couple of days.

Akif stood naked under the shower, the hot water spattering onto his head
and shoulders, eyes firmly closed as I reached in and sponged his face. It
was no good. I stripped and popped in behind him. What the hell. We were
both boys only a year apart in age. I soaped the sponge then his body. His
light brown skin gleamed and glistened under the soapy water. I ran the
sponge across his neck, shoulders, chest and back.

The pain was stubborn, wonderfully, gloriously stubborn. I pressed into him
and circled the sponge more forcefully around his chest. My hand slipped
lower. I felt the warm touch of something against my wrist. I peeked round.
His hard-on, about two and half inches, struck straight out from his body.
He was, being a Muslim, circumcised; I, being British, was not. I circled
his tummy with the sponge letting my wrist brush again and again across the
tip of his erection. Akif seemed no notice nothing as he held his face up
into the shower.

Embolded by his passivity, I circled his tummy with the sponge and let my
soapy free hand grip his hard-on gently. I worked my hand the length of his
shaft: steel encased in velvet. Akif did nothing but lean back into me. I
felt my own hard cock push against his high round buttocks. Three minutes,
five minutes, sven minutes. I worked my cock the length of his crack, my
hand gently squeezing and manipulating his hard penis. His breathing became
as ragged as my own.

I spurted, I fountained, I squirted.

Little jets of cum hit his cheeks and the small of his back. I was
mortified. I had never intended this. The cascading water swept the evidence
of my lost away almost as soon as it hit Akif's back. I felt hi shudder and
tremble; he turned and pressed himself hard against, his head pushed into
the space where my neck met my shoulder. He whimpered, and I held onto him
until the shuddering stopped. We held onto each other until the water began
to grow lukewarm.

Akif jumped from the cubicle and grabbed a huge Turkish bathtowel from the
hot radiator where it hung. Grinning, he threw it to me. He raised his arms
above his head. I stepped forward and wrapped the towel around him, drying
him vigorously. Both our cocks hung limp but swollen. I dried him
affectionate violence. He grabbed a second towel and began to dry me. The
rubbing of the towel and his fingers gave me an instant erection.

Akif looked at my hard-on, then at me, and grinned.

"Yaramaz," he giggled.

In the next two weeks I picked up quite a few Turkish words from Akif as we
grew clocer and closer. 'Yaramaz' means 'naughty'.

When did the sex become overt?

That's easy to pinpoint. I sucked Akif's circumcized penis the day I bought
a Nintendo Gameboy with my wages at the summer school.

After shopping, we lay on my bed together, Akif on his back, absorbed by the
Super Mario Brothers, myself on my side, absorbed by this handsome,
confident boy. Akif wore - did he ever wear anything else? - his green track
suit. He held the Gamboy in both hands close to his face, his head cradled
by a pillow.

I lay at his side, my fingers and thumb casually brushing the revealed skin
between his track suit top and bottoms. How I envied him that sin? Light
brown and as alive with light as honey.

My thumb brushed his tummy button. I watched an erection grow and tent his
track suit bottoms. My thumb pushed at the elastic. A little resistance from
the elastic, none from Akif. My thumb edged the bottoms down to reveal his
hard little cockhead, so vulnerable in its circumsized nakedness. Akif wore
no underpants. I brushed the head of his cock; eyes still fixed to Mario
leaping and jumping, Akif raised his buttocks. I edged his track suit to his
knees. His cock popped up, together with the familiar smells of puberty.

I lay there as fascinated by Akif's penis as he was by Super Mario. I peered
at the delicate scar tissue where the boy had been mutilated.  I took the
head between my thumb and fingers. I masturbated him gently while my free
hand played with his balls that hung low in a loose sac. His cock stiffened
until it became like a small brown carrot.

I leaned over and kissed the tip of his cock. I looked up. Akif was looking
down at me, a slightly puzzled look on his face. I kissed his cock again. I
heard him sigh. He returned to the game. I sucked his cock into my mouth and
throat. My lips ran the length of his shaft, squeezing different pressures
as they went (something Eduardo had taught me). After some time, I felt
Akif's hips buck below me as he pushed himself deeper into my mouth. It
seemed the most natural thing in the world; I sucked, Akif bucked. Then the
shuddering and trembling came; his stomach fluttered as if in spasm, his
whole frame shook. I felt his hand on my head, pressing so that I kept him
in to the base of his cock, my lips brushing his bare pubis. We lay there
until all was silent.

