Date: Fri, 14 Nov 2008 11:58:35 -0500
From: John Ellison <paradegi@sympatico.ca>
Subject: The Landing - Chapter 3

This story contains situations and scenes of graphic sex between consenting
males. All legal disclaimers apply. If this topic offends you, do not read
any further; and ask yourself why you are at this site.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locations,
or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, although it may be
loosely based on real events and people.

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Copyright 2008 by John Ellison

Additional works publish in Nifty in the Military Category:

The Phantom of Aurora
The Boys of Aurora
Aurora Tapestry
The Knights of Aurora
Aurora Crusade

The "Aurora" books are a series and should be read in sequence.

A Sailor's Tale

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The Landing


Chapter Three


	I cannot remember a time when I wasn't gay. There was no sudden
epiphany when I reached puberty, no waking up one morning and announcing to
the world that I was here, and queer. I just was.
	My earliest memories are of an inquisitive, insatiable curiosity to
see, to examine, the nether parts of boys. I was as curious as a cat and
while they did not know it, my two older brothers contributed to satisfying
my curiosity. Philip Charles Tradd was the oldest, and in the absence of
our father, who was always away saving humanity, took it upon himself to
teach his younger brothers, Damian Lee and me, the things he thought
growing boys should know. Since we lived in the South, and in the
countryside, this meant first and foremost, huntin', fishin', and shootin',
with baseball thrown in and, later, football, although I was never
attracted to the game itself. The players, now . . .
	Living in a rural environment, we had access to things that city
kids could only dream of. We spent most of our time, when we were not in
school, outdoors, and everybody had a smooth, tanned body. We could ride,
for the area was criss-crossed with old riding trails and country lanes. We
hunted in season, riding hell-bent for leather across the open fields
chasing the hounds and a hapless fox. We shot in season, stalking deer for
the most part, although we also bagged game birds and raccoons. When we
were in the mood we would fish off the dock, or row a skiff to mid-river.
	On the blood-hot summer days, when the sun was an unforgiving orb
of fire high in the sky, and the humidity like a blanket covering all, we
would walk or row downstream to our special "swimmin' hole" and skinny
dip. Most days we lived in our cut-off shorts or bathing suits - if we were
swimming near the house. Decorum had to be maintained, at least on the
surface. More often than not we would stroll down to the hole, and off
would come the suits.
	We had no inhibitions at all when it came to being nude, or nekkid
as we called it, and my education in basic male anatomy began there.
	Having two older brothers helped pique my curiosity as well.
	Boys are naturally curious. They seem to be born with the need to
explore, be it a gator hole or each other's body and, having no inhibitions
at all, thinking it perfectly natural to compare, to touch, to discover the
essential differences between boys.
	Philip Charles, before he married and found THE LORD, was totally
understanding of the curiosity of little brothers. He didn't mind at all
when Damian Lee and I charged into his room at the most inopportune
moments, usually when he was in bed in the morning, sportin' mornin' wood,
as he told us happened to all boys in time. Damian Lee and I would giggle
at the bulge in Philip Charles's boxers (a proud hangin' man, as they say)
and unlike us, he had rebelled against the ubiquitous tighty whiteys, and
never wore pajamas. Sometimes, when I pulled the covers off of him, his
thick organ would be poking from the slit in his boxer shorts, the smooth
round head red and enticing.
	The first time I saw his erect penis I damned near fainted. It
wasn't big, just a normal, run-of-the-mill circumcised pecker. But to a
seven year old his big brother's bone was huge, compared to his own little
appendage, or his older brother's, and Philip Charles was always telling
Damian and me that we would one day be as big as he was - when we grew
up. God, how I waited for the day when my little nub would swell and grow.
	It was under Philip Charles' tutelage that I learned that my penis
was not called that. We went through the usual little boy names, pee-pee,
weiner, and the like, and eventually settled on "pecker". Testicles, well,
everybody had a name for them, from "the Boys" to "eggs" and every
descriptive name in between. Eventually, balls were what we called them,
although they were actually shaped like eggs.
	Once, and only once, did Philip Charles allow us to actually touch
him. He never tried anything "funny", and while I knew he masturbated
(choked his chicken, he called it), he always did it in the shower. Damian
adored our older brother and while we did compare peckers, Philip Charles
allowed no liberties and smacked me silly the one time I tried to hump
him. We'd been rough housing in his room and my little pecker got excited
so I did what any sane boy would do and started rubbing it against his leg
(we were only wearing tightys at the time). He told me that was "queer",
and good little boys did not, under any circumstances, hump their brother's
leg! Given what later happened in the Eagle Scout room, I later thought it
strange, but obeyed.
	I depended on Philip Charles for information, particularly on the
differences that sometimes occurred in boys. When I was five or so, I was
dragged to the Blakes', where preparations for a wedding were
underway. Usually I would have been left in the stern care of Mam Berta,
but that day she was off, attending a funeral, as were the two dailies my
mother employed. As there was no one to look after me, I went to the
Blakes.
	Southerners love a good funeral or a wedding, and being Southerners
just have to be a part of the festivities. That day all the ladies were
gathering for a "wedding shower", where they all handed out gifts to the
bride to be, drank punch, and got decidedly giggly. Being a boy I had no
interest at all in watching my mother and her friends make fools of
themselves (at least to my mind) and, since the girls didn't need pesky
little boys around, I was sent out to play with Adam van Lews, the brother
of the bride, who was a year or so older than I was.
	Now boys, when left on their own, tend to either burrow or dig in
the dirt. Having a water supply close, the easier to make mud pies, also
drew boys like flies to honey. Adam and I, with warnings of dire punishment
if we got dirty ringing in our ears, went outside.
	We sat on the porch steps, wondering what to do. I couldn't see any
toys littering the yard, and I didn't know Adam all that well so I didn't
know what he liked to do. Being bored, we sighed, squirmed, and kicked our
feet as little boys do. As we were sitting there the sprinkler system came
on, watering the smooth, emerald green lawn.
	"I is hot!" Adam exclaimed eventually.
	"Me too," I answered. "Y'all gots a swimmin' pool?"
	Adam shook his head. "M'brudda brokes it," he said sadly. "He's a
peckerwood!"
	As Adam had three younger brothers, I wondered which one had done
the deed. Most likely Jason, who was a year younger, I thought. The other
two were toddlers and so far as I knew incapable of breaking anything.
	I sighed. "No swimmin'."
	Adam sighed and then giggled. "Wanna run in the sprinklers?"
	"Huh?"
	"Ya know, run in the sprinklers," repeated Adam as he pointed to
the spray of water.
	"Don't gots no swimmin' suit," I replied. "Mummy will whup me if I
get my clothes all wet."
	Adam gave me a strange look. "Don't need no swimmin' suit." He
stood up and started to take off the T-shirt he was wearing. He carefully
folded it, placed it neatly on the step, and reached for button of his
jeans.
	As I watched Adam disrobing it dawned on me what he meant. Hell,
that sounded good to me, so I took off my shirt (new, on sale at
Biedermeyer's for $1.50). When Adam dropped his jeans, stepped out of them,
and kicked them aside, I unbuttoned the khaki shorts I was wearing
(hand-me-downs from Damian) and stood there, wondering what was coming
next. I assumed that we would go running through the sprinklers in our
tightys. I was wrong.
	Adam pushed down the briefs he was wearing and waited for me to do
the same. Now, I had seen both of my brothers nekkid, and since I was at
the age when I had not yet been taught about nudity, I followed suit. Being
myself, I of course just had to look at Adam's jewels. Adam did the same.
	"You don't gots skin!" he exclaimed. "How come you don't?"
	I looked and saw that Adam's pecker was different from mine. Where
I had a little acorn, the end of his pecker ended in a thick, long,
wrinkled tube of skin. Not having any reference other than myself, and my
brothers, I stared and then I shrugged. "Don't know," I said. "My bruddahs,
dey don't got no skin."
	Adam looked thoughtful. "Jason, he's got skin," he informed
me. Then he blurted, "Matthew and Ethan, they don't gots skin."
	I regarded Adams uncircumcised penis, looked at my circumcised
penis, and said with the wisdom of a five-year-old, "Guess we was borned
that way."
	That seemed logical to Adam's childish mind. He shrugged, opined
that he guessed so too, and ran into the sprinkler. At the age of five we
had the attention span of a poodle, and I promptly forgot all about the
differences in our little danglers and followed Adam, jumping and laughing
as we cavorted in the sprinkling water.
	We lasted all of five minutes. Mrs. Blake, hearing our shouting and
laughing as we cavorted naked in the sprinkler, poked her head out the door
and let out an ear-shattering screech! Of course Adam and I stopped dead in
our tracks and turned to look at her. Mrs. Blake's screeching, needless to
say, drew the attention of the other ladies who, when they stopped laughing
and pretending to be shocked, observed that boys would be boys and returned
to the party. My mother, who was so old-fashioned that she never
acknowledged that boys even had peckers, snatched me inside and dressed me,
all the while threatening me with a good hiding when we got home. Good
little boys, I was archly informed, did not remove their clothing in
public, and embarrass their mothers!
	Needless to say, she kept it up all the way home, and I received a
good swat on the behind and was sent to my room without any dinner. I
eventually came to realize that she was angry not at my removing my clothes
and showing off my diminutive appendage, but because I had embarrassed her,
hinting that I was not properly raised.

