Date: Wed, 11 Jul 2007 14:05:50 -0500
From: Morris Henderson <bigmoh@post.com>
Subject: My Two Lives

My Two Lives:
A cathartic and sometimes erotic autobiography

NOTE: If graphical depictions of sexual activity offends you or is
illegal to read where you reside, leave now.  Some of the events described
happened in my life although the names of people and locations have been
changed.  Some of the events happened only in my fantasies but were an
integral part of my experience and therefore warrant inclusion in my
autobiography.  Hopefully, detecting which is which will not impair your
enjoyment in reading about one man's struggle to live two lives.

1. Genesis

     The Bible Belt in the 60's was a time and place where homosexuality
was second only to murder and well ahead of rape in the list of
despicable human behaviors.  Rape was criminal and, worse, sinful, but
it was a natural consequence of genders in the species.  It was a tragic
side effect of nature's plan for procreation.  Homosexuality, by contrast,
was not just sinful and illegal; it was unnatural and therefore condemned
more passionately.
     It was in that culture that I spent my formative years.  The culture
was particularly pervasive in my small, semi-rural community,.  My parents,
not altogether religious folk but still strong advocates of fundamental
Christian values, labored successfully to "mold my character" in a way
that would, by their standards, make me successful and be a source of
pride.  While I'm grateful for many of the values that were programmed
into me--respect for others, trustworthiness, a strong work ethic, to name
a few--one of those values, the limits of "acceptable" sexual behavior,
became a source of continuing, agonizing conflict.
     As a pre-adolescent, I experienced the normal curiosity about sex.
Questions to my parents, of course, were met by awkward
embarrassment, evasion, or a comment (that sounded to me like a
warning) that I shouldn't be talking or even thinking about such things
yet.  I learned early that asking my parents only brought tension and not
information.  So I abandoned those efforts.  Schoolteachers were part of
the total vacuum of information.  The rare teacher who was not
completely aloof and was somewhat approachable either directed me to
my parents or sternly reprimanded me for asking.  The elementary
school library had been "cleansed" of everything as objectionable as
sex.  I was left to invent information and to speculate.
     My partial information and active imagination created all kinds of
bizarre concepts.  I was about nine years old when I visited a childhood
friend's house and found his 16-year-old brother in the back yard with
his pet rabbits.  He had put a male and female together to mate.  He was
clearly uncomfortable with a youngster present during the attempted
mating but I saw it as a rare opportunity to learn about reproduction and
sex.  For quite some time, he fended off my questions with either silence
or an admonition to be quiet lest I disturb the rabbits.  Finally yielding
to my persistent questions, however, he reluctantly answered but was
deliberately ambiguous as he explained what was happening.  Either
because he thought I knew more than I did or because he was censoring
his responses, his explanations were not just incomplete but misleading.
I came away thinking that I would have only two children when I married
because I had only two testicles to give to my wife.  I didn't know that
all males have two testicles, that it was their sperm that fertilized a
female's egg, or that a testicle would never pass through the penis to the
female.
     A month or so later, that misperception was corrected when I found a
human physiology text in the public library.  It revealed some of the
mechanics of reproduction and even some details about the male and
female sex organs.  The book destroyed some of the myths I had
created but also opened up an array of additional questions to speculate
about.
     (Years later, as an adult, I was initially shocked but ultimately
pleased when my fifth-grade daughter brought home a book from the school
library about the miracle of birth.  It was accurate, even to the drawings
of the baby's development in the uterus, although it avoided any details
of sexual intimacy and intercourse.  It would prevent her forming many of
the weird ideas I had invented at her age.)
     If information on the physiology of sex was out of bounds to a
youngster in our community, anything hinting of sexual behavior before
marriage was emphatically discouraged.  One's "privates" were just
that-private.  I was ten when I saw, for the first time (not counting my
infant brother), a penis other than my own.  Joey and I were walking
home from school.  He wanted to go down an alley towards Maple
Street.  I objected, saying that was a longer route.  "But I gotta pee and
can't wait," he said.  The alley had a lot of niches a young boy could hide
in to relieve himself.  I agreed and we started down the alley.  Joey
found a secluded spot, unzipped, and pulled out his peter.  I was
supposed to watch for anybody coming but I stared at his peter shooting
a stream of piss into a bush.  I was fascinated.  He chided me for
watching him and not the alley but to my young mind that was tormented
by a curiosity I couldn't understand, the chance to see Joey's peter was
irresistible.  A few days later, Joey and I were again together walking
home from school past the same alley.  I desperately wanted another
look at his peter so I told him I had to pee and started down the alley.  I
hoped that he would also pee into the bush and give me another chance
to see his peter.  To my great disappointment, he didn't have to pee; he
watched the alley, not me.  I never got another look at his peter.
     Unsatisfied curiosity only grows and my childish curiosity would later
turn into an obsession.
     As I entered eighth grade in Junior High, I also entered puberty.  By
this time, I had seen perhaps a half dozen older boys genitals when they
were indiscrete enough to let their private parts be exposed while
showering or changing in the YMCA locker room.  I knew, therefore, that
maturing boys grew hair not only on their face and body but "down there"
as well.  I also knew that their penis and testicles became much
larger.  However, this only intensified my fascination with male
physiology and made me impatient for similar growth in my own genitals.
     Eighth grade also afforded the opportunity to see a wide variety of
nude boys, thanks to the three-times-a-week gym class followed by the
communal shower room.  I was astute enough to know that I couldn't
look too long at other boys' genitals but I was also shrewd enough to
observe every boy's body.  I was able to categorize the varying rates of
development, range of penis size, and amount of pubic hair.  Since it
was the Bible Belt in the late 60's, there was no display nor grab-assing
that, I understand, began later.  So, while there was nothing that might
be overtly sexual, just the congregation of nude boys was enough to
stimulate my appetite for more.
     I gathered more information--and misinformation--as I consulted other
boys (at least those few who were willing to talk secretly about the
unmentionable subject).  But while my buddies shared my interest in
girls and the mysteries of procreation, another compelling interest was
emerging that seemed to get me in trouble.  My questions to them about
their development--peter size, growth of hair, frequency of erections--
were met with either a cursory and ambiguous answer or, far more often,
outright scorn.
     I once asked an older boy, whom I thought was a good friend, about
masturbation (a concept I'd pieced together from some older boys'
comments).  How do you do it?  What does it feel like?  It brought a
fierce reaction.  He made some oblique yet obvious accusations that I
must be a "queer" to be interested in that kind of stuff.  I didn't really
know what a queer was but his snarl made it clear that it wasn't a nice
thing to be.  Of course, (as I would discover later) he and all the older
boys were probably masturbating with some regularity.  He could have
answered my questions but had to maintain the facade of respectability.
It was the expected and "right" to dislike and to discourage anything that
would lead down the path to homosexuality.  His violent rebuff of my
curiosity, probably a result of the programming of parents and the
community, taught me not to appear too interested either in other boys'
development or in how to masturbate.
     Still, I discovered masturbation when I was almost 14.  I knew about
ejaculation from my furtive access to public library reference books.  But
I didn't know the details, the procedures.
     I'd been having erections, of course.  Usually, they just happened,
especially when I woke up.  I even discovered that I could produce one
by fondling myself.   I also knew how good it felt to rub my penis when it
was hard.  I didn't feel particularly "dirty" over it.  Except when I
enjoyed it too much; then I wondered if I should be doing it so often.
     In the cafeteria at school, I overheard a boy at the table behind me
make some comment that included the phrase, "jack off my dick."  I had
never heard the term, jack off, but the context made his meaning clear.
That was the clue I had been seeking.
     My dad had a hydraulic jack that he used when working on the car in
the driveway-the kind where you pump a lever up and down to raise
the car.  I made the connection.  That night in bed, I got myself hard and
began to move my hard-on as you might move the handle on a jack.  It
hurt but I kept doing it.  Nothing happened except that my arm got tired
and my dick was painfully sore.  The apparent connection between
jacking off and jacking up a car was bogus and only increased my
frustration over not being able to gather information.
     One day, in a revealing conversation with an older friend, he made
some remarks about a girl we knew and said, "Whenever I see her in
class, I wanna . . ." and then circled his fingers and thumb and cut
through the air a few times.  I saw another connection immediately and
couldn't wait to see if I was right.
     That night, in bed, I fondled my penis to make it hard.  It felt good.
When it was no longer pliable, I wrapped my hand around it and imitated
my friend's motions.  It still felt good but not particularly better than
before.  I was disappointed.  But it felt good so I continued stroking at a
leisurely pace while suppressing my nagging conscience.  I was about to
quit--I was getting tired and bored--when a remarkable sensation arose
in my groin.  At first, I was scared.  I thought that maybe I had hurt
myself.  I stopped stroking.  But the sensation lingered, fading only
gradually.  Whether by instinct or a compulsion to complete the
experiment, I tried a couple of more strokes.  The sensation returned
immediately.  It was strange and somehow wonderful.  I kept stroking to
prolong this weird sensation.  The sensation intensified.  With a mixture
of fear and curiosity, I kept going.  The tingling spread from my penis to
my whole groin.  Something was happening that I couldn't understand.
But a force alien to my experience was compelling me to continue.  Then
I felt my testicles convulse and a mild but strangely stimulating pain
traveled up from the base of my penis to its head.  I glanced down in
time to see a very small stream of vaguely white fluid ooze out of my
penis.  Quickly, I grabbed a handkerchief and tried to wipe it off.  I was
startled at how sensitive the head of my penis was.  It hurt, but it was a
stimulating, pleasant hurt.  So that's ejaculation, I thought.  So that's
masturbation.
     It seemed like hours before I could go to sleep.  My thoughts were
racing.  Piecing together all the fragments of information I had collected,
I was able to take that first step on the bridge between childhood and
manhood.  It was a confusing and lonely journey with no big brother, no
adventuresome friends, no way to learn the secret pleasures of
adulthood.
     It took very little thought to conclude that masturbation was
extremely pleasurable.  Other thoughts, however, continued to consume
my mind as I tried to fall asleep.  Messages from deep within my psyche
shouted, "That's dirty.  Don't do it again.  Sexual pleasure is right only
with a wife."  They were, of course, echoes of what parents, teachers,
ministers, and society had implied about what was euphemistically called
"self-abuse."
     I wore the guilt for more than a week.  I agonized over having abused
myself.  But, eventually, I was able to rationalize my guilt away: at least
I had learned some valuable information, I knew what masturbation was,
and I could easily extrapolate to how intercourse is done.  I vowed to
myself that I wouldn't do it again.
     How wrong I was.  Soon, I was at it again, with more pleasure and
less guilt.  Over the next few months, my masturbation became more
and more frequent, each time with an increasing production of semen
and with increasing pleasure.  Each session was more easily
rationalized in my mind as I suppressed my programming more
effectively.  Masturbation, I convinced myself, is OK to get you through
those awful celibate years before marriage . . . and, of course, if it is
kept secret.
     Shortly after entering Junior High School, a tension began that would
haunt me until this day.  I gradually became aware that my interest in
other guys exceeded my interest in girls.  While my friends talked
continuously about girls, I did not feel as enthusiastic as they seemed to
be.  That's easily explained, I thought to myself.  First, they're just
boasting, parading their emerging manhood, and not necessarily
expressing their real feelings.  I naively assumed that they had the same
thoughts, feelings, and fantasies that I had but, like me, could not safely
express them for fear of being labeled abnormal.   Moreover, I reasoned,
my being attracted to girls would no doubt come later.  Partly due to a
lack of information about sexuality and partly due to self-denial that I
may be different, I failed to grasp the significance of my interest in
other guys.
     However, the foundation of a wall between my two future lives was
being laid and I didn't recognize it.
     As I matured, my hormones functioned as they should.  My fuzz grew
into a thick, curly, black bush.  My penis lengthened (much to my delight
for there was more to play with).  My testicles hung lower.  My erections
were firmer and more frequent.  My desire for periodic release of sexual
tension increased enormously and I satisfied that desire whenever I
could.  Frequent masturbation -- often multiple times a day -- no longer
caused guilt.
     The sight of my classmates' bodies continued to fascinate me--some,
of course, more than others.  Broader shoulders, more defined chests,
and the rippled slab of their abdomens drew my admiration and
sometimes envy.  The increasing musculature of their legs reaching up
into their gym shorts particularly caught my attention.  I was fortunate to
compare favorably with most of the boys in my gym class and
narcissistically admired my nude or nearly nude body in the mirror when
I was sure I was alone.
     The shower room after gym class was a special time because I could
see what lay under their jock straps.  I would take--or make--any
opportunity to get a look at my naked friends (although always with the
utmost care lest I be suspected of staring).  What began to trouble me,
in the context of the standards I had learned, was that I admired their
genitals.  I was envious of those who sported longer, fatter, bigger ones
than my own.  I found myself wondering about how big they got during
an erection.  I wondered whether and how they masturbated.  None of
my friends, judging from their conversations, shared my interest.  Were
they still posturing to project a socially acceptable image?  Was I . . .
well . . . different?  Or were they, like me, simply inhibited about
revealing their interests?
     I quickly learned to keep my emerging interests a secret.  Scorn and
epithets--homo, queer, fag--inevitably followed when I said anything
hinting of male sexuality.  Comments, questions, even looking too long
at a boy triggered immediate and sometimes cruel reaction from the
other boys.  It doesn't take much brainpower to avoid what hits you.  If I
didn't know that already, a memorable event in my first year of Junior
High would have convinced me.
     Fitz (short for Fitzgerald; nobody called him by his first name)
sprained an ankle early in gym class.  The teacher sent him to the
showers and told him to report to the school nurse for treatment.  A short
time later, the teacher sent another student, Brian, to the showers as
punishment for some minor rule infraction.  Upon entering the shower
room, Brian caught Fitz, who thought he would have a few private
moments, masturbating.  The news exploded throughout the school, or
at least among all the boys.  The ridicule heaped on him was vicious.
He was no longer called Fitz but Jack or Jerk with obvious meanings.  In
raunchier conversations, even in his presence, he was called Jerkoff.
He was ostracized and tormented mercilessly.  He had always been
somewhat shy but the malicious comments of his former friends turned
him into a reclusive loner.  I shudder now to think of the pain he suffered
when his only mistake was to be caught doing what every other boy -
including his fiercest tormenters -- did.  I resolved that it would not
happen to me; my secret interests and desires would stay hidden from
everyone.
     The wall between my secret self and my outward appearance grew
higher.
     I really tried to conform.  I would join in conversations--when adults
were nowhere around--about the girls' developing breasts and
speculation about what was under their panties.  I would joke and tease
with my buddies about what to do with, to, or for the prettiest girls in
school.  But I was just going through the motions in order to be accepted
by my peers.  I wondered if they were, too.  Privately, I was increasingly
intrigued by the developing manhood of the boys around me.  That
worried me.  But through it all, I began to develop the discipline to keep
my private thoughts and interests separated from my outward behavior.

