My Two Lives
A cathartic and sometimes erotic autobiography
By: Morris Henderson
(Copyright 2007 by the author)
 

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

NOTE: If graphical depictions of sexual activity offends you or is illegal to read where you reside, leave now. Some of the events described happened in my life although the names of people and locations have been changed. Some of the events happened only in my fantasies but were an integral part of my experience and therefore warrant inclusion in my autobiography. Hopefully, detecting which is which will not impair your enjoyment in reading about one man's struggle to live two lives.

1. Genesis

The Bible Belt in the 60's was a time and place where homosexuality was second only to murder and well ahead of rape in the list of despicable human behaviors. Rape was criminal and, worse, sinful, but it was a natural consequence of genders in the species. It was a tragic side effect of nature's plan for procreation. Homosexuality, by contrast, was not just sinful and illegal; it was unnatural and therefore condemned more passionately.

It was in that culture that I spent my formative years. The culture was particularly pervasive in my small, semi-rural community,. My parents, not altogether religious folk but still strong advocates of fundamental Christian values, labored successfully to "mold my character" in a way that would, by their standards, make me successful and be a source of pride. While I'm grateful for many of the values that were programmed into me--respect for others, trustworthiness, a strong work ethic, to name a few--one of those values, the limits of "acceptable" sexual behavior, became a source of continuing, agonizing conflict.

As a pre-adolescent, I experienced the normal curiosity about sex. Questions to my parents, of course, were met by awkward embarrassment, evasion, or a comment (that sounded to me like a warning) that I shouldn't be talking or even thinking about such things yet. I learned early that asking my parents only brought tension and not information. So I abandoned those efforts. Schoolteachers were part of the total vacuum of information. The rare teacher who was not completely aloof and was somewhat approachable either directed me to my parents or sternly reprimanded me for asking. The elementary school library had been "cleansed" of everything as objectionable as sex. I was left to invent information and to speculate.

My partial information and active imagination created all kinds of bizarre concepts. I was about nine years old when I visited a childhood friend's house and found his 16-year-old brother in the back yard with his pet rabbits. He had put a male and female together to mate. He was clearly uncomfortable with a youngster present during the attempted mating but I saw it as a rare opportunity to learn about reproduction and sex. For quite some time, he fended off my questions with either silence or an admonition to be quiet lest I disturb the rabbits. Finally yielding to my persistent questions, however, he reluctantly answered but was deliberately ambiguous as he explained what was happening. Either because he thought I knew more than I did or because he was censoring his responses, his explanations were not just incomplete but misleading. I came away thinking that I would have only two children when I married because I had only two testicles to give to my wife. I didn't know that all males have two testicles, that it was their sperm that fertilized a female's egg, or that a testicle would never pass through the penis to the female.

A month or so later, that misperception was corrected when I found a human physiology text in the public library. It revealed some of the mechanics of reproduction and even some details about the male and female sex organs. The book destroyed some of the myths I had created but also opened up an array of additional questions to speculate about.

(Years later, as an adult, I was initially shocked but ultimately pleased when my fifth-grade daughter brought home a book from the school library about the miracle of birth. It was accurate, even to the drawings of the baby's development in the uterus, although it avoided any details of sexual intimacy and intercourse. It would prevent her forming many of the weird ideas I had invented at her age.)

If information on the physiology of sex was out of bounds to a youngster in our community, anything hinting of sexual behavior before marriage was emphatically discouraged. One's "privates" were just that-private. I was ten when I saw, for the first time (not counting my infant brother), a penis other than my own. Joey and I were walking home from school. He wanted to go down an alley towards Maple Street. I objected, saying that was a longer route. "But I gotta pee and can't wait," he said. The alley had a lot of niches a young boy could hide in to relieve himself. I agreed and we started down the alley. Joey found a secluded spot, unzipped, and pulled out his peter. I was supposed to watch for anybody coming but I stared at his peter shooting a stream of piss into a bush. I was fascinated. He chided me for watching him and not the alley but to my young mind that was tormented by a curiosity I couldn't understand, the chance to see Joey's peter was irresistible. A few days later, Joey and I were again together walking home from school past the same alley. I desperately wanted another look at his peter so I told him I had to pee and started down the alley. I hoped that he would also pee into the bush and give me another chance to see his peter. To my great disappointment, he didn't have to pee; he watched the alley, not me. I never got another look at his peter.

Unsatisfied curiosity only grows and my childish curiosity would later turn into an obsession.

As I entered eighth grade in Junior High, I also entered puberty. By this time, I had seen perhaps a half dozen older boys genitals when they were indiscrete enough to let their private parts be exposed while showering or changing in the YMCA locker room. I knew, therefore, that maturing boys grew hair not only on their face and body but "down there" as well. I also knew that their penis and testicles became much larger. However, this only intensified my fascination with male physiology and made me impatient for similar growth in my own genitals.

Eighth grade also afforded the opportunity to see a wide variety of nude boys, thanks to the three-times-a-week gym class followed by the communal shower room. I was astute enough to know that I couldn't look too long at other boys' genitals but I was also shrewd enough to observe every boy's body. I was able to categorize the varying rates of development, range of penis size, and amount of pubic hair. Since it was the Bible Belt in the late 60's, there was no display nor grab-assing that, I understand, began later. So, while there was nothing that might be overtly sexual, just the congregation of nude boys was enough to stimulate my appetite for more.

I gathered more information--and misinformation--as I consulted other boys (at least those few who were willing to talk secretly about the unmentionable subject). But while my buddies shared my interest in girls and the mysteries of procreation, another compelling interest was emerging that seemed to get me in trouble. My questions to them about their development--peter size, growth of hair, frequency of erections--were met with either a cursory and ambiguous answer or, far more often, outright scorn.

I once asked an older boy, whom I thought was a good friend, about masturbation (a concept I'd pieced together from some older boys' comments). How do you do it? What does it feel like? It brought a fierce reaction. He made some oblique yet obvious accusations that I must be a "queer" to be interested in that kind of stuff. I didn't really know what a queer was but his snarl made it clear that it wasn't a nice thing to be. Of course, (as I would discover later) he and all the older boys were probably masturbating with some regularity. He could have answered my questions but had to maintain the facade of respectability. It was the expected and "right" to dislike and to discourage anything that would lead down the path to homosexuality. His violent rebuff of my curiosity, probably a result of the programming of parents and the community, taught me not to appear too interested either in other boys' development or in how to masturbate.

Still, I discovered masturbation when I was almost 14. I knew about ejaculation from my furtive access to public library reference books. But I didn't know the details, the procedures.

I'd been having erections, of course. Usually, they just happened, especially when I woke up. I even discovered that I could produce one by fondling myself. I also knew how good it felt to rub my penis when it was hard. I didn't feel particularly "dirty" over it. Except when I enjoyed it too much; then I wondered if I should be doing it so often.

In the cafeteria at school, I overheard a boy at the table behind me make some comment that included the phrase, "jack off my dick." I had never heard the term, jack off, but the context made his meaning clear. That was the clue I had been seeking.

My dad had a hydraulic jack that he used when working on the car in the driveway-the kind where you pump a lever up and down to raise the car. I made the connection. That night in bed, I got myself hard and began to move my hard-on as you might move the handle on a jack. It hurt but I kept doing it. Nothing happened except that my arm got tired and my dick was painfully sore. The apparent connection between jacking off and jacking up a car was bogus and only increased my frustration over not being able to gather information.

One day, in a revealing conversation with an older friend, he made some remarks about a girl we knew and said, "Whenever I see her in class, I wanna . . ." and then circled his fingers and thumb and cut through the air a few times. I saw another connection immediately and couldn't wait to see if I was right.

That night, in bed, I fondled my penis to make it hard. It felt good. When it was no longer pliable, I wrapped my hand around it and imitated my friend's motions. It still felt good but not particularly better than before. I was disappointed. But it felt good so I continued stroking at a leisurely pace while suppressing my nagging conscience. I was about to quit--I was getting tired and bored--when a remarkable sensation arose in my groin. At first, I was scared. I thought that maybe I had hurt myself. I stopped stroking. But the sensation lingered, fading only gradually. Whether by instinct or a compulsion to complete the experiment, I tried a couple of more strokes. The sensation returned immediately. It was strange and somehow wonderful. I kept stroking to prolong this weird sensation. The sensation intensified. With a mixture of fear and curiosity, I kept going. The tingling spread from my penis to my whole groin. Something was happening that I couldn't understand. But a force alien to my experience was compelling me to continue. Then I felt my testicles convulse and a mild but strangely stimulating pain traveled up from the base of my penis to its head. I glanced down in time to see a very small stream of vaguely white fluid ooze out of my penis. Quickly, I grabbed a handkerchief and tried to wipe it off. I was startled at how sensitive the head of my penis was. It hurt, but it was a stimulating, pleasant hurt. So that's ejaculation, I thought. So that's masturbation.

It seemed like hours before I could go to sleep. My thoughts were racing. Piecing together all the fragments of information I had collected, I was able to take that first step on the bridge between childhood and manhood. It was a confusing and lonely journey with no big brother, no adventuresome friends, no way to learn the secret pleasures of adulthood.

It took very little thought to conclude that masturbation was extremely pleasurable. Other thoughts, however, continued to consume my mind as I tried to fall asleep. Messages from deep within my psyche shouted, "That's dirty. Don't do it again. Sexual pleasure is right only with a wife." They were, of course, echoes of what parents, teachers, ministers, and society had implied about what was euphemistically called "self-abuse."

