Foreplay for the win
Friday morning, March 1, 1974
Eric’s alarm clock seemed to be rather angry at us: It was 7:15 in the morning, and we were still asleep, but the damn clock was having none of that. I had thought that my alarm clock had an annoying sound. But the sound of Eric’s was in a different league altogether.
Eric got himself out of the sleeping bag, jumped over to the alarm clock, and shut it off. Nature was calling, so we both headed to the basement bathroom (that was directly connected to his bedroom in the basement) to answer the call. Eric brushed his teeth. I hadn’t brought a toothbrush, not having realized that I would be spending the night at Eric’s.
Then we showered together, toweled ourselves dry, and returned to the bedroom. Then, Eric looked at his bed, and said, “Uh oh. Houston, we have a problem.” That phrase had become popular almost 4 years go, thanks to the events—infamous, even then—that had interrupted the Apollo 13 Moon mission.
“What’s the problem?”, I asked, mystified.
“My bed does not look slept in”, he explained. Oh.
“Well, pull back the covers. Get in it. Move around some”, I suggested. So he did. Then we both got dressed, combed our hair, collected the stuff we would be bringing with us to school, and then headed upstairs.
Eric’s mom and dad were already up. Eric’s mother (Beth) was in the kitchen, making breakfast. Eric’s father (Liam) was in the dining room, reading the morning paper. Breakfast was soon served: Cream of wheat, cinnamon and brown sugar on top. There wasn’t much conversation.
Once we had eaten, we headed out the door towards the school. It was just before 7:50 am. We had 20 minutes to get to class.
“I guess there’s no reason to avoid being seen walking to school together”, I stated.
“Not if we’re going to let our friendship be public”, Eric replied.
“Didn’t you tell me, a week ago, that some of your friends knew the direction I walked in order to go home?”, I asked.
“No. I told you that we knew that you walked to and from school. One of my friends told me that. No idea how he knew that, or what else he might know”, Eric explained.
“I see”, I said. “But if some students do know the direction that I walk, they might wonder why we’re walking together”, I surmised.
“True. But we were already seen walking together yesterday”, he noted. “Instead of trying to hide the fact that we’re sleeping over at each other’s house, we should just provide valid reasons for that, such as the fact that you’re tutoring me in math”, he continued.
“Well, I guess it’s not totally unheard of for guys to sleep over at each other’s houses”, I said.
“We’ll be better off if we don’t try to hide it. Just admit it, instead of acting like there’s anything wrong or suspicious about it”, he advised. His inner psychology nerd was showing itself, again. “That sort of frank, bold, ‘in your face,’ unapologetic admission of what we’re doing will make it look like we have nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of.”
“You’re the psychology expert”, I said—deliberately keying off of the language I had used a few times over the past week, in reference to his other domain of expertise. That “You’re the expert” phrase was turning into what we might modernly call a meme, at least between the two of us. And apparently, perhaps even a running joke? [Hint: Per Dawkins’ original definition, a meme is not necessarily an image posted on social media; it doesn’t even have to be visual, it just has to be “a cultural item that is transmitted by repetition and replication in a manner analogous to the biological transmission of genes”—and it only takes 2 people to create a ‘culture’ (the patterns in their interactions with each other.)]
“And don’t you forget it”, he replied, grinning.
We boldly walked onto the high school campus, daring anyone to get weird about it. No one did.
During 3rd-period PE, we made no effort to pretend we didn’t know each other, that we weren’t friends. Leaving the gym after the PE class was over, Eric joined me on the trek to the cafeteria—but not alone: He had three other guys with him. I recognized them as guys who were also in the same 3-rd period PE class that Eric and I had just left. By some socio-cultural instinct, all 5 of us stopped walking, expecting introductions, I guess. I certainly was.
Eric pointed at me, and said, “Guys, meet John Thomas. He and I have recently become friends.”
“Hi John”, the three strangers-to-me said, in a reasonable approximation of unison.
“And John, meet my friends: “Greg George”, pointing to a good-looking, and in-shape, red-haired dude with freckles. “Hi Greg”, I said, as we shook hands.
“Brandon Mitchell”, Eric continued, pointing to a rather tall, thin dude, with auburn hair. “Hi Brandon”, I said. We shook hands.
“And Mike Svoboda”, Eric finished, pointing to a shorter, but slim, guy—who was ripped, and had dirty-blond hair, and a classic Slavic face. “Hi Mike—or is it actually ‘Mikhail’?”, I said (I knew his family name was Slavic—probably Russian, meaning ‘Freedom’; he looked very Slavic.) Shaking my hand, he said “Hi John. Only my parents call me that—but only when I’m in trouble. Otherwise, they call me ‘Misha’”, he replied. I detected no Slavic accent, which probably meant he had grown up speaking English natively.
“Which do you prefer? ‘Mike,’ or ‘Misha’?”, I asked. “If we become really good friends, then you can call me ‘Misha’”, he replied.
“Ладно, понял”, I replied (=> “OK, got it”; pronunciation “LAHDnuh, pahnYAHL”—stress goes on the syllables in ALL CAPS.) He gave me a big smile, letting me know that he spoke Russian, also. Encountering a native Russian speaker in North America was quite rare back then. Mike was only the second one I had ever met.
