Date: Tue, 28 Mar 2017 09:05:36 +0200 (CEST)
From: z.blake@tutanota.com
Subject: Solace

SOLACE
By Zachyboy
b/b, romantic, coming out, first time

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

The following story is a work of fiction, and will appear in the upcoming
Nifty anthology "Yanking in the Young Years: A Celebration of Boyhood
Masturbation," which is scheduled for release on April 1, 2017.

If boyhood beauty lifts and inspires you, please make a donation to the
Nifty Archive Alliance and keep memories like this alive for the boys out
there who need to know that they're normal too. They'll stumble onto this
stuff someday, and you'll feel really good knowing you were the gentleman
who paid to keep it here for them, safely and securely, until they most
needed to find it.

http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

On with the show.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

I led a small and secret childhood. Painful and private and hidden away. It
was a troubled world full of questions and doubts. And it felt like it
lasted forever.

The boy's name was Valentin. He was the first boy I kissed.

It wasn't Valentine, like boxes of chocolates. It wasn't Vallin-TEEN, like
Rudolph Valentino.

It was just vuh-LEN-tin, with an accent on the LEN.

Even writing it is beautiful to me now. Valentin.

The boy who helped me find myself; who taught me manners and patience and
even self-sacrifice.

The boy who helped me come out to myself for the right reasons.

The first boy I loved.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Valentin and I were 13-years-old and had 7th grade together. We were both
in choir together. On weekends, we were both in gymnastics together.

He was delicate, beautiful, small and strong.

He was graceful. Flush-faced and rosy-cheeked.

I remember after practice on the weekends, two-hour sessions where every
muscle hurt, I'd watch Valentin sit on the thick Spieth mat at the corner
of the gym, breathing heavily, putting his socks back on, and even that
seemed delicate and perfect, like a poem he couldn't help writing.

That was Valentin, I think. An unassuming poem that never stopped writing
itself.

I was in love with him and in lust with him. I assumed he was gay, and I
feared that I was too. And I say "feared," because being gay was the last
thing I wanted to be. I was a choir boy. I was a gymnastics boy. I hung out
with all my girl friends, not girlfriends. I got teased mercilessly in
middle school and he did too.

We had an understanding, Valentin and I.

We knew we were in the same boat.

Neither one of us had to say it out loud, but we both knew we were ships on
the same path. And it wasn't easy being the only two boys in our school who
innately, hating every minute of it, knew we were this way.

It would be so much easier if I just liked girls. I tried, you know. I
tried over and over. But I felt nothing for them. Nothing at all. But
Valentin made my heart pound.

I lost myself in every thought of him.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

I jacked off thinking about Valentin all the time. I jacked off thinking
about every boy all the time. I was 13 years old that year. Face it, I just
jacked off. Endlessly.

I felt ashamed after I jacked off every time, because I wasn't thinking of
girls.

All my friends were thinking of girls. And I was thinking of all my
friends.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

I was crude. I was little-boy horny.

There was no romance in my fantasies when I thought about Valentin.

I thought about harsh things. Rude things. Rough things.

I used to whisper-talk to the eyes-squeezed-shut fantasy of him in my
bedroom at night, dreaming of being with him, carnally. Anally.

"Fuck your sweet ass," I'd whisper into the dark. "You need it, don't you?
Need it like a good little gay boy? Oh yeah, Valentin. Open up for it,
baby. I'm gonna put my cock up your deep little ASSSSSSSS!"

And I'd moan out loud and grunt out his name as I let loose with my nearly
non-existent loads of semen, needing him.

I was impolite to the image of an angel. But I had so much need. I didn't
know what to do with it.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Valentin needed me too, but it was different than the way I needed him.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

It was Memorial Day weekend 1987, and we had just finished our DMSA Boys
Sectional.

I placed 1st in Floor and third in Pommel.

Valentin, who moved liked magic, placed 1st in Still Rings, 1st in Vault,
3rd in High Bar and 2nd All Around.

Both of us sucked at Parallel Bars. Me 4th. Valentin 5th.

But it was a good meet. Six trophies between us. Two were mine, four were
his.

There are times your adrenalin just simply gets the best of you, otherwise
I never would have had the courage for what I did that day.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

We were changing together. The host studio had private changing rooms like
ours did. Two boys to a room. Valentin and I entered ours with laughter and
pride and superiority. Two gay alpha males, basking in the glow of their
aching perfection. Our muscles howled. Our hearts were full.