******

 	Being "properly raised" was very important. Children were taught
their manners from the cradle, usually by a stern-visaged old "mammy", in
my case, Mam Berta. She was old, very black and brooked no nonsense from
little boys. She had been with the family for what seemed like forever, and
had raised my father.
	Mam Berta had come into the family's employ when my grandmother,
Mary Tradd de Marigny had married my grandfather, Philip IX. Grandmother
was always called "May", and was a stern traditionalist who never allowed
deviation from the dictates of the Code. She dressed conservatively, in
keeping with her age and perceived station, and never left the house
without wearing a hat, gloves, and carrying a tightly furled umbrella. She
also never left the house alone, always accompanied by a male relative or,
in a pinch, another lady or Mam Berta. It was the custom of her youth, and
good enough for her middle and old age.
	Grandmama May had been born into all the Charleston traditions, and
was the acknowledged "Doyenne" of what passed for society. She knew who was
well born, and who was not. She knew who was "fast", or a "cad", who was
received, and who was not. She was the last word in any social squabble and
when she rendered a decision it was written in stone.
	Like many Southern women, Grandmama May never raised her voice for
any reason. She expressed herself calmly, no matter how provoked, and
exhibited an iron control and hid an iron backbone. She might be the
picture of genteel, gentle, southern womanhood, but God help you if you did
something she did not approve of. She was a "Steel Magnolia", and while we
were all afraid of her, we also were in thrall of her.
	As children, boys and girls were first taught proper manners from
the moment we could understand. As we grew older this education continued
with gentle admonitions and on more than one occasion a tart
observation. Good manners meant showing respect for all adults, regardless
of color. Blacks, while obviously not equal to whites, were to be treated
with discretion and respect, and males were always addressed as "Mister"
until we were told otherwise. Black women were always to be addressed as
"Miss", followed by their first name. Under no circumstances were they to
be referred to as "niggers" or "darkies". Only illiterate swamp trash and
poor whites and riff-raff resorted to such pejoratives. We were never to
show disrespect, or cause offense, which of course these words did.
	We were also taught to be polite under all conditions. Words like
"please," and "thank you," were commonplace, and we always asked permission
to do something when adults were around, such as leaving the table, or even
going to the toilet. You never actually said where you were going,
especially to the toilet, but you get what I mean.
	We also learned how best to deal with bores or people we did not
particularly wish to be with. This was to "polite" them to death. When a
Southerner defers to you, expresses consideration time after time, smiles
and is so overbearingly polite that it becomes sickening, look out. You've
entered a morass, a place you really aren't wanted, and a place where you
have forced yourself into.
	Manners, and expressing them, were expected from children at all
times, although to be truthful, little girls had it worse than little
boys. Little boys were irresponsible and impulsive, and more often than not
had much more important things to think about, like climbing a tree or
going fishing. Girls, however, were given no leeway at all. My sister Alva,
who quite frankly was born a bitch, was once out with Grandmama May. They
were staying at the Charleston house and Grandmama, with no male available,
had decided to take Alva with her when she made her rounds of calling on
her friends. Grandmama did not drive and tooled around town in an ancient,
battered Daimler, driven by Oscar, Mam Berta's husband.
	Politeness dictated that one never arrived early. Ladies "received"
in the afternoon, usually between the hours of 2:00 and 4:00 o'clock. That
way they didn't have to feed their guests lunch, or a proper tea. Grandmama
realized that she was early for her first call, and rather than wait in the
dusty back seat until the proper time and the door was opened, she decided
to take a walk along the sea wall. When the car stopped Oscar got out,
opened the back door and extended his hand to Alva, saying, "Let me help
you down, little lady."
	Oscar was being polite. Alva, being Alva, decided to take umbrage
(I told you she was a bitch) and snapped, "I am not your little lady!" and
stomped off to the stairs leading to the sea wall promenade. Grandmama hid
her shock at Alva's conduct and allowed Oscar to help her from the
car. Then she called Alva back and addressed Oscar. She looked directly at
Alva and coldly informed Oscar, "This is Miss Alva de Marigny, who one day,
one hopes, will be a lady!"
	Alva turned scarlet, and promptly went into a monumental pout that
lasted for a week. She had been well and properly put in her place.

