Date: Sat, 15 Feb 2003 04:45:45 -0500 (EST)
From: Clark Gaybull <ClarkGaybull@webtv.net>
Subject: Mess-Around Buddies #4

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---------------------------------RICH--------------------------------

Ever been too wired to sleep, even though it's time? That's what's
happening to me right now.  So here comes more in the series.

This is preceeded by, possibly, a momentus point:  a career choice:  a
psychology professor (or, a philosophy professor.)  (First question:
What's the difference?)  I'll probably look back on this in five or ten
years and laugh.  (I've got too much time to think.)

This occurs as opening lines for another segment are being considered.
How 'bout this:  One theory is that there are phases and then there are
lifestyles.  (Feel free to e-mail your thoughts in this regard to me.
After all, isn't everybody, at least partially, a philosopher?)  A phase
has an end.  A lifestyle is endless.  A lifestyle becomes a phase if it
ends.  (Such profoundness, when all I want to say is that...)

It was during a phase of appreciating my dad's sexy magazines when Rich
and I first messed around.  We reached the conclusion that most fathers
have 'em.  I was lucky (nosy?) enough to find pop's stash.
Then I want to show 'em to everybody.  So I tell Rich about my discovery
and we make arrangements to check this out when the folks are gonna be
gone for awhile.

He's fourteen - a year older than me.  (You do the rest of the math.)
And just as curious, if not moreso.  A little taller than average.  But
really, really skinny - almost to the point that you'd wonder if there's
something wrong with him.  There's no limit to his appetite.  But he
never seems to put on a pound.  ("A bottomless pit," my mom would say.)

So we're lookin' at these pictures - him for the first time; me for the
zillionth - when he asks, "Mind if I give this some more breathing
room?" pointing to his bulging jeans.  (I didn't know that penises
breathed.)

"Nah.  Go ahead."

So he undoes his pants, and the front of his boxers come into view.
Then he puts his left hand in there to rearrange (play with?) himself.
"I'd be more comfortable if I'd get ridda these.  Okay?" as he tugs on
his Dockers.

Off come the bottoms, and he flops back down, stomach first, on my
parents' bed.  I had seen the pictures over and over again.  So, I was
probably more amused (turned on?) watching Rich.

He's turnin' the pages, gawking at the pictures, trying to be
inconspicuous about pressing forward intermittently down into the
mattress, when he says, "I gotta do something about this, alright?"

"Do watcha gotta do."

And off comes his underwear, revealing an erect, six-inch (but very
curved - just like a banana) organ, protruding from ample dark-brown
(you might as well say "Black") hairs.  Back down onto the covers, dick
being rubbed by bedding and belly (which was concave).

"Jesus," I say, "don't shoot on the bedspread."

So I hurry to the bathroom and return with a towel, which he puts
between his prick and the comforter.

Well...that's all he needs.  Everything's in place.  Let the rocking
begin.  And so it does.  Almost with every turn of the page there's a
butt-clenching, accompanied by a cushion-jabbing.

I didn't think that it was hot in there.  But HE musta. Soon, his ass
was shiny and glistened.  His breathing got louder as the humping
continued.  Then he let out a big rush of air and the movement stopped.
The page-turning progressed.  But the motion ceased.  A few minutes
later, the contented smile was followed by, "That's enough."  The roll-
over featured the towel sticking to his stomach and a string of goo
stretching from his gut as he pulled the cloth away.  "Oops."  Wipe.
Wipe.

Boner-producing show without dropping trou.  Something new for me to
think about while jerking off tonight.

Later that summer, Rich came to mind after I had begun my own collection
of mags.  I had a Sunday- morning paper route and there was a pile of
coverless Playboys, etc., next to our newspapers.  "What're these for?"

"They're for anybody to take.  Last month's issues not sold.  Brought
back when they put out THIS month's.  Less recycling for this place."

"Don't they get money for recycling?"

"You would think.  Must be a perk."

