Date: Thu, 07 Apr 2005 13:09:24 -0500
From: Jon Kent <jonkent@post.com>
Subject: SWEETS TO THE SWEET Part 2  Young Friends Gay

SWEETS TO THE SWEET
GAY YOUNG FRIENDS
PART TWO

DISCLAIMER

If reading erotic material is illegal where you live, read no further.
If you are under-age for this type of erotic material, read no further.
If you are determined to read more anyway, remember that in real life
you've always got a choice. Never put yourself in dangerous or risky
situations. Remember you always have the right to say 'No thank you'.


SWEETS TO THE SWEET
Part Two


You've probably noticed by now that I'm a little weird. Don't worry. You
won't offend me if you think that. I realised I'm a little weird a long
time ago.

For example, guess who my hero is? No, it's not a sportsman, nor an
astronaut, nor even a fucking train driver. I've never wanted to be a train
driver. I can't imagine any boy in his right mind wanting to be a train
driver. I wouldn't have minded being William Wallace or even Robert the
Bruce at a push, but they're not really 'heroes' of mine.

No, my hero is none other than Robert Louis Stevenson - R.L. Stevenson,
author of 'Kidnapped' and 'Treasure Island' and other novels that set my
heart racing when I was a kid. "Ahhhhrrr, Jim lad, drop them breeches, and
see how I like 'ee."

It wasn't only R.L.'s novels that set me on fire, it was his life. How he
stood up to his father and refused to become a lawyer or an engineer; he
had decided to become a writer and nothing was going to stand in his way,
not ill health, not poverty, not being disowned, nothing. How he crept
around the dark streets of Edinburgh Old Town having sex with whomever he
pleased. How, half dead with consumption, he crossed America by train to be
with the person he loved even if that person was forbidden to him.  How he
bought a boat and, taking all the people he loved, including his mum, he
sailed the Pacific until he settled on Samoa, fought for its people, wrote
more brilliant novels, and then one day fell down dead - just like
that. The sailor home from the sea, the hunter home from the hill.

That was the life for me.

My favourite R.L.S. wasn't the boys' adventure novels but the long short
story he called Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. The story of a man with a split
personality. No, not that. Really it was two men with completely different
personalities sharing the same body.

That's what I was turning into: a Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde though I don't
think my nasty side was really nasty, but two me's there definitely
were. I'm not talking about the two boys that made up me: the boy who sat
happily at home, head over his Latin homework, construing one daft sentence
after the other; and the boy who stood in the junior toilets shuddering as
he emptied his balls into Raymond's willing throat. No, no. There was
nothing exceptional in that. Most boys are two boys: the boy for home
consumption, and the boy out in the streets with his mates.

My personality was split between Eric Murray and R. Leslie Morrison. With
each of them, I was a different person, I led a different life. And
fragments of both were reserved for my adventures with Alan Aitken: who
would we go after this time? whose underpants demanded to be dragged to his
ankles? who needed our semen on his lips, our hard dicks wedged between his
buttocks? All this, and the Summer exams coming up, too.

It's strange but the further I drifted away from Eric, the harder he
pursued me. And not just for the sex. I ended up having tea at the Murrays
regularly after every Wednesday practice, and then on every Saturday
afternoon after I'd sat and watched Eric cracking a cricket ball round
Elliot Road, taking 'Man of the Match' more often than not.

My Saturday mornings were taken up by my own matches, tennis. Leslie got
into the habit of turning up for these matches. He was completely accepted
by the Under-15s because it was obvious he could be a heck of a player if
he ever got his backhand grooved, and it fell to me to groove his
backhand. After every match, we'd catch the bus to the city centre, to
Leslie's home where his mum fed us burgers and chips and Coke. I always
felt a bit rotten not being able to spend the afternoon with Leslie and/or
his family, but it was tacitly accepted that a First Year couldn't sit and
watch U-15 cricket matches without having a damned good reason. Being with
me couldn't supply that reason. Leslie also had a couple of hours' tennis
practice with me every Tuesday after school.

It wasn't too difficult to juggle these commitments. What was difficult was
to move from the affection and lust I had for Eric to the love, and, yes,
lust, I felt for Leslie.

Wow, this has got awfully serious, and it wasn't like that at all. It was
just so damned busy, and so damned exhausting. I hardly ever tossed myself
off before going to sleep; my head hit the pillow and I was dead to the
world - the dreamless sleep of the damned.

And there was an added complication.

Alan's MAN-friend wanted to 'meet' me. I wasn't entirely sure what
'meeting' the MAN would involve, but knowing Alan, it would be scary,
thrillingly scary.

There were very few men in my life. My dad had mysteriously disappeared
almost before I knew him, and his disappearance was not a question we could
broach with mum. She had her private life; we had ours. Whole areas were
off-limits to both sides. To tell the truth, I was quite scared of men,
terrified, whether it was the postman, milkman, or a policeman come to
report our mischievous behaviour, or even the rentman, I'd vanish into the
bedroom until the intruder disappeared. It took me sometime to get used to
Mr Murray putting his hand on my shoulder or ruffling my hair though to be
strictly honest there was something sexually arousing about the touch or
scent of a man. But to actually meet a man who saw a boy as sexually
desirable was something different.

I avoided Alan's invitations. I hemmed and hawed, found excuses, invented
excuses, and for the first time in all our years together simply lied to
Alan. It didn't work, of course.  In the end Alan simply tricked me into
the encounter.

Like many of my friends, I was obsessed by snooker. There were three
snooker halls within fifteen minutes' walking distance of the school, and
you could find up to two dozen Bruce boys frequenting these 'dens of
iniquity' during the last period on any day of the week.  Bruce Academy was
very strict about somethings - "don't piss on the toilet seats" - and
remarkably lax about others - Period 6 registration. During Period 6 each
day, we were in tutor groups; half the time the tutor didn't turn up, and
half the time half the boys didn't turn up; the trick was to synchronise
both halves!