2. Early Explorations

     Our Boy Scout troop went on an overnight camping trip.  Joey, still
my best friend, and I were assigned to the same two-person pup tent.  At
bedtime, I watched Joey strip to his briefs, carefully guarding my gaze so
as not be too obvious.  I focused especially on a rather prominent bulge
at the base of his white cotton briefs.
     It was obvious that, like me, his dick had grown considerably.  I
avoided being caught staring at him and we crawled into our sleeping
bags.  But I couldn't go to sleep for thinking about Joey's almost naked
body just a foot away from me and, more significantly, what lay
concealed beneath his briefs.  I had seen his peter once in the alley as a
child but had not seen him naked since we didn't share the same gym
class.  I was consumed by thoughts of that bulge in his crotch.  I started
getting that now familiar tingling in my groin.  I had become accustomed
to how the mere thoughts of masturbation, or even thoughts of other
boys' bodies, aroused me.  But I easily accepted it as a result of
becoming sexually mature.  I continued to think, and tried to visualize,
Joey's penis and testicles.  The more I thought, the harder my own penis
became.  I desperately wanted to masturbate but decided to wait until I
was sure Joey was asleep.
     Half an hour later, Joey's breathing indicated that he was in a deep
sleep.  By this time, I was obsessed with curiosity about Joey's penis.  I
couldn't see it so an intense desire to touch it overwhelmed me.  I quietly
unzipped the side of his sleeping bag.  I slowly reached my hand into the
warmth of the bag.  Carefully, and listening for any sign of stirring from
Joey, I moved my hand to that enticing bulge.  Through the cotton briefs,
I could easily detect the outline of his penis lying limply.  My heart
raced and my mind reeled at the first contact with a penis other than my
own.  I rubbed it gently, still alert for any change in his breathing.  It
was wonderful; I was actually putting my hand on another boy's penis.  But
it wasn't really his penis, I corrected myself; it was only his cotton
briefs.  I had to get a better feel.  I slipped my fingers in through his
fly and touched skin of his penis.  The effect on me was astonishing.  To
my young mind, just touching another boy's penis was an electric thrill.  I
had to get an even better feel.
     Ever so slowly, and with the greatest care not to wake him, I
managed to get his penis out of the fly of his briefs.  Gratefully, he was
still soundly sleeping.  I wrapped my hand around the warm, limp, fleshy
organ and was pleased to find it was a handful.  My own penis, of
course, was by now hard as a rock.
     To my surprise, foreskin covered the entire head of his penis.  I
slipped a finger under the foreskin.  It was met with a warm, moist
feeling that got me even more excited.  It must have excited Joey as well
because his penis started to swell.  Before long, it was standing erect.
And I was holding it . . . something that I'd only imagined doing before. I
grew more daring and started to fondle it.  Joey stirred.  I froze, deathly
afraid of being caught.  But he resumed his deep breathing and I felt
immensely relieved.  I fondled him for a several more precious minutes
before I had to withdraw my hand and masturbate.  It was one of the
best orgasms I had had to that point in my young life.  I was unable to go
to sleep for a long time as I relived that magical experience.
     The second and last night of our camping trip couldn't come soon
enough for me because it would be another chance to put my hand on
Joey's penis, bring it to erection, and then masturbate.  As we prepared
for bed, my penis grew hard in anticipation.  With a little subterfuge and
a lot of good luck, I was able to conceal my arousal.  Hiding my own
bulging briefs meant that I had much less chance to see Joey undress
but that didn't matter because I knew I could fondle him soon.
     To my dismay, he fell asleep on his stomach.  But I would not be
denied.  Just as he fell asleep, I shook his shoulder.  He awoke with a
start and I falsely claimed to have heard a strange noise outside of the
tent.  He rolled over onto his back, we both listened intently for a while,
and, hearing nothing and clearly annoyed, he soon fell asleep.
     About fifteen minutes later, my hand crept into his sleeping bag.
Once again, I extracted his penis from his briefs and fondled him to a full
erection, savoring every moment.  Knowing that this would be the last
night of the camping trip and that I might never get another chance, I
continued to caress, fondle, stroke, and squeeze while ever-mindful of
his breathing for any signs of waking up.
     Unconsciously, my free hand found its way to my own erection and
began to stroke it rhythmically.  My attention was so focused on Joey's
erect penis that I didn't realize I was masturbating myself until the now-
familiar tingling signaled that I was about to squirt a load.  Naturally, I
didn't want to make a mess in my sleeping bag so I stopped stroking
myself just before orgasm.  That, of course, made things worse because
my body was demanding relief.  Checking once again that Joey was
asleep, I managed to retrieve a dirty sock and slip it over my throbbing
penis.  Still fondling Joey, I completed my masturbation, conscious only
of the intensity of my orgasm and, peripherally, of my hand on another
boy's erect penis.
     That experience, I later decided, was a tipping point.  Solo sex was
nice but the enjoyment is far greater with another guy.
     Joey remained erect for an unbelievably long time as I continued to
take my pleasure in fondling him.  But then something strange
happened.  I had retracted his foreskin and was gently rubbing just the
exposed head of his penis.  His erection twitched beneath my hand and
he ejaculated.  A warm, moist fluid oozed out, coating my fingers and
falling to soak his white cotton briefs.  I froze but Joey's breathing
immediately returned to a normal sleep pattern.  I was amazed that he
could ejaculate without waking.  I withdrew my hand, wiped it on the
inside of his sleeping bag, and eventually fell asleep.
     Joey said nothing about the wet stain in the morning but, of course, I
was prepared to claim complete ignorance of what might have
happened.
     I agonized over the experience for weeks.  That I had felt Joey's
peter and got it hard didn't bother me -- not even causing him to
ejaculate was a concern.  My agony was due to the fact that I so
thoroughly enjoyed it, I was aroused by it, I wanted to do it again.  The
programming of my childhood resurfaced and scolded me for taking
another step toward something wrong, sinful, dirty.  My emotions,
however, told me it was thrilling and satisfying.
     In the second camping trip that summer, Joey and I were again
assigned to the same tent.  I couldn't wait for nightfall and bedtime.
When he was fully asleep, I repeated my adventure that I had practiced
so many times in my mind.  This time, I was able to run my fingers
through his still-fuzzy pubic hair, get him harder than before, and even
get his balls out of the fly of his briefs.  Fortunately, Joey was a very
sound sleeper.  I played with him for a long time, enjoying every minute.
Once more I felt his warm sperm coat my hand and stain his briefs.
Contented, I withdrew my hand and masturbated myself.  I always
wondered what he thought when he woke in the morning to find his balls
and peter sticking out of his fly and his sperm revealing what had
happened as he slept.
     I still agonized over the conflict between what I had been taught and
how I felt.  But I had developed coping strategies that allowed me to
separate what I should do and be around others and what I really
wanted to do.  My outward behavior, of course, continued to be
conventional and conformist.  With the guys, I conformed to the ritual of
condemning behaviors that suggested any "abnormal" tendencies.  My
internal thoughts, however, were becoming more and more unlike my
outward behavior.

