Date: Wed, 9 Apr 2003 02:42:00 -0400 (EDT)
From: Clark Gaybull <ClarkGaybull@webtv.net>
Subject: Mess-Around Buddies #8

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copyright verbage which benefits the author and Nifty Archives.

This is a real bite:  I said everything that I wanted to say about Zach.
After the "Matt" chronicles, I intended to throw out THAT batch of
papers and to keep the sixteen "Zach" pages for submission to Nifty a
week later.  Wouldn'tcha know...I discarded the WRONG chapter:  I KEPT
what I had JUST SENT about Matt, and the garbageman was the only one who
could read about Zach...until now...after I've tried to rewrite all of
those words.  Am I a dope, or what?  Maybe there's some substance to
what they say about blonds.  Here's my best attempt to restate my
affinity for Zach...

I remember starting by remarking that Zach is one of the most decent
human beings whom I've ever met.
He moved into the 'hood four Novembers ago.  He had just turned sixteen
- my age in nine months.  He was so glad - not about transferring
(although it WAS only a short distance) - but to be leaving one of the
few states where the driving age is eighteen.  Here it is sixteen, and
he quickly got his license.

His dad is a preacher, who goes wherever the church directs.  So "Zach"
is short for "Zachariah," not "Zachary."  But don't call him anything
but Zach. Only his mother calls him Zachariah, unless we wanted to tease
him; or otherwise get his attention.  He's the youngest of four kids:
two boys and two married sisters, all with Biblical names:  Luke; Sarah;
and...I forget the name of the oldest daughter.

Zach is a real physical-fitness buff.  No machines; but push-ups,
sit-ups, chin-ups, body-bobs, jogging.  Makes me tired just to THINK of
all of those things.

Therefore, his physical description reflects that compulsion:  very
athletic-looking.  But not out for any sports.  Says he doesn't compete
'cause, "What's the use?  Dad goes anywhere, anytime.  There's been too
many mid-season transfers.  Like this one.  Wouldda had four football
games to go."  In other words, his appearance is that of a jock; but
he's not.  Not linemanish-tall or wide.  More like an end:  with much
solidity everywhere:  Your true "six-pack" abs; well-defined pecs;
slender waist; and well-muscled thighs and calves - like the runner that
he is.

Oh...the other attributes?  Haircut almost as short as a Marine's.
(Wouldn't surprise me if his dad had been a chaplain.)  Really dark,
though...black is accurate.  Probably very thick, too.  Deep-brown
complected.  Says that his mother is one of the few Hawaiian baptists.
She met her husband, converted, and got married when Zach's dad was a
seminary student interning in the islands.  Zach has joked about his pop
getting a better final grade by tieing the knot with his mom.

In spite of giving the impression that he is well-tanned, there's still
plenty of contrast where there IS hair:  under his arms; above his dick.
Like an oriental, there's not much of it - he's mostly smooth - but it's
quite profuse where it DOES grow.

Also eye-catching are those nearly-midnight nipples, making his skin
appear lighter that it is.

Is that enough to pick him out of a line-up?  Okay...
five-feet, eight-inches tall.  120-pounds.  No scars.  No glasses.  I
won't identify him further.

Zach and I did nothing sexual for seven months; possibly because of a
couple of stigmas:  (1) preacher's son, and (2) uncertainty 'bout the
new kid on the block.

Certainly, I helped him around school.  We shared all but two classes.
Too bad that we didn't have gym together.  And HE learned French while I
forgot Spanish.  (I'll have to write about the French teacher sometime.)
Must be Hell changing schools in November.  (Hey - can a pastor's child
deal with Hell better than a non-clergyman's offspring?)

Anyway - Zach had a beat-up old pick-up, which led to his joining a
four-wheel-drive club during the winter.  They were going on an
overnight ride in mid-June, after the school-year ended:  known about
far enough in advance so that Zach could work on his dad for a few weeks
and get  permission to be absent from church, which almost never
happens.  But he had to take his Bible with him.  Fortunately, it was
the weekend AFTER Father's Day.  (Zach's dad, however, was probably glad
about any time when the junky truck was not parked in front of their
house.  When it WAS there, the ol' man'd complain that it "Hugely
reduces the property value.")

The outing started on the fifth consecutive rainless day - dry for
camping but dusty for the drive, which we had been doing for several
hours.  Hot, too; so downed windows were our paupers' source of
air-conditioning, which Zach's wheels had, but it was broke.