******

	In addition to proper manners and conduct, we learned the
intricacies of the Code. This was an intricate series of "dos" and
"don'ts", something that had been more or less in effect for two hundred
years. The Code covered everything from what to wear, and when, to
relations with blacks, or rather, non-relations. Blacks were an
acknowledged part of our lives. However, that did not mean that they were
in any way our equals. One could work with blacks; one could socialize with
them - at funerals and such - but under no circumstances was a white to
become sexually involved with a black.
	Now, I am not about to say that there was no "race mixing", as it
was called. There was and it was a very well known fact that half the men
who snuck in the back entry of Letty MacDonald's boarding house were
white. "Miss Letty" was a Madame, pure and simple. Her house, a
multi-storied Victorian stood just over the line that separated Overbridge
from the county. Almost all of the ground floor of the place was a bar,
smoke filled and patronized by the "sports" from Overbridge. No white man
ever set foot inside the front door, not even the County Sheriff. When he
called to collect his "fee" for protecting the place from embarrassing
moralistic do-gooders, he always used the back entrance. So did the white
men who visited the upstairs rooms, each one of which was home to various
degrees of black beauties, all available for a price.
	Like everything else in the South deemed unpleasant, white men
visiting the black whores at Miss Letty's was best left unnoticed and not
spoken about. If nobody talked about it, it wasn't happening.
	While the Code did not address places like Miss Letty's, or white
men paying black girls for sex, it most certainly did address a white girl
becoming involved with a black youth. Such things simply could not be
allowed to happen and there were plenty of people around to make sure that
if it did, hell would follow, usually in the form of the Klan.
	All it took was a whisper, a hint that something was amiss, and the
Klan would pounce. I had heard rumors of black boys being taken in the
night to secret places. There, if they were lucky, they would be whipped
unmercifully, and ordered out of town. More often than not, however, there
was no mercy. The boy would be stripped, whipped, tortured in as many
hideous ways the Klansmen could think of, emasculated, and then hung from
the nearest oak or pine tree. While he hung there, dying, or mercifully
dead, his body would be shot full of holes. When they were finished, the
Klansmen would shove the boy's severed genitals into his mouth and steal
away into the night.
	The girl in such an affair usually screamed rape. People might
accept this publicly, but privately tongues would wag, heads would be
nodded and sooner or later the girl's father would be visited and advised
to cleanse the stain from his family name. If he refused the entire family
would be figuratively cast into the outer darkness, completely ignored and
expelled from whatever church they attended. If the father was a farmer, he
could not sell his crops. If he owned a business in town, no customers came
to buy his goods. The family, as a whole, and in all ways, no longer
existed.
	If it was suspected that a white girl had willingly entered into a
relationship with a colored boy, then God help her. Nothing she could say
or do would mitigate what she had or had not done and, as she had flouted
the Code, it was accepted that her father, or one of her brothers, would
take her out to the pine woods and only the father or brother would
return. Of course, that was never spoken of and in my youth it was
acceptable for a girl in such a situation to leave town and never come
back. She would never be spoken of publicly again, and if she was, there
would be frowns and icy looks. There was always someone who knew, and
Southerners have long memories.
	A case in point was a fabulously wealthy, old Southern family that
lived on one of the most magnificent and beautiful plantations in the
state. They were descended from a man who had fought first in the Mexican
War, and then became a General in the Confederate Army, with a sterling
record. Unfortunately he chose to marry, as his second wife, a woman from
New Orleans, extremely beautiful, or so the story goes. This in itself was
nothing unusual . . . until the rumors started. One would think that in
1864 folks had something a little more important to talk about, like the
War, but no, Richmond was abuzz about the woman who, or so it was gossiped,
was the daughter of a mulatto woman who kept a house of doubtful purpose,
albeit very carriage trade if you know what I mean. The general's wife
denied the rumors, but the damage was done and she, and the general, were
not "received".
	Not to be received was social death. One could not attend any
function, from a private dinner or the St. Cecelia, ever. One was shunned,
and more or less ignored. They no longer existed.
	In the case of this one family the ban continued through the
generations. It did no good to argue that the general's son was the product
of his first marriage, his mother being indisputably white. There was
colored in the family, and that was all there was to it.
	I saw the effects of the Code. Damian, when a cadet at the Citadel,
wrote to our mother to say that he was bringing home a friend. He added the
boy's name - he was the scion of the plantation family. Mother, when she
recovered from shock, wrote back that Damian was not to bring the boy. He
was not received. Damian argued, pleaded, raged and threatened to boycott,
but mother was firm. Damian stayed away for months, and his friend never
visited. It was the way of the Code.
	In my day, there was a walking example of what could happen if one
ignored the Code. Miss Elizabeth van Lews, or "Crazy Betsey" as she was
called, lived in a huge Victorian house at the south end of town. She
wandered around in bib overalls and the strangest looking hats ever
seen. She cultivated a huge garden and grew vegetables which she donated to
the worthy poor. She was an "artist" and made mobiles and wind vanes out of
scrap metal. She also made huge wind chimes that clanged and banged in the
slightest breeze, the discordant carillon so disturbing that she once spent
ten days in the pokey for being a public nuisance.
	Crazy Betsey's eccentricities would have been overlooked had it not
been for her activism. She proclaimed that she was a "Kennedy Democrat",
that blacks were her equals, that segregation was morally wrong and that
integration was morally right. She was a Left Leaning, Liberal Democrat in
a land where the average person was slightly to the right of Attila the Hun
when it came to blacks. It was the kiss of death.
	Betsey's family refused to let her into their homes. The
Presbyterian Church suggested that she worship elsewhere, and on market day
only the tourists and black folk frequented her vegetable stall. She was
not received.

******

	Growing up I was constantly bombarded with dictates about my
conduct. I was a budding gentleman and I was constantly reminded that a
gentleman did not lie, did not steal, did not cheat, and always kept his
word. It was constantly drummed into me, by my father, my mother, Mam
Berta, and my brothers, that no matter what, no matter what the cost, once
given, I could never take back my word of honor. A man's honor was one of
the very few things he had been born with that could not be, if lost,
replaced. You could lose a kidney, or a liver, and there were machines that
would keep you alive. You could lose an arm, or a leg, and there were
prostheses to replace the missing limb. Hell, you could lose your foreskin
and have it replaced (not a pleasant thought, and having seen examples of
the replacement, I consider them prime candidates for first prize in an
ugliest penis contest, but I digress). The point being, that your personal
honor was special to you, and the measure of your character. A man without
honor was a being to be pitied, and ignored.

******

	The one thing that was never discussed was S-E-X, and if you are a
hot-blooded, thirteen-year-old, sex is all you think about! You cannot help
but be obsessed with your organ, because the damned thing eventually comes
to have a mind of its own! You know, you're twelve and a half, walking'
down the street, not thinkin' about anything in particular when BOING! Yep,
up it roars, rubbing against your Fruit of the Looms, and pooching out the
front of your jeans or shorts! Or you're lying in bed, idly fiddling with
the little man, when something wonderful happens and suddenly you know that
it's a built-in (or on) toy that brings such wonderful feelings that you
thank God you were born a boy.
	When I was a boy, there was no such thing as sex education,
anywhere. Why I cannot quite understand. Everybody seemed to think of
nothing else! At least once a month, in church, we were treated to a
thunderous sermon, filled with fire and brimstone, about the sins of flesh
(there were more than one), and told that we were all sinners. The town
biddies gossiped about this or that girl who was "fast", and the town boys
boasted about having "nailed" this or that girl. They also had a field day
when a girl walked down the aisle carrying an oversized bridal bouquet to
hide the tightness of her dress. Sex was everywhere and being inquisitive,
and horny, and surrounded by equally hot-blooded, twelve and thirteen year
olds obsessed with their penises, did not help at all! And then there was
Wade Hampton, he of the red hair and gravelly voice.
	As a walking encyclopedia on sex, Wade Hampton was always consulted
for information. He also led the charge when it came to initiating what we
euphemistically called "fooling around." Wade Hampton was a man of
experience, and no argument there. He claimed to know every glory hole in
Charleston and Columbia, and boasted that there was not a pecker in the
school that he could not have, if he wanted it.
	At first I put all of his bragging down to just that: bragging. He
was only fourteen, for Christ's sake, and while he did have a lot of
freedom, and wandered the streets of Charleston at will, I couldn't
conceive that anybody could have that much sex, no way, no how. How wrong I
was.

******

	Being boys, and being as curious as cats, my friends and I checked
each other out. At first that was all we did, and to be honest, since all
our peckers looked more or less the same - well, except for Adam and Jason
Blake - our inspections were brief and not at all that interesting. We were
much more interested in swimming or playing ball, or just hanging out
together.
	Everything changed as we approached our thirteenth birthdays. For
some reason, the length of Sinjin Tradd's pecker, the thickness of Greg
Cecil's shaft, the hang of John Pegram's balls excited interest. We would
lie on the beach, at our special swimmin' hole, and compare. We had gone
through the grab-ass stage, and nothing had happened. Oh, there had been
boner days, as we called them, which increased in frequency as we
approached puberty. I swear that if a cool breeze blew up the river as we
lay on the beach every pecker in sight went up. The appearance of pubic
hair was cause for comment and excitement, and led to deep discussions
concerning masturbation, and when we first started doing it, how many times
a day we did it, and so on. This led to a gang jerk-off, although at first
we never touched each other. Then, one day, out of the blue, a hand reached
over as I was pleasuring myself. I looked to see John Pegram, who was
grinning evilly and holding out his hardness to me. His hand on my penis
felt great, and I reciprocated.
	From that day on, we would masturbate each other. We did not go
beyond that because while we saw nothing wrong in jerking a friend off, we
were too afraid to do anything else. Oh, we knew about blow jobs, and "corn
holing", but sucking another boy's pecker, or sticking yours up his butt,
was "queer", or so we thought, and nobody wanted to be labeled a queer.
	Wade Hampton changed it all.