     My parents' friends had to take their daughter to a doctor in
Springfield and would be staying over Wednesday night with relatives.
Ted, their only other child, was 16 and had a music lesson early
Thursday morning so they asked my parents if Ted could stay overnight
with us.  They agreed and arrangements were made.  I would not have
called Ted a friend, mostly because he was three years older and in high
school so I rarely saw him.  I would not have called him particularly
attractive, either.  He was tall, very thin, and had few social skills.
Being a very hot and humid summer night and there being only one twin bed
in my bedroom, we asked if we could sleep in the back yard.  My parents
readily agreed.  At about 11:00, we took our blankets and pillows to the
back of the house.  The clear sky, bright stars, a crescent moon, and the
soft breeze made it very pleasant.  Ted and I talked for about an hour (I
was surprised at how conversational he was) about nothing in particular
before we decided to go to sleep.  I was first into bed and was able to
watch Ted slip off the last of his clothes.  Before stripping off his short
pants, he looked all around the yard carefully.  "Looking for something?"
I asked.
     "Your neighbors can't see us?" he asked.  While I was surprised at
his apparent shyness, I told him that the shrubbery gave us complete
privacy and my parent's bedroom was at the front of the second floor.
He made one more visual inspection of the yard's perimeter and pulled
off his pants to reveal why he had been so cautious.  He wore no
underwear.  As he bent over, I was staring at his bare ass and in the dim
moonlight could see the outline of his balls and peter hanging down
between his bare legs.  I watched as he crawled under his blanket.  I got
the quickest glimpse of what seemed to be an extraordinarily long peter
flopping to and fro as he maneuvered into bed.  Suddenly, just another
guy became an object of intense interest that created stirrings in my
groin.
     As we lay there, I thought of my explorations of Joey.  And I decided
that I had to do the same to this skinny, awkward boy with his over-sized
peter.  Fortunately, I didn't have to wait long for his breathing to tell
me that he was sound asleep.  I quietly moved closer to him and slid my
hand under his blanket.  Carefully raising the blanket, I moved my hand
until it was touching his peter.  While listening intently for any signs of
his awakening, I began to fondle that long, limp piece of flesh.  My
excitement mounted at the thought that his was not the peter of a young
boy but I was playing with the peter of a guy who was maybe not yet a
man but very nearly so.  I continued fondling his peter, his balls, and his
thick pubic hair while my other hand played with my own boner.
     Predictably, he became harder and harder until that huge peter was
rigid and erect.  I was thoroughly enjoying the experience until, quite
suddenly, he jerked and snorted.  Instantly, I withdrew my hand and
pretended to be asleep.  I was confident that he had not noticed what I
was doing but concentrated on simulating a deep sleep.
     A few moments later, I felt his hand on my shoulder and he
whispered my name.  I continued my pretense of being asleep.  He
shook my shoulder gently and called my name a little louder.  I didn't
move.  After several minutes, confident that I had fooled him into
thinking I was asleep, I dared to crack open one eye.  What I saw almost
made me gasp.  He had pushed his blanket down and was slowly
masturbating.  Although the light was dim, I could plainly see that he was
squeezing his balls with one hand and slowly stroking that enormously
long rod with the other.
     Once, he glanced in my direction but I saw it coming and resumed
my appearance of deep sleep.  Cracking one eye open again, I saw that
his strokes had speeded up.  His eyes were closed and I could hear the
muffled moans.  I could sense he was deeply engrossed in his pleasure
and was oblivious to his surroundings.  This, of course, permitted me to
watch him with both eyes open.  As he stroked furiously, he fell more
deeply into his ecstasy.  In one swift, obviously practiced move, he
cupped a hand above the towering head of his penis and thrust his hips
into the air.  I could barely see the white fluid spurt into his hand and
fall onto his navel.  When finally he relaxed from his orgasm, he started
to look my way.  I quickly closed my eyes until I dared open them again.
What I saw was a revelation.  He was carefully dipping two fingers into
the pool of semen, coating them and then licking it off.  This was
something that had never occurred to me and I was intrigued by the
action.  Ted repeated his motions until, I assumed, there was no more
liquid on his stomach.
     It was an amazing show and I resolved to try this new form of sexual
satisfaction as soon as I could.  The sights I had witnessed filled my
thoughts until I finally fell asleep.  In addition to being a very arousing
experience, it added confirmation to my conviction that masturbation is
something every boy did . . . in private . . . but never talked about.
     My father woke us at 7:30, saying that breakfast would be ready in 15
minutes, and returned to the house.  Ted and I slipped on our pants
while still under the blankets then pulled on our shirts.  Putting on our
shoes and socks, I asked if he slept well just to see his reaction.  "Fine.
It was great," he said with no particular meaning that I could detect.
"Come on, we don't want to keep your parents waiting for breakfast."  I
had a thousand questions I wanted to ask him about his masturbation,
about swallowing his semen, about other things he might know that I
would like to know.  But courage failed me; discretion prevailed.
     Over the next few days, I duplicated what Ted had unwittingly
demonstrated.  The first time I tasted my ejaculate, it was unpleasant.
That puzzled me because Ted had seemed to enjoy it so much.  With
each successive experiment, the taste grew more familiar . . . and more
erotic.  I also added another question to my list of things I wanted to
know: does every boy's ejaculate taste the same or is there a difference.
     While Ted had unknowingly taught me that masturbation was
common, the lesson did nothing to span the gulf between my private,
sensual pleasures and my public, respectable behavior.  My yearning to
share the pleasures of the flesh--with another guy, of course--continued
to grow.  The one opportunity that presented itself was not what I had
hoped for.
     Later that summer, our Troop went swimming at the YMCA pool.  I
deliberately caught quick but revealing glances of all the boys'
developing manhood--who had long ones, who had tiny ones, who was
growing the most hair--particularly in the locker room when we were
changing.  But my views were not as prolonged or as revealing as I
desperately wanted them to be.  I was constrained by my programming
and by peer pressure.  The boundaries were as clear as they were
frustrating.
     Once in the pool, Larry, two years older than I and from another
Troop, began the normal jousting that young boys do: splashing and
dunking me in the pool.  It soon escalated, however, to quick feels of my
peter.  He would swim underneath me and give a quick squeeze then
swim away and come up laughing. I enjoyed it; I wanted him to do more
and even reach down inside my swim trunks.  But my fear of the
consequences of being seen was dominant in my mind.  So I tried to
avoid him.  He followed me and continued his increasingly bold groping
for my crotch.
     As much as I enjoyed his bold moves and wanted more, my fear of
being caught terrified me.  I knew all too well the consequences of such
behavior.  I tried to repel him, telling him to get lost.  He ignored me.
To get him to stop, I tried to give him a taste of his own medicine by
forcibly and, I hoped, painfully grabbing his peter and balls.  Despite my
purpose, I found it somewhat arousing.  To my astonishment, he merely
spread his legs and even asked me to do it some more.  Not on your life,
I thought to myself; somebody would see me and then my life would be
miserable.  My ill-conceived tactic of groping him only encouraged him
and he intensified his efforts.  While I enjoyed his attention and, at
least subconsciously, would welcome somebody fondling my peter, I made an
excuse to get out of the pool and away from Larry.  I went to the locker
room to get dressed.  Larry, of course, followed soon after.  He came
into the empty locker room just as I was pulling up my briefs and said,
"Oh, now I can get a real feel."
     I told him forcefully to get lost.
     "Or maybe you'd like to feel mine," he crowed and he pushed his
swimsuit down his thighs and thrust his hips toward me so his peter was
prominently displayed.  He was exceptionally well endowed, to be sure,
and I was intrigued by the size of his organ.  But I found his careless,
wanton, and forceful behavior to be obnoxious.  The chance to put my
hands on his peter, no matter how impressive it was, was not a
temptation.  In fact, the idea was repulsive.
     "Come on," he urged as he thrust his crotch toward me.  "Feel me up."
     I snarled at him, "Get lost, homo," quickly dressed, and left the
locker room.  Later, I called up memories of his gropes and fondling in the
pool, my retaliatory grab, and the sight of his long cock hanging out in
front of him just inviting my attention.  The memory of the events
alternately was quite arousing but also generated regret that I had not
taken advantage of the opportunity he offered me.
     During the following weeks, the experience was the basis for a
fantasy.  The appeal of a fantasy, of course, is that one can create facts
that never were or never will be, realize one's dreams vicariously, and
not worry about consequences. In my fantasies, he was far less
aggressive, even likable.  I felt his cock, complimented him on its size,
and asked if it got much bigger when hard.  He would suggest that I find
out for myself.  We went from the locker room to the parking lot where
we hid between two cars and jacked each other off.  That fantasy and
multiple variations, increased my concern that I was different.
     Throughout High School, my desires and fantasies continued to
diverge from my outward, conformist behavior.  I adapted well to living
the lie.  I dated girls and even did some heavy petting.  It was exciting,
even arousing, but I was only delivering the expected performance from
a "normal" hormone-driven young man.  Secretly, I lived my other, my
real life: craving sexual intimacy with other guys.  I learned to be very
shrewd in my actions to avoid the terrible consequences of being
different.  Alone, in private, I masturbated and fantasized about being
with other guys.  In public, however, I was the model young man, the
pride of my small Bible belt community.
     By my senior year in High School, I accepted the undeniable fact that
I was different.  I was increasingly attracted to guys.  Girls were
interesting, sometimes fun, and attractive but not arousing.  My fantasies
always involved other guys.  I concealed it very successfully, however,
and became the target for the attention of several girls at school.  I
capitalized on their attention, returned it in kind -- but only to maintain
my facade.  I became very skilled at deception.  And that paid off.  I was
popular, respected, and (I hoped) envied by my schoolmates and the
adults in the community.  The internal frustrations, however, continued to
nag at me in spite of my attempts to shore up the wall between my two
selves.
     I knew I was different but I was not yet ready to label myself as
homosexual.  Until one Spring day.