Finally, we arrived at the place where we'd be pitching our tents:  a
beautiful spot, at the bottom of a gorge, known to probably only a very
few people; especially how to get VEHICLES down there.  Through the
middle of the ravine is a wide body of water:  on the map, it's labelled
a creek; but here, it's river-like:  slow flowing;  almost seven feet
deep in many areas.

We put our tent at the periphery of the group - one of, I estimate, a
dozen shelters.  Close to the water, however, so that - after our nylon
home was made - we explored the bank.  Too much of a temptation for two
boys to avoid.  What's that they say about little guys and puddles?

Its cool mountain origin notwithstanding, Zach and I were soon splashing
each other, pushing ourselves into deeper and deeper territoty until,
ultimately, were were swimming where it was over our heads.  Couldn't
continue that for very long, however, so we sloshed back to the tent,
shivering as we rummaged for our towels.

Zach's coldness was such that his nipples had shrunk to the size of
peas.  They were likely the smallest that I had seen on anybody.  I know
that my own nuts had bunched together, seeking the warmth of my belly.

"G-gotta g-get outta th-these w-wet sh-shorts," he stammered.

I thought that he was gonna strip right there - in full view - after he
dried off.  Sure...it was almost dark - later than 9:30 - but
flashlights and lanterns shone aplenty.  Instead, he modestly stepped
into the tent before throwing his wet cut-offs out at me, allowing me a
quick glimpse of his midsection.  For the life of me, though, his willie
wasn't visible.  It must have shrivelled into - and been mostly covered
by - his concentrated - but bushy - pubes.

Now what?  MY only choice was to undress inside, too.

Zach was teeth-chattering beneath his sleeping bag, so, I quicky shed my
dripping attire and sought warmth under MY covers as well.

"We COULD use each other to warm up."

"But I don't have anything on."

"Neither do I.  That's the idea."

Holy shit!  Am I to believe this kid's words? "You mean face-to-face?"

"That'd be more effective than back-to-back.  Or front-to-back, at
least."

I gotta say it again:  Holy shit!

It had been a very short discussion.  But the shortness of my dick was a
thing of the past.  I might have been numb from the chill, but the
prospect of curling up against Zach's nakedness was quickly restoring my
sense of feeling.

As much as I liked Zach's idea, I HAD to level with him:  "But now I've
got a hard-on."

"So do I," he confessed.

Well...I can't pass up this opportunity, so, I fling open my unzipped
sack; realize that HIS is unzipped too; and slide under his covering,
contacting his nude, fully-aroused front.

It became an eventual bear hug, with my head to the right of - and atop
- his.  But the unforgettable poking of my member against his / his
member against mine, provided all the warmth of an electric heater.  He
was right:  this really WAS making us warm.  Hot, even!  Hell...somebody
was sweating!  Or could something else expain the wetness on our
bellies?  Oh, shit!  Better roll over pronto and assume that
back-to-front posture.  Elsewise, I'm gonna add a great big jizz
explosion to whatever's between us.  That was before my days of anal
intercourse.  But we were in the perfect position for that to have
happened next.  Instead, we just fell asleep like that:  his left arm
atop and around me; his erection parallel to - and resting from the top
to the bottom of - my butt crack.  Must be why it's slit THAT way,
instead of side-to-side.  (Ever hear that, if it were slit from
side-to-side, it'd go "bbbbbbbbbb" down a sliding board?)

In the middle of that night, I - and obviously Zach - still maintained
our horniness, so, I became so bold as to do something about that:
Reaching in back of me, I grasped onto his still-stiff penis and began
to massage it gently.  To my disappointment, I was allowed to do this
for only a couple of minutes;  Then, my focus was withdrawn to who knows
where?  Oh...I see where!  Looking over my shoulder, I notice Zach -
sprawled carelessly on his back, apparently asleep, elbows beside his
ears, stiff little woody barely peeking its circumsized head upward
toward his navel; it's bottom three inches covered by the upper extent
of his sleeping bag.

Should I move to enable continued stroking?  Why not?!?!  Mid-month
moonlessness; but enough light to see that there's already some humidity
oozing from the tip of Zach's cock.  He wants it.  Let's give him a
doozy of a wet dream!

Brushing aside the blanket causes Zach's joystick to cease lying against
his belly and to spring more perpindicular, such that a strand of
moisture flicks from it.  If that wasn't a shudder when his boymeat
jumped free, then I DEFINITELY heard a gasp when my palm encircled it
firmly.  And another, as I began a slow finger-squeeze down to its base.
Next came an equally time-consuming journey upward, smearing his leakage
around his hyper-sensitive glans.  Additional shuddering, fulfilling my
need for control, which I had unquestionably attained.