******

	It was high summer and we were all lazing away the day at the
swimming hole. Tony Ravelli was sniping at his brother, Vittorio, for
playing with himself. Tristan Conyngham was admiring Sinjin Tradd's pecker,
and I was dreaming about Charlie Pegram. The others, Marty Beidermeyer,
Nick and Bob Lee Cecil, Tommy Pegram and Damian Conyngham, were just lying
there, catching some rays, and kidding each other about getting his balls
sunburned. As it was one of those blood hot days when it was too hot to
fuck or fight, idling the day away seemed to be just the thing to do.
	I was falling asleep when I heard a gravelly voice saying, "Hey,
y'all gettin' it on?" I knew Wade Hampton had arrived.
	I had not expected him. He came and went as the mood struck him, or
whenever his parents were on the warpath, usually over his father's
philandering with the laundress, or the kitchen maid. Of course, it could
have been Wade Hampton's latest depredations against the Citadel cadets,
whom he adored. He attended every parade and claimed to know the lower
regions of Johnson Hagood Stadium like the back of his hand, and I swear
could give tours of the sinks in any of the barracks. He also knew which
part of White Point Gardens was best for cruising, and moaned that the
quality of potential conquests had deteriorated at school with the loss of
the military program. He went to Porter-Gaud, and I knew some of the boys
who went there, and couldn't understand Wade Hampton's complaints. I think
he just liked a boy in uniform. Still, in uniform or out, Wade Hampton
never lost an opportunity to get into the pants of one of his classmates.
	Wade Hampton's blatant sexuality was more or less kept in check
when he came to visit me. While he admitted that my friends (and I) were
"prime meat", he had a tendency to sniff at us, dismissing us as country
boys, hicks, who would never understand the cosmopolitan life of the big
city. Well, I suppose we were hicks, as none of us had any great desire to
lurk in the bushes or haunt the showers and toilets of our school. In the
event, Wade Hampton trod lightly around us.
	Mind you, Wade was not one to hide his light under a bushel
basket. He boasted of an active sex life, and had an artlessly artful way
of letting us know when he scored, although he never named names - knowing
Wade I doubt he knew any names, as most of his assignations were anonymous.
	I looked up and grinned. Wade was naked and his pecker was flopping
as he hopped barefoot across the sun scorched sand. He flopped down beside
me and gave my parts a squeeze. "How's my favorite country boy?" he asked
as he felt me.
	"Good, and stop feelin' my pecker," I said half-heartedly. I liked
getting my pecker and balls squeezed, but gently, and not in full view of
my friends.
	"It's a nice pecker," responded Wade Hampton. "Cute too," he rasped
throatily.
	Pushing his hand away, I asked, "So, how long y'all gonna be here
this time?"
	Wade Hampton shrugged and lay back. "Don't know. Guess until Momma
calms down and let's Daddy back in the house."
	I sniggered. Wade's momma's battles with her horn dog husband were
legend in the family. "The maid again?"
	"Or the cook, or the daily, or . . ." Sinjin sniped. He knew, as
did all the boys, of Wade Hampton's battling parents.
	"Naw, his new secretary," Wade sighed. "Momma went down to the
office to take him to lunch and found 'em nekkid and doin' it on the desk,"
Wade offered. "She was some ticked off."
	"Your momma or the secretary?" asked Tristan.
	"Better than doin' it on an ant hill," offered Sinjin.
	"Who said anything about an ant hill?" I growled. "Sometimes,
Sinjin you really are a boob!"
	"Ah, suck my dick," Sinjin returned. This was his favorite retort
when challenged, or called a name.
	"So, how's tricks?" I asked, wanting to get away from Sinjin's
sniping and knowing that Wade Hampton was only interested in my friend
because he had a nice dick. Usually Wade ignored Sinjin.
	"Well," Wade drawled, "had me a Yankee!"
	"A what?" I gasped.
	"You had a Yankee?" asked Sinjin, making it sound as if Wade
Hampton had had sex with an alien from Mars.
	"Yep," Wade said, totally at ease. "His family just moved south and
his brother's in school with me. He was walkin' around the school, lookin'
it over, and asked me where the toilets were, so I showed him."
	"I bet that's not all you showed him," muttered Sinjin under his
breath.
	Wade Hampton took umbrage. He rose up on one elbow and glared at
Sinjin. "Ya know, your problem is you ain't gettin' none."
	Before Sinjin could make a smart ass reply, I stuck my nose
in. "So, anything different? I mean he was a Yankee!"
	Wade Hampton shrugged. "Yankee dick is just like Reb dick, only not
as sweet." He grinned lasciviously at me and winked. "Cum like a horse, he
did."
	Now, I am not saying that I put too much credence into that wink,
but sometimes I did wonder if most of Wade Hampton's escapades were
fiction, rather than fact.
	Sinjin, the goof, was just as doubtful. He wasn't that fond of Wade
Hampton, and I think only tolerated him because he was my kin. "Y'all are
as full of shit as a Christmas goose!" Sinjin spat. "Nobody gets as much as
you claim to!" He shook his head and gave Wade Hampton a disgusted
look. "If you did your pecker would be worn down to a nub!"
	"Sorta like yours?" asked Wade Hampton, raising one eyebrow.
	Now, if there was one thing Sinjin was not, was small. He knew it
and did not care to be considered less that what he was. He also did not
care to hear any more of Wade Hampton's real or imagined escapades, with
Yankees or Rebs. "I think y'all are lyin', Wade Hampton, and that the only
sexing y'all are doin' is with your hand!"
	Wade Hampton sniffed. "For a country boy you are dumber than most,"
he said calmly. "If y'all don't believe me, come on down to Charleston and
I'll prove it to y'all." He gave me a nudge with his leg. "The boy will
come back walkin' bow-legged!"
	I started to laugh, as did the others. Tony guffawed. "Sinjin is
saving himself for marriage! He don't like sex."
	"I do too!" snapped Sinjin. "And look whose talkin'! Laura Hope was
all set to suck your dick and you shot off when she breathed on it!"
	We all oohed. Sinjin had just let a very large cat out of the
bag. Laura Hope was the town bad girl. Tony had taken her to the movies one
night in the hope of getting into her pants. Unfortunately he spooged too
soon and Laura spread it all over town. We never talked about it. It was
not the thing to do.
	Wade Hampton laughed at Tony's darkly diffused face. "You should
try it with a guy, Tony. They know how to do it right!" he advised.
	Poor Tony, embarrassed, didn't know what to say. Sinjin did. "Yeah,
listen to the big expert! Bet he's never met a pecker he didn't like!"
	"Got that right!" Wade Hampton chortled.
	Sinjin had expected a little more than a frank admission from Wade
Hampton. Since he hadn't got the expected rise out of Wade Hampton, Sinjin
shook his head and snapped, "Oh, suck my dick!"
	Wade Hampton slowly rose to his feet and walked to where Sinjin was
lying. "Okay," he said.
	Before Sinjin could react, Wade Hampton was on him, taking his
flaccid dick in his mouth.
	"Wha . . .! Hey . . . God Damn!" Sinjin yelped as Wade Hampton
sucked on his dick, which before our shocked eyes began to grow
large. Sinjin's yelps of protest waned and we noticed he'd spread his legs,
offering everything he had to the warm, sucking mouth. Wade Hampton reached
up and began to squeeze and fondle Sinjin's balls.
	"Oh Gaaawwwd!" Sinjin squeaked as he slowly began to thrust his
hips.
	Wade Hampton continued his ministrations and before too long
Sinjin's body stiffened and his hips rose to new heights. His head was back
and his eyes were rolled back, and then he started flopping like a fresh
caught gator and squealing loudly. Then he stopped and flopped back onto
the sand, breathing heavily.
	Grinning widely, Wade Hampton raised his head and Sinjin's
softening pecker, looking as red as a cherry Popsicle, fell out. Wade
Hampton let out a most ungentlemanly burp and rasped, "Nothin' like a bit
o' sweet Southern cream to get the taste of a Yankee out of your mouth!"
	The silence that descended over the beach was thicker than the
humidity. We had all heard about blow-jobs, but damn, this was too much. We
didn't know what to say. Sinjin did.
	"Oh, fuck! That was awesome!" he groaned as the effects of his
first blow job drained from his body. "Man, what happened?"
	Wade Hampton, ever helpful, answered, "You shot a load."
	Sinjin, a look of surprise crossing his face, looked down at his
now sleeping, slightly shrunken pecker, and asked, "I did?" He shook his
head. "I never done that before."
	Wade Hampton laughed and stood up. "There's a first time for
everything," he said with a grin. "I guess you can now tell everybody that
today you are a man!"
	In actual fact, Sinjin was the first of all of us to ejaculate, and
of course we all had to find out what it had felt like. At first Sinjin was
embarrassed and wouldn't tell us, but then he opened up about the wonderful
feelings he'd had, and how he'd thought he'd died and gone to heaven. We
were all very happy for him and couldn't wait until the day, or night, when
we would start producing what we all called "cum".
	Sinjin was over the moon and I noticed he kept darting glances at
Wade Hampton, who smiled like a cat, his eyes sparkling, whether from his
vindication, or from Sinjin's sperm, I never knew. I did know that Sinjin
would be very happy to see Wade Hampton from now on.