Now, when we lived in our former house and I was too young to drive, I
had this tent in my back yard, where I slept more that in my own room.
Pitched in April.  Put away in November.

Five years ago it became known as quite the place to go.  Everybody
wanted to see the latest additions to the collection, which I kept
zipped in a red blanket case ('cept there was no blanket).

One time, Rich was there, gettin' all horned up over the newest photos,
when he asked, "Why don't you do me while I look at these?"

"If you do me too?"

"Me first."

"Deal."

He whipped it out, tossing his shorts and CKs aside, and let me begin
stroking him while he read (ogled?)  "This is fine," was his evaluation.
"Not too fast.  Make it last," he cautioned.

The warmth in the closed tent only partially explained the sweat on his
smooth chest of fourteen years.  Plus, he was very hard at work (play?),
lying on his back, staring intently, as he looked up while flipping
through the periodical.

"Ooh - this feels awesome," as he raised his bare hips to meet my
falling fist around his rigid meat.  The perspiration helped lubricate
the hand-job he was getting.

I knew things were nearing an end when he hiked his shirt to beneath his
chin and he showed more difficulty concentrating on the material.  When
he closed his eyes, he had reached the point of no return.  That was
followed by the customary leg- straightening, breath-holding and
midsection-lifting (as if his sperm would need any help.  It didn't.)

The fact that his shirt was bunched up to his neck didn't matter.  His
first two blasts went all the way up to the fabric.  And three more
spurts landed just above - then just below - his navel.  "Just right,"
he panted.

"My turn," I ordered.  I was sweating almost as much as him, which
surprised me 'cause it shouldn't have been so intense for me.  But
strangely, my penis was already stiff when I shed my pants and
underpants.  "I'm not gonna make the same mistake," and I flung my
removed shirt to the corner atop my other clothes.  "Let's go," as I
made my middle easily accessible.

"I don't s'pose I'll dry off.  But I'm gonna leave my clothes off for
this.  Maybe I won't be so wet when this is done."  (Not true.  But at
least his clothes stayed dry.)

He grabbed my cock before I could start lookng at the pictures.  That,
in itself, distracted me from he pages.  It felt soooo good.  To Hell
with the glossies.  I just closed my eyes and concentrated on the
sensation at my prick.

Hey - that was a nice touch:  pinching my pointy nipples with his other
hand.  Then a squeeze of my balls.  I'm gonna hafta remember that when I
do myself.

After doing Rich and now Rich's extra touches on me, I couldn't hold
back very long.  Fortunately, I had discarded my shirt because my first
squirt came down on my left shoulder, followed by a tit-high deposit;
then globs around my "innie."

Rich was all sweaty again.  So, I suggested that he towel off before
dressing, 'cause he wouldn't wanna use it after I did.  (I can see that
I'm gonna hafta start keeping more than one towel in my tent, which he
visited several more times that summer.)

NEXT summer, Rich's family did its annual one-week rental of a bungalow
next to the river, thirty minutes away.  In previous years, Rich's older
sister had gone there with her mother, dad and brother.  But, she told
her folks that, by staying at the cottage, she didn't trust herself to
get to work on time - or at all.  She didn't want to jeopardize her new
job, where she sought good marks.  The job didn't provide her with any
vacation time yet.  She said that she'd be less likely to be late or
absent all day if she went to work each morning from their home; that
it'd be easier for her that way.  (But actually, home was more of a
vacation for her:  it increased her time away from the family, although
she DID visit each evening.)  (She was the one, by the way, who, with
her girlfriend, would throw stinky onion grass into the tent before or
when Rich and I were in there.)

After writing all that, bottom line is:  Guess who Rich invited to
occupy the bunk next to his?  (It didn't hurt that Rich and I were on
the same Teener League team.)

We fished 'most every night with Rich's dad.  That was fun.  But when he
fished all day, too, we didn't go.  We liked fishing.  But not THAT
much.  Then, there were other days when he was away for several hours
bottling home-made beer.  So Rich and I slept late and entertained
ourselves each afternoon while his mom was pretty much in the
background.