Akif flipped himself over, his track suit bottoms still around his knees,
his own bottom, hard and rounded, rising like a small hill in the centre of
the bed, the pale delicate skin in contrast with the brown of the rest of
his body. He squirmed a little until he was completely comfortable, then was
reabsorbed in the game.

Was this an invitation, an offering? Did he think it was over, or did he
expect more? I ran the egde of my thumb along the creamy skin of his crack.
I edged his buttocks apart, no resistance, just a faint wiggle. Boldly I
pulled his track suit off, then lifted each leg wide apart from the other. I
slid into the space between his legs, then edged his cheeks apart.

The pale skin became rosy, then brown, then a puckered dark brown. I lowered
my face into the space as my thumbs gently pried his ring open. My tongue
rang the length of the little elastic seal. I drew back and peered into his
as deeply as I could. I was falling, falling. Falling like Alice in
Wonderland, down a hole that led to... I had no idea. But whatever the cost
I wanted to go down that hole. Maybe I would find little signs that said
'Eat Me!'

I licked back and forth for several minutes, my thumbs opening and closing
the ring until the seal became more and more pliable. I greased my finger on
the pre-cum that once again sopped my cock and slid it into Akif's hole. I
heard him grunt, then felt his relax. Gently I sawed at his hole with my
finger watching the hole resist, part, open, and accept. I had no wish to
fuck Akif; this was my way of making love to him, and for now it would do. I
circled my finger around his ring until his sphincter accepted the intrusion
of one finger, then two with ease. Around the hole stretched the pale
delicate flesh that rose in steep slopes to the outer contours of his bum,
and from them his torso stretched away into the distance. I felt like one of
the explorers we'd read about in school: I had crossed a dark continent and
I had come home.

The dinner bell rang.

I eased my fingers from Akif's anus, and drew his track suit up to cover his
modesty. He flipped over and let me finish the job. He grinned at me:
"Harika!" The word means 'wonderful' in Turkish. I did not know if Akif was
referring to the Super Mario Brothers or to my tongue up his ass. It didn't
seem to matter which; we were comfortable with either.

Akif was different from Matteo and Eduardo. The night before he left, and
summer school ended, we crept away to my room. He sat on the bed, leaned
back against the wall, and opened his jeans for me. I knelt before him. When
I finished and looked up, Akif was crying. That night he crept into my bed
and we fell asleep in each other's arms. My mother found us in the morning
and smiled.

"I told you you'd make some real friends this summer," she said.

As Akif's bus pulled out of the school grounds, he took not only my Gameboy
with him but a little piece of my heart.

My young sex experiences were for me things of beauty and wonder, but it was
not till I met Dean that I discovered the sheer fun of sex.

We were strolling across the autumn playing fields at school when Dean
turned to me: "Come over to my house for a shower. Help me with my homework.
Then I want you to fuck me."

I was stunned. Had my lust for Dean been so obvious? We'd been hanging back
after football practice for a few weeks to got through some skills and
routines. Dean was captain of the Under-15's, I was vice-captain. We played
together in both our school and District sides, so we saw a lot of each
other. Of course I'd observed his discreetly in the showers, his heavy cock
swinging between his legs. No doubt he observed me discreetly. We all
observed each other discreetly. That's what 14 and 15 year old boys do when
they are thrown together under hot showers after a mudbath.

Who's got the biggest dick? Who's got the smallest dick? Who's dick is
straight, who's bent to the left, who's to the right? Who's got big balls,
who's got small balls? Who's got the most pubic hair, who's got the least,
who's got none at all? Who's circumsized (practically nobody); who's
uncircumcized (practically everybody)?  The scrutiny was as intense as it
was discreet.

The silence was broken by a flight of noisy rooks, our breathing, and Dean's
laugh.

"You don't have to fuck me, you know. It's up to you. But I'd like you to."