I was addicted to snooker, but I didn't have much chance to play because of
my commitments to Leslie, Eric, and to my school work. I wasn't a 'swot'
but I'd always been at the top or near the top in my classes and I wasn't
about to sacrifice that. So when Alan suggested we skip Friday Period 6 and
start the weekend early by playing snooker at his home, I didn't think
twice.

David, or Dave, was already there. I didn't need an introduction. We got
into Alan's house - his mum was at Auntie May's - dumped our stuff in the
lounge (we had a living room; the Aitkens had a lounge) and raced each
other for the bedroom.

The first I saw of Dave was his arse bent over the snooker table. I didn't
recognise him at once, not yet being on speaking terms with his arse, but
as soon as he turned round I knew it was him, David, Dave, the MAN Alan
claimed he loved and who loved him.

"Donny meet Dave. Dave meet Donny."

Dave beamed and his smile lit up the room. Alan hadn't lied. The man was
seriously handsome.  Somewhere between 20 and 30. I'm no good at
ages. Tallish and well-builtish. Shaggy brown hair, needing a trim. Strong
eyebrows, a favourite of mine. Brown eyes that smiled. Hell, I know eyes
can't smile, but they can add to a smile. A generous mouth with little
laughter lines. Five o'clock shadow even though it was only 10 to 3. White
socks, light denim jeans and a Celtic football shirt - at least he wasn't a
blue-nosed Rangers' supporter.

He stretched out his hand to me. Automatically, I raised mine. Bruce
Academy is strict about etiquette. He took my hand. His grip was strong but
not oppressive. His skin was warm and dry. Mine was damp.

"Hi, Donny. Nice to meet you at last. Alan's told me lots about you. He
wasn't fibbing."

I tried for nonchalance but it came out as a squeaked "Same to you," though
that didn't make much sense.

"Here," said Dave, "have my cue. You two have a game. I'll just lie back
and watch you.  Just get yourselves warmed up." An alarm bell went off in
my head. What the hell were we warming up for? Dave took a few steps and
let himself fall backwards onto the bed.  "If you need any help," he added,
"just whistle. You know how to whistle don't you. Just put your lips
together, and... blow."

Alan smirked at me. "That's what Dave calls a blow-job." I must have looked
nonplussed because Alan frowned and added, "I'll explain later, dummy." He
kicked off his school shoes and booted them into a corner; I followed
suit. The carpet pile was thick below our feet.

We'd been playing for about 10 minutes and I was just finding rhythm and
concentration when Alan called: "Show me how to play left-handed again,
Dave?"

Dave swung himself from the bed. I admired how fluent his movement was, and
wondered for a moment if he played tennis. He stood behind Alan who leant
on the left side of the snooker table holding the cue awkwardly. Dave
slipped one arm round Alan's waist, the other arm helped steady and sight
the cue. His face was very close to Alan's and I couldn't help feel a
twinge of jealousy. The boy half turned and smiled at the man; the man
returned the smile, leaned forward and kissed the boy gently on the
lips. My treacherous penis twitched into life.

I knew Dave was murmuring in Alan's ear. I couldn't make out what he was
saying. Then I saw his hand move inside the boy's white school shirt and I
knew he was stroking my friend's chest and tummy. I saw Alan's eyes close
in slow delight and guessed Dave was concentrating on his nipples; Alan's
nipples were ultra-sensitive; we had a standing joke you could get anything
from Alan as long as you stroked his nipples. I watched Dave's free hand
slip lower, then heard a familiar click, the click of a school 'snake' belt
snapping open, followed by the long slow sigh of Alan's zip being
lowered. Dave pressed against Alan from behind and I saw the bulge at the
front of his jeans press into the crack of Alan's
buttocks. Surreptitiously, I hoped, I worked my lengthening penis from the
horizontal to the vertical.

"Fuck snooker," I heard Alan whisper.

Alan took small steps backwards, moving Dave backwards with him. As the boy
moved, his grey school flannels slid down to his knees, then down to his
ankles. He giggled as they backed towards the bed. The sight was erotic and
comical. I wondered if they remembered I was in the room. I pretended to
concentrate on the snooker but worked the white to the other side of the
table so that the bed was in my line of sight. I watched man and boy tumble
backwards onto the double bed.

"Hey, Donny. Come and join us if you get bored with the snooker." That was
Dave.

"Fuck the snooker," added Alan. "Come on, Donny. This is a lot more fun."

I mumbled something about needing to practise and bent my head over the
table. I could still see what was going on - a wrestling match, boy
giggling, man laughing, as they wrestled each other's clothes off until
both only wore underpants. Both wore slips, both had obvious erections.

Although Dave was quite young, he really was a man. His shoulders were
broad, his chest deep, his nipples intimidatingly big, and he had hair on
his chest. Not lots of it, but there was fine black hair, and just below
his belly button a thin line of dark hair widened into a delta that fanned
out below his underwear. And he had hair on his balls, his big balls. I
hadn't seen that yet but I knew from the dark hair on his legs, and the
dark hairs sticking out from the bottom of his slip that he had really
hairy balls.  I'd never seen hairy balls. Some of the older boys at school,
the Sixth Formers, had hair on their chests but I'd never noticed hairy
balls, possibly because I hadn't observed that closely. Dave raised his
hands and entwined them behind his head. Hairy armpits!  Seriously hairy
armpits. A man's armpits. I'd noticed a few hairs in Eric's armpits;
actually I'd licked them a few times. I knew there were dark shadows in my
own armpits, but nothing like Dave's. Nothing like the thick forests of
hair that hung glossily down in each armpit.

Alan's looked pale and vulnerable against the strength of the man. He
looked much younger than his 13 years. He reminded me of when we were 11
and just beginning secondary school.  He lay there, stretching along Dave's
body, chest to chest, so that he could reach up and exchange kisses and
nibbles. I watched as he chewed at Dave's lips, actually chewed on them,
then slid his face down to the man's chest. I saw his pink lips close round
the brown nub of Dave's right nipple and chew on it. He looked for all the
world like an over-grown infant suckling at his father's breast.