Our favorite activity was to row upstream about a mile, where there was
one of many islands in the river.  This particular island had been
developed into many holes of a golf course.  On the island, across one
fairway, was a big pond, which many golfers hit balls into, although
they were supposed to land beyond.  At night, we'd go there carrying one
bag for balls and another bag for worms, 'cause it was also a good place
to replentish night crawlers for fishing.

We thought that the river belonged to everyone.  So, even in the
daylight, we would dive for golf balls where the golfers were supposed
to hit balls across the river but failed.

We would both wear baggy-type swimsuits 'cause, when we'd get there,
we'd jump out of the anchored boat, take off our pants, dive for and
stuff the balls into our drawers, swim to the surface, and dump the
balls into the rowboat, like some people dive for pearls.  (It was
twelve feet deep in some places.)

Most times we took dozens of golfballs home, many of them like new.  In
addition, there were other likable features to this.  The unconfined
feeling of swimming nude was incredible.  And another positive factor
was that you couldn't tell if the other swimmer had a hard-on, or just a
big bobbing pecker.

All was going well on our third day of diving until I lost grip while
dumping balls from my baggies.  And, as bad luck would have it, the
baggies fell outside of the boat rather than in.  The water here was
deep.  The current was swift.  The cloth was dull- colored.  The baggies
had been swept away.  "Shit!"

"What's wrong?"

"I lost my trunks."

"What?"

"I can't find my trunks."

"How'd that happen?"

I explained, and Rich thought that that was hilarious.

"What am I gonna do now?"

"Not my problem, dude," he roared.

"Shit," I repeated.  "Help me find 'em."

"Not now, dude.  There's still plenty of balls down here," was his
unsympathetic reply.

An hour later he's raggin' me:  "We gotta get goin'.  Mom'll be worried.
We're gonna be late for supper."

"Great.  What'll I do now?" I bitched again.

Rich put on his bottoms, hoisted the anchor, and pushed the boat to
shallower water where he could climb in.  "You're in luck.  Look here,"
as he held up a big beach towel, albeit very tattered.

"Better 'n nothin'," I muttered.  "Row over here and HAND it to me."

It's not easy to wrap a towel around you in deep water.  But I did a
good enough job to follow the boat back to shallow water and climb in.
I didn't have a woodie but the soaked towel clung to my body in such a
way that my privates created a very obvious bulge in spite of the fact
that there was double thickness of towel there where it was tied.  (Good
thing, too, as ragged as it was.)

"I can't go in front of your mom like this.  You'll hafta bring
something down to me."

"Don't have a cow, man.  Where should I look?"

"Just get something of yours.  We're about the same size."

"Okay.  Okay."  (Accompanied by more laughter.)

Fifteen minutes later, we're approaching the dock and Rich's mom is
there, tapping her foot, waiting for us, really pissed.

"Don't sit like that," Rich instructed.  "You can see right up to your
nuts."

So I put my knees together.  This definitely wasn't my forte.

Rich's mom is ranting well before the boat stops.  I remember,
"...worried sick...didn't know WHAT happened...thought you drowned..."

Thank goodness she was focusing on Rich.  I had to walk funny to hide my
package.

Then she said, "I don't care if your supper IS cold.  Sit your asses
down and eat RIGHT NOW.  Wait 'til I tell your father."

Well...I didn't give anything away yet.  And I sure didn't want to delay
this lady any longer.  So, I sat my ass down and began eating right away
- just like she said.

Rich and I said nothing to one another while we ate, but I could tell
that, in spite of catching hell, he was stifling busting a gut.  I think
that the avoidance of eye-contact saved us.

"You might as well go to your room right now 'cause you're NOT going
fishing with your father when he gets here tonight."

Finally, I get to the room where my shorts are but first we flop onto
our bunks, trying to be quiet with our hysteria.

"You know," Rich says,"I think I'll get my toga on, too," after which he
disrobes and wraps only a towel around him.