I felt a lump as large as the football I carried stuck in my throat.

"Well, I don't..." I croaked.

"Come on, let's get our stuff, get home and have that shower. At least you
can help me with my homework, brainbox."

We stood together under the shower in Dean's home. Half past four. No one
else would be home till six. We stepped out of the shower. Ge thre me a
towel.

"Well," he said, "looks like your dick's made you mind up for you. Come on,
we'll use the double bed." He reached out, grasped me gently by my tumescent
penis, and tugged me towards the bedroom. By the time we reached the bed, my
erection was standing hard against my belly.

Dean threw himself backwards on to the bed.

"Grease your prick with the Vaseline over there, and poke some up my arse
hole. It's as dry as a camel in a sandstorm."

His crudity and directness were as arousing as an hour's foreplay.

I took the...

Wait. Wait.

They say a photograph is worth a thousand words. I wish you could see the
photograph. Not the one of Dean sprawled backwards on the bed, his legs
hitched over his shoulders, but the one I have propped up beside this
computer.

Dean is 15. He is beautiful; his beauty is entirely masculine, there is
nothing cute about it, but he is more than handsome, he is beautiful. His
face is oval, his nose short and straight, widening at the nostrils. His
hazel eyes are wide-set with a strong curving eyebrow above each. His lips
are short in length but of gloriously kissable pink. Above his upper lip is
the trace of brown hair signifying the manhood to come. He has beautilful
skin, not a pimple in sight, but without girlish or childish smoothness. His
hair is dirty blond, very thick and framing his face almost to his
shoulders. His creamy skin, suffused with pink, stretches away to the thick
blond pubic hair against which rests his thick hard cock.

On the bed Dean's legs are swung back over his shoulders. His butt has a few
pimples which only serve to make it more real, more attractively vulnerable.
The skin is pinky brown, darkening as it creeps into his crack. Dean's hands
reach down and round to pull his buttocks wide apart.

"Smile for the camera," he laughs.

I collect a gob of Vaseline on my hand and sit at the end of the bed. The
centre of his crack is dark brown. The puckered circle at its centre is
beautiful. I think of all the stools of shit that have emerged from that
centre, and I'm embarrassed to find myself wishing I'd been one of them.

"So, you're an arse man," comes his voice again. "Go on, inspect it if you
like."

I lean into his crack, sniffing at his essence. I put my tongue out and lick
around the puckered centre. I know it will give the game away, but I am
beyond caring.

"Yahoo!" comes Dean's laugh. "Go for it, baby."

I don't care what Dean thinks anymore. I don't care what the world thinks. I
don't care what God thinks. This is me; this is what I do.

I prod my tongue forward and lick his ring. Up and down, round and round.
Ring-a-ring-a-rosies, all fall down. The tip of my tongue is inside him now.
I push harder until half of my tongue slides in. It makes my jaw ache as I
wiggle it around. I don't give a shit. I'm home, sweet home.

"Get on with," calls Dean. "I can't hold this position forever."

I withdraw my tongue, and using two fingers push some of the greasy gob past
his ring, up his shit chute. I love that phrase: his shit chute. Then I
smear the greasy gob inside him as much as I am able. Dean is groaning now.
I take two more fingerfuls and grease my throbbing cock. It is so hot it
seems on fire, and I'm worried I will shoot my load before I even touch the
bull's eye.

I kneel up on the end of the bed. At first its awkward, but I lean into
Dean's legs and that gives me the support I need. I hold my cock half way
down and press the mushroom head against where I guess his ring must be.
Greasy flesh slides against greasy flesh. His centre seems hotter than my
cock, if that's possible.

At first I can't make contact. Then there's a sudden giving, and the head of
my cock is trapped in a furnace. Yeow! My cock is in another boy's bum. I
lean forward and with no effort on my part I slide half way in.

"Oooof," grunts Dean. "You've got a fucking big cock. Take it easy."

"Fuck you," I think, and lean in harder. I feel myself slide all the way in
until my pubic hair is tickling against his flesh. I withdraw halfway and
push home again. Tentatively I repeat the procedure: five, six, seven, eight
times. I speed up a little. "My God, I'm fucking, I'm really actually
fucking," I say to myself. "Thanks, Dean, thanks," I whisper, more to myself
than to the willing boy on the end of my dick.

