Richard's Story
by: Will B
(© 2008 by the Author)
Advisor: E Walk

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

Aided, abetted, encouraged and edited by EW and GY,

Who are two of the nicest guys, editors, mentors, I have met

ever since I started posting in April 2007.

Introduction: This story is a spin off from my story, Cousins All. Ed has strongly suggested that I make the story of Troy and Richard into a separate story, so I am going to try. I hope my faithful readers will enjoy this new story. Cousins All will also be continued.

Chapter 1

Richard Vidmark, a 45-year-old captain in the Baltimore City Police Department, was sitting in the study in his three-story row house in the Bolton Hill section of Baltimore. Richard was six-feet-two-inches tall; he had blond hair and blue eyes. He was drop-dead gorgeous. He shared his house with his partner, 43-year-old Troy Hunter, who was six-foot-one, and had brown hair and blue eyes. Both men could have gotten jobs as models for men’s swim wear in any clothing-store catalog in the country.

On Richard’s desk was a blank book, a journal. He picked up his pen and started to write.

Monday, 10 June 1985. I originally thought I’d keep this Journal for my sons, Joshua and Nathan,  to read someday, but that’s not to be. My two sons, handsome and witty, and intelligent and loving, would be 17 if they were here today, but they’re not.

He stopped writing and thought to himself, ‘Oh, God, I miss them! How could I have been so blind as to what they were getting up to? I guess like many fathers I was so busy getting ahead with my career and wrapped up in my own interests, I didn’t pay enough attention to them.

Richard thought, ‘I need to write what I am feeling in the Journal.  Perhaps some one will benefit from what I am thinking.’

If I could, I would tell, beg, all fathers:  please, please! Be involved with your children’s lives. Pay attention to their interests. Encourage them to bring their friends home, and always make those friends feel welcome.

He continued writing.

Even though this’ll never be read by my sons, I’ve decided to keep this journal in which to write out my life story, and my thoughts and hopes. I may -- no, I will -- let Troy read it.

My parents were born in Norway. My Papa, Nils, and my Mama, Helena (Petersen) Vidmark, came to the United States from Trondheim, Norway. Dad found work in the Bethlehem Steel Shipyards. I guess like his Viking ancestors, he loved building ships.

My brother Fredrik, named for King Fredrick of Denmark, brother of King Haakon of Norway, I think, was born in 1939, and I was born in 1940. Our sister, Ingrid, was born in 1943.

Mama and Papa had bought a row house on Haubert St. in Locust Point, South Baltimore, not too far from Fort McHenry. There they lived and raised us three children. We went to the Francis Scott Key School #76 on Fort Avenue, and on Sundays we went to the Martini Lutheran Church.

Papa and Mama were proud to be American citizens, but they never forgot their Norwegian heritage. In the dining room there were two pictures: one of President Roosevelt, and one of King Haakon VII of Norway, who had been crowned King of Norway at Trondheim in 1906, after Norway was declared independent from Sweden. Protruding above Roosevelt’s picture was a flagstaff supporting an American flag above the President. A Norwegian flag hung above King Haakon’s picture.

One of Mama’s prized possessions was an upright piano, and she loved to play the works of the famous Norwegian composer, Edvard Grieg. Sometimes I thought that if I heard ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King’ one more time, I’d go crazy. Now, I’d give my eyeteeth to be able to hear Mama play that piece one more time.

Mama played American songs, too, and sometimes in the evening she would play and sing with Papa ‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart,’ ‘In the Good Old Summertime,’ ‘Meet Me in St. Louis,’ and other romantic songs of the day. Papa and Mama sang beautifully together. We  three children loved our parents and we loved hearing them sing.

There were only three bedrooms in the house. Papa and Mama had one, Ingrid had one, and Fred and I shared one. One night, when I was 11 and Fred was 12, Fred grabbed me and started to tickle me, and then he touched my penis. Waves of a new sensation shot through my body. I looked at Fred in some surprise.

Richard remembered that night as if it were yesterday.

“Did you mind me doing that?” Fred asked.

“No, it ... it ... felt kind of good.”

“Do you want to touch mine?” he asked.

“OK,” I said. When I touched it, it was kind of slippery at the end.

Fred gave a little sigh, and said “Ohhh, Richard, don’t stop! That feels so good!”

So began our nightly ‘touching and tickling’ sessions. We had to be quiet because we didn’t want Papa or Mama to hear us.

This went on for some time. One night, when Fred was 13 and I was 12, I was touching him, when suddenly a stream of white stuff shot out and landed on my hand and on the bed. I was scared. What had I done?