How awake IS he?  Awake enough to moan and groan in response to my
touches.  Awake enough to undulate in harmony with my ministrations.
Awake enough to cum.  And cum.  And cum.  Ribbons upon ribbons of thick,
goey white sauce now dampening Zach's middle, which he made no move to
mop up.  So finally I found his still-wet towel and wiped him clean.

Next morning, I cautioned him about using the soiled rag and he asked,
"Why?"

Is it possible that he doesn't remember getting the hand-job the night
before?  I thought that he was a willing - okay, maybe groggy -
participant.  Perhaps
he was totally out of it.  I SHOULD be honest with my friend, even
though the deed may not now be approvingly regarded.

My temporary misgivings were without basis, however.  After hearing the
story, all he said was, "Oh...then I WASN'T dreaming."

On the holiday weekend in July, Zach and I went hikng in the woods
behind his house.  We had been walking for less than two miles, when we
came upon an ample pond.

"I KNEW there was water back here.  I hear the knee-deeps every night.
Too bad we don't have a float for in there."

"I can BUILD one," I bragged.  "There's a big pile of old lumber I can
use next to the contractor's house." (Actually, the family of the
builder's son-in-law lives there.)  "All we need is the barrels.  I'll
find out if they have four at dad's job."  (That's a common item where
he works.)  I was gonna try to duplicate the raft which I'd seen at a
lake which I go to.  "Let's see...I think there's a road over there
somewhere."

Sure enough...trekking in a southerly direction, we soon stumbled onto
little more than a cartpath - a grassy hump between left and right tire
trails.

"How'd you know this was here?" Zach asked in amazement.

"Leads back to a parkin' place," I gloated.  "And a dump.  Where they
target practice."

"That explains the shots I hear," deduced Zach.

"After the raft's built, we can load it onto your truck to get it back
here.  It's only a short distance of off-roadin' down to the water."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

Dad arranged to get the four drums.  I was told that we could help
ourselves to any of the second-hand lumber.  In fact, I could plug a
one-hundred-foot extension cord into an outdoor socket of the sister's
house and thereby have electricity where I wanted to cut the boards.
Okay if the barrels were there a couple of days, too.  Therefore, THAT
became our raft-making spot.

We were lucky in that there were exactly four barrels which didn't yet
have the tops cut off of them at the warehouse, where they're used as
trash containers.  As it was, we couldn't find the threaded breather
plug for one of the ends.  (Zach was amused when I referred to it as a
bung-hole.)  But this absence'd be alright - we'd just be certain to put
that little opening up out of the water.  No problem.
At the local hardware store, we bought some strapping, enroute to
transporting the barrels.  Otherwise, we had everything necessary.

Construction Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning was suspended by
considerable rain.  But Thursday morning was christening-time.

Man...was that water cold, as we positioned our creation.  The pond was
less than five feet deep in most places, so, the rope to the cinderblock
anchor was not ten feet long.

"I'll decide where this thing goes," announced Zach.  "Right here."

Just making conversation, I questioned, "Why do you say, 'right here'?"

"I'll show you."  And with that, Zach hoisted himself up onto the raft,
peeled off his shorts, and sat down bare-assed-naked with his legs
stretched out.  "More outta sight behind that tree.  C'm' on, Clark.
Get some sun."

Well...Zach is so dark all over that no tan lines were evident.  Either
that, or, he basks in the nude all the time.

Never the leader - but not the modest type either - I became the second
teenager reclining in the altogether on the newly-built raft.

"Clark, your middle is so white," laughed Zach.

"Well, it's not Hawaiian like yours."

"And I bet it's never seen sunshine.  Better be careful not to get red
in the wrong places."

"Yeah...maybe I better not stay out here too long.  I'll be more
prepared next time."

Our tanning was shortened also by incoming clouds. However, Sunday -
after church - was a different story:

"Let's check on our float," proposed Zach.

"Okay.  But I'll take the Coppertone today."

And what fun it was, putting it on.  I thought that Zach didn't need
any, but he wanted me to spread it on his backside.  Not too erotic
above his waist.  But peter-stiffening as I worked my way up his
lightly-haired legs to his smooth buns.