I begin driving home harder and harder. Then I remember my manners and I
reach forward and between our bodies to grab Dean's prick. I began
masturbating him. At first it's difficult because I can't match his rhythm
to my own; then a kind of instinctive mindlessless takes over, and I'm
wanking and fucking him in perfect synchronisation.

"Jesus fuck. For God's sake. Hail Mary."  Dean's family are practising
Catholics, but I'm not sure this is what the litany of holy names was
intended for.

But I love doing this. My cock feels as if its trapped inside a hot treacle
sponge. The walls seem to grip the sides of my erection, and the elastic of
his ring provides bettwen friction than any hand or mouth ever could.

"Yahoo! Ride, you fucker!"

Were these Dean's words or mine? I don't remember. From that point on, I
don't remember much except the waves of ecstasy that ran over me, the sweat
that made our bodies smack together, and the light bulbs that seemed to be
popping inside my brain.

I don't remember the moment of cumming. I know I shot load after load up
Dean's arse, I know the orgasm seemed to blind me, I know my body and keens
shook uncontrollably, but I can't remember any rationale thoughts that went
with them. Did Dean cum, too? He must have. I remember a trail of hot
stickiness shoot up my chest, and I remember...

It's almost embarrassing to remember.

My cock wouldn't go down. I had shot a huge load up Dean's ass, but my cock
wouldn't soften. It stayed hard, maybe even harder than before. I tried to
disengage my cock but it stayed rigidly embedded in Dean's bum.

"Don't, don't," he whispered hoarsely as I tried to pull myself free. "Roll
to the left with me."

Gently we held onto each other and let ourselves sink and roll to our left
sides, one of Dean's legs below me, the other above. We twisted and squirmed
into a position of reasonable comfort.

Our noses touched. I could hardly bear to look into Dean's eyes. When I did,
relief flooded through me. Have you ever seen twinkling eyes? That's what I
was looking into, a pair of twinkling eyes. Dean smiled, then laughed.

"I hope we get your cock out of my bum before mum and dad get home," he
whispered. "This would take some explaining." He paused. "I know, we could
say we were trying to make a puppy."

I burst out laughing.

"That's better, you dope. I wish you wouldn't take everything so seriously,"
he said. "You've no idea how cute you look when you smile like that. You've
got a big cock, a great smile, and you fuck like a pony. You've got plenty
to smile about." He clenched his asshole around my cock. "And so have I," he
added.

"Dean," I whsipered, "can I ask you something?"

"Shoot away," he said, then grinned. "No, you've already done that. Just ask
me if I've been fucked before. That's what you want to ask, isn't it?"

I nodded, or rather brushed my head against the pillow we shared.

"Yeh, I have," he said. "About a dozen times. By three different people, no,
make that four after today. The oldest was 23, and the youngest, well,
that's you. Who were they? Mind your own busines. Not telling. Wouldn't tell
them about you. Wouldn't tell you about them. No cuddle closer and give me a
kiss."

The next fifteen minutes were as satisfactory as my first fuck, maybe more
so in a different way, because now Dean was giving me affection. It wasn't
just sex, it wasn't just lust. He really liked me, and I liked him. He loved
sex, but he didn't take it too seriously, maybe not seriously enough, but my
times with him were fun.

I fucked him often, and I fucked him hard. He never asked to fuck me even
though I offered a few times. Was I unattractive? Hell, no, he said, lifting
his head up from my cock. He liked being fucked, but he had no interest in
fucking. That suited me. I was scared of being fucked, even by someone who
was so much fun. I had weird ideas about my arse hole being stretched and
never closing again. About stools of shit falling uncontrollably into my
boxers. About people recognising I was gay from the way I walked. From our
family doctor, who'd known me since birth, saying: "Mmmmm, my boy, what have
you been up to?" or maybe "What's been up you?"

So I stayed a virgin. Dean taught me sex was essential though not to be
taken too seriously. At least not until love of the forever kind came along,
and that kind of love was still out there waiting to ambush me.