******

	That night, as we lay in bed, and Wade Hampton moved to cuddle, as
he always did, I moved away. The light was off, of course, and the room as
dark as the inside of a cow's stomach, but I could feel his angry
glare. Even though we had plenty of spare bedrooms, Wade Hampton and I
always slept together, and he always cuddled with me.
	"Okay," Wade Hampton said eventually, "what's bugging your ass?"
	"Nothing," I pouted.
	Wade Hampton sighed in exasperation. "Coops, I've known you all of
our lives, so don't bullshit me! Something's up your butt big time!"
	I sniffed in disdain. "That's one place you and that little dink of
yours ain't never gonna go!" I snarled back.
	I could hear Wade's shocked reaction. Then he said slowly, "You're
mad because I blew Sinjin?" His tone was one of complete disbelief. Up to
then I had never commented, one way or another on his activities, or on the
veracity of them.
	"No! I don't care if you blow Sinjin or the Bulldogs, collectively
or individually!" The Bulldogs were the name of the Citadel Football Team.
	"I ain't, at least not collectively," returned Wade Hampton with an
impatient snort.
	I growled and my fist pounded the mattress. "There you go again!" I
said. "I never know when you're telling me the truth, or when you're lying!
No wonder Sinjin . . ." I stopped abruptly. I didn't want Wade Hampton
knowing the real reason for my sudden fit of pique.
	Wade Hampton, however, was no dummy. He knew exactly what I was on
about. "You're pissed off because I blew him! You're jealous," he accused.
	"I am not!" I yelped. "Take that back!" I rose up and raised my
fist. "I don't care that you blew him."
	Wade Hampton's voice was very low and very calm as he answered,
"Then you're pissed off because you didn't do it or . . ." His voice
trailed off and then he chuckled. "Why Cooper Marigny, you wanted me to
blow you!" he said with heavy emphasis.
	At first I tried to bluster my way out of my predicament. Wade
Hampton had hit both nails squarely on the head. I did want to blow Sinjin,
and yes, I was jealous because Wade, in all the times we'd been together,
had never once tried anything.
	"You don't know what you're talking about! What makes you think
that I'd want to suck Sinjin's pecker? And as for you blowing me, well
. . ." Damn it, I couldn't lie! So I shut up.
	Once again Wade Hampton laughed. "So, you want to try a little
rumpy-pumpy! Why Cooper, you do surprise me!" He scooted over and spooned
me, his arm draped over my naked waist. His hand gently rubbed my belly,
then my pathetic excuse for a pubic bush. I could feel his warmth, no, his
heat, against my back and buttocks. Surprisingly, for someone I thought had
been born with a hard-on, Wade Hampton was soft as a cooked noodle, his
pecker nestled in my butt crack.
	"Come on, Coops, tell your ol' uncle Wade Hampton what's really
bothering you." Wade Hampton's hand moved lower and I felt his fingers
gently teasing the head of my pecker.
	"Don't," I said half-heartedly.
	"Why? You like it, and you've been waiting for me to do something,"
replied Wade Hampton without rancor.
	Needless to say Wade's manipulations had the desired
effect. "Hell's bells, you got yourself a decent sized pecker, Coops," Wade
said admiringly.
	"Sinjin's is bigger," I grumped.
	"Yes, it is." Wade's voice was low and husky. "But yours is nicer."
	I shook away Wade's hand. "It looks exactly like Sinjin's," I
retorted.
	Wade Hampton chuckled. "Of course it does. Yours looks like mine,
and mine looks like everybody else's." He sniggered. "Except them as has
skin."
	"Not too many around with skin. Except for Adam and Jason, and
Simmons Richmond," I said. "He looks like he's got a big ol' sausage
hangin' between his legs."
	Wade Hampton laughed. "So, you do notice." His hand slid back down
into my crotch.
	"Yeah," I admitted. "I noticed."
	"And did nothing?"
	"What?" I demanded. I turned my head and my nose rubbed against
Wade's cheek.
	"Coops, you've been hanging out with a bunch of proud hangin' guys
and you want to tell me that you did nothing?"
	"If you mean did I feel 'em up, suck, or anything else, no!" I was
frankly procrastinating, and didn't want Wade Hampton to know that we had
all fooled around - and drew the line at a helpful hand job.
	"Well you're a damn fool!" snapped Wade Hampton. "If it'a been me,
they would have been the happiest bunch of guys south of the Mason-Dixon
Line!"
	I snorted. "Here we go again!"
	"You don't believe me, do you?" Wade asked, sounding pouty.
	I rolled on my back. "Wade Hampton, are you telling me you never
lied about the guys you've been with?"
	"Nope."
	I sat up and stared at Wade Hampton. "You've, I mean you've
actually sucked dick - I mean other than Sinjin's?"
	"Yep."
	"Had you dick sucked?"
	"Many times; I have a cute dick and guys like it." He shrugged
expressively. "Well, some guys. Some just want to get sucked and don't want
to return the favor."
	Being a complete naïf, I decided to use this opportunity. "Um, Wade
Hampton, when did you know?"
	"That I liked guys?"
	"Yeah."
	Wade Hampton sighed a deep, wistful sigh. "I always knew. From the
moment I understood about sex and stuff, I knew I wanted guys."
	Wade's words struck very close to home. I felt the same. Girls had
never featured in my night time fantasies. It had always been boys, my
friends, my naked, enticing friends. I didn't say a word though. I wasn't
quite ready to reveal my deepest, darkest secret, not even to Wade Hampton.
	We lay quietly in the dark, listening to the roar of a bull gator
off in the distance. Wade Hampton giggled. "He's horny!" he whispered.
	I was too, but I wasn't quite ready to explore my feelings. So, I
changed the subject. "Wade Hampton, when did it happen? When did you, you
know . . ." My voice trailed off.
	"First make it with a guy?"
	"Yeah."
	Wade Hampton hesitated, and the spoke softly. "Do you remember my
tutor, Mr. Fasciano?"
	I did remember the young man; a short, devilishly handsome,
black-haired young man who had been hired to pound something akin to
knowledge into Wade Hampton's obstreperous head. I also remembered that
Mr. Fasciano had been twenty-four or twenty-five at the time, and a
graduate of Old Miss. Then I remembered how old Wade Hampton had been -
eleven years old, or as close to it as damn it is to swearing, at the time!
	"Jesus, Wade Hampton, you don't mean to tell me that he . . . he
boned you . . . that he made you . . ."
	"He didn't make me do anything," Wade Hampton growled. "I was
totally in love with him!" He sniggered. "Coops, I took one look and damn,
I wanted him."
	"And you got him." It was a statement of fact, and not a question.
	"Yep. He slept in the same room, you know, and I saw his morning
woody, and well, I waited for the right time. Momma and Daddy had to go up
to Columbia, and Johnny - his first name was John - was left in
charge. Anyway, I waited 'til he was asleep and then I snuck over to his
bed. He slept in his boxers so it wasn't too big a deal to feel around."
	"Gosh! Wasn't he, um, angry?"
	"More surprised than angry," replied Wade Hampton. "I mean, there I
was, suckin' him, and he was a handsome man down there." Wade paused and
then added, "Not big, about normal I guess, but handsome and I guess you
can say he'd already reached the point of no return, so I got a mouthful."
He sniggered. "Damn near choked the first time he squirted in my mouth."
	"The first time?" I exclaimed. "You mean you and him, you did it
. . ."
	Wade Hampton gave my pecker and balls a squeeze. "Every night,
every day, whenever I could get him alone and his pants down."
	"Wow!"
	"He was a stud, sure enough," Wade confirmed.
	My curiosity aroused, I had to ask. "Did you and him, did you ever
do it?"  I asked, emphasizing "it".
	Wade Hampton hesitated, and then I could feel his head
nodding. "Yeah. Not at first. Mostly we just sucked each other, but . . ."
I felt Wade Hampton's hand again. "Coops, I was so in love with him. I
wanted to give him everything; I wanted him in me, so . . . we did it. At
first he didn't want to do it, 'cause he said I was too little and he was
