Before we start, I heard nothing from qbs regarding my last post. Alas, I gather he doesn’t read my blog.
This week, I’d like to post one of my short stories. It needs no introduction because we’ve all been there regardless of the name or the size of the town. Enjoy.
According to legend, 150 years ago, George Armstrong Yeoman, an accused horse thief, dangled from the tree catty-cornered across the street from my dad’s ice cream parlor. That’s how it got the name of Yeoman’s Oak. It wasn’t much as far as oaks go, standing only about forty feet tall.
The town that grew up around it, also called Yeoman’s Oak, wasn’t much as far as towns go, either. I figured about 150 families called the place home, most with 2.4 kids. That would put the population at 1020.
This kinda thinking was part of what made me different. The other guys spent their time dreaming about sports and hunting and fishing and sneaking off to the military so they could kill somebody. Here I was calculating the town’s population. The girls, of course, thought about nothing but boys.
I shouldn’t be so snarky, because that’s the real thing that made me different. I thought about guys just like they did. Exactly like they did.
I was eighteen-years-old, and all I’d done was pull my own pole. Nobody’d ever touched me, and I’d never touched anybody else. Oh, I got sly, sarcastic hints I could suck on Quarterback Jack’s dick or jerk off Right Fielder Fred, but that was just a trap to prove what they already believed: Jamey Jaxton was a queer. A subhuman, fair game for whatever they wanted to dish out.
Somewhere in this world there had to be other people who felt like I did. Someone who’d permit my touch, consider my desire a compliment. The girls could gossip about their secret thoughts, but not me. Not in Yeoman’s Oak.
Summers, I worked full time in the ice cream parlor. That might have bought me some popularity if I’d given away free cones. But I wouldn’t even let a double dip slide by as a single. That earned remarks like “Two man-sized balls on that cone, Jaxton, not faggot balls.” Or, “I’m watching, don’t you dare lick my balls.”
My senior year, a new family moved into the house next door. In the way of small towns everywhere, everyone knew Mr. Hillsmith was the new manager down at the electric company office who’d waited to move from Fort. Worth until his son, Tim, graduated high school. Mrs. Hillsmith was labeled a snob before anyone set eyes on her. Me, I just figured I had another jock living right next door.
I didn’t work weekends, so the Saturday after the Hillsmiths moved in Tim Hillsmith came walking across the lawn just as I left for the little public library in Mrs. Charleston’s garage two blocks over. He must not have heard the rumors about me because he stuck out his hand and introduced himself. He was an inch taller than me, had glorious golden hair like his mom, broad shoulders like his dad, trim hips and a package like Jake, and a voice a decibel lower than Fred’s.
He allowed me to stammer my name before asking if I had a tennis racket. Somehow, I found myself standing across the net from the handsome guy down at Yeoman’s Oak’s only tennis court. Tim was way better than me, but I managed to make a game of it even while trying not to stare at the bulge in his tennis shorts and the tawny hairs on his calves.
The next day, when I saw him playing touch football with the other guys, I figured that was the end of that. But he surprised me. He kept inviting me to play tennis. My heart would leap when I saw him and almost stopped beating when he was with other guys. Fear or jealousy? After a month, it occurred to me that I had a friend.
One Saturday afternoon, he borrowed his dad’s car so we could drive out to the lake. I had a great time walking the woods with Tim, but when he suggested we go skinny dipping at the deserted end of the lake, I panicked. As soon as he dropped his tennis shorts and exposed two, smooth golden globes, I got hard. My knees went weak when he faced me, giving me a flash of a long cock dangling from a tawny bush.
“Last one in’s a chicken,” he yelled.
I stripped to my underwear and tiptoed into the water. He swam and romped, seemingly unconcerned he displayed his privates at times. Later, as we lay on the shore atop our clothing, he chided me about my wet jockeys so much, I finally hung them on a low limb to dry, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable … and excited.
After a while, he closed his eyes and quit talking. This was too rare a day to nap away, so I rose to my elbow for a good look at him. Smooth and sleek with rolls of muscle hiding beneath fair skin. Little black tits grew in the middle of big, brown aureoles. His cock had a big head with a slit at the end shaped like a keyhole.
His voice made me jump. “Did you get a good look?”
I felt my face go red as I looked into his startling green eyes. I expected anger but saw teasing humor.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You can touch, too. If you want, that is.”
My hand snaked out and cupped one of those bewitching nipples. My thumb made the tit stand up. He wiggled like it tickled but didn’t say anything as I rubbed his broad chest and slipped down to his flat belly. Then I got brave enough to take his cock in my fingers.
“Ummm,” he mumbled as it grew in my fist.
I risked another glance at his eyes They were still smiling. I pumped with my hand. He spread his legs.
After a few minutes, he brushed me away and rose on his elbow to face me. “Okay, you got a look. Now it’s my turn.”
I lay flat of my back, eyes closed so I wouldn’t see disappointment in his eyes. Again, his voice surprised me.
“You’ve got a nice one.”
My eyes flew open as his fist closed around my cock, making it leap to attention.
He laughed. “Man, you are ripe and ready. Tell you what. I’ll do you, and then you do me. Deal?”
I tried to speak, but my voice was lost somewhere in my throat, so I nodded. He pumped me gently while he felt of my balls and my belly and my tits. It was great. Greater than great. Wonderful.
“Oh,” I mumbled. “I’m coming. I … I can’t stop, Tim. I’m coming!”
He gave a silver laugh. “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”
And then I shot. And shot. My legs trembled as little electrical shocks squirreled all through me. I reached out and grabbed his leg while the exquisite tremors wracked me. His hand slowed, and I felt a finger playing with my tip, rubbing around in all the oozing goop. In my cum.
He finally let go of me and swiped his hand in the grass.
With an effort, I sat up. “Can … can I do you now?”
“That was the deal.” He lay on his back and cupped his hands behind his head. He had little tufts of blond hair in his armpits.
I took him in my hand and wondered at the silken feel of him. I was so timid, he urged me to go faster. Fascinated, I watched his bulb swell even more as I set up a rhythm.
“Play with my balls,” he murmured.
So I did. I did everything he asked, happily, eagerly – even when he told me to lick it. Once my tongue made contact with a slit already slick with pre-cum, it seemed only natural to take his glans in my mouth. I felt his hand on my head, pressing me down on him. I took more of him. I choked, came up, and tried again. Soon it felt more natural, more exciting.
And then: “Oh, shit, Jamey! I’m coming. I’m coming … coming. Oh!”
I took his seed and gloried in it. I’d never felt closer to anyone in my life. I was doing to this handsome guy what all the girls in town wanted to do. Make him shoot his wad. Ejaculate. And, man, did he cum.
At long last, he pressed my head against him and held me tight. As I lay there with his spent manhood in my mouth, his cum all over both of us, I realized I’d done what I had always avoided. Let one of them get to me. Tomorrow it would be all over town that Jamey Jaxton gave blow jobs. He wouldn’t have anything to do with me now. He’d be like all the others.
Tim released me and stretched. Reluctantly, I met those handsome green eyes. Then he smiled and said the greatest words in the English language.
“Wow, that was great! You wanna play tennis tomorrow?”
Bring back memories for anyone? At one time or the other we were all Jameys and Tims. Some of us might even have been Jacks and Freds, but I hope not.
Thanks, guys, for visiting the site. Keep on reading, and if anybody knows qbs, please tell him to read last week’s post.
New posts are published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.