3. Awakening

     My father trusted me to drive the family car all the way to
Springfield to deliver some papers to a lawyer . . . something about my
aunt's estate for which he was executor.  After an agonizingly long lecture
on driving safely, the cost of car insurance, and the crazed drivers in the
big city, I drove off.  It was mid-morning and I was to meet the lawyer at
1:00 ("Now don't be late," my father scolded, "I'm counting on you.").
     I was on the outskirts of Springfield by 11:30 and decided to pull off
the highway and eat my sack lunch that my Mother had frugally packed
for me.  I found a parking lot just outside a small town and pulled in to
park.  Halfway through my sandwich, I began to regret my choice of
parking places.  Out the window, I saw the ramshackle buildings that
pretended to be business places.  A bar and grill displayed a worn sign
that boasted home cooking but it was obvious no one would want
anything but beer (from the can, not from the tap) in a place as run-down
as that.  A second-hand furniture store with a half-lit neon sign promising
low monthly payments.  A garage with rusty clunkers surrounding it.  The
place made me quite uneasy.  I locked the doors and finished my
sandwich, on guard for any suspicious people.  But I saw only a few old
men enter and leave the bar and grill.
     Then I saw a small building that needed demolition more than a quick
fix-up.  There was a hand-lettered sign in the window of the door: "XXX
Adult Magazines."  Wow, I thought as I remembered a porno magazine
that Eddy had showed me.  It was soon confiscated and there wasn't
another one in the whole student body.  Today's generation, of course,
has ready access not only to porno magazines but to a bewildering array
of content on the Internet.  When I was in high school, nude photos,
videos, and sex stories were extremely rare and simply unavailable in
my small home town.  If I took a porno magazine home, I'd be the envy
of every guy in school.  Of course, I would have to be very careful about
who I showed it to but about a dozen of my best friends could be trusted
not to squeal on me.
     It took another ten minutes to work up the courage but I walked, as
nonchalantly as I could, to the dingy shop.  Inside, it was dimly lit.  I
had trouble seeing but I could smell the dust and grime.  A voice behind me
boomed out, "How old are you, boy?"  I controlled my fright but looked
over to see a craggy old man sitting in a rocking chair reading a
paperback.
     "Eighteen," I lied by adding two years to my age.
     "Don't look it," he grunted as he returned to his reading.
     I concealed my relief that he wasn't going to challenge me.  I wanted
to get out fast, not only because I was very nervous but also because I
had to get to the lawyer's office by 1:00 or suffer the wrath of my father.
I scanned the magazines that were spread haphazardly on two long
tables.  Choosing one would be difficult; they were all wrapped in plastic
and I could only see the covers.  I rummaged through, trying to judge
from the covers what might be inside.  I picked up one but what was
underneath it electrified me.  "Men of Steel: Superhunks Bare It All,"
blared from the cover.  If the muscular guy on the cover (with, of course,
a black circle concealing his crotch), was an example of what was
inside, I had to have it.  Abandoning all inhibitions and caution, I took
it and got out my wallet.
     Glancing at the cover, the old man croaked, "So you're one of them,
eh?"  I knew what he meant and, for just a moment, it made me feel
dirty.  "Don't get many of your kind in here," he added without any
perceptible scorn.  I paid the exorbitant price and rushed to the car.  As
much as I wanted to open up the magazine and peruse it, I had only
enough time to make the 1:00 appointment with the lawyer.  Moreover, I
was terrified that the old goat might have taken the license number of
the car and would rat on me.
     I hid my treasure under the seat and started off toward Springfield. I
would figure out what to do with it, how to sneak it home, later.  Despite
the magazine under the seat screaming to be explored, I was able to
navigate to the appointment on time and by 1:15, I had started toward
home.
     The magazine was still haunting my thoughts.  Halfway home, I could
wait no longer.  I found a spot to pull off the road and into a small clump
of trees.  I could see the sparse traffic approaching in both directions
yet not be seen.
     I trembled as I retrieved the magazine and tore off the plastic
wrapping.  I flipped through the pages, wanting to linger and drool, but
knowing that I would have to be on my way soon.  By page 5, I was
getting hard.  The muscular men, mostly young, ranged from partially
dressed to fully nude.  Most were, indeed, well-hung and all were hard or
erect.  By page 12, I had a full-blown hard on and had to adjust my dick
to be comfortable.
     The photos significantly expanded my understanding of what man-to-
man sex involved.  Although I had pieced together enough clues and
used imagination to fill in the gaps, the pictures confirmed my suspicions
that sucking and fucking were actually practiced.  One picture showed a
particularly handsome man sucking another while simultaneously being
fucked by a third man.  I tried to imagine the sensations of having a
deliciously meaty dick in my mouth while another was pumping my ass.
     By the end of the magazine, precum was oozing.  I felt a compelling
urge to masturbate.  I hid the magazine under the seat again and walked
about 50 feet to the woods.  If anyone stopped and asked, I could say I
just had to take a piss.  Safely in the woods, I unzipped, pulled out my
raging dick, and jerked to a massive orgasm.  It left me trembling and I
was unsteady as I walked back to the car.
     On the way again, I thought about the magazine, recalling the best of
the pictures.  I also hatched a scheme to sneak it into the house without
anyone learning of my "wicked" purchase.  Yet it would be accessible
when I wanted to enjoy it.  I was delighted with my discovery in that
grimy little shack and looked forward to hours of pleasure as I lingered
on every page.  I also thought back to my jerk in the woods and how
satisfying it had been.  Why was it so erotic, so thoroughly pleasurable?
It wasn't the fact that I jacked off outdoors, in the woods, because I had
done that before.
    The answer was obvious.  It was the stimulation of the porno magazine,
the erotic depictions of men.  Men, I concluded, not women, turned me on.
Yes, I was different.  I was a homosexual.
     Admitting that to myself was strangely liberating.  It explained much
of the confusions that had haunted my thoughts for years.  It made it
easier to understand my interest in men.  It helped me cope with the
previously troubling yearnings that I had had to see and feel other guys'
bodies.  In a strange way, it made me feel better about myself for
wanting to give and receive sexual pleasure from other guys.
     But, at the same time, it gave new strength to those internal voices
that were still telling me that what I wanted, what I was, was wrong.  To
that point, my concerns were only rationalizing my frequent masturbation
and my interest in male sexuality.  My concerns now, however,
encompassed something much more significant: my fundamental
character.
     The few weeks remaining in my senior year were spent absorbing the
admission I made to myself as I drove home from Springfield.  While it
clarified my perception of who I was, it also had the effect of fortifying
the wall between my private and public selves.  While I now knew what I
was--and I accepted it--I became increasingly aware of the absolute
need to maintain outward appearances.  I had seen the consequences
of stepping outside the boundaries of respectability and they were not
pleasant.  I was determined to avoid those punishments.
     As a result of my new perspective, masturbation, with an increasing
variety of techniques, became more satisfying both because the
orgasms brought more pleasure and because I was no longer burdened
with shame for doing it.  But there was a downside.  First, my frustration
at not being able to be intimate with another guy grew as I stole secret
looks at the men in my forbidden magazine embracing, sucking, and
fucking each other.  Second, dating girls was less satisfying, mostly
because I recognized what a complete sham it was.  In spite of that, I
continued to date . . . because it was expected . . . because not to do so
would invite either ridicule as a social misfit or suspicion of that
dreaded condition, homosexuality (the only word used at that time and
place; gay still meant happy).  Homosexuality was talked about infrequently
in polite discussions but the word was whispered or hissed as though it
might be blasphemous to say it in a normal tone.  In less polite
conversations, which is to say among the boys at school, the word (or the
more vulgar words, queer and fag) was spit out venomously.
     When I heard those epithets, it hurt because I knew that if I were
found out, the vicious attacks would be directed toward me.  To shield
myself from the contempt of my peers, I hid my feelings.  I would, on
occasion, even join in and express my (fake) revulsion of anything
hinting of homosexual behavior.  In this way, I was adding bricks and
mortar to the wall between the reality of my person and the fiction of
what I successfully pretended to be.
     My second self was born during the drive home from Springfield but
was to be kept in the dark dungeon of my mind by the overwhelming
pressure to conform to society's expectations.  It could only find
expression when I was alone and may never achieve genuine fulfillment
by intimacy with another man.