I was anxious to allow the favor to be returned but I feared that my
erection'd offend, so, I flopped quckly onto my belly.  I needn't have
worried:  Zach was as hard as a rock.  How pleasant it was while he
rubbed that stuff in - especially on my butt and high on my legs.  Good
thing that my cock was pointed upwards.  It might have reached my knees
if I was laying on it the other way.  Zach, however, finished applying
the lotion and stetched out on the boards, flat on his back, arms
extended straight up on either side of his head, so that his pits and
blood-engorged willie - surrounded by a thick, compact growth of
jet-black foilage, comprising probably 85% of the hair below his neck -
poked directly toward the sky.  I wouldn't say that Zach is an
exhibitionist.  But he certainly doesn't hide that which he is proud of.

After awhile, I considered exposing my other side.  But I realized that
I still had a throbbing rod.  Oh well, so did he.  So what the fuck.
Over I turned and let it all show.  Neither of us has much, but my
five-and-a-half inches are at least an inch more than the boner he's
been parading.  So shouldn't I take heart in that?  Things didn't get
any smaller, either, as I put the goop on my chest, mid-section and
front of my legs.

"Any place I can get?" queried Zach.

"I can manage," I truthfully but foolishly replied.  "Are YOU okay?"

"Are you kidding?  Ain't nowhere I can't get.  Watch this."

And with that, the agile Zach lifted his toes upward, then above and
beyond his face, resting his hips on his hands, so that his dork pointed
down toward his mouth.  A little effort followed - to raise his head -
and...shazam...there go his lips right around his member.

Now...I had seen some pictures on the internet of guys referred to as
self-suckers.  But this was the only time when I was in the presence of
a real live person who could actually accomplish that feat.  Not that
others of us hadn't tried.  But heretofore, nobody could do it. I was
impressed.  But I must admit - it looks not only funny but very
uncomfortable.

"Betcha can't do that sittin' down," I challenged.

"Betcha I CAN."  Whereupon Zach assumed a more conventional posture,
except that he placed his hands beneath his legs - below his ass -
pulled up, bent his neck down 'til I thought that it would break, and
his boymeat was engulfed again.

"No shit!  You could give yourself a blow-job."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Get out!"

"Should I?"

My silence was correctly interpreted.  "You wouldn't dare."

Zach accepts all wagers.  Therefore, the auto-fellatio began.  There was
an occasional "pop" when his boner slipped out and he lost suction.  A
few grunts were testament to the intensity of the effort and preceeded
the fountain with which Zach soon had to contend:  Sperm splashed down
Zach's throat, on his face, and then along his shaft and balls if it
didn't annoint his head.  A couple of coughs were followed by a
cum-eating grin and a "so there."  Quite a show.  Couldn't top that.
Didn't even try.  Had a hard-on the rest of the day and jerked off that
night, thinking about Zach giving himself head.

>From mid-July to mid-August, Zach counselled at a church camp, which was
gonna overlap his dad's solitary Sunday off.  Hard to accept that the
family planned a week's tour to the west and Zach wouldn't be able to
go.  At least he got out of the post-camp, weekend clean-up.  But he
came home to an empty house - on the very day when his family was most
on vacation.

I had never been in Zach's pool before.  But soon after he arrived home,
he called me.  "I'm back."

"A little early, aren'tcha?"

"They didn't need everybody, so, I vounteered to leave," he chuckled.
"Wanna come over?"

I had celebrated my sixteenth birthday while he was away and was just
about to utilize my recently-acquired driver's license.

But Zach was choosing to experience the rare serenity at "the estate."
"We've got the pool all to ourselves."

How could I refuse?  "Be right over."

"Okay.  But don't bother to knock.  I won't hear ya.  Just come around
back 'cause I'll already be in the pool."

Sure enough, he was:  On a raft; sunning his bare buns.  "Gotta get rid
of these tan lines.  See what a month in that suit at camp did?"

"Yeah, right.  Instead of being black all over, your butt stayed olive
brown.  It really looks pale," I cried facetiously.

Even though I'm blond, ol' sol gets me pretty dark.  But not like Zach.
And MY colors presented much more of a contrast, which he laughingly
disparaged when I immodestly duplicated his nudity.

I stayed obviously relaxed, perhaps because of the novel environment;
or, maybe as an after-effect of my Sunday morning masturbation just a
few hours before.  But even with the application of my trusty
Coppertone, Mr. Happy achieved no more than 50% solidity.  Therefore,
face-up was first.

"Sorry I wasn't around for your birthday."