too big, but I forced him, and damn, Coops, it was so good . . ."
	Wade Hampton's voice trailed off and I could hear his sob as he
remembered his first time.
	"Um, didn't it hurt?" I asked. The very thought of having a man's
erect member, or anything else for that matter, up my butt, made me wince
and shiver.
	"Coops, I won't lie. At first it hurt, but Johnny was, well he was
real gentle and damn, it felt wonderful." He chuckled dryly. "Of course,
once he found my prostate . . ."
	"Your what?" I asked. My knowledge of basic anatomy was worse than
limited.
	"It's a gland inside your butt, up under your balls. If a guy
fingers it, or pokes it with his dick . . . wow!"
	While Wade Hampton's explanation was simplistic in the extreme, I
got the message. "So, how many times did you do it?" I asked.
	"Well, the first time was the night before he left, and the second
time was the morning he left."
	I knew that Johnny Fasciano had left for post-graduate work up
north. Wade Hampton had grieved for days, and now I knew why.
	"Coops," Wade Hampton went on, "when the time comes, do it with a
guy you love, truly love. Anything after your first time is just fucking
and usually the guy doing the fucking just wants to get his rocks off."
	"You've done it with other guys?" I asked.
	"Yeah, a few times, although not often, and only with a guy I
knew."
	Now I was confused. "Wade, what's the difference? Fucking is
fucking!" I said forcefully.
	"No, it isn't!" Wade Hampton was equally forceful. "Like I said,
the very first time is something special. Once you give it up, it's gone,
forever. Oh, you might shack up with a guy who's a great lover, but no
matter what, your first time is the best time, the time you always
remember."
	Before I could reply, Wade Hampton sat up and wrapped his arms
around his raised knees. "Coops, I gotta ask - are you queer?"
	Was I queer? Well, I had been thinking about that very subject
. . . a lot. As I entered puberty I had come to regard my friends in a
different light. No longer were they buddies, friends I had known
forever. Now they were objects of fantasy and lust. I could no longer look
on their smooth, tanned bodies with indifference and lack of interest. Now
I craved the sight of their round, plump bottoms, their sweet, flaccid
peckers, their wonderfully full-looking balls. I wanted to taste them, to
feel them, to have their hard peckers in my mouth . . .
	"Yeah, I think I am," I admitted without regret or guilt. "I want
to . . . well, you know."
	Wade laughed a low, evil laugh. "I sure do."
	I sat up and ran my hand down the inside of Wade's naked leg, found
his hard pecker, and squeezed it. This was the first time I had initiated
any activity and it surprised Wade Hampton no end.
	"You sure?" Wade Hampton asked, a tone of doubt in his voice.
	"Yeah," I breathed. "I want to, with you."
	Wade Hampton's arm snaked around my shoulder. "Coops, have you done
anything with another guy, ever?"
	I could not lie. "Um, well, once, when I was little, I played with
Philip Charles' pecker."
	"Nice pecker," Wade Hampton said dryly. "That all you did?"
	"Well, yeah. He wouldn't let me do anything more. He said it was
queer."
	Wade Hampton snorted disdainfully. "He didn't say it was queer when
him and me were in the huntin' blind."
	I gasped. I could not believe what I had just heard. "You . . . you
and . . . Philip?" I squeaked.
	"Don't sound so shocked," Wade Hampton said easily. "We're kin
after all."
	"I don't see what that has to do with you getting into Philips
Charles' pants!" I huffed.
	"First of all, he got into my pants. He started it," returned Wade
Hampton defensively. "Besides, we only did it a couple of times, and then
he decided he liked girls better." He shrugged. "It happens, Coops, and if
you're really queer, you better get used to it."
	"Huh?"
	"I think I better tell you the real facts of life," Wade Hampton
said as he settled back. He returned to toying with the head of my
pecker. "Coops," he began, "being queer is sometimes like a voyage of
discovery. You sail along and soon you meet a guy. Sometimes other guys
come sailing up to you. They all want the same thing, and that's where the
discovery part comes in."
	"Okay."
	"First of all, you know that all guys are the same, only
different."
	"They all have peckers!" I giggled.
	"They surely do," agreed Wade Hampton. "Now, they know you're up
for a little fun. You know that they're up for a little fun, just as you
know they wouldn't be with you otherwise."
	I nodded. "They think that because you're queer, being with you
would make folks think they're queer too?" I offered.
	"Yeah, so you do everything you can think of to make people think
you're not queer," Wade Hampton said with a grin. "You know the routine
. . ."
	I did and quickly interrupted Wade, "You play sports, you pretend
to have balls of brass, the usual `normal' boy crap!" I said.
	"Yeah, it's a pain in the ass, but it goes with the territory,"
Wade Hampton agreed. "But, if you're smart, you can have all the sex you
want with only you and the other guy being the wiser."
	"You get a lot of sex?" I asked, still doubtful of Wade Hampton's
tales.
	"Sure do," replied Wade Hampton firmly. "I know where to get it. I
know how to get it, and if you're serious, you gotta learn."
	"Okay, teach," I said dismissively.
	"If you're not serious I can go sleep in the guest room,"
threatened Wade Hampton.
	"I'm serious, really serious," I said quickly. "Please stay." For
emphasis I gave Wade Hampton's soft pecker a squeeze. "Please?" I wheeled.
	Mollified, Wade Hampton grunted, "Okay." He returned the gesture
and continued. "After being with Johnny I knew what I wanted. It didn't
take me long to figure out where what I wanted was." He sniggered
quietly. "You know how my Daddy is always dragging me to football games at
the Citadel?"
	"Yeah."
	"Well, Coops, Daddy has an in with the coaching staff and after
every game we always end up in the locker room. Daddy walks around being
hail fellow well met, slapping the players on the back and ass, you know,
Mr. Jock That Was. Meanwhile, I sit there, with all these nekkid football
players, scratchin' and adjustin' their parts, takin' showers and hell,
Coops, a body can just stand so much!"
	I could see where being in a locker room with a tribe of naked
football studs would be invigorating to say the least.
	"You didn't try anything there, did you?" I asked.
	"Nah! One thing you don't do is advertise in public!" Wade Hampton
shook his head at my ignorance. "The first time I couldn't stand it, so I
figured I'd go off and take care of business in the men's room."
	"Private cubicles and all," I said knowledgably.
	"Yep. Anyway, I went into the room down the corridor and it was
empty. My pecker was just throbbin' so I went into one of the stalls and
was sitting there, enjoying the mood, when I noticed there was a circle, a
hole cut in the wall between the stall next to the one I was in."
	"A hole?" I asked, intrigued.
	"A hole," repeated Wade Hampton. "It's called a glory hole and
you'd be surprised where you can find them."
	"What's it for?" I asked.
	"Boy, you really have to get down to Charleston more often!"
growled Wade Hampton.
	"Come on, tell me," I said.
	"A glory hole lets a guy offer his dick for a-suckin'," said Wade
Hampton. "If you know what you're about you know that if you stick your
dick through the hole it's gonna get sucked."
	"So, what happened?"
	"Well, I was sittin' there, takin' care of business, I heard the
door open and footsteps. I peeked through the opening and saw a guy
standing in front of the pisser. I couldn't tell how old he was, but he had
a nice looking' body from the back, so I figure he was pretty young."
	"A cadet?"
	Wade Hampton shrugged. "Don't know. He wasn't wearing a uniform, so
maybe he was just somebody who came to see the game. The Bulldogs were
playing the University of Pennsylvania Quakers; he could have been one of
their fans."
	"Okay, so then what happened?"
	"Well, he finished peeing and then I heard him wash his hands, or