I watched Dave's hands slide down Alan's back, under his slip, then wriggle
the underwear over and down my friend's buttocks until they were palely and
innocently exposed. Dave caught my eye. I blushed and looked studiously
down at the snooker table, but I couldn't keep my eyes down; I had to look,
watch, observe, and, I admit it, lick my lips.

Alan's underwear was down at his knees. Dave caught my eye again, and this
time he held me. He smiled and patted the side of the bed. I laid the cue
against the table and moved to the bed. I sat down. I don't think Alan knew
I was there. I could hear the sounds he was making, wet, smacking, gurgly
sounds. My eyes moved to Dave's hands and my friend's buttocks. Using his
big hands, Dave gently prised Alan's buttocks apart, then just as gently
pressed them together again. He continued doing this - apart, closed,
apart, closed, apart, closed... As he opened the boy's buttocks, his middle
fingers slid closer and closer to the little pinky brown button at the
centre until the tips of his fingers met right over the hole. It was very
warm in the bedroom. The skin of Alan's buttocks was damp with sweat; his
little hole looked moist.

I watched as Dave held the boy's buttocks open and let his right middle
finger tip move backwards and forwards over Alan's hole. I heard Alan sigh
and watched his arse push up towards the invader. With a shock I realised
this wasn't the first time for Alan, that he and Dave had done this lots of
times before, and that it must feel good. I'd resisted Alan's assaults on
my own most intimate place because all the old taboos were still in
place. Now I was fascinated by my friend's little brown pucker, the little
pink rose at the centre of his being. This spot was as much a part of him
as any other part, and as such it deserved to be loved just as much as any
other part. The frown on my face was one of concentration, not one of
disapproval.

Alan's little ring of muscle, the sphincter, seemed to surrender all at
once, much as I surrendered my own prejiduce. Dave's finger slid in to the
first knuckle. Gently he began finger-fucking my best friend. I'd seen my
brother's mate Dougal finger-fucking Marie O'Doherty. I knew what Dave was
doing. Surely he wasn't going to play stinky finger with Alan. Looking up,
I realised Dave was gazing at me. I blushed furiously.  He smiled in
response, looked down at his handwork, looked up at me again, and nodded.
I knew it was an invitation. Well, fuck it, Alan was my friend,
too. Tentatively, I reached a hand and felt Alan's arse; it was smooth,
satiny, warm, and rounded, almost like Marie O'Doherty's breasts. My
brother let me cop a feel of them when he was in a particularly generous
mood.

My fingers were drawn inwards, but I snatched them away when they came into
contact with Dave's hands. He said nothing, only smiled. Slowly I returned
my hand and fingers until they lay the length of Dave's, my middle finger
resting on his, the tip touching Alan's backdoor. Dave pulled his finger
upwards. I winced but Alan only grunted. I saw the little space that had
been created for me. Everything seemed dreamy, out of kilter, unreal.  I
slid my finger forwards and watched the tip slide into my friend's arse;
bolder I pushed forward and was surprised when my finger, much slimmer, of
course, than Dave's slid all the way in. It was an incredible sight. Dave's
big man-finger and my slim boy-finger sliding in and out together of Alan
Aitken's arse.

I shifted a little on the bed, trying to get more comfortable. Dave looked
at my crotch and smiled, and nodded. I took this for approval. I unzipped
and hauled my aching cock into the open; it was stiff and hard, the
foreskin already retracted, the head already slimy with pre-cum. Dave
whistled; I took that as approval, too. I played with myself for a bit but
couldn't resist beginning a steady wanking rhythm. It was stunningly
erotic: Alan's pale, slim, boy's body, his buttocks high and curved,
stretched along Dave's much stronger, darker man's body. Dave's middle
finger, my middle finger aligned together stroking in and out of Alan's
anus, the sphincter gripping tightly like a little hungry mouth. My
trousers and underpants at my knees, my erection gripped by the fingers and
thumb of my right hand, throbbing over my best friend's bare bottom.

It was too much. I tried to hold back, believe me, I tried. Then it
happened. The squirts, the spurts, the semen spitting onto Alan's
backside. I didn't tried to avoid it; in fact, I pulled my shaft down and
directed the semen onto Alan's hole, onto my fingers, onto Dave's
fingers. Four, five, six spurts splattered into the valley between my
friend's buttocks.

I was mortified, ashamed. My desire and my cock collapsed almost
immediately. One moment I was on fire with lust, the next all I wanted to
do was get out of that room. The smell of sex was over-powering. I pulled
up my underpants, scrambled from the bed, pulled up my trousers, zipped
myself up, and couldn't find my shoes.  Where the fuck had I kicked them?

"They're under the bed."

Who the fuck was that?

"Donny. Your shoes are under the bed."

It was Dave. I didn't look at him. I dropped to my knees and peered under
the bed. Yes, they were there! I grabbed them at hauled one on. It didn't
fit. Shit, it must be Alan's.  No. Alan's were over there. I realised I was
cramming my right foot into my left shoe.  Fuck it. I got my right shoe on
my right foot, my left shoe on my left foot. I headed for the door.

I couldn't resist turn for a last look.

Alan was down Dave's body. Dave's underwear was round his ankles. Alan was
holding Dave's stiff cock straight up. God, the man was big, big and hairy
and brutal - and yes, yes, beautiful. His balls were huge; at least huge by
any standard I knew.  And, yes, they were big hairy balls. Alan was
kissing, caressing, wanking the top half of Dave's shaft. Dave was sat up
against the headboard, hands clasped behind his head, eyes closed.

"Hey, Donny, don't go," said Alan. "Dave's not going to hurt me. And I want
it 'cos I LIKE it!"

"Sorry, got to go," I called in what I thought was my most manly, my most
assured voice though it probably leapt an octave. "Mum's expecting me."