Promiscuous is not a word I would use to describe myself after my initiation
into the joys of sex if only because I'd no idea of the existence of the
word. Randy, horny, perpetually tumescent - yes, and I set out almost
cold-bloodedly to exploit the fact that I was cute and attractive. I set my
cap at the most unlikely males and was as surprised as them when my
skirmishes turned into conquest.

There on the whole school photograph is Marshall K., a boy of extraordinary
grace and beauty. There is my mind's eye is Marshall kneeling before me, my
cock stuffed down his throat, my bare arse banging against a toilet door as
I fucked his o so delicate mouth. Why had Marshall given into me? He
certainly wasn't gay; he wasn't short of female moths fluttering around his
burgeoning sexuality. So why had this heart-throb given into me? I could
have fucked his sweet ass. As he stood bracing himself against the toilet
door, raising his own shirt tail, I could have rammed my hard cock into him
and had my wicked way. But I didn't. I contented myself with squirting hot
cum up and down that virginal crack, then whistling as I went on my merry
way. He wanted me again; he wanted it again; but the first conquest over,
interest collapsed like my flaccid cock.

There is Pierce H., leader of the inglorious Sixth Form. I remember him
spread across a rug in front of a winter fire. He'd come to see me about
something and nothing, straight from the showers, wrapped about the loins
with a tiny damp blue towel, rabbiting on about Saturday's match in which he
knew I hadn't the slightest interest. His powerful, muscled 16-year-old body
lay stretched along the carpet. As he drifted onto his parents' impending
divorce (yawn yawn), I gently unknotted the towel and bared what I'd only
seen swinging between his legs in the showers. Now it stood proud and true,
as the more pathetic blockbusters had it, so curiously vulnerable in its
little knot of hair.

One would imagine that within a few moments Pierce's erection would be deep
in my throat, but no, roll the film on a few minutes and what have we got:
Pierce kneeling over me, scrabbling at my buttons, jerking me from my
underpants, and gobbling my dick like some underfed Christmas turkey. Yes,
it's true I manoeuvred him into a grand old sixty nine, and we suckled and
sucked on each other by the light of the silvery... no, it was a flickering
fire. But for me it was doing Pierce a favour rather thn the expression of
unbridled lust. After all, he was Sixth Form, I was Lower Fifth; he would
have to face me across the Assembly hall in the morning.

Jonathan T. Ah, Jonathan T. I confess it took a couple of G&T's to get you
going, but once away, you were like a greyhound out of the traps, chasing
the furry rabbit between my legs as if your life depended on it. Naughty,
naughty, and you only went out to search for conkers. Conkers are horse
chestnuts, gathered every autumn by the boys of Britain, so they can string
them on a string and beat the living hell out of another boy's conkers. And
now here was the angelic thirteen year old Jonathan, head choir boy no less,
flat on his back in the cricket pavilion, moaning and giggling, as I added
his nuts to my string, metaphorically speaking.

Can there be anything more exciting than having your virgin cock sucked off
when you least expected it? For Christ's sake, the boy wasn't even quite
sure what an orgasm was, and even a couple of wet dreams hadn't alerted him
to the messages his pubescent body was frantically sending out. I swear to
God he thought he was pissing himself!

A half hour later, Jonathan knew exactly what cumming meant as he had taken
three loads down his choir boy throat. What it did for his singing I haven't
the faintest idea, but since he kept coming back for more, it couldn't have
been anything less than beneficial.

All this lust and so little love.

Fuck that!

Adolescent boys do not need love, well, not from each other. What they do
need are warm fleshy places where they can deposit their seed as regularly
as possible. Dean and I competed for those fleshy places, and Dean usually
won when he'd set his heart on it, but then I wouldn't offer what Dean
offered: reciprocal rights to my arse hole! Kiss it, lick it, tickle it if
you like, but you ain't shoving your hard cock up it, and that's that. This
boy has got standards.

At least he did till Robert came along - and everything changed.

Robert. Why not Bob or Rob? Or Bobby? No. Robert it was, and Robert it had
to stay.

Robert carried a grace and dignity about with him that precluded the use of
diminutives. This was no casual Bob, or boy-of-the-people Rob, and
definitely not the juvenile Bobby. This was, is, and always will be Robert.