Valentin was wearing red shorts. White ankle socks. A red, white and black
tank.

I don't remember at all what I was wearing. I simply have no memory but
him.

He sat on a bench putting his socks on.

"Hey," he said. "Thanks for teaching me that release." He was referring to
his re-grasp on the high bar. "I never would have hit that without you."

He stood up like he meant to offer his hand to me, or a friendly pat on my
back, and I don't know what happened. I just moved into him and held him. I
took him in my arms and I held him.

I can't even say I hugged him. This was no bro hug. No athletic,
camaraderie or pat on the back. I simply just stepped in and had to hold
him.

"Oh," is all he said, in a small voice. "Oh."

I was embarrassed. "Oh, God. I'm sorry. That was dumb. I was just
happy. I'm just proud of us. Of you."

He smiled. Red-faced but kind.

There was a pause that lasted forever.

He stepped into my arms again. "It's okay."

And instantly I knew, it was okay to hold him again.

We stood like that for ages. Forever. This unexpected contact that had
probably been coming for two years, but now here it was. There was no way
to explain how it happened. Like all watershed moments of self-discovery,
it simply WAS.

"I just..." I stuttered. "Sorry. I'm just so happy. I just want you to know
how happy I am, and..."

I was babbling and we both knew it.

"Shhhh. Stop," he said.

He looked in my eyes. Touched a hand to my cheek. And sweaty and shaking,
he leaned forward and kissed me.

It was chaste, it was soft and simple on my lips, but he kissed me.

And then I kissed him back.

And mine was not chaste, and mine was not pure. Mine was a tongue that was
hungry for his. And he responded in the same helpless, hungry, whimpering
way.

He whimpered as I kissed him. Both of us were so afraid to be doing
this. Fulfilling every stupid, cruel middle school hallway prophecy about
us. The two gay boys, finally kissing. Helpless fags who couldn't help
finally needing each other. We hated ourselves for doing this, and we never
wanted it to end.

Please God, please God, I whispered in my head. Please let this happen
forever. It felt so right. It felt so shamefully, desperately, detestably
right. I knew in that minute I didn't like girls. I wasn't waiting for the
right girl to come along.

THIS was the right person. This boy. This kiss. This soft tongue was what
my future tasted like. And I never wanted anyting else, not ever, not from
now on.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

He sat down on the bench, dumbstruck that we'd just done this.

"Wow," he whispered. "What just happened?"

I moved forward to him. My crotch was near his face. I was erect and
horrified.

"I'm sorry," I begged. "I didn't mean to. I shouldn't have done that. I'm
sorry if I scared you."

"No," he said. "I liked it. I wanted it. I'm just...I don't know what to do
now."

He looked like he needed to cry. I was lost. I stepped closer. He buried
his head into my stomach as I stood over him. Into my crotch. I felt his
face rub across my dick which was erect with my shameful lust for him.

"I don't want to be gay," he cried honestly.

"Me neither."

But I held his head. Stroked his hair. He rubbed his face into my
groin. Rubbing his cheek, nose, eyes against my boner. Whimpering for me. I
pressed it against him. I felt his lips and hot breath touch my penis
through the fabric. I knew that he needed me.

I reached down and fumbled with my shorts. Pulled them down. My hard dick
sprang free. I heard him gasp. I rubbed it forward. Pressed it into his
face. Urgent, lust-crazed, seeking his mouth. Christ, I needed him. Christ,
I felt filthy.

"Stop," he cried. "What are you doing. Stop! This is too fast!"

Blushing I withdrew. Tugged my dick away. I hid it, ashamed.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm stupid, stupid. I thought you wanted me to. I'm
sorry. I'm so stupid."

I wanted to cry now too.

"Why would you think I would do that?" he cried. There were huge tears in
his eyes. "I don't want to be that, Tyler. I'm scared to be that way."

"I'm sorry," I repeated. It's all I could think of. I got dressed. I
couldn't speak. Couldn't face him. I gathered up my backpack. We were both
crying now.

"Stop," he sobbed. "Don't go. I'm sorry. I do want to do stuff. I just
don't know how. It's going too fast."

I walked to him and hugged him. Neither of us understood this. It's power
was beyond us.