"You don't have to go, you know." That was Dave's voice. His eyes were
open. He was smiling at me; his smiles felt like pats on the head.

"Come on, baby, please don't go."

This baby went.

I never saw Dave again. At least I never saw him in flagrante delicto (I'm
actually pretty good at Latin.) I did have a hamburger or a pizza with Dave
and Alan a few times, and he was always good fun to be with, and he never
mentioned that time in Alan's bedroom.  It turned out Dave was a solicitor,
Alan's dad's business and family solicitor. That's how Alan met Dave. Alan
told me they liked each other instantly. Alan explained how he had come on
to Dave, not the other way round. How Dave had resisted his charms for ages
but then had finally given in after Alan had persuaded him to come round
for a bit of snooker.  I knew how persuasive Alan could be.

They are still together. It's been three years and they are still
together. In fact, Alan says he's going to study Law at university though
he wants to be a barrister rather than a solicitor. Alan will make it; he's
a determined little bugger; whatever Alan wants, Alan usually gets. Alan
wanted Dave, and he got him - lucky little bugger.

As for me, I had Eric and Leslie, and my summer exams, and that was more
than enough to be getting on with.

Summer was a cummin' in and we were all going cuckoo. We sat the
examinations with the temperatures in the mid-80s. I felt I'd done well in
the circumstances and, since the results wouldn't be known till late
August, flung myself into a whirlpool of sport and romance. So buoyed up
was I that I turned out for House cricket side and - wait for it - ran out
Eric Murray!

Fielding in the deep, and taking advantage of the only shade, a battered
old elm tree, for miles around, my mind was on lower things when the
inevitable red rocket came bombing out of the sky towards me. Eric had hit
a belter, a certain six, and all I had to do was get out of its way. I
panicked, flung up my hands to protect my face, and felt the vicious little
leather bastard thwack into the palms of my hands. In a boys' own story,
I'd have held on for a magnificent catch but real life is rarely so
generous. The ball plopped at my feet. I picked it up. I looked to the
cricket square and saw Eric ambling home for an easy four. Sighing, I
picked up the ball and flung it back towards the end he was strolling
towards. I'd forgotten about the tennis. I'd forgotten hours and hours of
tennis day after day, week after week, month after month had strengthen my
right arm abnormally.  The ball curved against the blue in a low parabola,
the standard y2 = 4ax, where 2a is the distance between focus and directrix
(okay, I'm showing off).

Too late, Eric worked out the mathematics. The ball soared towards the
wicket. Then dropped plumb onto the bails. Eric stopped dead, a good three
feet outside his crease, dropped his bat, pulled off his gloves, and
saluted me - with his middle finger. Both sides fell about laughing. Eric
saw the funny side and joined them. I stood there in the deep blushing
aplogetically and wishing the ground would swallow me up.

The match was on Friday. Mercifully there were no more inter-school
matches, so we had Saturday afternoon free.

"Why the hell can't we leave on Saturday morning? That'll give us the whole
day. Why wait till Saturday lunchtime?"

Eric wasn't best pleased, and I couldn't expain to him that Saturday
mornings were sacrosanct.  That Saturday morning was free but I'd promised
it to Leslie. It was the last Saturday before the last week of school and I
wasn't sure how much I'd see of Leslie during the summer.  I knew Leslie
and his family spent most of the summer in Montrose, only 30 miles away,
but for me it might as well have been on another planet. Much as I loved
Eric, and I did, oh how I did, I couldn't give up my last Saturday with
Leslie.

"Okay then, but we're leaving early. One o'clock, sharp. It'll take us
about an hour and half to bike out to Inverbervie. You bring the
sandwiches; I'll bring the drinks.  And be ready, Donny!" Eric turned to
go, turned again, and grinned: "Great run out, you lucky wee shit," slung
his cricket back over his broud shoulders and strode off home.

I watched him go - what an arse! - then turned back to the tennis courts. I
could get in half an hour's serving practice before bundling off to Alan's
for tea. For a moment I wondered whether Dave might be there; I wasn't sure
whether the prospect appealed or appalled.

Saturday 10 minutes to 1, and there I stood in T-shirt and tight shorts,
waiting for Eric, horribly self-conscious. I'd borrowed Iain's bike, a
fucking racer. I hated bicycles at the best of times - terra firma for me,
please - and there I was propping a 20-speed racer against a pair of tight
silver Lycra shorts. I had the feeling everyone in the Square was hiding
behind their curtains, peeping at me, giggling at my humiliation. Shit,
what if a boy got a hard-on in these things! My cock stirred at the
thought, and I switched my focus to the sandwiches I'd made. Peanut butter
sandwiches, my favourite. Smooth peanut butter, not that crunchy stuff that
sticks to your teeth and makes you feel you've got to brush them again and
again.

Eric raced round the corner, tilting his bike so far over, that I thought,
hoped, he'd fall flat on that gorgeous arse of his. He braked within inches
of my legs, throwing dust all over my freshly-washed cotton tennis
socks. Prat! But I loved him even more for those little human
weaknesses. Who was Eric trying to impress if not me?

What the fuck was that noise? It was coming from the carry-bag fixed to the
back of Eric's bike. What was that? Something about being a naughty boy and
letting your knickers down. Got it. It was the Beatles. Googoo-goo-choo, or
something like that. Must be one of those transistor radios. Fuckin'
expensive.

"Hi, sweetheart. Come on, let's get going."

Sweetheart!

Eric Murray had just called me 'sweetheart'! Then I remembered. That's what
Mr Murray called his boys, and now I was 'sweetheart' to Eric.

Off we peddled into the bright hot sunshine. We turned into the industrial
state, deserted on a Saturday afternoon, and took the dual carriageway that
led deep into the heart of the country. I was relieved that Eric took the
official cycle track that ran just above the roadway proper. No cyclist
I. And I wanted to concentrate on Eric's arse, those powerful thighs, and
his curving back rather than be totally focussed on carwheels that whizzed
by only inches from my unprotected legs.