"Well, if you're gonna wear one, I'll wear one too.  But I gotta get
ridda this wet one."

"Besides," says Rich, "there's a big hole which shows your ass crack,"
he hooted.

"Fuck," I griped.  "Didn't SEE that."

After my "toga" was in place, we settled in for an evening of cards.
(The bungalow was kinda primitive.  Electricity, but no TV, let alone a
computer or video games.)

Our only interruption was when Rich's dad popped his head in and said,
"Your mother told me what happened."

We continued to play cards, changing our postures, flashing each other,
or sitting just plain carelessly, letting it all hang out.

We figure it's time to go to bed, so, I ask, "Are we gonna sleep with
these on?"

"Why not?  Mine's kinda comfy."

So, we turn out the lights and both lay on our bunks, on our backs,
heads atop clasped fingers.  Rich's mom can't hear us.  She's in the
kitchen, knitting, waiting for her husband to return from fishing.

"I hope he's back in time," I whispered, trying not to laugh.

A few minutes later, Rich speaks.  "Clark?"

"Huh?"

"I'm horny."

"Whadya want ME to do about it?"

"Just understand if you see me playing with myself."

I look over and his pecker is poking up under his "toga".  There goes
his right hand and there goes the covering, unfastened, and allowing
Rich's schwantz to spring free.  It's dark, but light enough to see that
same technique:  nipple tweaks; ball cups; bush rubs.  If it ain't
broke, don't fix it.

I want to ease my own erection.  But I don't want to satisfy myself with
Rich's mom around.

Rich, however, doesn't seem to care.  His random playing appears to have
become methodical stroking and hip-bucking.  I see legs tensing.  And
there's that tell-tale breathing.  And...spew...spew... spew...spew.  At
least four splashes onto his chest, followed by a deep exhale and a
slight giggle.  "Oh...got a towel right here," with which he cleans
himself before tying that same towel around him.

"You're gross," I chastized.

I guess my stiffie showed 'cause he says, "You should do the same."

"No thanks.  With my luck, your mother'd catch me." So, hard-on be
damned, we dozed off.

Boy, did I embarrass myself that night.  Rich could hardly tell the
story the next day.  During the night, I must have had a dream.  Rich
told me that my talking woke him up, although I wasn't speaking any
words that he knew.  He looked over to see me standing and jumping on my
bunk, screaming something unintelligible.

Rich's parents' room was right next door and he remembers his dad
yelling to me a couple of times, "Clark.  Shut up."

He said that I coutinued to carry on and finally his mom came into our
room.  Once again, his story- telling is interrupted as Rich
uncontrollably laughs.  Then he says, "And you had the biggest hard-on."

"UNDER my 'toga', I hope?"

"Some of the time."  (More guffaws.)

"Oh, shit."

"She came in to calm you down.  She adjusted your 'toga'.  And you said,
'Oh yeah?  Wanna SEE it?'  And you ripped it off and stuck it at her.  I
thought I'd shit."

"Oh shit.  I'm not comin' out for lunch today."

"She knows you were just sleep-talking.  I think it's off-the-hook,
dude," Rich giggled.

"How can I face her?"

Too late.  I hear Rich's mom's voice.  "You guys awake?  Everything okay
in there?"

"We're up."

"Can I come in?"

"No problem."

I guess my fake sleep wasn't very convincing.

"Rich tell you 'bout last night?"

I was too humiliated to speak.

"No big deal," she said.  "You were just talking in your sleep," she
comforted.  "Rich's dad's is much bigger."  And some of the ice was
broken, although most of me still felt very foolish.

Nothing quite so eventful with Rich occurred the rest of that year.  But
four summers ago, we had one last blow-out at that place.

Actually, the rental didn't occur.  But four of us went there for the
day and overnight - in two tents, two to a tent.

Rich was now sixteen and had his own rattly-old pick-up truck.  We
couldn't all fit in the cab, so, the other two rode in the "bed" -
classmates of Rich's who I scarsely knew.  It's been only three years.
But, already, I don't remember their names.