"Well, they're not such a big deal any more, 'cept, after this one, I'm
legal behind the wheel."

Some additional banter followed.  But eventually, the heat of the day;
the comfort of the situation; causes us to doze off.

Almost an hour goes by, then Zach's voice awakens me.  "Time to turn
over.  Want me to do your back?"

Do I ever.  "Be my guest," as I splash into the water to cool off then
re-emerge onto my float on my stomach.

With Zach standing beside me, it was unclear if his little dick was
floating perpindicularly, buoyed up by the water or as a result of
excitement.

"Hard to believe it's back to school in just over a week."

I grumbled my agreement, and noticed that - when he climbed face-up back
onto his raft - there was arousal going on here.  However, the laziness
of our surroundings took over once again, such that we returned rapidly
to dreamland.

I actually heard Zach snore a few times about 45 minutes later, so, I
quietly slipped off of my raft, into the pool, and toward him.  As I
approached, my initial intention was to violently stop the noise by
knocking him off of his float.  But instead, I opted for a calmer plan.

I figured that he'd flinch when he felt my touch.  But he was really
zonked.  At first, I fondled his flaccid pecker, which was almost buried
in his plentiful bush.  That didn't awaken him, although his boyhood
began to hurriedly harden.

Okay...I'll give it a few up and down strokes.  Still no other signs of
life.  Dare I do what I was thinkin' of next?  What the fuck - it's all
in fun.  Here goes...

I pushed Zach's raft to the shallowest part of the pool so that I coud
plunge my mouth over his upward-pointing phallus.  THAT had the desired
effect.  He raised his hands above his head and grabbed onto the wall of
the pool.

"Thought that'd quiet the racket."

"What'd ya stop for?"

"Really?  Okay.  You asked for it."

Returning to where I was, I could now reach for Zach's hard little
nipples and could almost feel them contract and protrude, as I pinched
one, then the other, between my thumb and index finger.

The water is warm.  The bright summer day is hot.  So why does he show
such goosebumps?  They seem to form wherever my fingers wander:  first
around his tiny tits; then on his shrinking scrotum.  Could it be a sign
of sexual stimulation?

I heard him moan when my fingers grasped the base of his small cock,
while my lips stopped just below its head so that my tongue could dart
about the glans.  "Awww.  Awww."  A sound that signalled forthcoming
ejaculation.

So slow down, Clark.  Lengthen this procedure.  Prolong this pleasure
for the appreciative young Zach.

He lay before me, writhingly seeking all of the extasy that I could
provide.  And I was all-too-willing to show off my ability.  To put this
in terms that might hit home with Zach, when I was little and at church,
my mom used to tell me to "Be quiet and sit still."  Zach certainly
wasn't acting like there were any pews around.  His gasps alone would
have drowned out the loudest of sermons, not to mention his grunts and
groans.  And wiggling?  Fuggetaboutit!

I don't know how he didn't squirm off of that raft.  It bopped my chin
when it rose in response to Zach's legs spreading around the sides of it
to hold on.

"Oh Jesus," he wailed, which I took as quite a compliment, coming from a
preacher's son.  Up, down.  Up, down.  In, out.  In, out.  Then his
flailng stopped.  His legs went straight atop the surface of the water.
He held his breath until declaring, "Here it comes."

With my right hand around the base of his firery member, I could feel
the expansion prior to his pending climax.  I continued my jerking but
removed my mouth just in time to see three or four squirts shoot almost
two feet  - straight up - and then back down onto his belly to join the
other droplets of sweat and pool water.

I do not question that Zach encourages and enjoys these experiences.
But he has NEVER reciprocated, which I attribute not to his selfishness,
but to some sort of religious notion that it would be wrong to GIVE this
sort of carnal gratification.  No problem, though, with his GETTING.

I didn't know it at the time, but I should have suspected it:  When
Zach's dad's year was up with his local congregation, that affiliation
was not renewed, and the family was once again on the move.  This time,
though, Zach was assured that it'd be the FINAL transfer.

So far, that's been the case.  I've gotten e-mails from Zach's same
place for more than sixteen monhs, now - Hawaii - where Zach's mom has
relatives; Zach and his older brother go to college; and Zach's dad is a
faculty member at a religious school, mostly retired from his pastoring.

And that's where I'm gonna go, too, in about a month:  to live with
them, establish residency there, and enroll in the philosophy/psychology
department of the university which Zach attends.

Aloha, y'all...