Have you ever had a perfect day? I've had a few perfect days, but few more
perfect than that last Saturday of the school year. In the morning Leslie
had been great fun, worked his ass off, and finally managed a dependable
backhand, switching from low slice to kicking topspin just as I wanted
it. If he worked at the same level during the next six months, he'd be a
helluva player, and a helluva tennis partner. Okay, that's a little selfish
I know, but the idea of spending time at my favourite sport with my
favourite person... guilty flushed through me as I watched Eric peddling
stoically on.

Why couldn't I just love both of them equally? Maybe I did, but there was
no way to test that. Maybe 'love' was a word in neither of their
vocabularies. I sighed, bent my head, and peddled hard to keep up with
Eric.

Eric was right. Inverbervie was worth it. High grasses, burned golden by
the unnatural summer sun, swished down to a river that still gurgled
merrily with the freezing waters from the Grampians in the distance. Apart
from the throaty bubbling river noises, all was still, even the birds
stunned by the afternoon heat. It felt like Eric and I were the only ones
left outdoors in Scotland; everyone else had fled to the shade of bars,
pubs, restaurants and hotels.

Our t-shirts hung on a bush. Shoes and socks were tucked in its shade. Eric
lay flat on his back, not in the tickly grass, but on the tartan blanket
he'd brought. I sat above him, drawing a blade of grass down his chest,
sweeping it across his nipples, down over his muscly stomach, into his
belly button, and then down across the crease marks the elastic had made
across his waist.

"That tickles."

"I know. It's meant to."

"Do something."

"Do what?"

"Kiss me."

Kiss him! First it was 'sweetheart', and now Eric Murray, heart-throb
supreme, was asking me to kiss him. Straight out. No beating about the
bush. Kiss him.

"Kiss you where?"

I looked down at Eric's face. He was puckering up! Either that or he was
going to spit at me. I leant down and put my lips cautiously against
his. He grabbed the back of my head and pulled my lips tight against
his. Yahoo! Within seconds we were crashing mouths, mashing lips, bruising
skin. His tongue pushed against my lips. I surrendered and opened to
him. My tongue was deep in his mouth. I tasted his saliva. Then his tongue
was deep in my mouth, mixing his saliva with mine. I couldn't breathe. Who
the fuck needs breath anyway? I felt my skin wet and hot against his; I
felt our chests slide against themselves; I heard the popping of sweat
bubbles. Then I was seriously short of breath. I pushed myself up on my
arms. Eric dragged me back. I pushed away again. I looked down at Eric
again.  His eyes were closed. Beads of sweat hung from those thick
eyelashes.

"Kiss me."

"Where?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere."

My eyes gulped in his powerful shoulders, that sculpted chest with its twin
raised raisins, the flatness of his tummy, the little innie button, the
narrow waist, the wide hips, the creasy crinkles where the elastic had
been. I leaned across Eric and ran my lips across his chest. My tongue
lapped at his nipples. I wasn't sure what he wanted but I knew what I
wanted: to lick him, lap at him, chew him, drink him, swallow him, make him
mine, and keep him forever - keep this moment, this hour, this day forever.

The transistor tinkled in the background. I recognised the song: Hey, Jude.

I made love to Eric Murray's body. There's no other way I can put it. I
worshipped his body with my tongue, my lips, my eyes, my skin, my hands, my
fingers... anything that could touch him I used to worship him. I reached
his shorts. He raised his bum from the blanket. I eased down his shorts and
his white cotton slip at the same time. His huge cock sprang into the
Scottish sunshine. Na-na-na-na-na-na... Hey, Eric! I pressed its length,
its girth against my face. Hot, sweaty, sticky - pure male incarnate.  I
circled my thumb and fingers to draw back the foreskin, revealing the thick
purple head that asked to be kissed. I kissed it, then ran my lips the full
ten inches of his shaft.

Ten inches.

It really was.

I wonder if I'll ever see a cock like that again. I don't think I'll ever
seen one like that on a 13-year-old boy again. I suppose on some boys it
might look freakish; on Eric it looked perfect. The perfect cock for the
perfect day, and they were both mine.  I felt the shaft pulsate in my
mouth. I wondered if Eric was going to shoot his load.  Was this another
ten-second wonder? No matter. We'd solved that problem by letting Eric cum
whenever he was ready; then we'd go on for the second load, and the third
when he was particularly horny. As far as Eric was concerned, I thought I
had everything under control, there were no surprises left.

I was wrong.

"Just a minute. I want to get comfortable."

I released Eric from the back of my throat and from my mouth. He surprised
me by flipping onto his front. "I want to lie here and listen to the
river," he said. "You do what you want," he added.

Taken by surprise, I blurted out, "And what am I meant to be doing?"

Eric looked back over his shoulder. He was smiling, but his smile was
almost solemn.

"You do whatever you want... and take those shorts off. You must be boiling
in them.  And they LOOK fuckin' silly." He lay back down, his head resting
on his entwined fingers.

Self-consciously, I struggled out of my Lycras, and sat there, listening to
the river, wondering what I was meant to be doing. Then I looked down. My
eyes ran the length of Eric's body, and I knew.

I sat naked, cross-legged and leant down over Eric's naked length. I
pressed my lips to the back of his neck. Shit, this was sexier than kissing
his front. I reached for a thermos of raspberry pop and drizzled some down
the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades. I kissed and licked
the sweet liquid away.

"Mmmmmmmm..."

That might have been me, but it was Eric.

I let the cool liquid run down his shoulder blades to gather in the hollow
of his lower back. I applied my lips again. I kept my hands away. Hot skin
to hot skin was not needed on a day like this. Eric turned his face to the
side. I poured some of the sweetness against his lips. I returned to his
back and observed the way it fitted into the rounded curve of his
buttocks. Those muscled buttocks with their big dimples on either side. Oh,
things of beauty are a boy's buttocks forever. I wondered... "whatever you
want".