I wore the guilt for more than a week. I agonized over having abused myself. But, eventually, I was able to rationalize my guilt away: at least I had learned some valuable information, I knew what masturbation was, and I could easily extrapolate to how intercourse is done. I vowed to myself that I wouldn't do it again.

How wrong I was. Soon, I was at it again, with more pleasure and less guilt. Over the next few months, my masturbation became more and more frequent, each time with an increasing production of semen and with increasing pleasure. Each session was more easily rationalized in my mind as I suppressed my programming more effectively. Masturbation, I convinced myself, is OK to get you through those awful celibate years before marriage . . . and, of course, if it is kept secret.

Shortly after entering Junior High School, a tension began that would haunt me until this day. I gradually became aware that my interest in other guys exceeded my interest in girls. While my friends talked continuously about girls, I did not feel as enthusiastic as they seemed to be. That's easily explained, I thought to myself. First, they're just boasting, parading their emerging manhood, and not necessarily expressing their real feelings. I naively assumed that they had the same thoughts, feelings, and fantasies that I had but, like me, could not safely express them for fear of being labeled abnormal. Moreover, I reasoned, my being attracted to girls would no doubt come later. Partly due to a lack of information about sexuality and partly due to self-denial that I may be different, I failed to grasp the significance of my interest in other guys.

However, the foundation of a wall between my two future lives was being laid and I didn't recognize it.

As I matured, my hormones functioned as they should. My fuzz grew into a thick, curly, black bush. My penis lengthened (much to my delight for there was more to play with). My testicles hung lower. My erections were firmer and more frequent. My desire for periodic release of sexual tension increased enormously and I satisfied that desire whenever I could. Frequent masturbation -- often multiple times a day -- no longer caused guilt.

The sight of my classmates' bodies continued to fascinate me--some, of course, more than others. Broader shoulders, more defined chests, and the rippled slab of their abdomens drew my admiration and sometimes envy. The increasing musculature of their legs reaching up into their gym shorts particularly caught my attention. I was fortunate to compare favorably with most of the boys in my gym class and narcissistically admired my nude or nearly nude body in the mirror when I was sure I was alone.

The shower room after gym class was a special time because I could see what lay under their jock straps. I would take--or make--any opportunity to get a look at my naked friends (although always with the utmost care lest I be suspected of staring). What began to trouble me, in the context of the standards I had learned, was that I admired their genitals. I was envious of those who sported longer, fatter, bigger ones than my own. I found myself wondering about how big they got during an erection. I wondered whether and how they masturbated. None of my friends, judging from their conversations, shared my interest. Were they still posturing to project a socially acceptable image? Was I . . . well . . . different? Or were they, like me, simply inhibited about revealing their interests?

I quickly learned to keep my emerging interests a secret. Scorn and epithets--homo, queer, fag--inevitably followed when I said anything hinting of male sexuality. Comments, questions, even looking too long at a boy triggered immediate and sometimes cruel reaction from the other boys. It doesn't take much brainpower to avoid what hits you. If I didn't know that already, a memorable event in my first year of Junior High would have convinced me.

Fitz (short for Fitzgerald; nobody called him by his first name) sprained an ankle early in gym class. The teacher sent him to the showers and told him to report to the school nurse for treatment. A short time later, the teacher sent another student, Brian, to the showers as punishment for some minor rule infraction. Upon entering the shower room, Brian caught Fitz, who thought he would have a few private moments, masturbating. The news exploded throughout the school, or at least among all the boys. The ridicule heaped on him was vicious. He was no longer called Fitz but Jack or Jerk with obvious meanings. In raunchier conversations, even in his presence, he was called Jerkoff. He was ostracized and tormented mercilessly. He had always been somewhat shy but the malicious comments of his former friends turned him into a reclusive loner. I shudder now to think of the pain he suffered when his only mistake was to be caught doing what every other boy - including his fiercest tormenters -- did. I resolved that it would not happen to me; my secret interests and desires would stay hidden from everyone.

The wall between my secret self and my outward appearance grew higher.

I really tried to conform. I would join in conversations--when adults were nowhere around--about the girls' developing breasts and speculation about what was under their panties. I would joke and tease with my buddies about what to do with, to, or for the prettiest girls in school. But I was just going through the motions in order to be accepted by my peers. I wondered if they were, too. Privately, I was increasingly intrigued by the developing manhood of the boys around me. That worried me. But through it all, I began to develop the discipline to keep my private thoughts and interests separated from my outward behavior.

2. Early Explorations

Our Boy Scout troop went on an overnight camping trip. Joey, still my best friend, and I were assigned to the same two-person pup tent. At bedtime, I watched Joey strip to his briefs, carefully guarding my gaze so as not be too obvious. I focused especially on a rather prominent bulge at the base of his white cotton briefs.

It was obvious that, like me, his dick had grown considerably. I avoided being caught staring at him and we crawled into our sleeping bags. But I couldn't go to sleep for thinking about Joey's almost naked body just a foot away from me and, more significantly, what lay concealed beneath his briefs. I had seen his peter once in the alley as a child but had not seen him naked since we didn't share the same gym class. I was consumed by thoughts of that bulge in his crotch. I started getting that now familiar tingling in my groin. I had become accustomed to how the mere thoughts of masturbation, or even thoughts of other boys' bodies, aroused me. But I easily accepted it as a result of becoming sexually mature. I continued to think, and tried to visualize, Joey's penis and testicles. The more I thought, the harder my own penis became. I desperately wanted to masturbate but decided to wait until I was sure Joey was asleep.

Half an hour later, Joey's breathing indicated that he was in a deep sleep. By this time, I was obsessed with curiosity about Joey's penis. I couldn't see it so an intense desire to touch it overwhelmed me. I quietly unzipped the side of his sleeping bag. I slowly reached my hand into the warmth of the bag. Carefully, and listening for any sign of stirring from Joey, I moved my hand to that enticing bulge. Through the cotton briefs, I could easily detect the outline of his penis lying limply. My heart raced and my mind reeled at the first contact with a penis other than my own. I rubbed it gently, still alert for any change in his breathing. It was wonderful; I was actually putting my hand on another boy's penis. But it wasn't really his penis, I corrected myself; it was only his cotton briefs. I had to get a better feel. I slipped my fingers in through his fly and touched skin of his penis. The effect on me was astonishing. To my young mind, just touching another boy's penis was an electric thrill. I had to get an even better feel.

Ever so slowly, and with the greatest care not to wake him, I managed to get his penis out of the fly of his briefs. Gratefully, he was still soundly sleeping. I wrapped my hand around the warm, limp, fleshy organ and was pleased to find it was a handful. My own penis, of course, was by now hard as a rock.

To my surprise, foreskin covered the entire head of his penis. I slipped a finger under the foreskin. It was met with a warm, moist feeling that got me even more excited. It must have excited Joey as well because his penis started to swell. Before long, it was standing erect. And I was holding it . . . something that I'd only imagined doing before. I grew more daring and started to fondle it. Joey stirred. I froze, deathly afraid of being caught. But he resumed his deep breathing and I felt immensely relieved. I fondled him for a several more precious minutes before I had to withdraw my hand and masturbate. It was one of the best orgasms I had had to that point in my young life. I was unable to go to sleep for a long time as I relived that magical experience.

The second and last night of our camping trip couldn't come soon enough for me because it would be another chance to put my hand on Joey's penis, bring it to erection, and then masturbate. As we prepared for bed, my penis grew hard in anticipation. With a little subterfuge and a lot of good luck, I was able to conceal my arousal. Hiding my own bulging briefs meant that I had much less chance to see Joey undress but that didn't matter because I knew I could fondle him soon.

To my dismay, he fell asleep on his stomach. But I would not be denied. Just as he fell asleep, I shook his shoulder. He awoke with a start and I falsely claimed to have heard a strange noise outside of the tent. He rolled over onto his back, we both listened intently for a while, and, hearing nothing and clearly annoyed, he soon fell asleep.

About fifteen minutes later, my hand crept into his sleeping bag. Once again, I extracted his penis from his briefs and fondled him to a full erection, savoring every moment. Knowing that this would be the last night of the camping trip and that I might never get another chance, I continued to caress, fondle, stroke, and squeeze while ever-mindful of his breathing for any signs of waking up.

Unconsciously, my free hand found its way to my own erection and began to stroke it rhythmically. My attention was so focused on Joey's erect penis that I didn't realize I was masturbating myself until the now-familiar tingling signaled that I was about to squirt a load. Naturally, I didn't want to make a mess in my sleeping bag so I stopped stroking myself just before orgasm. That, of course, made things worse because my body was demanding relief. Checking once again that Joey was asleep, I managed to retrieve a dirty sock and slip it over my throbbing penis. Still fondling Joey, I completed my masturbation, conscious only of the intensity of my orgasm and, peripherally, of my hand on another boy's erect penis.

That experience, I later decided, was a tipping point. Solo sex was nice but the enjoyment is far greater with another guy.

Joey remained erect for an unbelievably long time as I continued to take my pleasure in fondling him. But then something strange happened. I had retracted his foreskin and was gently rubbing just the exposed head of his penis. His erection twitched beneath my hand and he ejaculated. A warm, moist fluid oozed out, coating my fingers and falling to soak his white cotton briefs. I froze but Joey's breathing immediately returned to a normal sleep pattern. I was amazed that he could ejaculate without waking. I withdrew my hand, wiped it on the inside of his sleeping bag, and eventually fell asleep.

Joey said nothing about the wet stain in the morning but, of course, I was prepared to claim complete ignorance of what might have happened.

I agonized over the experience for weeks. That I had felt Joey's peter and got it hard didn't bother me -- not even causing him to ejaculate was a concern. My agony was due to the fact that I so thoroughly enjoyed it, I was aroused by it, I wanted to do it again. The programming of my childhood resurfaced and scolded me for taking another step toward something wrong, sinful, dirty. My emotions, however, told me it was thrilling and satisfying.

In the second camping trip that summer, Joey and I were again assigned to the same tent. I couldn't wait for nightfall and bedtime. When he was fully asleep, I repeated my adventure that I had practiced so many times in my mind. This time, I was able to run my fingers through his still-fuzzy pubic hair, get him harder than before, and even get his balls out of the fly of his briefs. Fortunately, Joey was a very sound sleeper. I played with him for a long time, enjoying every minute. Once more I felt his warm sperm coat my hand and stain his briefs. Contented, I withdrew my hand and masturbated myself. I always wondered what he thought when he woke in the morning to find his balls and peter sticking out of his fly and his sperm revealing what had happened as he slept.

I still agonized over the conflict between what I had been taught and how I felt. But I had developed coping strategies that allowed me to separate what I should do and be around others and what I really wanted to do. My outward behavior, of course, continued to be conventional and conformist. With the guys, I conformed to the ritual of condemning behaviors that suggested any "abnormal" tendencies. My internal thoughts, however, were becoming more and more unlike my outward behavior.

My parents' friends had to take their daughter to a doctor in Springfield and would be staying over Wednesday night with relatives. Ted, their only other child, was 16 and had a music lesson early Thursday morning so they asked my parents if Ted could stay overnight with us. They agreed and arrangements were made. I would not have called Ted a friend, mostly because he was three years older and in high school so I rarely saw him. I would not have called him particularly attractive, either. He was tall, very thin, and had few social skills. Being a very hot and humid summer night and there being only one twin bed in my bedroom, we asked if we could sleep in the back yard. My parents readily agreed. At about 11:00, we took our blankets and pillows to the back of the house. The clear sky, bright stars, a crescent moon, and the soft breeze made it very pleasant. Ted and I talked for about an hour (I was surprised at how conversational he was) about nothing in particular before we decided to go to sleep. I was first into bed and was able to watch Ted slip off the last of his clothes. Before stripping off his short pants, he looked all around the yard carefully. "Looking for something?" I asked.

"Your neighbors can't see us?" he asked. While I was surprised at his apparent shyness, I told him that the shrubbery gave us complete privacy and my parent's bedroom was at the front of the second floor. He made one more visual inspection of the yard's perimeter and pulled off his pants to reveal why he had been so cautious. He wore no underwear. As he bent over, I was staring at his bare ass and in the dim moonlight could see the outline of his balls and peter hanging down between his bare legs. I watched as he crawled under his blanket. I got the quickest glimpse of what seemed to be an extraordinarily long peter flopping to and fro as he maneuvered into bed. Suddenly, just another guy became an object of intense interest that created stirrings in my groin.

As we lay there, I thought of my explorations of Joey. And I decided that I had to do the same to this skinny, awkward boy with his over-sized peter. Fortunately, I didn't have to wait long for his breathing to tell me that he was sound asleep. I quietly moved closer to him and slid my hand under his blanket. Carefully raising the blanket, I moved my hand until it was touching his peter. While listening intently for any signs of his awakening, I began to fondle that long, limp piece of flesh. My excitement mounted at the thought that his was not the peter of a young boy but I was playing with the peter of a guy who was maybe not yet a man but very nearly so. I continued fondling his peter, his balls, and his thick pubic hair while my other hand played with my own boner.

Predictably, he became harder and harder until that huge peter was rigid and erect. I was thoroughly enjoying the experience until, quite suddenly, he jerked and snorted. Instantly, I withdrew my hand and pretended to be asleep. I was confident that he had not noticed what I was doing but concentrated on simulating a deep sleep.

A few moments later, I felt his hand on my shoulder and he whispered my name. I continued my pretense of being asleep. He shook my shoulder gently and called my name a little louder. I didn't move. After several minutes, confident that I had fooled him into thinking I was asleep, I dared to crack open one eye. What I saw almost made me gasp. He had pushed his blanket down and was slowly masturbating. Although the light was dim, I could plainly see that he was squeezing his balls with one hand and slowly stroking that enormously long rod with the other.

Once, he glanced in my direction but I saw it coming and resumed my appearance of deep sleep. Cracking one eye open again, I saw that his strokes had speeded up. His eyes were closed and I could hear the muffled moans. I could sense he was deeply engrossed in his pleasure and was oblivious to his surroundings. This, of course, permitted me to watch him with both eyes open. As he stroked furiously, he fell more deeply into his ecstasy. In one swift, obviously practiced move, he cupped a hand above the towering head of his penis and thrust his hips into the air. I could barely see the white fluid spurt into his hand and fall onto his navel. When finally he relaxed from his orgasm, he started to look my way. I quickly closed my eyes until I dared open them again. What I saw was a revelation. He was carefully dipping two fingers into the pool of semen, coating them and then licking it off. This was something that had never occurred to me and I was intrigued by the action. Ted repeated his motions until, I assumed, there was no more liquid on his stomach.

It was an amazing show and I resolved to try this new form of sexual satisfaction as soon as I could. The sights I had witnessed filled my thoughts until I finally fell asleep. In addition to being a very arousing experience, it added confirmation to my conviction that masturbation is something every boy did . . . in private . . . but never talked about.

My father woke us at 7:30, saying that breakfast would be ready in 15 minutes, and returned to the house. Ted and I slipped on our pants while still under the blankets then pulled on our shirts. Putting on our shoes and socks, I asked if he slept well just to see his reaction. "Fine. It was great," he said with no particular meaning that I could detect. "Come on, we don't want to keep your parents waiting for breakfast." I had a thousand questions I wanted to ask him about his masturbation, about swallowing his semen, about other things he might know that I would like to know. But courage failed me; discretion prevailed.

Over the next few days, I duplicated what Ted had unwittingly demonstrated. The first time I tasted my ejaculate, it was unpleasant. That puzzled me because Ted had seemed to enjoy it so much. With each successive experiment, the taste grew more familiar . . . and more erotic. I also added another question to my list of things I wanted to know: does every boy's ejaculate taste the same or is there a difference.

While Ted had unknowingly taught me that masturbation was common, the lesson did nothing to span the gulf between my private, sensual pleasures and my public, respectable behavior. My yearning to share the pleasures of the flesh--with another guy, of course--continued to grow. The one opportunity that presented itself was not what I had hoped for.

Later that summer, our Troop went swimming at the YMCA pool. I deliberately caught quick but revealing glances of all the boys' developing manhood--who had long ones, who had tiny ones, who was growing the most hair--particularly in the locker room when we were changing. But my views were not as prolonged or as revealing as I desperately wanted them to be. I was constrained by my programming and by peer pressure. The boundaries were as clear as they were frustrating.

Once in the pool, Larry, two years older than I and from another Troop, began the normal jousting that young boys do: splashing and dunking me in the pool. It soon escalated, however, to quick feels of my peter. He would swim underneath me and give a quick squeeze then swim away and come up laughing. I enjoyed it; I wanted him to do more and even reach down inside my swim trunks. But my fear of the consequences of being seen was dominant in my mind. So I tried to avoid him. He followed me and continued his increasingly bold groping for my crotch.

As much as I enjoyed his bold moves and wanted more, my fear of being caught terrified me. I knew all too well the consequences of such behavior. I tried to repel him, telling him to get lost. He ignored me. To get him to stop, I tried to give him a taste of his own medicine by forcibly and, I hoped, painfully grabbing his peter and balls. Despite my purpose, I found it somewhat arousing. To my astonishment, he merely spread his legs and even asked me to do it some more. Not on your life, I thought to myself; somebody would see me and then my life would be miserable. My ill-conceived tactic of groping him only encouraged him and he intensified his efforts. While I enjoyed his attention and, at least subconsciously, would welcome somebody fondling my peter, I made an excuse to get out of the pool and away from Larry. I went to the locker room to get dressed. Larry, of course, followed soon after. He came into the empty locker room just as I was pulling up my briefs and said, "Oh, now I can get a real feel."

I told him forcefully to get lost.

"Or maybe you'd like to feel mine," he crowed and he pushed his swimsuit down his thighs and thrust his hips toward me so his peter was prominently displayed. He was exceptionally well endowed, to be sure, and I was intrigued by the size of his organ. But I found his careless, wanton, and forceful behavior to be obnoxious. The chance to put my hands on his peter, no matter how impressive it was, was not a temptation. In fact, the idea was repulsive.

"Come on," he urged as he thrust his crotch toward me. "Feel me up."

I snarled at him, "Get lost, homo," quickly dressed, and left the locker room. Later, I called up memories of his gropes and fondling in the pool, my retaliatory grab, and the sight of his long cock hanging out in front of him just inviting my attention. The memory of the events alternately was quite arousing but also generated regret that I had not taken advantage of the opportunity he offered me.

During the following weeks, the experience was the basis for a fantasy. The appeal of a fantasy, of course, is that one can create facts that never were or never will be, realize one's dreams vicariously, and not worry about consequences. In my fantasies, he was far less aggressive, even likable. I felt his cock, complimented him on its size, and asked if it got much bigger when hard. He would suggest that I find out for myself. We went from the locker room to the parking lot where we hid between two cars and jacked each other off. That fantasy and multiple variations, increased my concern that I was different.

Throughout High School, my desires and fantasies continued to diverge from my outward, conformist behavior. I adapted well to living the lie. I dated girls and even did some heavy petting. It was exciting, even arousing, but I was only delivering the expected performance from a "normal" hormone-driven young man. Secretly, I lived my other, my real life: craving sexual intimacy with other guys. I learned to be very shrewd in my actions to avoid the terrible consequences of being different. Alone, in private, I masturbated and fantasized about being with other guys. In public, however, I was the model young man, the pride of my small Bible belt community.

By my senior year in High School, I accepted the undeniable fact that I was different. I was increasingly attracted to guys. Girls were interesting, sometimes fun, and attractive but not arousing. My fantasies always involved other guys. I concealed it very successfully, however, and became the target for the attention of several girls at school. I capitalized on their attention, returned it in kind -- but only to maintain my facade. I became very skilled at deception. And that paid off. I was popular, respected, and (I hoped) envied by my schoolmates and the adults in the community. The internal frustrations, however, continued to nag at me in spite of my attempts to shore up the wall between my two selves.

I knew I was different but I was not yet ready to label myself as homosexual. Until one Spring day.

3. Awakening

My father trusted me to drive the family car all the way to Springfield to deliver some papers to a lawyer . . . something about my aunt's estate for which he was executor. After an agonizingly long lecture on driving safely, the cost of car insurance, and the crazed drivers in the big city, I drove off. It was mid-morning and I was to meet the lawyer at 1:00 ("Now don't be late," my father scolded, "I'm counting on you.").

I was on the outskirts of Springfield by 11:30 and decided to pull off the highway and eat my sack lunch that my Mother had frugally packed for me. I found a parking lot just outside a small town and pulled in to park. Halfway through my sandwich, I began to regret my choice of parking places. Out the window, I saw the ramshackle buildings that pretended to be business places. A bar and grill displayed a worn sign that boasted home cooking but it was obvious no one would want anything but beer (from the can, not from the tap) in a place as run-down as that. A second-hand furniture store with a half-lit neon sign promising low monthly payments. A garage with rusty clunkers surrounding it. The place made me quite uneasy. I locked the doors and finished my sandwich, on guard for any suspicious people. But I saw only a few old men enter and leave the bar and grill.

Then I saw a small building that needed demolition more than a quick fix-up. There was a hand-lettered sign in the window of the door: "XXX Adult Magazines." Wow, I thought as I remembered a porno magazine that Eddy had showed me. It was soon confiscated and there wasn't another one in the whole student body. Today's generation, of course, has ready access not only to porno magazines but to a bewildering array of content on the Internet. When I was in high school, nude photos, videos, and sex stories were extremely rare and simply unavailable in my small home town. If I took a porno magazine home, I'd be the envy of every guy in school. Of course, I would have to be very careful about who I showed it to but about a dozen of my best friends could be trusted not to squeal on me.

It took another ten minutes to work up the courage but I walked, as nonchalantly as I could, to the dingy shop. Inside, it was dimly lit. I had trouble seeing but I could smell the dust and grime. A voice behind me boomed out, "How old are you, boy?" I controlled my fright but looked over to see a craggy old man sitting in a rocking chair reading a paperback.

"Eighteen," I lied by adding two years to my age.

"Don't look it," he grunted as he returned to his reading.

I concealed my relief that he wasn't going to challenge me. I wanted to get out fast, not only because I was very nervous but also because I had to get to the lawyer's office by 1:00 or suffer the wrath of my father. I scanned the magazines that were spread haphazardly on two long tables. Choosing one would be difficult; they were all wrapped in plastic and I could only see the covers. I rummaged through, trying to judge from the covers what might be inside. I picked up one but what was underneath it electrified me. "Men of Steel: Superhunks Bare It All," blared from the cover. If the muscular guy on the cover (with, of course, a black circle concealing his crotch), was an example of what was inside, I had to have it. Abandoning all inhibitions and caution, I took it and got out my wallet.

Glancing at the cover, the old man croaked, "So you're one of them, eh?" I knew what he meant and, for just a moment, it made me feel dirty. "Don't get many of your kind in here," he added without any perceptible scorn. I paid the exorbitant price and rushed to the car. As much as I wanted to open up the magazine and peruse it, I had only enough time to make the 1:00 appointment with the lawyer. Moreover, I was terrified that the old goat might have taken the license number of the car and would rat on me.

I hid my treasure under the seat and started off toward Springfield. I would figure out what to do with it, how to sneak it home, later. Despite the magazine under the seat screaming to be explored, I was able to navigate to the appointment on time and by 1:15, I had started toward home.

The magazine was still haunting my thoughts. Halfway home, I could wait no longer. I found a spot to pull off the road and into a small clump of trees. I could see the sparse traffic approaching in both directions yet not be seen.

I trembled as I retrieved the magazine and tore off the plastic wrapping. I flipped through the pages, wanting to linger and drool, but knowing that I would have to be on my way soon. By page 5, I was getting hard. The muscular men, mostly young, ranged from partially dressed to fully nude. Most were, indeed, well-hung and all were hard or erect. By page 12, I had a full-blown hard on and had to adjust my dick to be comfortable.

The photos significantly expanded my understanding of what man-to-man sex involved. Although I had pieced together enough clues and used imagination to fill in the gaps, the pictures confirmed my suspicions that sucking and fucking were actually practiced. One picture showed a particularly handsome man sucking another while simultaneously being fucked by a third man. I tried to imagine the sensations of having a deliciously meaty dick in my mouth while another was pumping my ass.

By the end of the magazine, precum was oozing. I felt a compelling urge to masturbate. I hid the magazine under the seat again and walked about 50 feet to the woods. If anyone stopped and asked, I could say I just had to take a piss. Safely in the woods, I unzipped, pulled out my raging dick, and jerked to a massive orgasm. It left me trembling and I was unsteady as I walked back to the car.

On the way again, I thought about the magazine, recalling the best of the pictures. I also hatched a scheme to sneak it into the house without anyone learning of my "wicked" purchase. Yet it would be accessible when I wanted to enjoy it. I was delighted with my discovery in that grimy little shack and looked forward to hours of pleasure as I lingered on every page. I also thought back to my jerk in the woods and how satisfying it had been. Why was it so erotic, so thoroughly pleasurable? It wasn't the fact that I jacked off outdoors, in the woods, because I had done that before.

The answer was obvious. It was the stimulation of the porno magazine, the erotic depictions of men. Men, I concluded, not women, turned me on. Yes, I was different. I was a homosexual.

Admitting that to myself was strangely liberating. It explained much of the confusions that had haunted my thoughts for years. It made it easier to understand my interest in men. It helped me cope with the previously troubling yearnings that I had had to see and feel other guys' bodies. In a strange way, it made me feel better about myself for wanting to give and receive sexual pleasure from other guys.

But, at the same time, it gave new strength to those internal voices that were still telling me that what I wanted, what I was, was wrong. To that point, my concerns were only rationalizing my frequent masturbation and my interest in male sexuality. My concerns now, however, encompassed something much more significant: my fundamental character.

The few weeks remaining in my senior year were spent absorbing the admission I made to myself as I drove home from Springfield. While it clarified my perception of who I was, it also had the effect of fortifying the wall between my private and public selves. While I now knew what I was--and I accepted it--I became increasingly aware of the absolute need to maintain outward appearances. I had seen the consequences of stepping outside the boundaries of respectability and they were not pleasant. I was determined to avoid those punishments.

As a result of my new perspective, masturbation, with an increasing variety of techniques, became more satisfying both because the orgasms brought more pleasure and because I was no longer burdened with shame for doing it. But there was a downside. First, my frustration at not being able to be intimate with another guy grew as I stole secret looks at the men in my forbidden magazine embracing, sucking, and fucking each other. Second, dating girls was less satisfying, mostly because I recognized what a complete sham it was. In spite of that, I continued to date . . . because it was expected . . . because not to do so would invite either ridicule as a social misfit or suspicion of that dreaded condition, homosexuality (the only word used at that time and place; gay still meant happy). Homosexuality was talked about infrequently in polite discussions but the word was whispered or hissed as though it might be blasphemous to say it in a normal tone. In less polite conversations, which is to say among the boys at school, the word (or the more vulgar words, queer and fag) was spit out venomously.

When I heard those epithets, it hurt because I knew that if I were found out, the vicious attacks would be directed toward me. To shield myself from the contempt of my peers, I hid my feelings. I would, on occasion, even join in and express my (fake) revulsion of anything hinting of homosexual behavior. In this way, I was adding bricks and mortar to the wall between the reality of my person and the fiction of what I successfully pretended to be.

My second self was born during the drive home from Springfield but was to be kept in the dark dungeon of my mind by the overwhelming pressure to conform to society's expectations. It could only find expression when I was alone and may never achieve genuine fulfillment by intimacy with another man.

4. On My Own

After graduation and a summer job, I enrolled in a Junior College too far from home to commute. It required a part time job to pay the rent in a rooming house and a subsidy from my parents to pay tuition but it provided far more independence. My dual lives continued to evolve. On the one hand, living alone gave me many opportunities to enjoy the bodily pleasures that were often impossible living at home. I could receive mail "in plain brown wrapping" and took advantage of it. On the other hand, meeting new people honed my social skills, including how to earn respect. Earning respect, of course, required knowing how to conform. I was rapidly becoming, in today's language, a functional schizophrenic, two personalities that managed somehow to cope with conflicting internal desires and external demands.

My stash of erotic magazines, a treasure chest of information about male sexual pleasures and a continuing source of arousal, was safely put away under a pile of books in the bottom of my closet. No one who visited me would see them but they were readily accessible to me when I needed a little stimulation, which was frequent. If my parents visited, the stash was secreted off to the rafters of my landlady's garage to be retrieved with great stealth when they had safely returned home. The magazines always made my masturbation more satisfying although they only increased my unfulfilled desire to have sex with another guy.

With no gym class, locker room, and showers any more, I yearned to see nude male bodies somewhere besides in my porno magazines. The answer to my dilemma was the local YMCA. As a student, I got a discount rate to join and I started working out as often as I could. While it toned up my muscles (in fact, I was moderately proud of the shape I was in after a few months), it only increased my appetite for exposure to male flesh. Many of the members were middle-aged or older and pitifully out of shape. The few who I found attractive only increased my frustration at not being able to be with them in any meaningful, which is to say sensual way. It was not unlike a starving man being able to glance quickly at food but never able to eat.

On one visit to the Y, I had almost finished with my laps of the pool when a young man about my age came into the pool area from the locker room. I was immediately struck by his well-proportioned body. I found myself thinking, this is a very attractive guy. When my gaze narrowed to the bulge in his swim trunks, my thoughts immediately turned to sex. If I were ever able to be with a man, I thought, this would be the man. I pulled myself up to sit on the edge of the pool to gather my strength after a strenuous set of laps. It was then that I noticed that the guy who had caught my eye was eyeing me. Without being obvious, I watched him steal glances in my direction.

Having rested adequately, I left the pool and went into the locker room to change. He soon followed, which I thought strange since he had only recently gone into the pool. Although his locker was not close to mine, he made the effort to come over to me and strike up a conversation. I learned his name was Alex and he worked as a carpenter for a local contractor. As we stripped out of our swim trunks and dressed, I recognized in his eyes the same quick, up-and-down glances that I had used so often. He made no overt advances but it was obvious that he most likely shared my interests and desires. Or was it? Perhaps his quick assessment of my body was merely curiosity without any ulterior motive.

As we left the locker room and walked outside, he asked, "Come here often, do you?"

"Yeah," I responded, "I try to get here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after my last class."

"See you next time," he said and shot me a broad smile.

Walking to my apartment, I wondered if I had met someone like me. Perhaps I was not so unique after all. Perhaps many men share my desires but, like me, conceal them.

On Wednesday, he was there again. Again, he left the pool when I did. Again, he struck up a conversation. But this time, he was far less guarded in his behavior. After removing his trunks, he stood in front of me, talking. He was admirably endowed. Although I made a concerted effort not to look too long or too often at his equipment, I'm sure he noticed my attention as, in fact, I had noticed his attention to my own cock. Any doubts about having met a kindred soul were fading but not yet erased.

Over the next week or two, meeting him there became routine. And his suggestive behavior became more obvious: scratching his balls, putting one leg up on the bench to let his equipment dangle more seductively in front of me, and complimenting me on my physique. His bold displays had an effect. Lust was becoming a regular part of my feelings as we talked. I found that I looked forward to seeing him nude in the locker room. I even fantasized about eventually sharing a bed with him.

However, I couldn't be absolutely sure that he felt the same lust that was infecting my thoughts. One Tuesday night, after fantasizing about an encounter with Alex and subsequently jerking off, I hatched a plan. Before making my fantasy a reality, I had to be absolutely sure of Alex's intentions.

After my Wednesday swim, I approached Alex before he had a chance to approach me. I stood in front of him as he sat on the bench. As I chatted with him, I rubbed my cock through my trunks. His eyes lingered a bit too long on what I was doing. I slipped my trunks down and kicked them off while still chatting with him about various physical fitness techniques. As he sat there, I toweled off carefully watching his eyes that seem to flit from my crotch to my face. When I dried my crotch, I spent more time than necessary and couldn't help but notice he was taking it all in. Finally dry, I put a foot on the bench next to him, just as he had done to me.

"You know," he said, looking up at me, "physical fitness requires a good workout for every part of the body." Then he looked down at my crotch as if to clarify his meaning. It seemed as though my testing of his interests had confirmed my suspicions. But the ultimate confirmation came when he gently took hold of my dangling cock, and said, "Even this part." He smiled and looked up at me to gauge my reaction.

I was shocked. My plan had not included this development. I only wanted to test his interest, not to initiate physical contact. My plan had worked to that point; I had proven that he was interested in man-to-man sex. However, I had not anticipated such a quick and obvious response. I stepped back quickly and a mild panic overcame my senses. Yes, I wanted to experience intimacy with another man and he was both attractive and willing but my courage once again failed me. Fear of being revealed as a homo trumped my lingering need for sexual satisfaction.

Ignoring his bold move, I said nothing but began to dress. I felt just a little guilty over teasing him and then rejecting his advance so I tried to maintain a friendly banter of conversation. As I did so, I saw the disappointment and frustration in his face. Walking out of the Y, he gave me the address of his apartment and invited me over "for a few beers." I gave a noncommittal reply, wanting to buy time to evaluate the opportunity.

This much I knew. I had tested Alex and proved that he, like me, was interested in guys. This was my first and best opportunity to satisfy the desires that had been consuming me for years. To deny myself the experience of sexual intimacy with a guy would be a wasted opportunity. He was clearly willing. But was I?

There was a lot I didn't know. Most significantly, I couldn't assess the risks of visiting him in his apartment and being caught. Who would see me there? What might Alex say to other people that could circulate until I was revealed for what I was? Another unknown was whether I might ever experience the fulfillment of my deepest desires. To engage in sex with Alex, however, entailed too many unforeseen traps that could, if I were found out, result in vicious attacks from too many people I now counted as friends and too much pain and disappointment from those I genuinely wanted to please.

On Friday, Alex was even more blatant in his suggestive remarks. He was more seductive in his behavior, conspicuously rubbing his cock until it began to harden. I watched it thicken, realizing that I was only encouraging his display but unable to control my eyes or my mind. I was still conflicted in how to handle his obvious advances. I both wanted and feared responding receptively.

He escalated his seduction by asking if I had ever had a really good blow job. I wanted to say, "no but I've always wanted one." Instead, I chose the coward's path. I simply said, "no," and, with great effort, diverted my eyes from his now half-erect cock. My fear of the possible consequences outweighed the potential satisfaction of a sexual experience. In fact, I became decidedly cool toward him. He was undaunted. Leaving the Y, he urged me to visit him in his apartment, not too subtly suggesting that he could give me a workout I'd never get at the Y. In a final and ultimately successful attempt to shut down his advances, I said, "Never happen, pal. I don't do that." I could see the disappointment in his face. Because I shared his desires, I could feel his pain in the rejection.

I often regretted not accepting Alex's invitation but, after re-considering, always concluded that my caution was prudent, and that, in the long run, there was a greater pay-off in conformity and respect. The price of hypocrisy was high but necessary. The cost of honesty was higher.

To avoid further temptations, I changed my routine and visited the Y at varying times during the week. Each time, however, I found that I was both hoping and fearing to find Alex there. I never saw Alex again. I suppose he eliminated me from consideration after my abrupt rebuff of his advances. I often regretted not having the courage to go to his apartment and experience what my inner self so desperately wanted. It would have been a risk but I wished that I had done it.

5. Parallel Paths

To maintain my facade, I continued dating and met a particularly attractive girl, Carol, a medical technician major. She was intelligent, vivacious, and extremely pleasant company. Fortunately, she seemed to enjoy my company as well. Unfortunately, she couldn't know that my interests included only friendship and did not--would never--include romance, love, or sexual intimacy. Still, we saw a lot of each other and I even introduced her to my parents who enthusiastically approved of what they saw as a future daughter-in-law. As our friendship grew, physical closeness was inevitable but limited to hugging and kissing. Anything more was out of the question. She had two roommates and no privacy; I wasn't allowed any female visitors in my boarding house. And she was a very religious person so premarital sexual intimacy was never an issue. Without the pressure of "how far to go," we could enjoy each other's company and we spent a lot of time together.

After graduating from Junior College, Carol and I continued dating. She and I became more than a dating couple, we became close friends. Even though our living arrangements changed and offered opportunities for sexual intimacy, my inner self and her religious beliefs kept us out of bed. It was an unspoken understanding, and mutually agreeable, that we would continue to date, continue to have fun together, continue to enjoy each other's company but never feel that sex was expected.

Almost a year later, we married. Yes, my respectable image even compelled me, a self-confessed homosexual, to marry.

Initially, I found our sex life to be remarkably satisfying. There was little variety to our sex life, no oral or anal activities, but it was frequent. My masturbation almost stopped. Three months into our married life, I even began to wonder if my attraction to men had not been just a result of teen hormones and forced celibacy. On our first anniversary, during a difficult pregnancy when intercourse was ruled out, I resumed masturbation (in private, of course) and the yearnings for men returned to my consciousness.

Following the successful birth of our first child, marital sex gradually resumed. It was satisfying but it never replaced my interest in other men. I found men to be far more attractive than women and my temporarily suppressed desires were now a constant force I had to deal with. Fortunately, the defenses and rationalizations I had honed as a teenager had not gone away and I was able to live a "normal" life. My charade was effective. Carol seemed content with our love-making and never suspected the turmoil going on inside me. We had three children in all, two girls and a boy, and were respected members of the community. But I was unfulfilled.

Eventually, I took a job in St. Louis over the objections of my disappointed parents who wanted me to live and work closer to (their) home. I think their real interest, although they never expressed it, was to be able to enjoy their grandchildren.

Six months into my new job, the company sent me to a trade show in Atlanta. I arrived on a Thursday afternoon for the Friday-Saturday show. After checking in to the hotel and unpacking, I went out in search of a restaurant for supper. Following a great meal, I decided to wander around before returning to the hotel. Not too much later, I passed an adult bookstore, which, of course, caught my attention. I circled the block before gaining the courage to go into the bookstore. Surely, I thought, no one who knew me would see me patronizing a dirty book store.

It was small but crammed with tables and shelves displaying all manner of magazines, books, videos, and sex toys. It was not at all like the dingy little shop near Springfield where I bought my first porno magazine. I decided that I would buy one or two magazines if I could find the right kind. Along the back wall, I found a meager selection of gay magazines but was disappointed that, like all others in the store, they were in clear plastic envelopes so that one had to make a selection based on the cover alone.

As I scanned the selections, a young man stood beside me. A quick glance at him told me that he was probably 18-20 years old, had a trim, firm body, fashionably long auburn hair, and an unusually attractive face.

"Expensive, aren't they?" I heard him say.

I didn't expect any conversation in a store where privacy and anonymity is valued but responded, "Yeah."

Moments later, I selected two of the most promising magazines, and was about to pay for them and return to my hotel for an evening of lonely pleasure. However, the young man beside me, in a barely audible whisper, said, "For the price of those two magazines, you can have me."

"What?" I blurted out, unsure of what he said or meant.

In a normal tone of voice, he said, "I just can't believe these prices." But then, he glanced over his shoulder and whispered to me, "I'm available if you want to do more than just look at pictures."

Clearly, he was prostituting himself. He was selling himself for sex. The thought of hiring a male prostitute was objectionable but, I reasoned, this might be an opportunity to experience what I had always wanted. The fact that he seemed to be clean-cut and that we could retain our anonymity made his offer compelling. I mentally debated the benefits and risks until he whispered again, "What do you say? Would you like to have me instead of a couple of magazines?" As he spoke he seductively rubbed his groin.

Once again, my courage failed me. I took the two magazines, paid for them, and left the store. However, the young man's offer haunted me and, before walking half a block, I turned to go back. I arrived back at the store just in time to see him leaving -- alone. I caught up to him and asked, "What did you mean by being available?"

He smiled at me, which demolished any remaining inhibitions I had and said, "Two hours. Twenty-five dollars. Your place. Anything you want except I don't do rimming."

Succinct, clear, and in my mental state, irresistible. We walked four blocks toward my hotel during which time I learned that he was a college student, short of funds, but was able to earn an undisclosed amount of cash with little effort and a lot of pleasure.

Half a block from the hotel, I said, "There's the hotel. I'll go in and you follow in five minutes. Go to the fifth floor. I'll meet you at the elevator."

"Right," he said. "You're afraid of being caught with a male hooker."

I started to stammer out an explanation or apology when he interrupted, "That's all right. I understand. A lot of my clients feel the same way. See you on the fifth floor soon."

I waited by the elevator for fifteen minutes, eager for my temporary companion to arrive. My excitement turned to disappointment during the next 15 minutes. He hadn't scammed me because I had not yet paid him so something else must have happened. Ten minutes more and he was 40 minutes late. I took the elevator down to the lobby, approached the desk clerk, and inquired as casually as I could, "Any messages for room 535?"

"No sir," was the polite but perfunctory reply.

I took a seat in the lobby and waited another 20 minutes until, dejectedly, I went up to my room for another lonely masturbation.

I never found out what happened to the young man. Maybe he changed his mind - unlikely. Maybe he got a better offer - possible. Maybe hotel security recognized him and threw him out - also possible. In any case, I had lost another opportunity to experience the pleasures of the flesh with another man, one who was likely experienced enough to make it memorable. The magazines I bought were excellent but disappointing because of what might have been.

6 Spectator Sport

I returned home to lead my two lives-one secret and unfulfilled and the other socially respectable. Over the next several years, I rose through the ranks to a position of some responsibility. With that came a considerable increase in salary and I was able to build a large home for my family-four-car garage, in-ground pool, five bedrooms, five acres of land, and more than enough space to host parties that were expected of a man in my position. Because the house was surrounded by trees, I invested in a top-of-the-line security system that included video surveillance of the perimeter and key locations in the house.

My son, the oldest of my three children, celebrated his thirteenth birthday with a party to which he invited about 30 of his friends. It began at 2:00 in the afternoon in the pool and continued through supper that consisted of several dozen pizzas and countless cases of cold soda. I was proud that he specified "no gifts" and suggested that each guest bring a donation to the Make-a-Wish foundation.

My wife, our housekeeper, and I supervised the activities and were delighted to see the children enjoying themselves in the pool and playing volleyball in the yard. It was about 3:30 that I noticed my son was not in the group. Thinking the he had probably just gone to the bathroom, I was not concerned. Half an hour later, when he had not rejoined the party, I went into the house to look for him and scold him for abandoning his guests. He was nowhere on the main floor so I went upstairs. Approaching his bedroom, I saw the door was closed and I was about to open it to see if he was in his room and all right.

I reached for the door knob but froze when I heard his voice from inside his bedroom, "Oh man! Don't stop, Chris! It feels so good!" The urgency in his tone of voice was tinged with passion and I knew instantly what Chris must be doing to my son. I briefly gave a thought to opening the door but quickly dismissed it. I didn't want to embarrass the boys and, more importantly, I didn't know how to handle the situation if I were to walk in on them. As I stood there wondering what to do, I heard him cry out, "I'm cumming!"

My pubescent son, Alex, was obviously enjoying what I had wanted all my adult life. It came as a bit of a shock-certainly not because I disapproved but only because until that moment I had regarded him as a little boy. It was clear, however, that he was beginning to enter manhood. I wondered if he was merely indulging in adolescent experimentation or if, like me, he would turn out to be gay.

I stood in the hallway for a few minutes contemplating what I should do with the new information about my son and his friend, Chris. No obvious course of action came to mind. I walked the 30 feet back to the top of the stairway, waited until I thought the two of them may have finished what they were doing, and called out, "Alex, are you up here?"

"Yes, dad," he replied.

"Well come downstairs. It's your party, you know."

I returned to poolside still trying to digest what I had heard and the undeniable fact that my young son had not only discovered the joy of sex play but found a willing partner. Five minutes later, Alex and Chris walked out of the house, each with a can of Pepsi. It may have been my imagination but they both seemed to have a slightly guilty expression on their face...or was it just a look of satisfaction that they had succeeded in grabbing a few moments alone? I couldn't be sure. From time to time during the rest of the party, I scanned for Alex in the crowd of youngsters and each time he seemed to be with his friend, Chris. That was not unusual-young people often have best friends-but with what I had heard earlier, I knew that their friendship was special.

For several days, I mulled over what, if anything, to say to Alex. I surely didn't want to make him feel guilty nor did I want to admit to him that I was eavesdropping outside his bedroom door. One thing was certain: I would not tell my wife who would not...could not...understand and would be furious. Still, I felt that some time soon I would have to caution my son about the risks he was taking. The risks were far less serious than when I was a boy. There was a slowly improving recognition if not acceptance of homosexuality, but homophobia still existed. I wanted my son to be happy, whatever his sexual orientation, but I couldn't let him be hurt by bigotry.

A week later, Alex asked if Chris could sleep over Friday night. His mother granted permission and, later that day, informed me that Alex would have a guest. "Is it Chris?" I asked.

"Who else?" she replied. "Surely you've noticed that they're best friends." I knew all too well but chose not to say anything about what I had overheard nor what would probably happen during the night.

When Friday came, Chris joined us for dinner and, perhaps because I was paying particular attention, I noticed that the two boys were genuinely fond of each other. I reminded myself that most boys have best friends who enjoy each other's company but the subtle signs-glances, expressions, comments-were easy to interpret. Following dinner, my wife and I watched a movie while the two boys were in the kitchen playing a board game and the two girls watched a different movie in another room.

At 9:30, my wife reminded the children that it was bedtime. The girls whined, as usual, but my wife was firm. Alex and Chris, unsurprisingly to me, did not complain. Instead, they asked if they could take blankets and pillows outside. My wife refused but they countered with arguments that it would be like camping out, it would not disturb the guest room, and they wanted to watch the stars. Their arguments were weak but I interceded on their behalf, suspecting what might go on between them and wanting to afford them the opportunity. Reluctantly, my wife agreed but warned them sternly to stay out of the pool.

My wife retired soon thereafter but I stayed up to polish a presentation I was scheduled to give to the Board of Directors on Monday. An hour later, I was on my way to bed when I decided to check on the boys. Rather than walk outside and interrupt what they might be doing, I checked the video security system. I didn't know what I expected to see but just wanted to verify that they were all right. A full moon gave plenty of light for a clear view of two naked boys lying on a blanket. Chris's head was bobbing up and down in Alex's crotch. Very soon, I saw Alex go rigid and Chris's head slowed to a stop. I felt ashamed of being a voyeur but I also became aroused. Moments later, Alex put his head in Chris's crotch and it wasn't long before Chris had apparently emptied a load into my son's mouth. They crawled naked under the blanket and were cuddling. I couldn't resist the temptation to masturbate.