It was a nice afternoon, so, we did the dive-for- golfballs thing, using
a bungalow-boat, although we weren't entitled to use it.  Then, some
rain moved in and we were relegated to our tents.

I was zonked - not even undressed - before dark, but was awakened by
Rich grabbing my groin.  "Queer," I yelled, and turned away.

A few minutes later, it was MY hand reaching to the right, where Rich's
crotch was, which caused him to shout, "Fag," and roll over.

Funny how the passage of a year's time necessitated this addition to our
behavior.  But we needed to get off just as much as in the past two
years.

I had almost returned to napping when I heard Rich say, "Well, if you're
gonna go to sleep, then I'm gonna get comfortable," which was followed
by the sounds of zippers and snaps:  a sleeping bag being gotten out of
the way and clothes coming off.

A long time passed - enough that I thought that Rich was stackin' Zs.
Now was the time for me to "get comfortable" too.  So I stripped down to
my usual bedtime attire (my birthday suit), not bothering to rezip my
sleeping bag 'cause of the noise that it would make.  Plus, it was more
comfortable to stick a bent leg out than to be in a more confining,
zipped bag.  As I later discovered, the unzipped side toward him also
gave Rich access to what was inside.

Sometimes I wake myself up because I snore so loudly while I sleep on my
back.  And I was in that position when I noticed fingers - UNDER the
sleeping bag - squeezing my penis.  My senses returned enough to realize
that they weren't MY fingers.  Had I been snoring?  I wasn't snoring
now.  But the fingers remained there.  And they were moving.  So was my
prick - upward as it stiffened.  If I HAD been snoring, I was glad of
it.  Whatever started this deserved my thanks.  I lay still - except for
my expanding cock - enjoying this.  But I wasn't gonna be able to lie
still for long.  Or keep quiet.  Already my breathing had changed
audibly.

Then, Rich flung the top of the sleeping bag from covering me.  And the
difference of the humid night air (or his touch?) made me shiver.  Rich
propped himself up on his left elbow, allowing him to better attend to
his masturbatory effort.  But that wasn't good enough.  He emerged from
his sleeping bag wearing nothing but a smile and proceeded to put a knee
outside each of my thighs.  While doing so, he speared me with his erect
boyhood.  There was no doubt about the condition he was in.

Now he could jerk with BOTH hands.  But, frankly, THAT wasn't as
pleasurable as one.  It was back to ectasy when the second hand was
removed from my dick and instead pinched from tit to tit.  I don't know
if that was a moan or a big sigh.  More writhing would have occurred.
But Rich was sitting on my upper legs, occasionally brushing my organ
with his. Each poke was like a jolt of eletricity - a potential
climax-producer whenever it happened.  I really wonder, therefore, why
he didn't get a mouthful of cum when he replaced his hand with his lips.
I should have known that this was going to happen when I felt some
liquid facilitate his pumping.  But, I thought that it might be my own
orgasm before I realized that it was his saliva.

The suckng was brief but oh so effective.  That was followed by him
falling forward, grinding his dick against mine.  It was a sensation
that overtook my attempt to stay in command.  The weight off of my legs;
the pressure on my hips; the slip-sliding through my pubes.  Thar she
blows.  And Rich, too.  I bet there was a gallon of jizz between us.
Couldn't shoot very high on either of us.  But it ran down BOTH of my
sides.

Not being into kissing, he merely put his head to the left of mine.  He
laid on top of me - not moving - for several minutes.  I could have gone
to sleep that way.  Impossible that the night could have gone so well in
the other tent.

So many other accounts that I've read include the issues of "wrongness"
and guilt before, during, and/or after doing it.  I can honestly say
that THAT seems to have NEVER entered the mentalty of my mess-around
buddies.  We just figure, "If it feels good, do it."  And maybe there'd
be one or two who'd add, "Everybody does it.  It's normal."

Some, now, are trying to impress girls.  But they tolerate any males who
mess around with guys.  After all, THEY probably behaved that way too in
the past few years.