Fred told me I hadn’t done anything wrong. He told me that that white stuff meant he could make babies. He assured me that it would happen to me, too, some day.

I didn’t want to believe him at first, but then I remembered how Papa had explained to us that men would plant a seed in the woman’s body, and if conditions were right, a baby would start to grow. He told us that the seed came through our penis, but he never, NEVER said how good it would feel when it did come. I found that out for myself, when I was pulling on my pecker, and  had my first ejaculation. That white stuff squirted out all over my chest and my stomach. I didn’t care about the mess. It felt great. I wanted to do it again and again.

When I told Fred, he clapped me on the back, and said, "Good for you, Richard," and then he asked me if it felt good when that stuff came out.

I assured him that it certainly did.

Something else happened a few nights later. We were in bed, and I was just about asleep when I heard Fred softly call my name and ask me if I were asleep.

I was pretty tired, so I didn’t answer him. He asked again, and again I didn’t answer him.

Then I felt his hand touch the waistband of my underpants, and then the fly of the pants. I lay still, pretending to be asleep. Slowly, his hands reached inside my underpants and gently took hold of my pecker, which was getting pretty hard.

Again, he asked if I were asleep.

I didn’t want to answer him, so I kept quiet.

Then, I felt his lips, his mouth, touch my pecker, and then he began to suck me. Again, I felt these incredible sensations shoot through my body. My peter got hard and stood straight out from my body.

I wanted to tell him not to stop, to keep on sucking, but I lay quietly, and then I sensed him pulling away and turn over to his side of the bed. I thought I heard him crying, and asking God to forgive him.

I wanted to reach over and hug him and tell him it was all right, tell him that I didn’t mind. In fact, I wanted to tell him that I’d like him to keep on doing it, and then the thought struck me, ‘What would it be like if I sucked on his pecker?’

I kept quiet and finally got to sleep.

Richard remembered the next night when Fred started to feel the waistband of his shorts and put his hand inside and he felt Richard’s penis, which immediately got hard. When he began pulling his under-pants down, Richard remembered saying,  “Fred, let me help you.”

“What! Are you awake?” 

“Yeh, Fred. I was awake last night, too.”

“Oh, Richard, I’m sorry. Please don’t tell Papa. I won’t do it again. I just couldn’t help myself!” Fred began to cry.

“Fred, don’t cry. I’m not going to tell Papa. I liked what you did last night and I was hoping you would do it again!”

“You did? Then, I will,” Fred said.

Fred sucked my peter each night. Added sensations of pleasure came from Fred’s hand on my backside, lightly caressing my butt, tickling the little hairs that covered my boy butt. Each night when I was about to shoot my stuff, I would pull away from Fred. I didn’t want to shoot in his mouth.

One night I whispered to Fred that I wanted to suck his. 

Fred could hardly believe it, and asked me if I really wanted to. Then he moved so that he lay on his side facing me, and I put my head on a level with his erect four-inch boy cock.

I took his cock in my mouth. It was hard and had little droplets of moisture on the end (I didn’t know what precum was). The tip of his prick was soft, cone-shaped, and velvety smooth. I moved my tongue over it, back and forth. Fred was writhing in ecstasy.

I used my hand to caress his butt cheeks, too. I would work my fingers into his crack, and this caused him to writhe even more.

Suddenly, without any warning, he shot his stuff, hot and creamy, right into my mouth.

Fred apologized, telling me he was sorry, and that he meant to pull out, but he just didn’t do it in time.

I told him that it was all right, that I didn’t mind, and that it  tasted kind of good.

Fred was so pleased that he told me that the next time he was sucking me,  I could shoot into his mouth.

A couple of times we tried sucking each other simultaneously, but we found that 's.s.' as we called it, wasn’t as much fun as each one sucking the other one at a time. It was because when we took turns, our tongues could lick along the bottom of each other’s shaft, and this was one of the most sensitive parts of our organs.

Richard thought about the nights of ‘oral exploration’ and the pleasure he and Fred gave to each other.

Remembering those early days of discovering the joys of sex -- jerking off, sucking cocks, and playing with ass cracks was having quite an effect on Richard. He found he couldn’t wait until Troy came home. He got up, went into the bathroom, and relieved his tension. He came back, and sat down and began to write again.

This went on for two years. One day, when I was 13 and Fred was 14, Papa came to me, and said that he and Mama had decided that Fred and I were both getting to be too old to share a room, and so Fred was going to have his own room in the basement.

Papa never gave a reason, and Fred and I never talked about why he did this but our sucking and jerking games gradually came to an end.