4. On My Own

     After graduation and a summer job, I enrolled in a Junior College too
far from home to commute.  It required a part time job to pay the rent in
a rooming house and a subsidy from my parents to pay tuition but it
provided far more independence.  My dual lives continued to evolve.  On
the one hand, living alone gave me many opportunities to enjoy the
bodily pleasures that were often impossible living at home.  I could
receive mail "in plain brown wrapping" and took advantage of it.  On the
other hand, meeting new people honed my social skills, including how to
earn respect.  Earning respect, of course, required knowing how to
conform.  I was rapidly becoming, in today's language, a functional
schizophrenic, two personalities that managed somehow to cope with
conflicting internal desires and external demands.
     My stash of erotic magazines, a treasure chest of information about
male sexual pleasures and a continuing source of arousal, was safely
put away under a pile of books in the bottom of my closet.  No one who
visited me would see them but they were readily accessible to me when
I needed a little stimulation, which was frequent.  If my parents visited,
the stash was secreted off to the rafters of my landlady's garage to be
retrieved with great stealth when they had safely returned home.  The
magazines always made my masturbation more satisfying although they
only increased my unfulfilled desire to have sex with another guy.
     With no gym class, locker room, and showers any more, I yearned to
see nude male bodies somewhere besides in my porno magazines.  The
answer to my dilemma was the local YMCA. As a student, I got a
discount rate to join and I started working out as often as I could.  While
it toned up my muscles (in fact, I was moderately proud of the shape I
was in after a few months), it only increased my appetite for exposure to
male flesh.  Many of the members were middle-aged or older and
pitifully out of shape.  The few who I found attractive only increased my
frustration at not being able to be with them in any meaningful, which is
to say sensual way.  It was not unlike a starving man being able to
glance quickly at food but never able to eat.
     On one visit to the Y, I had almost finished with my laps of the pool
when a young man about my age came into the pool area from the
locker room.  I was immediately struck by his well-proportioned body.  I
found myself thinking, this is a very attractive guy.  When my gaze
narrowed to the bulge in his swim trunks, my thoughts immediately
turned to sex.  If I were ever able to be with a man, I thought, this would
be the man.  I pulled myself up to sit on the edge of the pool to gather
my strength after a strenuous set of laps.  It was then that I noticed that
the guy who had caught my eye was eyeing me.  Without being obvious,
I watched him steal glances in my direction.
     Having rested adequately, I left the pool and went into the locker
room to change.  He soon followed, which I thought strange since he
had only recently gone into the pool.  Although his locker was not close
to mine, he made the effort to come over to me and strike up a
conversation.  I learned his name was Alex and he worked as a
carpenter for a local contractor.  As we stripped out of our swim trunks
and dressed, I recognized in his eyes the same quick, up-and-down
glances that I had used so often.  He made no overt advances but it was
obvious that he most likely shared my interests and desires.  Or was it?
Perhaps his quick assessment of my body was merely curiosity without
any ulterior motive.
     As we left the locker room and walked outside, he asked, "Come
here often, do you?"
     "Yeah," I responded, "I try to get here every Monday, Wednesday,
and Friday after my last class."
     "See you next time," he said and shot me a broad smile.
     Walking to my apartment, I wondered if I had met someone like me.
Perhaps I was not so unique after all.  Perhaps many men share my
desires but, like me, conceal them.
     On Wednesday, he was there again.  Again, he left the pool when I
did.  Again, he struck up a conversation.  But this time, he was far less
guarded in his behavior.  After removing his trunks, he stood in front of
me, talking.  He was admirably endowed.  Although I made a concerted
effort not to look too long or too often at his equipment, I'm sure he
noticed my attention as, in fact, I had noticed his attention to my own
cock.  Any doubts about having met a kindred soul were fading but not
yet erased.
     Over the next week or two, meeting him there became routine.  And
his suggestive behavior became more obvious: scratching his balls,
putting one leg up on the bench to let his equipment dangle more
seductively in front of me, and complimenting me on my physique.  His
bold displays had an effect.  Lust was becoming a regular part of my
feelings as we talked.  I found that I looked forward to seeing him nude
in the locker room.  I even fantasized about eventually sharing a bed
with him.
     However, I couldn't be absolutely sure that he felt the same lust that
was infecting my thoughts.  One Tuesday night, after fantasizing about
an encounter with Alex and subsequently jerking off, I hatched a plan.
Before making my fantasy a reality, I had to be absolutely sure of Alex's
intentions.
     After my Wednesday swim, I approached Alex before he had a
chance to approach me.  I stood in front of him as he sat on the bench.
As I chatted with him, I rubbed my cock through my trunks.  His eyes
lingered a bit too long on what I was doing.  I slipped my trunks down
and kicked them off while still chatting with him about various physical
fitness techniques.  As he sat there, I toweled off carefully watching his
eyes that seem to flit from my crotch to my face.  When I dried my
crotch, I spent more time than necessary and couldn't help but notice he
was taking it all in.  Finally dry, I put a foot on the bench next to him,
just as he had done to me.
     "You know," he said, looking up at me, "physical fitness requires a
good workout for every part of the body."  Then he looked down at my
crotch as if to clarify his meaning.  It seemed as though my testing of his
interests had confirmed my suspicions.  But the ultimate confirmation
came when he gently took hold of my dangling cock, and said, "Even
this part."  He smiled and looked up at me to gauge my reaction.
     I was shocked.  My plan had not included this development.  I only
wanted to test his interest, not to initiate physical contact.  My plan had
worked to that point; I had proven that he was interested in man-to-man
sex.  However, I had not anticipated such a quick and obvious response.
I stepped back quickly and a mild panic overcame my senses.  Yes, I
wanted to experience intimacy with another man and he was both
attractive and willing but my courage once again failed me.  Fear of
being revealed as a homo trumped my lingering need for sexual
satisfaction.
     Ignoring his bold move, I said nothing but began to dress. I felt just
a little guilty over teasing him and then rejecting his advance so I tried
to maintain a friendly banter of conversation.  As I did so, I saw the
disappointment and frustration in his face.  Walking out of the Y, he gave
me the address of his apartment and invited me over "for a few beers."  I
gave a noncommittal reply, wanting to buy time to evaluate the
opportunity.
     This much I knew.  I had tested Alex and proved that he, like me, was
interested in guys.  This was my first and best opportunity to satisfy the
desires that had been consuming me for years.  To deny myself the
experience of sexual intimacy with a guy would be a wasted opportunity.
He was clearly willing.  But was I?
     There was a lot I didn't know.  Most significantly, I couldn't assess
the risks of visiting him in his apartment and being caught.  Who would see
me there?  What might Alex say to other people that could circulate until
I was revealed for what I was?  Another unknown was whether I might
ever experience the fulfillment of my deepest desires.  To engage in sex
with Alex, however, entailed too many unforeseen traps that could, if I
were found out, result in vicious attacks from too many people I now
counted as friends and too much pain and disappointment from those I
genuinely wanted to please.
     On Friday, Alex was even more blatant in his suggestive remarks.
He was more seductive in his behavior, conspicuously rubbing his cock
until it began to harden.  I watched it thicken, realizing that I was only
encouraging his display but unable to control my eyes or my mind.  I was
still conflicted in how to handle his obvious advances.  I both wanted and
feared responding receptively.
     He escalated his seduction by asking if I had ever had a really good
blow job.  I wanted to say, "no but I've always wanted one."  Instead, I
chose the coward's path.  I simply said, "no," and, with great effort,
diverted my eyes from his now half-erect cock.  My fear of the possible
consequences outweighed the potential satisfaction of a sexual
experience.  In fact, I became decidedly cool toward him.  He was
undaunted.  Leaving the Y, he urged me to visit him in his apartment, not
too subtly suggesting that he could give me a workout I'd never get at
the Y.  In a final and ultimately successful attempt to shut down his
advances, I said, "Never happen, pal.  I don't do that."  I could see the
disappointment in his face.  Because I shared his desires, I could feel his
pain in the rejection.
     I often regretted not accepting Alex's invitation but, after re-
considering, always concluded that my caution was prudent, and that, in
the long run, there was a greater pay-off in conformity and respect.  The
price of hypocrisy was high but necessary.  The cost of honesty was
higher.
     To avoid further temptations, I changed my routine and visited the Y
at varying times during the week.  Each time, however, I found that I was
both hoping and fearing to find Alex there.  I never saw Alex again.  I
suppose he eliminated me from consideration after my abrupt rebuff of
his advances.  I often regretted not having the courage to go to his
apartment and experience what my inner self so desperately wanted.  It
would have been a risk but I wished that I had done it.

