Date: Sun, 3 Jan 2016 01:35:00 +1300
From: Ben Masters <benm.ninetynine@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Hay Barn

THE HAY BARN

by Ben Masters

From my spelling and grammar, readers will perhaps realise I am not a
resident of the USA - this story is true and happened in one of the British
Commonwealth countries

At the time, in the early 1950's, I was in Form One - Y7 in today's terms.
My best buddy was Errol.  We were both early developers.  I was shooting
spunk from about age 11 and was growing a nice little selection of pubic
hairs.  My legs were the first to get hairy, then my arm pits and last
around my cock.  I even had my first shave at 12 when I decided to get rid
of my fast growing moustache.

By the time we were 12 and 13 Errol and I were regular weekend fuck
buddies.  I lived further out from town on a largish farm, Errol was on
what these days is called a Lifestyle Block - back in 1952 it was a
Farmlet.  I was a keen bike rider but Errol was in to horses.  I have heard
it said that if a boy is still into Pony Club after puberty then he's
almost guaranteed to be gay.

We looked forward to Saturdays and Sundays - Errol would saddle up his
horse and come out to the farm and we would roam the back paddocks ending
up in the furthest away hay barn, out of sight of the family, and farm
employees.  We soon learned that our cut cocks were far too dry for
comfortable penetration even with lots of spit.  So I searched the medicine
cabinet for some lube.

Errol had said "Look for Vaseline"..  I found some, but Mum had read some
article in a women's magazine about a home made burn cream.  Seems she had
mixed equal parts of Vaseline and cod liver oil.  So the first trial using
this lube was a disaster, we had lovely sloppy fucks, - but we ended up
stinking like a badly kept fish shop - I had to tell everyone that we had
got bad sunburned as a cover for the pong that accompanied us everywhere
for the rest of that afternoon.  I threw my under-pants into the washing
machine hoping Mum would not get them back out before doing the wash.

There wasn't any real boyhood love between us two - it was just pure
adolescent lust, and lots of it - If Errol fucked me first I had to wait
about ten minutes before I could "do" him because his lovely 6" cock would
give me an orgasm quite soon after penetration - I was quickly shooting my
load.  We were pretty much basic in our positioning for intercourse, it was
always doggy fashion. We hadn't though of Missionary fashion.  Oral sex had
not occurred to us for at least another 5 or 6 years.  It was Errol you
took the plunge and sucked me off - but I was 29 before I could bring
myself to give my first blow job.

Oh the memory of those early adolescent days -no more than ten minutes to
recycle - often two ejaculations on the same "stiffy".  Some days we didn't
even wait to fuck - we would have a "pulling" contest (wanking is a much
more modern term).  Three times in 20 minutes - seven times in an afternoon
was pretty common.

The smell was enough to clear your sinuses - OMG the testosterone that
flowed.  So, early on we learned that Mum's burn cream was not a good idea
at all.  It was a great lube - quite a few years later it suddenly occurred
to me, while trialing pussy, that the aroma we manifested had another very
heterosexual connotation.  It was then that I understood the smutty joke I
overheard my Dad sharing with some other men while drinking beer after
harvesting the hay.  Seems a bunch of men were staggering home one night
and as they passed a fish shop one of them stopped and said "Good night
ladies".. As an eleven year old I could never understand how that guy, even
when very drunk, could mistake a bunch of fish in the shop window for some
women folk !.

In the search for a better lube I was in my much older brother's bedroom
and came across his jar of Brylcreme -- Great - it was the right
consistency and the smell was not as volatile as cod liver oil.  We
smuggled the bottle up to the hay barn.  Up among the bales, high under the
roof, we made ourselves a humping nest and set about to trade fucks.  Errol
was a wee bit younger than me but better hung, 6 inches to my 5.1/2..  We
would usually spend at least an hour and had maybe three or four rounds
each...

One day when dressing and preparing to leave - I realised my singlet was
nowhere to be found.  Shit ! (The strongest cuss word that we would every
use in those days) It had fallen down between the bales.  At our age we
didn't have much weight and strength to heave too many bales around, but
after half an hour I rescued my singlet and finished dressing.  It was then
I discovered that in the scurrying around and heaving of bales the jar of
Brylcreme had plummeted at least ten feet down a gap in the bales and was
now totally irretrievable.

Shit, shit SHIT !!...  I prayed that my brother or one of the farmhands
would find it, not my father.

Looking back nearly 65 years I realise they
would have pissed themselves laughing.

benm.ninetynine@hotmail.com