Look at the photographs.

Here he is sitting on the carpet in my study-bedroom. In his tennis gear.
Gazing directly into the camera as if challenging it to capture his beauty.
The eyes are wide set, nose straight, mouth as enigmatically set as any Mona
Lisa. The skin, still flushed after tennis, is suffused with a pink light.
There is a hint of darkness above the upper lip. Shock of brown hair. Strong
curved eyebrows. His white tennis shirt is too big; his white tennis shorts
too tight.His upper body is strong. His sun-tanned legs are worshipped by a
camera that has turned the boy into art.

There is another tennis photograph. Head and shoulders in profile. The skin
is browner but otherwise unflawed. It is early summer. We have been playing
doubles at a school tournament. I forget to whom Robert was talking; I am
glad of that because no one deserves that smile but me. The smile starts on
his lips and suffuses his whole face. This is a boy utterly at peace with
the world, utterly content with his lot; this is my partner; we won; the
shield hangs in the school, and engraved on the silver are our names, linked
forever.

Shall I show you another photograph? Could you read its message without my
interpretation? Yes, you could, but you would read it to mean something for
you, and its real meaning, hidden, is for me.

Robert is on stage. He sprawled along a bench in a make-believe speak-easy.
This is 'Bugsy Malone', and Robert is Dandy Dan. He is wearing a dark tuxedo
with a splash of yellow silk at his throat. His legs are to the forefront of
the photograph, revealing a stretch of skin between his grey sock and his
pulled-up right trouser leg. He is holding a splurge gun. The stock is
between his legs; the tip of the barrel just touches his lips. Robert's face
is expressionless, but full of meaning. I know - because I took the
photograph. Two 'gangsters' stand on either side of the 'boss', oblivious to
the drama taking place between Dandy Dan and his lover Bugsy Malone. Later
that night, after the curtain calls are taken and the applause has died into
the dark, Robert will stay at my home, and we will lie on my bed with my
hard cock at his lips, and my lips tenderly kissing his anal ring.

Where did Robert come from? Why did he transfer to our school? When did we
first meet? When first admit the mutual attraction? Who made the first move?
This is not a history, and I am no historian. I can't remember the answers
to those questions, and I don't care. I will admit I made the first move,
and the second, and the third, and the fourth... until an exasperated and
amused Robert grabbed me and kissed me on the school minibus.

Grabbed me and kissed me!

Yes, it was dark. Yes, we shared the back seat alone. Yes, most of the boys
were asleep. Yes, it was unlikely anyone would see us. But the shock of that
kiss remains with still. I had carressed him, had a quick feelie, touched
him up, pretending it was all a joke, all harrmless fun. And Robert had
grabbed me, put both arms around me, pulled my tightly to him, and kissed me
full on the lips.

I fell backwards against the seat, my mouth twitching open and closed, like
a surprised goldfish. I felt Robert's hand run up my bare leg. The match had
gone into extra time. In the gathering gloom, we had all piled back into the
minibus unchanged for the long ride home. We'd won 4-3, and muddy,
exhausted, but glorious we'd collapsed in assorted heaps throughout the bus.
Robert and I grabbed the rear seat, not with any salacious intent, but
because there was more room to stick out long adolescent legs.

My left leg lay half across Robert's lap. He hoisted it into position, and
ran his hand up the bottom of my shorts. As his fingers slid below them, I
adjusted my legs to give him more room. The palm his hand cupped my warm
balls, his fingers slid the length of my semi-erect penis, he squeezed it
affectionately into full erection. I thought I heard my gulp echo throughout
the white minibus as it bounced its way along the B road that would take us
to the motorway and home. The rain hammered at the windows.

I was so hard I was embarrassed, and a frightened I might shoot my load
straight into his hand then and there. His fingers slid below the cottom
fabric of my underpants. The back of his fingers slid gently up and down the
length. I risked a look at his face. His eyes were closed. A small smile
turned his lips up at the corners. I could not read the smile: was it
amusement or contentment? The fingers examined me, smoothed my pubic hair,
ran arpeggios the length of my cock, squeezed my balls affectionately.