5.  Parallel Paths

     To maintain my facade, I continued dating and met a particularly
attractive girl, Carol, a medical technician major.  She was intelligent,
vivacious, and extremely pleasant company.  Fortunately, she seemed
to enjoy my company as well.  Unfortunately, she couldn't know that my
interests included only friendship and did not--would never--include
romance, love, or sexual intimacy.  Still, we saw a lot of each other and I
even introduced her to my parents who enthusiastically approved of
what they saw as a future daughter-in-law.  As our friendship grew,
physical closeness was inevitable but limited to hugging and kissing.
Anything more was out of the question.  She had two roommates and no
privacy; I wasn't allowed any female visitors in my boarding house.  And
she was a very religious person so premarital sexual intimacy was never
an issue.  Without the pressure of "how far to go," we could enjoy each
other's company and we spent a lot of time together.
     After graduating from Junior College, Carol and I continued dating.
She and I became more than a dating couple, we became close friends.
Even though our living arrangements changed and offered opportunities
for sexual intimacy, my inner self and her religious beliefs kept us out of
bed.  It was an unspoken understanding, and mutually agreeable, that
we would continue to date, continue to have fun together, continue to
enjoy each other's company but never feel that sex was expected.
     Almost a year later, we married.  Yes, my respectable image even
compelled me, a self-confessed homosexual, to marry.
     Initially, I found our sex life to be remarkably satisfying.  There
was little variety to our sex life, no oral or anal activities, but it was
frequent.  My masturbation almost stopped.  Three months into our married
life, I even began to wonder if my attraction to men had not been just a
result of teen hormones and forced celibacy.  On our first anniversary,
during a difficult pregnancy when intercourse was ruled out, I resumed
masturbation (in private, of course) and the yearnings for men returned
to my consciousness.
     Following the successful birth of our first child, marital sex
gradually resumed.  It was satisfying but it never replaced my interest in
other men.  I found men to be far more attractive than women and my
temporarily suppressed desires were now a constant force I had to deal
with.  Fortunately, the defenses and rationalizations I had honed as a
teenager had not gone away and I was able to live a "normal" life.  My
charade was effective.  Carol seemed content with our love-making and
never suspected the turmoil going on inside me.  We had three children
in all, two girls and a boy, and were respected members of the
community.  But I was unfulfilled.
     Eventually, I took a job in St. Louis over the objections of my
disappointed parents who wanted me to live and work closer to (their)
home.  I think their real interest, although they never expressed it, was
to be able to enjoy their grandchildren.
     Six months into my new job, the company sent me to a trade show in
Atlanta.  I arrived on a Thursday afternoon for the Friday-Saturday show.
After checking in to the hotel and unpacking, I went out in search of a
restaurant for supper.  Following a great meal, I decided to wander
around before returning to the hotel.  Not too much later, I passed an
adult bookstore, which, of course, caught my attention.  I circled the
block before gaining the courage to go into the bookstore.  Surely, I
thought, no one who knew me would see me patronizing a dirty book
store.
     It was small but crammed with tables and shelves displaying all
manner of magazines, books, videos, and sex toys.  It was not at all like
the dingy little shop near Springfield where I bought my first porno
magazine.  I decided that I would buy one or two magazines if I could
find the right kind.  Along the back wall, I found a meager selection of
gay magazines but was disappointed that, like all others in the store,
they were in clear plastic envelopes so that one had to make a selection
based on the cover alone.
     As I scanned the selections, a young man stood beside me.  A quick
glance at him told me that he was probably 18-20 years old, had a trim,
firm body, fashionably long auburn hair, and an unusually attractive face.
     "Expensive, aren't they?" I heard him say.
     I didn't expect any conversation in a store where privacy and
anonymity is valued but responded, "Yeah."
     Moments later, I selected two of the most promising magazines, and
was about to pay for them and return to my hotel for an evening of lonely
pleasure.  However, the young man beside me, in a barely audible
whisper, said, "For the price of those two magazines, you can have me."
     "What?" I blurted out, unsure of what he said or meant.
     In a normal tone of voice, he said, "I just can't believe these
prices."  But then, he glanced over his shoulder and whispered to me, "I'm
available if you want to do more than just look at pictures."
     Clearly, he was prostituting himself.  He was selling himself for sex.
The thought of hiring a male prostitute was objectionable but, I
reasoned, this might be an opportunity to experience what I had always
wanted.  The fact that he seemed to be clean-cut and that we could
retain our anonymity made his offer compelling.  I mentally debated the
benefits and risks until he whispered again, "What do you say?  Would
you like to have me instead of a couple of magazines?"  As he spoke he
seductively rubbed his groin.
     Once again, my courage failed me.  I took the two magazines, paid
for them, and left the store.  However, the young man's offer haunted me
and, before walking half a block, I turned to go back.  I arrived back at
the store just in time to see him leaving -- alone.  I caught up to him and
asked, "What did you mean by being available?"
     He smiled at me, which demolished any remaining inhibitions I had
and said, "Two hours.  Twenty-five dollars.  Your place.  Anything you
want except I don't do rimming."
     Succinct, clear, and in my mental state, irresistible.  We walked four
blocks toward my hotel during which time I learned that he was a college
student, short of funds, but was able to earn an undisclosed amount of
cash with little effort and a lot of pleasure.
     Half a block from the hotel, I said, "There's the hotel.  I'll go in
and you follow in five minutes.  Go to the fifth floor.  I'll meet you at
the elevator."
     "Right," he said.  "You're afraid of being caught with a male hooker."
     I started to stammer out an explanation or apology when he
interrupted, "That's all right.  I understand.  A lot of my clients feel
the same way.  See you on the fifth floor soon."
     I waited by the elevator for fifteen minutes, eager for my temporary
companion to arrive.  My excitement turned to disappointment during the
next 15 minutes.  He hadn't scammed me because I had not yet paid
him so something else must have happened.  Ten minutes more and he
was 40 minutes late.  I took the elevator down to the lobby, approached
the desk clerk, and inquired as casually as I could, "Any messages for
room 535?"
     "No sir," was the polite but perfunctory reply.
     I took a seat in the lobby and waited another 20 minutes until,
dejectedly, I went up to my room for another lonely masturbation.
     I never found out what happened to the young man.  Maybe he
changed his mind - unlikely.  Maybe he got a better offer - possible.
Maybe hotel security recognized him and threw him out - also possible.
In any case, I had lost another opportunity to experience the pleasures
of the flesh with another man, one who was likely experienced enough to
make it memorable.  The magazines I bought were excellent but
disappointing because of what might have been.