his pecker, I couldn't see the sinks. Then he strolled down the line of
cubicles, checking them to see if anyone was in them, I guess. He musta
seen my legs and he scooted into the stall next to mine. The next thing I
knew there was this really cute pecker lookin' back at me."
	"Get outta here!" I scoffed.
	"No bull, Coops, he was standing there, slowly playing with his
pecker. Remember, I said that there was a glory hole and he musta known how
things work."
	"Aaannnddd?" I drawled.
	"Well, it was a really nice pecker, not too big, about six inches
or so, and really clean looking, so I reached out and touched it. I heard
him groan a bit and then I saw he was leakin' precum - you know what that
is, don't you?"
	I did.
	"Then, after I played with it a bit, I heard him whisper, "Suck
it," so I did. He musta been real horny 'cause he didn't last long."
	I didn't know if Wade Hampton was disappointed or not. "Did he
come?"
	"Like a horse!" laughed Wade Hampton. Then he sobered. "He shot his
load and then pulled back, zipped up and walked out."
	"Bummer," I sympathized.
	"That's something else you have to get used to," opined Wade
Hampton.
	"Which means?"
	"Well, Coops, most guys are basically walking hard-ons. Once they
find out that another guy will blow them, or let them fuck him, that's all
they do. They know that you're queer, but they're also convinced that
they're not, that they're just getting their rocks off. They won't do
anything in return."
	I sniffed. "They don't mind using you, they don't mind letting you
suck them off, or fuck, but at the end of the day all you are is a
receptacle for their sperm!"
	"You've been reading again," said Wade Hampton. "But then, you're
right. I've been with a lot of guys, and most of them just want me to make
them happy. I do, because I like making them happy. That's what I do and I
don't expect anything in return, although it does happen."
	"It does?"
	"Sure. Some guys are gentlemen, and don't mind reciprocating. Most
though, they blow their loads, pull up their pants, and leave."
	"I don't think I'd like that," I said. "I mean it can't be very
satisfying."
	"Why not?" asked Wade Hampton. "I wanted dick, so I went where I
could find it. I wasn't expecting anything other than pleasuring another
guy."
	"You make it sound easy," I grumbled. "If I try anything everybody
in town will know it."
	"Nope."
	"Nope?"
	"Look," Wade Hampton began, "the guys you make, the guys you have
sex with, will do one of two things. They'll lay back and enjoy it, if you
do it right, and come back for more. Or, they'll let you get them off and
then walk away, and never come back, and never mention what they let you do
to them. They liked what you did, but in the back of their minds they feel
guilty for having you suck their dick. They have a guilty conscience, and
think what we did is queer, and of course "normal" guys don't do things
like that."
	"That's very encouraging," I complained.
	"Coops, you live in a small town, and don't have the opportunities
that I have. You're also a virgin, have never had sex with another guy, and
don't know shit."
	"You got that right."
	"I do," agree Wade Hampton. "Now listen. If you decide to put to
the moves on one, or all of your friends, you have to know that most of
them aren't queer. They're curious, they'll like getting sucked, but sooner
or later they'll walk away. With most of them it won't change a
thing. They'll still be your friend, and they'll joke with you about what
you did, but most of them will just say that it was something guys do, two
guys helping each other out. Don't look for love, or anything like
it. They'll go with the flow, just like you will."
	"I will?"
	"Yes, you will. Coops, are there any glory holes in the boys
bathroom at school?" Wade Hampton asked.
	"Not that I know of." I replied. "Why, is it important?"
	"No. I live in Charleston, a place where if you know what you want,
you know where to find it. If I want sex, I can go to White Point
Gardens. There's always somebody looking for a little fun."
	"There is?" Wade Hampton's mentioned of the Gardens was
surprising. I always enjoyed playing there when we visited my
grandmother. "I never saw anything like what you're talking about."
	"It happens after dark," said Wade Hampton. "You'd be surprised how
many swingin' dicks you can find there." Wade Hampton sighed almost
wistfully. "A lot of the dicks are attached to young guys from the naval
base, sailors, marines . . ."
	"United States Marines?" I squeaked. At the time, to my mind, the
height of masculinity was represented in two bodies of men: the Citadel
Cadets and the United States Marine Corps.
	"Well, unless there's a British cruiser in port, yeah," said Wade
Hampton, "the only Marines around are the U.S. variety."
	"There's others?" I asked, showing my ignorance.
	"Well, yes. There are Royal Marines, and they're some punkin',"
advised Wade Hampton. "Most of them are cute, and young, but they can be
rough." He paused. "Not to mention they all have extra skin, which can be
grim if they don't clean themselves."
	I giggled. "I know. I heard Daddy railin' at Simmons Richmond about
not keeping his dick clean."
	Wade Hampton snorted. "I knew Simmons was a pig, just had to look
at him."
	I wasn't about to argue the point. If anyone would know, it would
be Wade Hampton.
	"Is that the only place you go?"
	"No. I always check out the pissers when I go to a football game,
and then there's the sinks."
	"The what?"
	"The sinks is what they call the shower rooms at the
Citadel. They're in the basement of each barracks. You know my mother is
always dragging me to some alumni tea, or some other nonsense, so when I
get bored I go hunting."
	"You catch anything?"
	"Not too often, but sometimes, but those cadets are too straight or
too scared to try anything." He sighed heavily. "More's the pity because
some of them . . ."
	"Charlie Pegram," I breathed.
	"Who?" Wade Hampton raised his head. "Did you say `Charlie
Pegram'?"
	I snuggled against Wade and nuzzled his neck. "You said the first
time, when you go all the way, it's special, and you should do it with
someone you love, someone special?"
	"Yeeeaaahhh?" Wade Hampton began, and then he laughed. "You want
your first time to be with Charlie? Charlie Pegram?" He began to laugh
harder and louder, demonstrating his conviction that I wasn't about to get
into Charlie's pants, or his bed, any time soon.
	"It's not funny!" I snapped. "You wanted your first time to be with
Johnny Fasciano, so it was. Why can't I want my first time to be with
Charlie Pegram?"
	"Wantin' ain't gettin'," quoted Wade Hampton. "He's straight, and I
think you're the last guy he'd go to bed with!"
	"Maybe so, but I can still want him!" I returned weakly.
	"Yeah, we all live in hope," sniffed Wade Hampton in
reply. "Personally I don't think you have a cat's chance."
	"Don't rub it in!"
	"Coops, I'm just saying, that's all," said Wade Hampton as he gave
me a hug. "Charlie is one hunk, and if I had a chance at him, I'd go for
it. But he knows about me, and has never come near me. He's a straight
arrow through and through."
	I had to admit, if only to myself, that Wade Hampton was right. "So
what do I do?"
	"Forget about Charlie and concentrate on the boys at hand, so to
speak."
	"Huh?"
	"Well, like I said, living here in the sticks you don't have much
to work with. So, you take advantage of the situation and when opportunity
knocks, open the door and do every thing you can to pleasure whoever it is
you're after. Make what you do to him so damned wonderful he'll come back
with his dick in his hand, slobbering all over himself and begging for
more!"
	"Wade Hampton, all I've ever done is jerk off! How in the hell
. . ."
	Without replying, Wade Hampton got out of bed, turned on the
bedside lamp, walked to the door, locked it and then returned to the
bed. He slowly pulled back the sheet that had been covering us and spread
my legs apart.
	Although I didn't know, Wade Hampton was about to lead me into
strange waters, waters boiling with pleasure and rolling to heights of
glory so high that there are no words to describe them.