I was thinking that these three had been the “friends” who—Eric had told me, a week ago today—had been all set to beat me to a pulp, because of what had happened in the showers the previous Friday. But I didn’t bring that up. I decided to ask Eric about it privately, later.
We then proceeded to the cafeteria, got our food, and sat down together to have lunch. At first, we just engaged in general chit-chat and smalltalk. But then Brandon had a question: “So Eric, how did you and John become friends?” Both Eric and I had known that that question was coming. But since he had directed the question at Eric, I just let Eric answer it.
“He convinced me that he had meant no harm last Friday, when he stared at me while I was showering: He explained what was going on, from his perspective, and—based on his explanation—I believe him”, Eric replied. “And during our conversation about it, I learned enough about him to suspect that I might actually want him as a friend. So, I invited him to my house—that very same day—and got to know him better.”
I almost choked—the double-entendre in his final clause hit me over the head. But Eric continued, “So the next day, I visited John at his apartment, and met his mother. Then he took me to the recreation/party center which the apartment complex where he lives makes available to all of its residents. They have a billiard table there—a really nice one, too. I watched him play with some of the residents; He was obviously quite skilled. He offered to teach me, and gave me my first lesson, then and there. Then later, after learning about my struggles with math, he also offered to help me with my math homework, so I had him come back to my place on Sunday for that. I was very impressed! I also introduced him to my parents—who were very impressed, too! You all know how hard it is to do that…”, he trailed off.
“No shit,” said Greg—who then looked at me, and said, “John’s in my AP Civics class. He’s impressed not just the rest of the whole damn class, but also the teacher—who assigns him homework separately from everyone else”, he told everyone. Upon hearing that, I realized that I did recall having seen him in that class. “No one can even categorize John politically: He’s not clearly either left or right, Democrat or Republican”, added Greg.
“I think for myself”, I replied. Greg just nodded.
At that point, we had all finished eating, and so said our goodbyes, and headed to our respective next classes. For both me and Greg, that was AP Civics—where Greg and I actually sat together, which had not been our normal behavior until then. Although we did do that, going forward. The teacher noticed, but said nothing about it. Same with everyone else. Given that it was an Advanced Placement class, and limited to Seniors, there were enough empty seats that that didn’t cause any contention over who sat where. We didn’t have formally assigned seats; students just tended to habitually sit in the same seats, once the precedent had been set that that was “their” seat. It was a great example of order arising spontaneously from the bottom up, actually.
When school got out, Eric and I met up at the campus exit that was the nearest to the start of the route back to where I lived. We then walked back to my apartment. As we started walking, I commented, “Well, that seemed to have gone quite well—at least so far.”
“I have full faith and trust in Greg, Brandon and Mike”, he replied. “That’s why they’re my best friends. And I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual.”
“The only friend I have like that—at least here, in this city—is you”, I replied. There are friends I had like that in the previous locales where I had lived. I’m still friends remotely with some of them, more than 50 years later. He gave me a big smile.
“So Eric, are Brandon, Mike and Greg the friends of yours who were all set to beat me up last Friday, until you talked them out of it?”, I asked.
“Yes. Is that a problem?”, he replied.
“No”, I said. If I could forgive Eric, then I could forgive his friends. Especially since they had all apparently forgiven me. It had all been an unfortunate misunderstanding. [See chapters 1 through 3 of Book 1 (“Shame And Punishment”) for the details]
We continued on in silence, until we finally got to my apartment, and went inside. Once there, and the front door had been closed, he grabbed me, embraced me in a fierce hug, and began kissing me very passionately. I definitely could get used to that. And it seemed that that’s what I’d have to do, given how often he did this sort of thing—and how long each occurrence would typically last, when he did. I had no intention of complaining. When he eventually had had had enough kissing (still hugging me, though,) he said, “So, I betcha I know what you’d like to do next,” smiling mischievously.
“You know me too well,” I answered, smiling.
“Then let’s get started”, he replied. So we disengaged, and I headed to the kitchen, to fetch my mother’s can of Crisco. After that, we both headed to my bedroom, where we both undressed. Then, we headed to the bathroom, where I made sure the enema equipment was clean, filled its reservoir with warm water from the tap, and used it to get myself cleaned out. Eric and I then showered together.
Afterwards, we went back to my room. On the way, I fetched a clean towel from the towel closet in the hall way. Once we were in my room, I put the towel on the bed, and then lay down on the bed, with the towel underneath my butt, and extending down towards my feet. Eric picked up the can of Crisco, walked over to the foot of my bed, facing me, got down on his knees, and began sucking on my dick for a while. That was the first step of Eric’s standard operating procedure to get one of his fuckboys (or fuckgirls) ready to be fucked by his huge tool. Next—and before I might have come too soon—he began to lick, and suck on, my ass.
I’ll just say that he was good at the execution of his entire “warm up” procedure, and that it was quite effective.