5 Spectator Sport

     I returned home to lead my two lives-one secret and unfulfilled and
the other socially respectable.  Over the next several years, I rose
through the ranks to a position of some responsibility.  With that came a
considerable increase in salary and I was able to build a large home for
my family-four-car garage, in-ground pool, five bedrooms, five acres of
land, and more than enough space to host parties that were expected of
a man in my position. Because the house was surrounded by trees, I
invested in a top-of-the-line security system that included video
surveillance of the perimeter and key locations in the house.
     My son, the oldest of my three children, celebrated his thirteenth
birthday with a party to which he invited about 30 of his friends.  It
began at 2:00 in the afternoon in the pool and continued through supper
that consisted of several dozen pizzas and countless cases of cold soda.  I
was proud that he specified "no gifts" and suggested that each guest
bring a donation to the Make-a-Wish foundation.
     My wife, our housekeeper, and I supervised the activities and were
delighted to see the children enjoying themselves in the pool and playing
volleyball in the yard.  It was about 3:30 that I noticed my son was not in
the group.  Thinking the he had probably just gone to the bathroom, I
was not concerned.  Half an hour later, when he had not rejoined the
party, I went into the house to look for him and scold him for abandoning
his guests.  He was nowhere on the main floor so I went upstairs.
Approaching his bedroom, I saw the door was closed and I was about to
open it to see if he was in his room and all right.
     I reached for the door knob but froze when I heard his voice from
inside his bedroom, "Oh man!  Don't stop, Chris!  It feels so good!"  The
urgency in his tone of voice was tinged with passion and I knew instantly
what Chris must be doing to my son.  I briefly gave a thought to opening
the door but quickly dismissed it.  I didn't want to embarrass the boys
and, more importantly, I didn't know how to handle the situation if I were
to walk in on them.  As I stood there wondering what to do, I heard him
cry out, "I'm cumming!"
     My pubescent son, Alex, was obviously enjoying what I had wanted
all my adult life.  It came as a bit of a shock-certainly not because I
disapproved but only because until that moment I had regarded him as a
little boy.  It was clear, however, that he was beginning to enter
manhood.  I wondered if he was merely indulging in adolescent
experimentation or if, like me, he would turn out to be gay.
     I stood in the hallway for a few minutes contemplating what I should
do with the new information about my son and his friend, Chris.  No
obvious course of action came to mind.  I walked the 30 feet back to the
top of the stairway, waited until I thought the two of them may have
finished what they were doing, and called out, "Alex, are you up here?"
     "Yes, dad," he replied.
     "Well come downstairs.  It's your party, you know."
     I returned to poolside still trying to digest what I had heard and the
undeniable fact that my young son had not only discovered the joy of
sex play but found a willing partner.  Five minutes later, Alex and Chris
walked out of the house, each with a can of Pepsi.  It may have been my
imagination but they both seemed to have a slightly guilty expression on
their face...or was it just a look of satisfaction that they had succeeded
in grabbing a few moments alone?  I couldn't be sure.  From time to time
during the rest of the party, I scanned for Alex in the crowd of youngsters
and each time he seemed to be with his friend, Chris.  That was not
unusual-young people often have best friends-but with what I had
heard earlier, I knew that their friendship was special.
     For several days, I mulled over what, if anything, to say to Alex.  I
surely didn't want to make him feel guilty nor did I want to admit to him
that I was eavesdropping outside his bedroom door.  One thing was
certain: I would not tell my wife who would not...could not...understand
and would be furious.  Still, I felt that some time soon I would have to
caution my son about the risks he was taking.  The risks were far less
serious than when I was a boy.  There was a slowly improving
recognition if not acceptance of homosexuality, but homophobia still
existed.  I wanted my son to be happy, whatever his sexual orientation,
but I couldn't let him be hurt by bigotry.
     A week later, Alex asked if Chris could sleep over Friday night.
His mother granted permission and, later that day, informed me that Alex
would have a guest.  "Is it Chris?" I asked.
     "Who else?" she replied.  "Surely you've noticed that they're best
friends."  I knew all too well but chose not to say anything about what I
had overheard nor what would probably happen during the night.
     When Friday came, Chris joined us for dinner and, perhaps because I
was paying particular attention, I noticed that the two boys were
genuinely fond of each other.  I reminded myself that most boys have
best friends who enjoy each other's company but the subtle signs-
glances, expressions, comments-were easy to interpret.  Following
dinner, my wife and I watched a movie while the two boys were in the
kitchen playing a board game and the two girls watched a different
movie in another room.
     At 9:30, my wife reminded the children that it was bedtime.  The girls
whined, as usual, but my wife was firm.  Alex and Chris, unsurprisingly
to me, did not complain.  Instead, they asked if they could take blankets
and pillows outside.  My wife refused but they countered with arguments
that it would be like camping out, it would not disturb the guest room,
and they wanted to watch the stars.  Their arguments were weak but I
interceded on their behalf, suspecting what might go on between them
and wanting to afford them the opportunity.  Reluctantly, my wife agreed
but warned them sternly to stay out of the pool.
     My wife retired soon thereafter but I stayed up to polish a
presentation I was scheduled to give to the Board of Directors on
Monday.  An hour later, I was on my way to bed when I decided to check
on the boys.  Rather than walk outside and interrupt what they might be
doing, I checked the video security system.  I didn't know what I
expected to see but just wanted to verify that they were all right.  A full
moon gave plenty of light for a clear view of two naked boys lying on a
blanket.  Chris's head was bobbing up and down in Alex's crotch.  Very
soon, I saw Alex go rigid and Chris's head slowed to a stop.  I felt
ashamed of being a voyeur but I also became aroused.  Moments later,
Alex put his head in Chris's crotch and it wasn't long before Chris had
apparently emptied a load into my son's mouth.  They crawled naked
under the blanket and were cuddling.  I couldn't resist the temptation to
masturbate.
     I resolved to talk to Alex and, when Chris left for home the next
afternoon, a perfect opportunity presented itself.  My wife took the two
girls shopping, leaving Alex and I alone in the house.  I called him into
the kitchen and told him to sit down because I needed to talk to him.
     "I was a few years older than you," I began.  "I had a sleep over with
a couple of my friends.  When my father came outside to wake us for
breakfast, he found an empty whiskey bottle on the ground.  He woke
me first and said, 'Breakfast in ten minutes.  And you'd better hide the
empty bottle before your mother sees it.'  At first, I panicked because my
father knew that we had been drinking but he simply returned to the
house.  I worried for days that he would punish me but he never
mentioned it again."
     Alex was bright and he sensed that my story was leading up to
something.  I'm sure he made the connection between my story and
what he had done the night before with Chris.  A look somewhere
between concern and panic crossed his face as I let him digest what I
had said.
     "You know, son, that we have a video surveillance system covering
the perimeter and inside the house."
     Alex turned beet red and waited for the ax to fall.  I'm sure he
expected a stern lecture at minimum and possibly severe punishment.
"I'm not angry, son.  But I need to tell you a few things."  Alex seemed to
relax somewhat but was still tense.  "First, you're growing up and it's
quite normal to experiment with adult pleasures but you're going to have
to be more careful about when and where you do it, which leads to my
second point.  Sex between two men is considered inappropriate by
many people; some even call it evil.  Sex play between boys is less of a
problem but, in the eyes of many, it is not right.  I'm not one of those
people.  I feel that if both boys want to do it and neither boy is taken
advantage of or hurt, then it's okay."
     Alex relaxed even more at hearing my acceptance of what he had
done.  For the next twenty minutes, I explained the usual cautions about
safe sex and the potential consequences if he were to become known as
a queer.  He listened intently but said little.  I finished my little
tutorial by asking if he had any questions.
     "You're not mad at me?
     "No, son.  I love you and I want you to be happy.  I don't want you to
be hurt.  But you must be careful.  And don't ever let your mother find
out because she wouldn't understand."
     I was pleased that I had not only given Alex permission to
experiment-something that I wish I had had growing up-but warned
him of the dangers.  However, over the next two weeks, the memory of
seeing him and Chris suck each other haunted me.  I can honestly say
that I never wanted to have sex with him but I have to admit that
watching him was extremely erotic.  I was, I felt, a good parent but my
inner self envied him.  It was my inner self that drove me to do
something very unethical.
     I ordered from a catalog a wireless video surveillance system--the
kind you read about in spy novels.  They were functioning smoke alarms
but concealed a camera and microphone.  I installed all of them on the
second floor of the house, including Alex's bedroom.  My wife thought it
was not necessary because the house's main system had detectors
throughout the house.  I argued that an alarm in a bedroom would be
more likely to awaken us in an emergency and she accepted my
reasoning.  I placed the receiver in a locked closet in my office/den and
discretely wired it to show the video image on my computer screen.  It
would only receive a signal from one of the five hidden cameras but
that was all I needed.  I would be voyeuristically spying on my son when
he was in his bedroom.  My respectable-citizen self was ashamed but
my inner self was in control of my thoughts.
     During the ensuing month, I discovered the best times to spy on my
son.  It was customary for me to be in my office/den in the evening after
supper and for Alex and his sisters to stop by to say good night before
they went upstairs to bed.  Between twenty and forty minutes later, Alex
was on his bed, stripped naked, and masturbating.  At first, it was very
erotic, I quickly got hard, and shot a load not long after he did.  I felt
guilty for violating his privacy but a day or so later, I couldn't resist
the temptation to watch again.
     Alex and Chris were together more and more.  On weekends, Chris
stayed overnight with Alex or Alex stayed at Chris's house.  When they
were at my house, I spied on their sex play that, over time, progressed
from sucking and cuddling to prolonged foreplay before sucking each
other to orgasm.  These episodes were especially erotic.  I still had no
wish to have sex with either or both of them but the stimulation of
watching them together was addictive.
     Over time, however, the stimulation diminished and, at the same
time, my conscience curtailed my voyeuristic behavior.  By the time the
two boys were turning fifteen, I watched them only occasionally although
I always knew when they were having sex and chose to ignore it.
     By the time Alex turned 15, it was quite clear that he and Chris were
not just experimenting but had developed a genuine fondness for each
other.  The signs were obvious to me because I knew how they felt and I
was sensitive to the nature of the relationship between them.  My wife
and daughters, however, were blissfully ignorant of what was going on.  I
decided that it was time to have another talk with my son.
     The opportunity was a Sunday when my wife and the girls had gone
shopping.  Chris had stayed Saturday night but had to leave early
Sunday morning to travel with his family to visit his grandparents.  Alex
seemed especially sad to see Chris leave and was morose for an hour
or so after.  I called him downstairs and said, "Son, we need to talk."
     He objected as only a 15-year-old boy can do but I was insistent so
he reluctantly joined me in the living room.  I got right to the point.
"Do you love Chris?"
     My question seemed to confuse him because he just looked at me for
a time before answering, "I like him a lot."
     "That's not what I asked.  Do you love him?"
     He seemed even more confused and became almost hostile.  "Love,
like, what's the difference?"
     "Let me phrase it differently," I began, trying not to antagonize him
further.  "When you're together, do you want to make him happy?  Is that
your primary goal?"
     He stared at me for a long time.  I decided to wait for an answer.
Finally, he said, still somewhat defiantly, "You're talking about sex,
aren't you?  You said it was okay, didn't you? If I was careful?  Well, we
have been careful!"
     "Sex is okay," I assured him.  "But I'm talking about real love.  Sex
can be a part of love, a very special part, but I want to know if you love
him."
     My tacit approval of his sex play seemed to calm him down and he
replied, "I think I do."
     "What's more important?  Your happiness or his?  That's the
difference between liking and loving."
     Again, he took time to digest the meaning of the question and frame
an answer.  "Depends, I suppose."  At last, he seemed less defiant and
was probably thinking through his relationship.  "Sometimes, he does
stuff for me and I let him.  Sometimes, I do stuff for him just because I
want to.  And I don't mean just sexual stuff if that's your point.  I'm
happy when I'm with him and he seems happy around me."
     "And you would do almost anything for each other?" I probed.
     Another thoughtful pause before he replied, "Yeah, I think so."
     "I'm very pleased, son.  I'm pleased that you have found somebody to
love.  And at a relatively young age.  We've already talked about the
risks you'll face loving another boy so I won't belabor the point.  I just
want to give you an opinion.  Cherish your love.  Nurture it.  Be prepared
to sacrifice in order to maintain it.  It won't be easy but if both of you
commit to each other, the two of you can be very happy."
     I'm sure that what I said startled him.  It may have been the opposite
of what he expected to hear.  But it did open him up enough to ask, "So
you're cool with having a gay son?"
     "I'm cool with having a happy son.  If you're gay and happy, I'm
delighted.  If you were straight and happy, I would also be delighted."
     His eyes got watery, he gave me a hug, and said, "I love you, Dad,"
but quickly added, "Not the same as I love Chris, though."
     We both laughed and I said, "I hope not.  I wouldn't want to break up
a loving couple."  That brought more laughs.  Then I said, "Why don't
you get us a couple of beers."
     "Beers?" he asked incredulously.  "I'm not allowed to drink beer."
     "If you've never had a beer, don't get one for yourself.  But I think
you ought to get two beers."  He giggled, fetched two beers, returned with
a broad smile on his face, and sat down.
     "Thanks for understanding," he said.  "I was afraid you were going to
talk about Chris and me having sex and were going to tell me to start
dating girls."
     "Dating girls may be an option for you at some point but right now it
seems that Chris means more to you.  Am I right?"
     "Yeah, dad.  I can't even imagine loving a girl like I love Chris...or
even liking them."
     "Two years ago...Remember when you forgot about the video
camera?  That was probably just sex.  I'm not so old that I can't
remember being 13 going on 20.  Now it's much more than sex beteeen
you two and that's even better."
     Alex gave me a puzzled look and asked a question I was not
expecting.  "Did you mess around when you were young?"
     Fortunately, a response came to mind.  "I've told you to be careful
about who knows what you and Chris are doing.  Well...I'm careful, too
so I don't talk about what I may or may not have done."  It was a
lawyerly response that dismissed the question without answering it.
     Alex pondered my response and said, enigmatically, "I don't think you
have to talk about it.  I think I know the answer."
     He guessed wrong.  I had the compelling urges but never the luck or
courage to act on them.  From puberty onward, I lived two lives.  My
inner life was by then so insulated from view that my son's suspicions
were as close as anyone had come to recognizing it.
     For the next two years, I would, from time to time, shamelessly watch
Alex and Chris make love.  I found it to be erotic but more than anything,
I found vicarious satisfaction in witnessing their growing love for one
another.
     When Alex entered college, he and Chris shared an apartment and,
at the end of their freshman year, came out.  My wife was devastated by
the revelation and was depressed for months before she accepted it and
reconciled with her only son.  I, on the other hand, was proud of him for
recognizing who he was and having the courage to live as he wanted.

6.  Dreams come true

     Alex and the middle daughter had finished college and had jobs in
the St. Louis area and the youngest was in her senior year at UCLA
when my wife was killed in an automobile accident.  It was a particularly
difficult time for my children and I mourned a little but we all resumed
our lives.  As a 45 year old man with a successful career and reasonably
wealthy, I found that women--divorced, widowed, and married--were
making plays for my attention.  However, I deflected all their advances
and resolved to lead a single life...unless, of course, an opportunity for
a discrete relationship with a man presented itself.  My outward persona
was so well established, however, that it seemed unlikely in the extreme
that my inner self could find the fulfillment that had been denied for so
long.
     I traveled to Miami to call on an important client of my company.  I
spent all day Wednesday with Mark who was the leader of a team that
had recommended buying my company's product.  He was close to my
age and, it turned out, shared many of my interests: flying, fishing, and
cooking.  I invited him to dinner that evening where, having left the
protocols of business behind, we formed an immediate friendship.  I
learned that he was recently divorced and lived in a condo overlooking
the beach where he spent much of his free time swimming, surfing, and
fishing.
     After an excellent meal and a few after-dinner drinks, it was late.
The next day, Thursday, would be a busy one for both of us so we parted.  I
returned to my hotel room with a slight buzz and fond memories of a
delightful evening with pleasant company.
     Late Thursday, Mark asked when I would be returning to St. Louis.  I
had plans to spend a long weekend in Miami, which I knew to have a
sizable gay population, but I lied and said I would be returning home
early the next day.  I could hardly tell Mark of my plans for oogling the
flesh in Miami for three days.
     I spent much of Friday on the beach admiring the tanned bodies of
men and wishing that it were possible to make friends with one who was
willing to spend some time with a horny, middle-aged man.  It was, of
course, an impossible dream so, feeling frustrated and lonely, I grabbed
an early supper.  I dreaded returning to my empty hotel room and
decided to walk around for a while.  Turning a corner, I saw a gay bar
and was immediately tempted to go inside.  At least, I thought, a pick-up
in a gay bar might put me in the company of a man who was willing, if
only for one night, to share some sex.  However, my obsessive concern
over maintaining a straight image argued against taking the risk.  I
walked past the bar but began debating with myself over missing
perhaps the only opportunity I might have to experience what had been
a suppressed dream.
     In the time it took to circle the block and return to the bar, I had
decided to scuttle my facade of straight, upstanding citizen. I entered,
sat at the bar, and ordered a drink before turning my attention to the
clientele.  They were predominantly young, under 30, and there were
several obvious couples.  Their attire ranged from leather-butch to
yuppie-chic.  Their behavior ranged from pseudo-macho to fairy-
feminine.  I found none of them especially appealing but I did not seem
to be appealing to them either.  No one seemed to pay attention to me, a
fit but middle-aged man nursing a scotch and soda at the bar.
     I was about to leave when someone behind me called my name.  I
turned and saw Mark.  In a fraction of a second, my reaction changed
from surprise to fear to desperately trying to fabricate an explanation for
being in a gay bar.
     Mark surely saw my expression and correctly interpreted its meaning
but he graciously ignored it and said very cheerfully, "What a pleasant
surprise.  I thought you would be on your way home."
     I tried frantically to think of something to say but my mind was in
chaos.  "Change of plans," I stammered.
     Mark sat next to me, ordered a beer and another scotch and soda for
me, and said, "I'm glad for that...the change of plans, I mean."
     When our drinks arrived, he paid the bartender and suggested,
"There's an empty booth over there; let's grab it.  It's more comfortable
than these stools."
     Walking to the booth, I realized that there was no plausible excuse
for my being in a gay bar.  I made a snap decision to be frank with him.
I hoped that the rapport we had developed the previous evening meant
that I could trust his discretion and he wouldn't out me.  As soon as we
had settled into the booth, I said, "Look.  I didn't expect to be
recognized in...ahh...in a gay bar.  It's...well...it's a side of me that
nobody knows."  To emphasize my point, I added, "Nobody!"
     Sensing my situation immediately, he said, "And nobody will.  I was in
the closet for a long time myself so I know how you feel."
     "My friends, my family, my business associates..." I began.
     "Say no more," he said.  "They'll only know what you choose tell
them.  Nobody will hear anything from me."
     "Thanks for understanding," I said sincerely.
     "It is a bit of a surprise, though," he mused.  "I mean you talked
about your late wife and children so I thought..."
     "That I was straight?" I finished his thought.  "Only to the outside
world."
     "Let me guess," he said.  "You've been gay for a long time.  You
married and had a family because it was expected of you.  But the gay
side of you never went away.  Am I right?"
     "Exactly.  How did you know?"
     "That's my story, too.  I've been gay since puberty but only admitted
it to myself at about age 16.  Like you, I married because it was the thing
to do."
     "And nobody knew?" I asked.
     "Nobody.  Until about three years ago.  I made friends with a guy I
met on the beach and we...ahh...became very friendly.  When my wife
found out, she divorced me."
     "You have a boyfriend?" I asked.
     "Had.  He split, leaving me without a wife or a boyfriend.  So I've
been celibate for over two years.  You've never had a boyfriend?"
     "No, I'm afraid not.  I don't have the courage that you had.  There's
the part of me that everyone sees and there's a deeper part that's been
concealed.  I've had a few opportunities but never had your courage to
follow through."
     "Courage?  No.  More like weakness.  I met Chip and let lust get the
better of me.  It cost me a very expensive divorce.  In a way, you're the
courageous one to keep your desires under control."
     I appreciated his compliment but I envied him for having acted on his
desires.  I was beginning to feel more at ease, mostly due to Mark's
empathy and his sensitivity to my situation.
     We swapped stories for a while.  I felt perfectly comfortable telling
him of my life-long frustrations, my botched opportunities, and,
somehow, it felt almost liberating to do so.  We had just finished our
drinks when Mark said, "Let's go to my place.  It's a lot quieter and more
comfortable.  It's just a short walk from here."
     His meaning was fairly clear; my visit to his condo would result in
more than conversation.  My inner self wanted to accept his invitation
but my habitual caution made me hesitate.
     "Look," he said softly.  "You've lost some opportunities.  Don't let
this one slip by.  I think we both need some...shall we say...
companionship?"
     "Thanks for the offer.  And the encouragement.  I'd love to."
     His condo was sparsely furnished but spacious with a magnificent
view of the beach and the ocean.  He fixed us drinks, two scotch and
sodas, and we settled on the sofa.
     It wasn't long before he asked, "You'll spend the night, won't you?"
     With no hesitation, I replied, "I'd love to."
     He took my hand and led me to the bedroom where a double bed
awaited.  Having committed to finally having sex with a man, I suddenly
grew nervous, which he noticed right away.  We sat on the edge of the
bed.  "Relax," he assured me.  "You set the pace.  Take control.  Don't
feel as though you have to do anything you're not comfortable with.
Let's just take it slow and easy and enjoy each other."
     I had left my outer shell of respectability back at the bar.  When he
gently placed his hand on my thigh, my inner self that had been
smothered for so long took control.  My arms wrapped around his
shoulders and I began to kiss him passionately.  He responded in kind
and our tongues were dueling in and out of each other's mouths.
Breaking the kiss, I began to take off his shirt and then lick and kiss his
prominent nipples.  He did the same to me and before long, we were
naked on the bed, our hands and mouths roaming freely across each
other's body.  I was driven by pure lust but Mark matched my fervor.  My
cock was harder than it had been for years and the precum was flowing
profusely.
     Without any conscious thought that I recall, I switched to a 69
position and hungrily sucked on his rigid cock, tasting for the first time
another man's precum.  When he began to swallow my cock, I gasped,
stopped breathing for a moment, and I think my heart skipped several
beats.  His skillful mouth and tongue brought me to the brink very quickly
and then, without so much as a word of warning to Mark, I discharged
several loads of cum into his mouth.
     It took me a few moments to recover from the best orgasm of my life
before I could resume suckling his throbbing cock.  Soon, he presented
me with a considerable quantity of hot cum that I savored before
swallowing.
     We cuddled together for quite some time, saying little.  I found that
to be, in its way, as satisfying as the sexual release of moments before.
After all, this was not a casual pick up in a bar but a person I had grown
to like and admire.  Sharing our naked bodies in an embrace was
therefore extremely fulfilling.
     "Are you sure you haven't done this before?" Mark asked.
     "Only in my imagination," I replied.
     "Well, for the first time at bat, you sure hit a home run."
     I laughed and replied, "It must have been the balls I was playing
with."  Then we both laughed.
     Mark began caressing my chest, nipples, and stomach.  By the time
his hand reached my crotch, I was hard again and he said, "Looks like
you've got your bat ready for the second inning."
     "Yes," I laughed.  But I think I'd like to take more time...to enjoy
it longer.  Okay?"
     During the second session, while my mouth was savoring his hard
cock, my hands were massaging his ass cheeks and toying with his
pucker.  When he returned the favor, I realized I was on the brink again.
I released his cock long enough to say, "I'd like this to go on forever,
Mark, but I don't think I can hold back.
     "Let it go," he said.  "We've got all night-lots of time to do it
again."
     It was nearly 3 a.m. when we fell asleep in each other's arms and
almost 10 the next morning when we woke. After breakfast, we returned
to his bed where he introduced me to the joy of fucking and being
fucked.
     By early afternoon, I had retrieved my things from the hotel, checked
out, and returned to Mark's condo.  We spent the afternoon at the beach
where, being a Saturday, there were a lot more hunks to admire.  After
supper at a beach-front restaurant, we returned to Mark's condo and got
very little sleep but a lot of sex.
     On Sunday morning, I reluctantly packed my things and Mark drove
me to the airport for my flight home.  During the drive, I said, "I really
appreciate your hospitality and would like to return the favor.  There's a
lodge just an hour's drive from my home with a great fishing lake.  If
you're ever in the neighborhood, I'd like to show it to you."
     He grinned to signal his understanding of my intent and said, "I've
got a vacation scheduled for next month.  Lake fishing sounds a lot better
than hiking in the Appalachians."
     "Great," I said. "I've got plenty of fishing tackle...if you think
we'll need it."

Epilog

     For the next two years, Mark and I spent frequent weekends and
vacations together during which time our relationship morphed from one
of periodic sexual pleasure to one of deep affection and finally to genuine
love.   Mark took a job in the St. Louis area as General Manager of a
regional construction company.  He bought a condo and we spent as
much time together as possible.  We each led two lives--an outward, socially
acceptable one and a private life that, for both of us, was extraordinarily
satisfying.  That changed when I took an early retirement.  Mark sold his
condo and moved in with me.  Alex's reaction was, "Way to go, Pop!" but my
daughters never quite accepted that their father was gay.  As for my former
business and community associates...well...I didn't give a damn.