"Please don't leave," he cried. "I do want stuff like that with you. Just
not mouth stuff yet. I'm scared of that part. Let me just touch it. You
know. Just kiss me and let me touch it and stuff."

"You don't have to," I started...

"I know," he said. "But I want us to know there's nothing wrong with it,
you know?"

I sobbed deep in my chest.

Nobody'd ever told me there was nothing wrong with it before.

Nobody'd ever told me that needing to do this could be right.

I cried because my heart was so full. I held him again and our mouths found
each other. I tasted the sweat of four trophies on the salt of his
quivering upper lip. We cried and kissed in corresponding need for each
other.

His hand slipped into my sweat pants. Found my cock which was now rock hard
again. He began stroking it. I reached into his shorts and found
his. Hot. Missile firm and slender. Smaller than mine. Hotter than mine.

We kissed and cried. Stroked awkwardly. Pawed at each other's sudden
realization. This is who we were.

"You can try forever not to be this," our newfound urgency assured us, "but
this is who you are, boys."

Our urgency shrugged its shoulders and repeated gently in our sweaty ears,
"This is who you are."

I came first, exploding and seizing and crying out and releasing my watery
squirts in his hand. He gasped and whispered my name. "Tyler," and bit my
bottom lip, and every muscle in his body went tense and he froze, and he
came too, shuddering and completely dry.

We held each other. Shocked. Grateful. Appalled. Knowing everything had
changed from now on.

>From beginning to end, the whole thing couldn't have lasted more than five
minutes, yet it was the most important moment of my life. Here I am, 30
years later, still remembering it and stumbling on the passionate
awkwardness of it. Still building a lifetime of relationships around what
it ultimately meant to me.

There was wildness to it. There was urgency and animalism. But when it was
over, Valentin and I stood there holding each other. Privately, secretly,
for one perfect moment, effortlessly, with no shame, loving each other. To
this day, there is nothing in the world that has ever been softer.

It was a moment behind a locked door in a changing room with Valentin. When
the school's two gay boys finally got the message. Finally understood it,
loud and clear:

This is who we were always meant to be.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

I think we were always in love after that, me and Valentin. Secret,
nodding, understanding love. But it was a different time when-and-where we
lived, and boys weren't allowed to fall in love with each other quite
yet. Not publicly anyway.

So, we never did another thing. We were both too scared our classmates
would find us out. Ironic, really. They already knew full well who we
were. We were the ones who were desperate not to have it confirmed.

I still cry for the 13-year-old gay me. And the 13-year-old gay Valentin,
still trying to hide. Perfectly good, decent, loving-kind children, who
didn't have the courage yet to be who they were. In a perfect world, oh
what we could have been. But anybody who has ever been to middle school
knows, the middle school world is far from perfect. And it's never
forgiving.

Me and Valentin? We never kissed again. We never loved again. We never
swapped sperm or shared more magic the way it miraculously happens in Nifty
stories. Life's not Nifty. Most of the time, there's no Chapter 2.

Valentin dropped out of gymnastics two months later. His family moved away
in the spring.

But until then, we always smiled at each other in the hallways, and in
choir, and in stolen moments from across a room. We had a shared secret and
the comforting safety knowing we were no longer alone, outsiders, odd ones.

I wish I knew where you were today, Valentin. I wish I could tell you how
much I owe you for those kisses and your courage. Cumming was secondary. I
owe you for your trembling, terrified fearlessness.

I close my eyes and I see you sitting on a thick Spieth mat at the corner
of the gym, breathing heavily, putting your socks back on. You are still so
delicate. You are still my lifetime's prettiest poem.

And for what it's worth these 30 years later, I'm still right here and
writing it down, always lost in the memory of you.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Solace (noun). To give consolation in a time of great distress or
sadness. To alleviate sorrow, misfortune, trouble or discomfort. To give
comfort and relief.

I led a small and secret childhood. Painful and private and hidden away.

There are times, however, we transcend ourselves, and in retrospect, felt
safe enough to get our first glimpse at the strong, complete men we would
grow up to be.

Back then, however, it was all so new and we were still so young. It was
still just a troubled world full of questions and doubts, and it felt like
it lasted forever.

Thank you, God, for an unexpected friend who gave me glimpses of normality
and a sense of kindred spirit and of finally fitting in. He was the hope
for my future. He taught me, "this is who I am now, and this is okay."

Thank you, Valentin, for a single soft moment of solace.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #