John's Trilogy

The way I figure it, three strikes and you're out, and I was born with 4.

Don't feel sorry for me until you've heard the whole tale. I'm long past cursing fate: I figure what didn't kill me has made me stronger.

My mom was impregnated by a tall good-looking, good-for-nothing black man

(or half black, nobody seems certain anymore) on his way to the Vietnam war, a man who never looked back, got strung out on heroin and who got blown up on a land mine walking where he shouldn't even have been. That wouldn't have been so bad, maybe, had my mom raised me anywhere where that didn't make me stick out like a bad penny, but she decided to go back to a tiny town in inland Maine, where being anything other than white was no help in life. (And just maybe I had a chip on my shoulder, too, or maybe it was all in MY mind, but I felt different from the beginning. And not JUST because my skin was a shade or two darker than the surrounding snow.

I knew, in my heart-of-hearts that I was different in another key area, too, one that I could not fully understand until I left Maine at 19.)

But that's only the first strike. The second was that we were poor. My mother tried, but she harnessed herself to a cheap-hearted lawyer who paid her a pittance for her secretarial work; plus, she rarely worked less than 10 hours a day, the extra two over 8 "donated," and then she came home and worked another 4 hours transcribing records for another lawyer and sometimes for our town's only doctor. She tried, but she never had time, let alone energy for me. That's two.

Unlike 95% of the rest of the blacks in the world, who are born with grace and athletic ability coming from every pore, virtually from their birth, I seemed to have inherited nothing from my heritage. I was tall, skinny, and both big handed and footed, but clumsy. I could trip over myself walking across a grassy lawn, and drop every book twice on the stairs of the schoolhouse. And catch a ball? Well, only sometimes. We're at three.

Later, I looked at the few photos of myself I allowed to survive and figured that I wasn't really bad looking. In fact, I (now) would have thought the young face in the picture to be quite handsome: slightly darker than white, a clear clean complexion, and dark moody eyes, plus a strong straight nose which I must have gotten from my mom. No, I looked okay, but I didn't know it, and nobody told me.

Fat kids get harassed. Poor kids usually just get ignored. Slightly colored kids in an all-white school, especially if they have an "attitude"

and are too clumsy to excel in sports get both: half the time they're ignored, the other half they're teased unmercifully. I couldn't have had lower self-esteem if I'd been born in a basement.

Plus, I was smart. THAT will get you nowhere in a small backwash town where the valued trait is all tied up with basketball or football. All it did was generate some favoritism from my teachers which only generated a whole lot more ostracism from my peers. That's four.

Oh, I'd do it differently now, but then was then.

Phil joined the chorus, sometimes he led it, of derisive laughter when I dropped yet another armload of books, stumbled on a stair, or broke the chalk at the board three times in a row. He was my nemesis. Because he merely confirmed what I thought of myself, though, I hardly blamed him.

The worst thing about Phil was that he was only mean when he was in front of a crowd. When alone with me, he'd treat me as well as the friend I never seemed to have. That generated a lasting schizophrenic view of the world: bad guys can be nice (and extraordinarily sexy). Far easier to deal with a mean bastard who stays that way.

To make matters far more difficult for me, I had a hero crush on him that had gone back years. Older and stronger, a farm kid with muscles everywhere, he was naturally gifted with coordination and good looks, if not brains, and lettered in both football and basketball eventually, while hardly making it through each year in classes. (but in a small town, if you're a football hero, you can get passed on...)

I personally thought he was the handsomest guy in the whole school. And since I shared a few gym classes with him, I KNEW he was the best endowed one. (In later years, I surpassed him: for THAT, at least, I had my daddy to thank probably, but in those years Phil had a two year head start on me). Phil was never one to hide his main virtue: shedding white gym shorts and jockstrap, he'd parade up and down the locker room letting his number one asset be prominently displayed, flaccid of course, just so's every one of us would firmly KNOW he was the biggest.

In eighth grade, us boys would congregate in the boys' bathroom between classes whether we had to go or not. Half the time a couple of the swains would be "horsing around," dancing and cavorting and grabbing each other in the crotch. We called it "squirrel" then, but I don't know what kids call it anymore.

Phil would join in the fun sometimes, and sometimes he and I would go at it. I was no match for him: he'd do a double feint and have his hands on me in half a second. Of course, it was a quick tweak, rarely painful, and just-as-quick release. Holding on would have been a taboo. Nonetheless, after the first couple of times, I knew that I didn't want to resist anymore. I firmly LIKED the feel of Phil's hand as he grabbed my crotch.

I usually taunted and teased him just so he'd go for me. And if he was occupied "horsing around" with another guy, I'd sometimes slip up behind him, reach around, and squeeze him. He never took it the wrong way (got mad), and sometimes I thought he knew that I picked him out among all others to taunt, just so's he go for me.

All of this was the stuff of intense horniness: I'd beat off to the memory of Phil's hand on my crotch, the heat of his big long fingers creeping through the fabric of my jeans.

Phil was a farm lad, and he wore blue jeans, always clean and usually with a crisp crease his mother must have ironed into them. And he always wore heavy boots: sometimes lace ups, and other times big black engineer boots.

I guess it must have imprinted on me, for to this day, my "ideal" male image is a handsome man in clean tight jeans and big boots. I always wanted to buy a pair of boots like Phil. I thought, I guess, that if I looked like him, I'd be as sexy as he was. But my mom thought they were too expensive, that they must not be 'good for your feet,' and anyway, I don't think she liked 'em. Anyway, while I was a kid, I never got a pair.

Phil, during the 8th and 9th grades, rode the school bus I had to take. It was a painful, boring ride 30 minutes into school and nearly 50 minutes home. On the way in, Phil and I joined the bus late, and it was full. But on the way out of town, it cleared rapidly, until only he and I and two older girls (who sat in front) were on it.

Two boys, bored, with no other diversions, can get into a lot of mischief on a school bus, all the while trying to look innocent for the bus driver who could look up into his wide rearview mirror at any time. In fact, I think it was the mirror which made the whole thing so much fun. We had to LOOK like nothing was going on.

Phil lived and breathed sex. He filled my ears with every sexual detail he'd ever heard or thought about, and I soaked it up like the desert in a rainstorm. Even then I thought he was mostly boasting. He'd tell me what fun it was to jack off (well, I knew that one), but how to do it into a milk bottle (I never tried it, it sounded weird), and how to goose girls so they'd think it was an accident, or we'd talk about the boobs on Mary Rae Wilson, the hottest girl in the grade one younger. When he showed me the condom he carried around in his wallet, though, he gained immeasurable credibility. I can remember thinking at the time that my fondest wish might be to see him with the condom on... Something like that happened, actually, but I rush my story.

He must have known that I had a hero-crush on him, and found it ultimately satisfying for his own ego, either that, or he had his own homosexual interests, for when I started sitting next to him in every class we shared, he often would save a seat or would sit down next to me if I sat first.

Phil always sat at his desk differently, with one long leg thrown around the support post. This threw his right leg out into the space between his desk and the adjacent desk, and without much maneuvering, I could sit so that my thigh would brush against his. At first it was just that, me trying to make it seem casual, with my whole focused attention on the warmth that crept into my leg from his. After a few dozen classes of these

"accidents" though, I guess we both grew to accept that I'd sit next to him, and that we'd have our legs pressed together, usually very closely.

I'd look down in the space between our seats and see Phil's big size 11-1/2 boot right there, and wish I were him, so big, strong, masculine, so handsome. Wishing I had clothes like his, more, that I could FILL 'em like he did.

Phil never gave up on his teasing me whenever there was an audience, but the private game continued just as assiduously. one day in English class, Phil got up from his seat, went to the back shelves, low down, where books were kept and then, retrieving his book, crept forward on the floor, out of sight of the teacher or any other student. Lying there, he reached up and grabbed my crotch. I loved it, but was terrified we'd be discovered, and I kept fending his exploratory hand away at the same time as wishing for nothing as much as to let him have his way.

Finally, in real terror of discovery, I took the book he had in his other hand and dropped it, sliding down his thigh into his balls. It must have whacked him far harder than I'd planned, for he doubled up in silent agony, looking at me like I'd fundamentally betrayed him.

That day on the bus he grinned at me and said "I'm going to grab your balls and pull 'em all the way off you..." Of course, he said this with a straight face, in a low voice, and looking straight ahead as if he were telling me about the weather.

"You and what man's army?" I taunted him. This could be a good ride, with him talking about fooling around so early!

"I don't need an army," Phil said, his huge hand slinking down the inside of my thigh. I grabbed his arm and "tried" to hold it away from me without betraying any upper body motion. We sat in the backseat, thigh-to-thigh, his big engineer boot up against the side of my foot. In a moment, and much to my satisfaction, his hand held my cock and balls in a firm grip.

He didn't pinch or squeeze, but merely threatened to do so if I didn't play along.

"I'd say you'd better do as I say, wouldn't you?" Was what I remember him saying, though in hindsight it doesn't sound much like something he'd have said.

"Like WHAT?" I taunted him, I wanted him to hold me tighter, and would stop at virtually no verbal taunt to get him to do it.

"Like next time I come after you in class, you'd better let me have at it."

"What, and have the teacher see us?" I responded, incredulous and trying to make him understand something. I think I wanted him to know that lacking that one concern, I'd gladly have cooperated with anything he wanted to do.

His hand was holding me firmly, and my cock was already iron-hard. I felt dizzy and slightly out of breath. Please, I was thinking to myself in a kind of silent prayer, just don't let go!

"Unzip your pants," Phil demanded.

"No way, Jose," I hissed back at him. I was too afraid of being caught in flagrante delicto, though in any other circumstance I'd have been more than happy to oblige, though the "game" required token resistance.

He squeezed a bit harder....

"You'd better..." he whispered back at me, his face turned squarely toward the front of the bus. The back seat was a rough-rider and the constant jostling only brought our thighs constantly banging together and his hand.... Well, I couldn't think, I just knew that this was the best thing I'd ever felt.

Instead of waiting for me to comply, he picked his hand up slightly and deftly grabbed the zipper tab, moving it down two inches before I reacted in panic.

"Don't!" I hissed at him. "He could come back here," I said, indicating the driver, 20 feet forward of us and unconcerned.

"Don't be such a panty-waist." I didn't know what he meant, and I doubt he did either, but it sounded like something I didn't want to be. I momentarily released the grasp I hand on his hand, and the zipper was all the way down.

"What are you gonna do?"

"You'll see," he said, and his hand was probing beneath my denim, through my fly and touching me through the much thinner white cotton of my briefs.

"You're done gone hard as a bone," he laughed at me.

"I can't help it!" I said, ashamed suddenly that he'd found out my secret, that I was tremendously excited by all of this. Not that he hadn't felt my

"bone hard" prick a dozen times already, through two layers of fabric, but in the code of the not-yet-awakened teenager, if you didn't mention it, you could both pretend it wasn't the case. Once mentioned out loud, you BOTH had to deal with it.

"Just shut up and spread your legs..." Phil said, his eyes dead ahead but his hand busy. It was the most incredible feeling of my life: words won't really describe it, but all those years you've thought of "that thing" down there as something entirely private, something that could bring a lot of pleasure (and a measure of guilt afterwards for that very same pleasure), but nevertheless, something that only you'd ever WANT to touch, somehow, something very delicious and "dirty." Anyway, it'd never been touched by anybody else, and here was Phil, my hero of 4 or 5 years at least, WANTING to touch ME down there.

My legs sprang apart, and his hand was through my fly, fondling my balls.

I couldn't control myself, my thighs shaking in a suddenly wild tremor, my breath rasping out of my throat, and my backbone and buttocks lighting up with a million nerves firing all at once. My semen shot out of me in shot after shot, the intensity of my orgasm not letting up, while my mind reeled with the impossibility of having cum in my pants, the firm belief that anybody looking at me (the bus driver!) would immediately know what I'd let somebody else do to me, and not being able to stop wetting myself. It was the most delicious sense of guilt while it lasted, maybe 15 or maybe even 30 seconds, and then it was over and I was mortified. I looked down and there was no mistaking the wetness of my undershorts and the beginnings of a wet patch spreading through my jeans.

Oh, shit, how was I ever going to stand up. Everybody, I thought, would somehow instantly know that I was a fag: I'd let this BOY do this thing to me right on a bus! I must have flamed bright crimson red.

Phil must have been a little fearful that I'd give him away, too, for his hissed at me in earnest "for God's sake, don't let on!" I did the only thing I could do: I shut my eyes and leaned over against the corner of the bouncing bus, as though I were going to try a nap (anybody who'd ever ridden in the back of one of those buses would know that was patently impossible, you'd end up black and blue and with a king-sized headache to boot). The movement, though, pushed my hip more tightly against Phil's hip, and his hand was still inside my jeans...

"Shit, you really dumped a LOAD, man!" he whispered in admiration. "You've got a big cock, too!" He teased me a bit further, all the while his fingers, far from having left their quest, were sizing my cock, still rock firm, through the wet slimy fabric of my shorts. "You're mighty wet, too..." He laughed, now past the immediate fear of my shouting and giving us away to the world.

He reached down with his other hand and opened the top zipper of his gym bag and brought out the first object he touched, the white gym shorts we were all forced to wear in phys-ed class. He brought these up to his other hand and inserted the cloth through the hole of my fly, layering them between the white and the blue of my jeans.

He wiped his hand lightly on the same fabric and brought his hand back out again, and held it up in his lap. I wanted to scream at him, don't DO that! But Phil examined his wet fingers for half a second, and then

(forever I'll be grateful to him), simply sat his hand back down on his thigh again. No further attempt to wipe his hand off. He as much as said,

"it's okay what I have on my hand, it doesn't bother me."

I gained a little notch in my self-esteem that day. I had something which Phil didn't think was TOO awful.

He didn't try anything like that in the next couple of weeks. I took his gym shorts home and laundered them for him, but not before I'd put them on and jerked off three more times. All I had to do was to remember what had happened on the bus, and also to know where these gym shorts had been.

Except for maybe his jockstrap, they'd been as close to him as anything had ever been.

I prayed fervently that Phil would want to do me every day after that. But I think I was a pastime more than a primary interest for him. When we got to talking about sex, and IF we started playing around, then Phil seemed interested, otherwise not.

One Friday afternoon I think I'd been reduced to the distractible intelligence of a jellyfish, my cock rigid the whole day long in the fervent hope that THIS would be the day that Phil would repeat what he'd done for me, TO me, a week earlier.

Continued in John's Trilogy, Part II.