I resolved to talk to Alex and, when Chris left for home the next afternoon, a perfect opportunity presented itself. My wife took the two girls shopping, leaving Alex and I alone in the house. I called him into the kitchen and told him to sit down because I needed to talk to him.

"I was a few years older than you," I began. "I had a sleep over with a couple of my friends. When my father came outside to wake us for breakfast, he found an empty whiskey bottle on the ground. He woke me first and said, 'Breakfast in ten minutes. And you'd better hide the empty bottle before your mother sees it.' At first, I panicked because my father knew that we had been drinking but he simply returned to the house. I worried for days that he would punish me but he never mentioned it again."

Alex was bright and he sensed that my story was leading up to something. I'm sure he made the connection between my story and what he had done the night before with Chris. A look somewhere between concern and panic crossed his face as I let him digest what I had said.

"You know, son, that we have a video surveillance system covering the perimeter and inside the house."

Alex turned beet red and waited for the ax to fall. I'm sure he expected a stern lecture at minimum and possibly severe punishment. "I'm not angry, son. But I need to tell you a few things." Alex seemed to relax somewhat but was still tense. "First, you're growing up and it's quite normal to experiment with adult pleasures but you're going to have to be more careful about when and where you do it, which leads to my second point. Sex between two men is considered inappropriate by many people; some even call it evil. Sex play between boys is less of a problem but, in the eyes of many, it is not right. I'm not one of those people. I feel that if both boys want to do it and neither boy is taken advantage of or hurt, then it's okay."

Alex relaxed even more at hearing my acceptance of what he had done. For the next twenty minutes, I explained the usual cautions about safe sex and the potential consequences if he were to become known as a queer. He listened intently but said little. I finished my little tutorial by asking if he had any questions.

"You're not mad at me?

"No, son. I love you and I want you to be happy. I don't want you to be hurt. But you must be careful. And don't ever let your mother find out because she wouldn't understand."

I was pleased that I had not only given Alex permission to experiment-something that I wish I had had growing up-but warned him of the dangers. However, over the next two weeks, the memory of seeing him and Chris suck each other haunted me. I can honestly say that I never wanted to have sex with him but I have to admit that watching him was extremely erotic. I was, I felt, a good parent but my inner self envied him. It was my inner self that drove me to do something very unethical.

I ordered from a catalog a wireless video surveillance system--the kind you read about in spy novels. They were functioning smoke alarms but concealed a camera and microphone. I installed all of them on the second floor of the house, including Alex's bedroom. My wife thought it was not necessary because the house's main system had detectors throughout the house. I argued that an alarm in a bedroom would be more likely to awaken us in an emergency and she accepted my reasoning. I placed the receiver in a locked closet in my office/den and discretely wired it to show the video image on my computer screen. It would only receive a signal from one of the five hidden cameras but that was all I needed. I would be voyeuristically spying on my son when he was in his bedroom. My respectable-citizen self was ashamed but my inner self was in control of my thoughts.

During the ensuing month, I discovered the best times to spy on my son. It was customary for me to be in my office/den in the evening after supper and for Alex and his sisters to stop by to say good night before they went upstairs to bed. Between twenty and forty minutes later, Alex was on his bed, stripped naked, and masturbating. At first, it was very erotic, I quickly got hard, and shot a load not long after he did. I felt guilty for violating his privacy but a day or so later, I couldn't resist the temptation to watch again.

Alex and Chris were together more and more. On weekends, Chris stayed overnight with Alex or Alex stayed at Chris's house. When they were at my house, I spied on their sex play that, over time, progressed from sucking and cuddling to prolonged foreplay before sucking each other to orgasm. These episodes were especially erotic. I still had no wish to have sex with either or both of them but the stimulation of watching them together was addictive.

Over time, however, the stimulation diminished and, at the same time, my conscience curtailed my voyeuristic behavior. By the time the two boys were turning fifteen, I watched them only occasionally although I always knew when they were having sex and chose to ignore it.

By the time Alex turned 15, it was quite clear that he and Chris were not just experimenting but had developed a genuine fondness for each other. The signs were obvious to me because I knew how they felt and I was sensitive to the nature of the relationship between them. My wife and daughters, however, were blissfully ignorant of what was going on. I decided that it was time to have another talk with my son.

The opportunity was a Sunday when my wife and the girls had gone shopping. Chris had stayed Saturday night but had to leave early Sunday morning to travel with his family to visit his grandparents. Alex seemed especially sad to see Chris leave and was morose for an hour or so after. I called him downstairs and said, "Son, we need to talk."

He objected as only a 15-year-old boy can do but I was insistent so he reluctantly joined me in the living room. I got right to the point. "Do you love Chris?"

My question seemed to confuse him because he just looked at me for a time before answering, "I like him a lot."

"That's not what I asked. Do you love him?"

He seemed even more confused and became almost hostile. "Love, like, what's the difference?"

"Let me phrase it differently," I began, trying not to antagonize him further. "When you're together, do you want to make him happy? Is that your primary goal?"

He stared at me for a long time. I decided to wait for an answer. Finally, he said, still somewhat defiantly, "You're talking about sex, aren't you? You said it was okay, didn't you? If I was careful? Well, we have been careful!"

"Sex is okay," I assured him. "But I'm talking about real love. Sex can be a part of love, a very special part, but I want to know if you love him."

My tacit approval of his sex play seemed to calm him down and he replied, "I think I do."

"What's more important? Your happiness or his? That's the difference between liking and loving."

Again, he took time to digest the meaning of the question and frame an answer. "Depends, I suppose." At last, he seemed less defiant and was probably thinking through his relationship. "Sometimes, he does stuff for me and I let him. Sometimes, I do stuff for him just because I want to. And I don't mean just sexual stuff if that's your point. I'm happy when I'm with him and he seems happy around me."

"And you would do almost anything for each other?" I probed.

Another thoughtful pause before he replied, "Yeah, I think so."

"I'm very pleased, son. I'm pleased that you have found somebody to love. And at a relatively young age. We've already talked about the risks you'll face loving another boy so I won't belabor the point. I just want to give you an opinion. Cherish your love. Nurture it. Be prepared to sacrifice in order to maintain it. It won't be easy but if both of you commit to each other, the two of you can be very happy."

I'm sure that what I said startled him. It may have been the opposite of what he expected to hear. But it did open him up enough to ask, "So you're cool with having a gay son?"

"I'm cool with having a happy son. If you're gay and happy, I'm delighted. If you were straight and happy, I would also be delighted."

His eyes got watery, he gave me a hug, and said, "I love you, Dad," but quickly added, "Not the same as I love Chris, though."

We both laughed and I said, "I hope not. I wouldn't want to break up a loving couple." That brought more laughs. Then I said, "Why don't you get us a couple of beers."

"Beers?" he asked incredulously. "I'm not allowed to drink beer."

"If you've never had a beer, don't get one for yourself. But I think you ought to get two beers." He giggled, fetched two beers, returned with a broad smile on his face, and sat down.

"Thanks for understanding," he said. "I was afraid you were going to talk about Chris and me having sex and were going to tell me to start dating girls."

"Dating girls may be an option for you at some point but right now it seems that Chris means more to you. Am I right?"

"Yeah, dad. I can't even imagine loving a girl like I love Chris...or even liking them."

"Two years ago...Remember when you forgot about the video camera? That was probably just sex. I'm not so old that I can't remember being 13 going on 20. Now it's much more than sex beteeen you two and that's even better."

Alex gave me a puzzled look and asked a question I was not expecting. "Did you mess around when you were young?"

Fortunately, a response came to mind. "I've told you to be careful about who knows what you and Chris are doing. Well...I'm careful, too so I don't talk about what I may or may not have done." It was a lawyerly response that dismissed the question without answering it.

Alex pondered my response and said, enigmatically, "I don't think you have to talk about it. I think I know the answer."

He guessed wrong. I had the compelling urges but never the luck or courage to act on them. From puberty onward, I lived two lives. My inner life was by then so insulated from view that my son's suspicions were as close as anyone had come to recognizing it.

For the next two years, I would, from time to time, shamelessly watch Alex and Chris make love. I found it to be erotic but more than anything, I found vicarious satisfaction in witnessing their growing love for one another.

When Alex entered college, he and Chris shared an apartment and, at the end of their freshman year, came out. My wife was devastated by the revelation and was depressed for months before she accepted it and reconciled with her only son. I, on the other hand, was proud of him for recognizing who he was and having the courage to live as he wanted.

7. Dreams come true

Alex and the middle daughter had finished college and had jobs in the St. Louis area and the youngest was in her senior year at UCLA when my wife was killed in an automobile accident. It was a particularly difficult time for my children and I mourned a little but we all resumed our lives. As a 45 year old man with a successful career and reasonably wealthy, I found that women--divorced, widowed, and married--were making plays for my attention. However, I deflected all their advances and resolved to lead a single life...unless, of course, an opportunity for a discrete relationship with a man presented itself. My outward persona was so well established, however, that it seemed unlikely in the extreme that my inner self could find the fulfillment that had been denied for so long.

I traveled to Miami to call on an important client of my company. I spent all day Wednesday with Mark who was the leader of a team that had recommended buying my company's product. He was close to my age and, it turned out, shared many of my interests: flying, fishing, and cooking. I invited him to dinner that evening where, having left the protocols of business behind, we formed an immediate friendship. I learned that he was recently divorced and lived in a condo overlooking the beach where he spent much of his free time swimming, surfing, and fishing.

After an excellent meal and a few after-dinner drinks, it was late. The next day, Thursday, would be a busy one for both of us so we parted. I returned to my hotel room with a slight buzz and fond memories of a delightful evening with pleasant company.

Late Thursday, Mark asked when I would be returning to St. Louis. I had plans to spend a long weekend in Miami, which I knew to have a sizable gay population, but I lied and said I would be returning home early the next day. I could hardly tell Mark of my plans for oogling the flesh in Miami for three days.

I spent much of Friday on the beach admiring the tanned bodies of men and wishing that it were possible to make friends with one who was willing to spend some time with a horny, middle-aged man. It was, of course, an impossible dream so, feeling frustrated and lonely, I grabbed an early supper. I dreaded returning to my empty hotel room and decided to walk around for a while. Turning a corner, I saw a gay bar and was immediately tempted to go inside. At least, I thought, a pick-up in a gay bar might put me in the company of a man who was willing, if only for one night, to share some sex. However, my obsessive concern over maintaining a straight image argued against taking the risk. I walked past the bar but began debating with myself over missing perhaps the only opportunity I might have to experience what had been a suppressed dream.

In the time it took to circle the block and return to the bar, I had decided to scuttle my facade of straight, upstanding citizen. I entered, sat at the bar, and ordered a drink before turning my attention to the clientele. They were predominantly young, under 30, and there were several obvious couples. Their attire ranged from leather-butch to yuppie-chic. Their behavior ranged from pseudo-macho to fairy-feminine. I found none of them especially appealing but I did not seem to be appealing to them either. No one seemed to pay attention to me, a fit but middle-aged man nursing a scotch and soda at the bar.

I was about to leave when someone behind me called my name. I turned and saw Mark. In a fraction of a second, my reaction changed from surprise to fear to desperately trying to fabricate an explanation for being in a gay bar.

Mark surely saw my expression and correctly interpreted its meaning but he graciously ignored it and said very cheerfully, "What a pleasant surprise. I thought you would be on your way home."

I tried frantically to think of something to say but my mind was in chaos. "Change of plans," I stammered.

Mark sat next to me, ordered a beer and another scotch and soda for me, and said, "I'm glad for that...the change of plans, I mean."

When our drinks arrived, he paid the bartender and suggested, "There's an empty booth over there; let's grab it. It's more comfortable than these stools."

Walking to the booth, I realized that there was no plausible excuse for my being in a gay bar. I made a snap decision to be frank with him. I hoped that the rapport we had developed the previous evening meant that I could trust his discretion and he wouldn't out me. As soon as we had settled into the booth, I said, "Look. I didn't expect to be recognized in...ahh...in a gay bar. It's...well...it's a side of me that nobody knows." To emphasize my point, I added, "Nobody!"

Sensing my situation immediately, he said, "And nobody will. I was in the closet for a long time myself so I know how you feel."

"My friends, my family, my business associates..." I began.

"Say no more," he said. "They'll only know what you choose tell them. Nobody will hear anything from me."

"Thanks for understanding," I said sincerely.

"It is a bit of a surprise, though," he mused. "I mean you talked about your late wife and children so I thought..."

"That I was straight?" I finished his thought. "Only to the outside world."

"Let me guess," he said. "You've been gay for a long time. You married and had a family because it was expected of you. But the gay side of you never went away. Am I right?"

"Exactly. How did you know?"

"That's my story, too. I've been gay since puberty but only admitted it to myself at about age 16. Like you, I married because it was the thing to do."

"And nobody knew?" I asked.

"Nobody. Until about three years ago. I made friends with a guy I met on the beach and we...ahh...became very friendly. When my wife found out, she divorced me."

"You have a boyfriend?" I asked.

"Had. He split, leaving me without a wife or a boyfriend. So I've been celibate for over two years. You've never had a boyfriend?"

"No, I'm afraid not. I don't have the courage that you had. There's the part of me that everyone sees and there's a deeper part that's been concealed. I've had a few opportunities but never had your courage to follow through."

"Courage? No. More like weakness. I met Chip and let lust get the better of me. It cost me a very expensive divorce. In a way, you're the courageous one to keep your desires under control."

I appreciated his compliment but I envied him for having acted on his desires. I was beginning to feel more at ease, mostly due to Mark's empathy and his sensitivity to my situation.

We swapped stories for a while. I felt perfectly comfortable telling him of my life-long frustrations, my botched opportunities, and, somehow, it felt almost liberating to do so. We had just finished our drinks when Mark said, "Let's go to my place. It's a lot quieter and more comfortable. It's just a short walk from here."

His meaning was fairly clear; my visit to his condo would result in more than conversation. My inner self wanted to accept his invitation but my habitual caution made me hesitate.

"Look," he said softly. "You've lost some opportunities. Don't let this one slip by. I think we both need some...shall we say...companionship?"

"Thanks for the offer. And the encouragement. I'd love to."

His condo was sparsely furnished but spacious with a magnificent view of the beach and the ocean. He fixed us drinks, two scotch and sodas, and we settled on the sofa.

It wasn't long before he asked, "You'll spend the night, won't you?"

With no hesitation, I replied, "I'd love to."

He took my hand and led me to the bedroom where a double bed awaited. Having committed to finally having sex with a man, I suddenly grew nervous, which he noticed right away. We sat on the edge of the bed. "Relax," he assured me. "You set the pace. Take control. Don't feel as though you have to do anything you're not comfortable with. Let's just take it slow and easy and enjoy each other."

I had left my outer shell of respectability back at the bar. When he gently placed his hand on my thigh, my inner self that had been smothered for so long took control. My arms wrapped around his shoulders and I began to kiss him passionately. He responded in kind and our tongues were dueling in and out of each other's mouths. Breaking the kiss, I began to take off his shirt and then lick and kiss his prominent nipples. He did the same to me and before long, we were naked on the bed, our hands and mouths roaming freely across each other's body. I was driven by pure lust but Mark matched my fervor. My cock was harder than it had been for years and the precum was flowing profusely.

Without any conscious thought that I recall, I switched to a 69 position and hungrily sucked on his rigid cock, tasting for the first time another man's precum. When he began to swallow my cock, I gasped, stopped breathing for a moment, and I think my heart skipped several beats. His skillful mouth and tongue brought me to the brink very quickly and then, without so much as a word of warning to Mark, I discharged several loads of cum into his mouth.

It took me a few moments to recover from the best orgasm of my life before I could resume suckling his throbbing cock. Soon, he presented me with a considerable quantity of hot cum that I savored before swallowing.

We cuddled together for quite some time, saying little. I found that to be, in its way, as satisfying as the sexual release of moments before. After all, this was not a casual pick up in a bar but a person I had grown to like and admire. Sharing our naked bodies in an embrace was therefore extremely fulfilling.

"Are you sure you haven't done this before?" Mark asked.

"Only in my imagination," I replied.

"Well, for the first time at bat, you sure hit a home run."

I laughed and replied, "It must have been the balls I was playing with." Then we both laughed.

Mark began caressing my chest, nipples, and stomach. By the time his hand reached my crotch, I was hard again and he said, "Looks like you've got your bat ready for the second inning."

"Yes," I laughed. But I think I'd like to take more time...to enjoy it longer. Okay?"

During the second session, while my mouth was savoring his hard cock, my hands were massaging his ass cheeks and toying with his pucker. When he returned the favor, I realized I was on the brink again. I released his cock long enough to say, "I'd like this to go on forever, Mark, but I don't think I can hold back.

"Let it go," he said. "We've got all night-lots of time to do it again."

It was nearly 3 a.m. when we fell asleep in each other's arms and almost 10 the next morning when we woke. After breakfast, we returned to his bed where he introduced me to the joy of fucking and being fucked.

By early afternoon, I had retrieved my things from the hotel, checked out, and returned to Mark's condo. We spent the afternoon at the beach where, being a Saturday, there were a lot more hunks to admire. After supper at a beach-front restaurant, we returned to Mark's condo and got very little sleep but a lot of sex.

On Sunday morning, I reluctantly packed my things and Mark drove me to the airport for my flight home. During the drive, I said, "I really appreciate your hospitality and would like to return the favor. There's a lodge just an hour's drive from my home with a great fishing lake. If you're ever in the neighborhood, I'd like to show it to you."

He grinned to signal his understanding of my intent and said, "I've got a vacation scheduled for next month. Lake fishing sounds a lot better than hiking in the Appalachians."

"Great," I said. "I've got plenty of fishing tackle...if you think we'll need it."

Epilog

For the next two years, Mark and I spent frequent weekends and vacations together during which time our relationship morphed from one of periodic sexual pleasure to one of deep affection and finally to genuine love. Mark took a job in the St. Louis area as General Manager of a regional construction company. He bought a condo and we spent as much time together as possible. We each led two lives--an outward, socially acceptable one and a private life that, for both of us, was extraordinarily satisfying. That changed when I took an early retirement. Mark sold his condo and moved in with me. Alex's reaction was, "Way to go, Pop!" but my daughters never quite accepted that their father was gay. As for my former business and community associates...well...I didn't give a damn.

 

Posted:08/03/07