Oh well, all he could do was kill me.

With my left hand I eased his left buttock away from its twin. Dare I? Dare
I? Dare I?  I dared. The dribble of raspberry pop ran into the cleft of his
bum and collected at its sweet little centre. I wasn't afraid to admit it
to myself. Boys' bottoms were beautiful. Maybe all bottoms are beautiful,
but it was boys' bottoms that hypnotised me, mesmerised, enchanted and
entranced me.

"I can't let the raspberry juice stay there," I rationalised to
myself. It'll just get sticky and uncomfortable. I lowered my face into
Eric's buttocks, into the abyss between.  I cast aside the thermos
flask. This was a two-handed job. It was also terrifying.  What if this was
too much for Eric? What if he found it, found me disgusting and dirty?
What if he sprang up, hit me, and cycled off home without me? He'd have to
put some clothes on. That would give me time. Time for what? Time to beg
for forgiveness. Time to promise him that I'd never never try anything like
this again.

Like this.

The tip of my tongue touched his ring.

Like this.

The tip of my tongue pushed and probed his little back door.

The tip of my tongue rubbed Eric's magic lamp. Open, open, sesame. Says me!
I wasn't sure what I'd do once I got into the cave of wonders, but I'd
figure out what to do once I got there.

"Is that all you're going to do?"

That was Eric's voice. Impatient. Urgent. "All...all..." Was that ALL I was
going to do?

"You won't hurt me, you know."

"Okay, okay, wait a minute."

What the fuck did he mean? Surely not. Oh, surely he didn't mean that. I
remembered Dave and Alan. "He's not going to hurt me. And I LIKE it."

Despite the heat, I was trembling. I looked down at myself. My erection was
hot and hard. I waddled on my knees between Eric's legs. I moved them
apart. I wasn't sure what to do next. Or even if that's what I was meant to
be doing. Eric's hands came round behind him; he grasped his buttocks and
pulled them apart. There could be no misunderstanding now.

I pressed the tip of my finger against his sphincter. Hot, moist, giving. I
ran the tip of my finger backwards and forwards, increasing the
pressure. Nothing would give until it did. My finger was outside, and then
it was in, straight to the second knuckle.  I finger-fucked Eric. I hate
that expression, finger-fucking, but only in relation to Eric. It was so
much more than that. I heard him grunt. Was that intended as encouragement?
I added a second finger. It took another five minutes before it slipped
inside.  I continued the sawing motion, staring intently as the little
brown eye seemed to open wider. Then I tried for it.

Pressing the head of my cock against where I imagined Eric's anus to be, I
leaned forward, resting my weight on out-stretched arms. No luck. I was
nowhere near it. I tried a third finger, and now Eric's grunts were closer
to a steady moan. Tried my cock again. It stayed rock hard but I just
couldn't get that initial entry. Come on, Donny, think, think.  You're a
Bruce boy, trying to fuck another Bruce boy, by the banks of the Tay at
Inverbervie.  You're top of the class, so think, think.

Peanut butter!

No, that was ridiculous, outrageous, out of the question. But what the
hell. I loved the feeling of my lips pressed against Eric's anus; I loved
peanut butter; it was the perfect solution. And thank God, I used the
smooth creamy kind. Thank goodness, I'd kept the peanut butter in its jar,
intending to do the sandwiches at the last minute. Twisting like some
circus contortionist, I managed to extract the jar from the carry-bag,
twist the lid off, get out a great gob on my middle finger, and apply it to
Eric's hole. If Eric knew what I was doing, he didn't let on. I tasted the
peanut butter; it now had a sourish taste but was far from inedible. In
fact, it was finger-licking good, so I licked it from my middle finger,
then shoved another gob up Eric's bum.

Then the delicate part. I looked around. No wasps - yet, but be quick. A
huge gob in my right hand, grip my five inches and run the butter up and
down its length. The butter was already running in the heat. I leaned over
Eric and whispered in his ear, "Help me."

"Hold me open," he whispered back.

Ah, teamwork, nothing like it!

I held Eric's buttocks wide apart. The creamy butter was frothing at his
hole a a bit.  His unsighted fingers caught me and pulled me towards
paradise. I felt the head of my hard penis touch his hot spot; he held me
in place as I leaned forward on my hands again.  "NASA, we have entry!"

How could it be so easy now when it'd been so difficult only a few minutes
ago. I felt Eric open up to me. I felt myself slide in. He was hot and
tight, and I felt the friction against my shaft, but it wasn't difficult. I
was in, all the way in, I felt my pubic bone against his buttocks and knew
I was all the way in. Eric returned his hands to rest his head. I knew what
to do. No lessons were needed. In one way or another, men had been doing
this ever since they discovered the pleasures their bodies could give them.

I raised myself on my hands, extracted my cock to its head, and then
lowered myself to slide deep into Eric's arse. I could see us both as if I
were having a near-life experience.  I saw two boys, on a tartan blanket by
the river, making love. The smaller boy above driving his penis again and
again into the boy below. I wanted this to last forever.  I could feel, or
imagined I felt, the walls of Eric's rectum take and hold my shaft,
reluctant ever to release it. And as soon as the shaft was released, all it
sought was the joy of that dark, warm, moist place again. But Nature has
its own imperatives, and my hips began to speed up almost against my will.

I found myself driving harder and deeper into Eric, the long thrusting
became short little stabbing thrusts. I could hear my grunts and Eric's
groans above the babble of the river, above the tinkle of whatever was
playing on the radio. What was that song that mum wouldn't let us hear
every time it came on the radio: Moi, je t'aime non plus. I was slamming
into Eric now; I could hear my flesh slap hard against his. I wanted to
slow down, make it last, but my body said "Fuck it! We're going for it." If
I were a dog, I would have howled.  Something exploded in me and out of
me. I felt my body disintegrating into a million fragments. I felt as if I
were shooting stars. For the first time in my life, I felt the sperm leave
my balls, race the length of my urethra, and squirt into whatever awaited
it in the wide wild world. I felt as if every pore in my body were open,
every hair standing on end, my nakedness exposed for the Universe to see -
and applaud.