We never thought of ourselves as ‘gay’ or ‘queer.' We were just ‘exploring,' like so many boys did, and still do. To us, ‘queers’ were men who talked funny, or held their arms with limp wrists. Fred and I enjoyed sports. We began to notice those creatures that were human, but dressed, acted, and thought differently from us boys. They were girls!

Again, Richard stopped writing, and sat, remembering his brother Fred, who grew up, graduated high school. He was good at sports, and popular with boys and girls his own age. Although he and Richard had stopped their ‘explorations’ he was always a loving brother. He would invite Richard to go with him and his friends from time to time.

Fred joined the army and was sent to Korea. He was killed on the eve of his 22nd birthday. I remember that fateful Sunday morning when the two officers arrived at the house to tell us the news.

Richard began to think about that Saturday morning. Papa, Mama, Ingrid and he were getting ready for breakfast. Mama had looked out of the front window, and had seen a black car pull up in front of the house. Two officers, in full dress uniform, got out of the car and came to the door. Mama knew what that meant. She had seen such cars pull up in front of other houses in the neighborhood. “Papa! Come here!” she called.

The two officers knocked on their door, and Papa let them in. Mama stood to receive them. Ingrid and I were by her side.

The senior officer spoke, “Ma’am, Sir, we regret to inform you of ...”

Papa interrupted him.  “It’s Fred, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir. He was killed in enemy action. I was in his unit. He was a brave soldier and did his duty. I’m so sorry.”

The officer handed Papa the official telegram.

“Thank you, officers,” Papa could barely manage to speak.

Mama seemed to gather some inner strength, and moved to the officers. “Yes. Thank you for coming in person. Will there ... will there be ... will they be sending his body ... back, for a funeral?”

“No, ma’am. His plane was shot down.”

After they had delivered the news, the officers shook hands with Papa and Mama, and then with Ingrid and me, and left. About an hour later, there was a knock on the door. Our next-door neighbor, Margaretta Johansen, stood there, with a bouquet of flowers and a covered plate of food. She was another Norwegian immigrant. She came in, gave a slight curtsey to Mama, as was the custom in the old country, and handed the flowers to Ingrid, and the plate of food to me, and then gave Mama a loving embrace. She turned to Papa and gave him a hug, too.

All day long, neighbors called with flowers and food, and expressions of loving sympathy. The Pastor came and prayed with us. His visit, his prayers, and his love did bring some comfort to us.

Again, Richard sat, remembering that awful day, and the memorial service in the church a few days later.

I can’t remember exactly what was said, but I remembered the reading of the 23rd Psalm. As the pastor read the scripture, many in the congregation recited the words aloud with him. When he came to the verse about the ‘valley of the shadow of death,’ Papa’s and Mama’s voice could be heard, reciting the rest of the psalm.

Afterwards, there was a reception in the church hall. The neighbors had brought food, and there was enough left over for Mama to take home so that she wouldn’t have to cook for a week.

Again, Richard stopped writing as he thought about his parents. They were loving parents who showed their love by providing a home and food for their children. They didn’t have a lot of money for luxuries, but they tried to have some treats for the children -- the occasional trip to Memorial Stadium to see the Orioles play, once in a while, a few days in Ocean City, Maryland.

Richard’s thoughts turned to the five days when he was 13 when he had gone to a church retreat. He remembered the ride in a school bus to the college where the retreat was to be held. He remembered the fun he and his friends had singing and joking on the bus. He remembered the food at mealtimes, and the evening campfires, but most of all, he remembered the nights in the dorm with his roommate, his friend, Danny.

My parents always stressed it was important to do the right thing, regardless of what one’s ‘friends’ were doing or what they might try to pressure me into trying.

When the time came for Papa to have ‘The Talk' with me, as I said before, my first reaction was ‘I don’t believe it!’ but as time went on, I did come to believe and wonder about it. Papa stressed that it was not a good thing for a woman to have a baby when she wasn’t married.

Papa never talked much, if at all, about jacking off, and about methods of contraception, so I grew up knowing about some things but not about others.

What lessons did Papa and Mama try to teach us children? Resist peer pressure and do the right thing. Tell the truth, work hard, and try to follow Christ’s commandment to love one another. We were not to judge other people (and this was, and is, probably the hardest lesson to learn). Neither parent used profanity unless they were extremely angry. 'Damn' might be heard occasionally, but 'God damn' almost never.

To be continued.

Feedback welcome. Do you have any memories of growing up and the early days of ‘exploring?’ Would you want to share?      

Posted: 05/23/08