******

	"Okay," Wade Hampton began, "you want to pleasure a guy?"
	"Uh huh," I admitted. I kept my eyes on Wade Hampton, not sure what
he was going to do to me. I figured that he was going to blow me, but never
having had a blow job, I was a little hazy about the methodology. At least
I knew that he was actually going to blow on my pecker.
	"Coops, you've got to please a guy so much that nothing, and I mean
nothing, like it has ever happened to him, please him so much that he lies
in bed at night and beats off thinking about what you did to him." He began
to slowly stroke my flaccid penis.
	"Most guys love getting their dicks sucked. They dream about
getting their dicks sucked." His fingers found the spongy head of my pecker
and rubbed it slowly.
	"Now, most guys think that girls give good head," Wade said as he
lowered his head. He licked the head of my now stiff shaft, his tongue
tickling the back of the head, just where it joined the shaft. It felt so
great I jerked my hips and groaned.
	Wade Hampton laughed quietly. "That, Coops, is a `G' spot," he
informed me.
	"A what?" I demanded. "Do that again!"
	"Okay," Wade Hampton snickered. He sucked me a little, causing me
to writhe and moan. Then he drew back. I could feel his soft breath
caressing my balls as he spoke. "Girls don't know how to give a good blow
job because they don't have peckers. They don't know what part of a guy's
body gets turned on by playing, or licking. The parts are called `G' spots,
and every guy has them.
	"Some guys, they like to have their nipples sucked." Wade Hampton
leaned forward and suckled my left nipple. I could feel it get hard and I
have to admit it felt magnificently good. I stifled a moan.
	"The head of a guy's pecker is probably his most sensitive `G'
spot, especially at the back." He leaned down and kissed my pecker. "At the
back is a special spot. Tongue it, nibble it, and drive the guy nuts."
	"Is that what you did to Sinjin?"
	"Oh yeah," Wade Hampton grinned. "Of course, you gotta be careful
'cause if you do it too much he comes real quick. I like to wait until I've
got him so hot he can't stand it and he's beggin' me to make him cum."
	That didn't sound too bad, and while I did want to blow a load, I
also wanted a little more education. "Okay, so a guy's nipples, and the
head of his dick. What else?"
	"Well, that you have to find out. A lot of guys love having their
balls sucked." Wade Hampton's mouth was at my scrotum before I knew and I
could feel his tongue slowly fallow the curve of my left nut. Then I felt
it being engulfed with a warmth I had never felt before. He sucked and
rolled my testicle and then switched to the right nut. He did the same
thing and then I felt my whole ball sack being sucked. Oh, Sweet Jesus! I
bucked and moaned and I could feel my pecker thumping against my belly.
	The feelings of Wade's mouth and tongue on my balls had sent me
into a strange, glorious world, and I was barely conscious of him
withdrawing and pushing my legs up to my chest. My closed eyes snapped
open. "Hey, get away from there," I snapped. "That's no man's land!"
	"I know that," grumbled Wade. "You're saving it for Charlie
Pegram."
	"Then what are you . . ." I squawked loudly as I felt Wade's tongue
cross my butt pucker. "Holy shit!"
	"Guys love getting their ass hole licked and sucked," Wade informed
me. "It's called rimming." He frowned slightly. "Of course, it helps if
he's clean."
	"I'm clean," I told him. "Do it again."
	"You got any lotion?" Wade asked nonchalantly.
	"What? What do you want lotion for?" I had an idea, or thought I
did, as to exactly what he wanted to use the lotion for. "You ain't
thinkin' what I think you're thinkin' are you? It ain't gonna happen!"
	"Your loss," sniffed Wade. "Don't worry, I ain't gonna fuck you."
	"Damn straight you ain't!" I growled. I made to sit up and Wade
pushed me back down.
	"Hold on there, tiger. All I want to do is show you where your
prostate is, and what happens when someone fiddles it."
	"Which means?" I ask suspiciously.
	"Which means all I'm gonna do is stick my finger up your butt. Your
prostate is inside, under your balls."
	"But . . ."
	"You want to learn?" Wade asked. "If you do, then where's the
fuckin' lube. If I do it dry it'll hurt like buggery."
	Well, faced with a determined Wade Hampton and frankly curious, I
nodded toward the bedside table. "There's a jar of Vaseline in the
drawer. I use for beating off." There was no point in hiding, from Wade
Hampton of all people that I beat off.
	Using the lubricant, Wade greased up the middle finger of his right
hand and then went to work. He stroked my rosebud, gently probing with his
finger tip. Then ever so slowly he inserted his finger. I really didn't
mind what he was doing, as it felt nice, and it didn't hurt at all. I felt
his finger wiggling, searching then it happened . . .
	His finger touched something deep within me and a bolt of
indescribable pleasure shot through my body. My butt rose higher and my
pecker spasmed. "Oh fuck!" I squeaked.
	What happened next is something I shall never forget. Something
deep within my body exploded and waves of something so glorious roared
through my body that I can never describe them adequately. I seemed to
ascend to a plain of such wonderful feelings that I lost track of time and
place. I knew Wade was stimulating my prostate, and I knew that I was
having an orgasm, the likes of which could never be repeated.
	My very first orgasm was not some infantile ejaculation, nor was it
an individual, crashing avalanche overwhelming me. According to Wade
Hampton my pecker throbbed and stuck straight out from my all but hairless
crotch and I all but levitated as the first stream of my immature semen
exploded from the head of my pecker. With each squirt my body shook and I
growled and groaned and thrust and shuddered. It was the most glorious
experience of my young life!
	I remember vividly that Wade Hampton, not about to waste any of
what he called "the finest young Suthrun cream he'd ever tasted" took just
the head of my pecker into his mouth and sucked frantically, sending me
crashing down into the valley of glory. I could feel the warmth and
softness of Wade's mouth, I could feel my watery sperm blast from my pecker
and I could hear my heart pounding as my brain went into stasis, with
synapses bursting and brain cells exploding.
	When my poor testicles were completely drained Wade withdrew, but
my body refused to stop. I lay there, with Wade looking at me in anxious
surprise, I continued to shudder and thrust as still more residual electric
shocks of pleasure traveled up my pecker. I gasped and took in heaving
breaths of air, unable to move until finally the tidal wave ebbed and I lay
still.
	"Oh fuuuccckkk," I groaned as my body continued to ripple with
pleasure.
	"Damn!" Wade Hampton murmured, his eyes wide. "I sure never saw a
guy cum lak that before!"
	Barely recovered, I rose up slowly, took Wade in my arms and held
him, the heat of my body warming both of us. Then we kissed, a deep, open
mouth, tongue lashing kiss that seemed to last for hours.
	Finally, we withdrew. Wade Hampton's pecker stood proudly upward,
and I grinned and lowered my head. Wade never spoke a word as I took him in
my mouth, determined to repay the pleasures he had given me.

******

	That night we barely slept at all as Wade Hampton introduced me to
new, strange feelings of wonder. I swear our peckers never softened until
the sun began peeking over the trees across the river. We pleasured each
other in almost every way a boy could pleasure another. We did not have
anal sex, for I was determined to follow Wade's advice and save myself for
someone I truly loved - Charlie Pegram.
	In the morning we were exhausted and spent. The bed clothes were a
mess and the room smelled of sweat and semen and boy. I had no idea how I
would ever be able to explain the mess, but I wasn't thinking of that when
we crawled, finally from the bed. I was thinking of what I would do when
opportunity knocked, and wondering which of my friends would be the
recipient of my newfound knowledge and lust-filled desires.