Of course, there were no words at the time. Nor even thoughts. Nor
emotions.  Only feeling. Naked, exposed feeling.

I'd lost any sense of time. I was lying along Eric's back, my penis still
inside him.

"Hey, hey, Donny."

"What? Where?"

"Hey, Donny. Let's clean up in the river."

"What? In the river? Okay."

"Take your prick out first."

"Your prick. It's up my arse. Take it out, please."

Gently, slowly I raised my own arse up, felt my incredibly sensitive penis,
still half hard withdraw, heard a kind of plop, and smelled for the first
time the total overwhelming smells of all-the-way sex. I rolled onto my
side on the blanket. I felt arms go around me. Felt Eric's lips against my
own. Opened my eyes. His eyes were an inch away. They were smiling. I told
you eyes can smile.

"Come on. Let's lie in the river."

We lay in the river. The water was freezing. We lay side by side. The water
was wonderful.

"Eric, can I ask you something?"

"'Course you can."

"Today, when we came here, before we came here, I mean, did you know, did
you know we were going to... you know..?"

"Make love?"

I was grateful for that.

"Yes, make love."

"No. At least I wasn't sure. I knew I wanted it, but I wasn't sure if you
did. I was hoping for today, but, no, I wasn't sure."

A thought struck me.

"Eric... Eric, do you want me to do that for you?"

Eric was silent for a moment. Then he laughed. "Me up you? What do you
think?"

I looked down Eric's body. Even in the freezing water his cock looked like
a young python.

"Well, maybe not. Not yet anyway."

"I wonder," said Eric, "I wonder if girlfriends will like it, be able to
take it, I mean.  I guess they will. They're built for it, down front, I
mean."

Eric must have seen the look in my eyes.

"Hey, Donny, I'm not a homo. I'm gonna have girlfriends. I'm gonna fuck
them. Then I'm gonna have a wife, and I'm gonna fuck her, and I'm gonna
have kids, maybe a dozen of them."

"But... but..." I wasn't sure how to put it. I was always the one with the
words, but I just couldn't frame what I wanted to say.

"But what am I doing here with you, doing this, you mean?"

"Yes. I don't understand."

Eric rolled over on top of me in the clear running water. He looked into my
eyes.  "Because it's YOU, you silly fucker, only because it's you."

I felt his cock harden and lengthen against my belly, and I understood.

Because it was me, only because it was me.

That perfect day drifted into the perfect weekend, the perfect week and the
perfect end to the school year.

On Sunday afternoon Alan and I sat in the Aitken's private gardens,
slurping noisily at giant knickerbocker glories, quaffing ice cold orange
juice - Alan could squirt the stuff through the tiny gap between his two
front teeth - and burping at each other as rudely we can could. Alan's mum
and dad had wisely commandeered the shady side of the garden.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"What do you think of Dave?"

"Oh, Dave's all right, I guess."

"'All right?' Just fuckin' 'All right', you guess. You dumb piece of shit."
Alan and I had an extensive range of endearments for each other. "David
Marlow is more than 'all right'. David Marlow is gorgeous, and intelligent,
and successful, and... fuckin' great at sex."

"I'm not arguing," I replied. "I said he was 'all right', didn't I?"

"Yeh, you did. But you said Dave's all right... but."

"I didn't say 'but'."

"You fuckin' well did." Alan scooped out a load of vanilla icecream and
aimed his spoon at me. "Admit it. You fuckin' said 'but'."

"I didn't actually use the word 'but'."

"I know you didn't, smart arse, but it was there. I heard it. You don't
have to say it for me to hear it. So come on. But what?" Icecream was
running down the spoon, down Alan's wrist. Expertly he caught it with a
flick of his tongue. I was reminded of a chamelon we'd seen on a nature
programme at school. One flick and the dragonfly was gone.

"Well... look... Dave's a nice guy, and he's good-looking, and he's your
Dad's solicitor, so he must be bright. But, damn it, Alan, he's a
man... and you're a boy. Isn't that a bit..."  I hesitated to say the
word. "... isn't that a bit pervy?" There it was out.

"Yeh, it would be 'pervy'..." Alan tinged the word with a sneer. "...if it
wasn't me that wanted it first. If there's a perv at this table, it's
me. Oh, yeh, and you. As a matter of fact," he drawled, "it was your finger
up my bum, not just Alan's, yours, too. How's that for pervaciousness?" I
blushed furiously.

"Are you boys all right?" called Alan's mum across the garden. "Not too hot
for you, is it?"

"No, mum, we're just fine, thanks," Alan called back.

"You don't care if Dave's older then?" I asked.

"No, I don't. In fact, that's one of the reasons I like him. And we don't
fuck like bunny rabbits all the time. A lot of the time, yes, but not ALL
the time. Did you know that Dave is teaching me how to drive?"

"A car?"

"No, a scooter, you fuckin' idiot. Of course a car."

"I didn't know that."

"No, you wouldn't. Not since you get engaged to Eric The Wonderboy
Murray. By the way, have you fucked him yet." I said nothing. "Well, good
for you," Alan laughed. "That tight-ass has needed something up his bum for
a long time. Imagine it being my little Donny." Alan said that with exactly
the same intonation his mum used. "And what about that kid in First Year?
Don't think I haven't noticed? You must be shagging both of them. You're
too shagged to help me out at school these days."

All this was said with a friendly conspiratorial grin. Alan and I could
never be lovers, but we'd always be friends.

"Anyway, I do a lot more with Dave than you'd guess. I go fishing with him
and dad every Saturday afternoon. You wouldn't know because you're never
around. And he's taken me to the Law Courts three times. It's great, Donny,
really great. You should come along with us sometime, you really should."

"Yes, but..."

"Come on, spit it out."

"Well, do you think a man should be going out with a boy?"