Robert whispered in my ear. It was not the whisper of secrecy, but the
whisper of exhausted content. "Sleep over at my house tonight. My mum'll
phone your mum. Showers. Dinner. Something on the tele. Then bed." His warm
breath carressed my ear. Did I tremble?

"Don't worry, you can have the guest room. Mum'll expect that any way. But
we'll be together the rest of the time, and that's what the want. This is
fine..." He squeezed my prick. "...but being together is what I want."

"Okay," I murmured, cuddling deeper into Robert's body. My prick remained as
fiery and hard as before, but the sexual intensity lessened, no, lessed is
the wrong word. It changed, metamorphosed into something else. Lust was
fine, but it wasn't enough. Holding Robert and being held by him: that was
enough, no, it was more than enough - it was everything.

Seven days later I lay on my back on Robert's parents' double bed, my legs
hoisted over my chest till my toes touched me ears. Robert knelt in the gap
between my spread-eagled legs. His cock brushed the inner walls of my
buttocks. He leaned over me, a question in his eyes. My eyes answered, yes,
o, yes.

For nearly half an hour he had teased my hole, kissing, sucking, probing
with tongue and fingers until I felt I was being turned inside out, until I
felt I was blossoming like a rose, a tight puckered rose opening to him. He
made love to the tiny core at the heart of my being, lavished love on it
with tounge, fingers, thumb, nose, any part of himself that touch me at my
centre. I had gripped him, clung to him, sweated with him till the bubbles
on his skin popped. Sucked his long, rigid, soft as velvet, taught as steel,
thick, gorgeous, palpitating, throbbing hard-on till it oozed and dripped
the pre-cum that would ease his entry into me.

Robert leaned into me. I felt the hot mushroom-head push at my hole. Push,
ease back, push again. I willed my arse hole to breathe, to open, to welcome
the beloved infidel. Something in my stomach seemed to give way; I arched my
back, and felt the head of his cock burst through my thin-walled defences.
It burned, o, how it burned, but I welcomed the flames, fed hungrily on the
fire, felt the thick swollen shaft slide past my sphincter an ease itself
home.

All the while, Robert fixed his eyes on mine. Wide-open eyes welcomed him
into my wide-open anus. My ring closed round him as possessively as a child
sucks on his mother's teat.

He was in me. His thickness filled me. More than that, his thickness
fulfilled me. It filled an emptiness that had always been there, at the
centre of my being. I pulled his head down to me as I pulled his head inside
me; we kissed, we fought like panthers, struggling not for supremacy but for
submission. We wanted to give each other everything we had, our bodies, our
selves, our souls. Each thrust carried the same message; each counter-thrust
its echo: I love you, I love you, I love you.

More? Is there need for more?

Robert and I make love to each other, hard and often. But the sex is only an
expression of that love. Don't get me wrong: it is a necessary and essential
condition of our love. But playing tennis together is a passion. Walking in
the forest is a passion. Cruising the High Street on a Saturday afternoon a
passion. Dancing at parties and disco a passion. Surfing the Web a passion.
Doing our homework together a passion. Being on the same planet a passion,
in the same universe a passion.

There is a moment in Siddartha (Robert has turned me into a fellow Herman
Hesse freak) when all the people Siddartha has ever known ripple past his
gaze, ripple and then coalesce into a single entity. That entity for me is
Robert. And within Robert... Luigi, Joseph, Gerald, Eric, Robbie, Matteo,
Eduardo, Akif, Dean, Marshall, Pierce, Jonathan, and all the other between
that then and this now.

And what will tomorrow bring?

Frankly, my dears, (I have turned Robert into a movie freak) I don't give a
damn. Nobody should live in yesterday; nobody can live in tomorrow. So
Robert and I live for the day. And we don't fool each other that nothing
will change, that it will always be the same. We're too young to fall for
that old song. But it's fun, it's our fun.

And the last time we kissed was not in a dark minibus full of sleeping boys,
but on the crowded floor of a school disco. And it was long and it was
passionate and it was public.

And you know something?

All the other kids cheered.

NOT SO MUCH AN END AS
A BEGINNING