Next, Eric transitioned to the next step of his “warm up” procedure: He picked up the can of Crisco, put some of it on his fingers, inserted his fingers with the Crisco on them into my rectum, and started to fuck me with his fingers—at first with just one, but gradually escalating up to 4 fingers. He would occasionally add more Crisco. While he was doing that, he was also sucking on my dick—but was being careful to back off for a while, to make sure I didn’t shoot my wad sooner than either of us wanted. Once he was satisfied that I was ready for the main event, he used a tissue to clean his hands.
It should be noted that this was not the first time we had performed the sacred ritual described above. For me, it was the second. For him, it was far more than that, although I’m guessing he evolved it over time, and probably also modified it so it would be appropriate for each partner.
We then both stood up, and put on our undershirts and shirts (but not our briefs or pants)—just in case we might need to get dressed quickly, should my mother return from work unexpectedly. He applied some Crisco to his almost-11-inch dick, after which, we walked out to the living room, and walked up to the front door. The door was made of wood, and it was stained to be a very dark brown, and so we figured it would hide any after-effects of our activities far better than the walls of my (mother’s) apartment, which were painted an off-white color.
I turned around to face Eric, and said, “Ready?”
“Yeah, jump up”, he replied. So I walked up close to him, put my hand on his shoulders, jumped up onto him—wrapping my legs around his waist, while also using my hands and arms to hang on to him. He responded by supporting me with his arms—placing them underneath my legs, right where my knees were. Then, he used his hand on my butt to lift up me up so that he could insert his dick into my ass. Initial entry still hurt like a bitch, but far less than it had done, the very first time my ass had been penetrated by his—or by anybody else’s—dick (last Sunday, five days prior.) The pain subsided quickly, though.
So there I was, impaled on his dick, supported by his dick and pelvis. The metastability of the position was helped by my hold on this shoulders, and by his his hands underneath my legs. Not a bad place to be: I was enjoying the feeling of being possessed, desired, and sexually dominated. Of course, I was also grooving to the sexual stimulation that was biologically mediated by the nerves in my anal region. But this was not yet the “end” game (pun intended)—it was just the prologue.
The next step was the main event: He pinned my back against the front door—because that was the only vertical surface where there was enough free space, and because he needed to use the door to help support me—and began to power-fuck my ass. He was hitting my prostate with every upstroke. Although this was the second time we had used this specific position (up against a vertical surface, with my legs held up,) it was still overwhelming: Although I was enjoying it more than I had last Wednesday (just 2 days ago,) it was almost too much stimulation—too much pleasure, spiced up by some residual, and relatively minor, pain. I was moaning and groaning, involuntarily.
Before I had ever been anally fucked, Eric had assured me that I would “LOVE it.” He had been absolutely right. I came before he did. My rectal spasming seemed to trigger his own orgasm. But he didn’t stop fucking.
We both came a few more times, before he finally stopped, at just past 6pm. We knew that my mother might come home as early as about 6:30.
So, I dismounted, and we both went to the bathroom to take a shower—together, of course. We then went to my bedroom, and put our briefs and pants back on. When we came out of the bedroom, all cleaned up and fully dressed, it was just after 6:15 pm.
I wrote my mom a note, letting her know that Eric and I would be playing pool, and to expect us back no later than 7:30 pm. We then set out for the apartment complex’s rec center. Eric and I played against the regulars as a team: We usually lost, in spite of my skill level, because Eric was still a rank newbie. But everyone was very nice to Eric, and encouraged him to continue.
When we returned to the apartment, my mother was putting the final touches on dinner. So, while she finished up, we put out the plates and utensils, and then sat ourselves at the table, waiting patiently…trying to look like two totally innocent teenage boys, as much as that was possible for two 18-year olds who were actually being quite “naughty,” by the standards of the time, anyway.
Mother served us dinner, and we dug in. While eating, I informed my mother (Rose) that Eric’s parents had not only fully bought in to the plan for the reciprocal feeding of Eric and myself, apportioned more or less equally between her and Eric’s parents, but that his parents also had suggested that, on the nights were they would be feeding me dinner, that I should also stay overnight with Eric, and then, on the nights where Eric would be having dinner with us, that he should also stay overnight at our place.
From the look on my mother’s face, I at first thought that she wasn’t going to go for this idea—the sleep overs, that is; she had already agreed two nights ago to the exchange of dinners. But then, she smiled, and said, “Well dear, I’m so glad that you’ve finally made such a good friend here, in this city. I know you’ve been lonely, and have been missing the friends you had in [naming the city from which we had moved last summer, which shall remain nameless herein, for privacy reasons.]”
“Thanks, mom”, was all I said. Given that it was Friday evening, and that there were no classes again until the next Monday, Eric and I decided to return to the rec center to play more pool. We didn’t get back until after 1 am, which is when the rec center was closed down for the night. My mother was already in bed, asleep.
So Eric and I went to my room, locked the door, and got ready for bed, ourselves. We eventually slept like babies, in each other’s arms. Just not right away. No peeping, your perverts!
If you learn nothing else from these chapters, then learn this: Love is about far more than just sex. You can’t really know the truth of that, until you’ve experienced both sex and love. And now I had.