Donny laughed but it wasn't unkind.

"Going out? Going out? I gardly think we're 'going out'. Dave likes my
company; I like his.  I can talk to him like I can't talk to anybody else -
except maybe you. But we know it's not gonna last. At least I do. Listen,
Dumbo. I'm 13, nearly 14. I like my life. I admit I'm dead lucky but that's
the way the cookie crumbles. I don't know if I'm a homo, or anything like
that, but if I am, so what?" He laughed. "Mum'll still love me anyway."  He
squirted some juice between his teeth. "And I met Dave. And I fancied him,
and I put the moves on him, and he... loves it. And we're not hurting
anybody. In fact, I think I've learned more about life, spending time with
Dave, than I ever knew before. And, tell you something, Donny, I'm gonna
enjoy it while I've got it. I like the way he looks at me.  I like the way
he speaks to me. He pays attention to me, real attention, not like Dad, as
if I was some afterthought, but real attention. You know something? I think
we'd be just as happy together if there wasn't any sex, but there IS, and I
like it that way."

I hadn't heard Alan make a speech like that for years. In fact, I'd never
heard him make a speech like that. He was serious, deadly serious. Them
were his secret thoughts, and he'd shared them with me. Those two little
boys in their pinafores in the nursery were growing up fast.

"And what about you?" he asked.

"What about me?!"

"Is it Eric Murray or that kid in the First Year?"

"Leslie."

"Leslie?"

"Leslie Morrison. That's his name. The First Year." My look warned Alan not
to take the piss.

"Well, is it Eric or Leslie?"

I spooned some choc ice into my gob.

"I don't know. I just don't know."

"You poor fucker," he commiserated. Then added brightly, "Why not have both
of them - together?"

"That wouldn't work," I sighed.

"Why not?" came the reply. "It nearly worked for me."

"What do you mean?"

"You and Dave. I nearly had you and Dave at the same time. That was my
idea, you know, not Dave's, strictly mine."

It was my turn to load the spoon and take aim.

"Hey?" I asked. "Have you ever had a knickerbocker glory up your arse?"

"No," laughed Alan, "but I bet you have. Between us, YOU're the Bum Boy."

The ice cream cauught him right between the eyes, and I nearly made it to
the pool before he caught up with me, rugby-tackled, and sent us both
splashing into the sparkling blue.

Did I say perfect?

Not quite. Because maybe nothing is perfect in this world. Maybe the best
of all possible worlds can never be perfect. And why not perfect?

"Say you'll come. It's my dad's idea as much as mine. Mike'll be there,
too. It'll be a laugh. Go on, say you'll come."

That was Eric. That was Wednesday.

The Murrays had a cottage in Devon. Not theirs, an uncle's. I knew Devon
was in England.  I knew it was about as far away as one can go and still be
in England. They were going for a fortnight, two weeks, and I was
invited. Me, a boy from the wrong side of town, from the wrong junior
school, with the wrong accent - I was invited to spend a fortnight with the
nobs.

"No cricket, I promise," Eric added. "But the tennis courts are very
good. They're public.  They're never used. Maybe you can coach me. Maybe
I'll pick up the game at last. And Dad and Mike'll take us fishing, deep
sea fishing, not cissy river stuff. They go fishing a lot. We don't have to
go on all the trips. We can stay home sometimes. Have the place to
ourselves. Do whatever we want." He hesitated for a moment, then added,
"You can bring the peanut butter. Go on. Say you'll come. We're leaving
next Monday morning. Driving all the way. With an overnight stop. Say
you'll come."

"I'll have to ask my mother."

"Great. Ask her then. Ask her. She can phone my dad. Or he can come round
to your house and talk to her. You won't have to pay anything, just pocket
money." The last remark was made almost apologetically, and I appreciated
Eric's sensivity.

"Okay, I'll ask her."

"Great, great. Ask her tonight."

"Okay, I'll ask her tonight."

But I didn't think I would. Because there was something else I wanted to
ask her, and I'd planned to ask her that night.

"Montrose? With the Morrisons? For a fortnight?"

My mother's arms were folded across her breasts. This meant she'd take some
convincing.  But at least she'd met Leslie three times and liked him; she'd
even met Mrs Morrison, once, in the supermarket, and they'd liked each
other. They'd ended up in the coffee shop nattering like old hens while
Leslie and I inspected the sports gear.

"Well, it's only Montrose. That's not far away. But they're not taking you
for nothing.  Mrs Morrison works in the bank and she's got her husband's
pension..." Mum knew more about the Morrisons than I did! "...but they're
like us. They aren't made of money.  "But she's getting the house for free
and..."

"You know! You know all about it!" I managed to blurt his out even though
my mouth hung open. It isn't easy to do, try it.

"Of course, I do. You don't think I'd let a son of mine go off with
strangers. We settled things a couple of weeks ago. I was only waiting for
you to ask, or not to ask, in case you had other plans. You don't have
other plans, do you?"

My face flushed, but one of the reasons I adored my mother was because she
allowed us our secrets, the secret lives of teenage boys. That's not to say
we had carte blanche to do what we liked; far from it. But she trusted us,
and that trust extended to letting us have parts of our lives that were
strictly our business.

"One thing..." Ah, that not of caution. "Leslie's a bit younger than you."

"Yeh, but he's taller than me. Nearly an inch."

"That's not what I meant. What I mean is - take care of him."

"I will, mum, I will." I grabbed her and whirled her round our small living
room. We fell backwards onto the settee laughing. Of all the sounds in the
world there are none mor beautiful than the sound of a boy and his mother
laughing.

That afternoon, in English class, we'd been studying the poems of
A.E. Houseman.  A couple of his verses stayed with me:

Into my heart an air that kills
  From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
  What spires, what farms are those?

This is the land of lost content,
  I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
  And cannot come again.

I decided that I'd take those happy highways, and I'd let them take me
wherever they went, so at least I'd be able one day to look back and know
that I'd travelled them.