Cock-Sucker: Learning The Game

It's only now I realise the other two guys have vanished, and so have my clothes! I'm left wandering around looking for them, feeling stupid, in the smell of warm leaves and the sleepy hum of insects, until Jo-Beth tells me they've hidden my clothes across the road in the old barn. Maybe she feels sorry for me? Maybe it was the plan all along. Maybe she and Jackson just want to get rid of me so they can have their own one-on-one spin-the-bottle? Whatever, now I'm emerging from the copse and jogging down the twisting rude dirt track, the sun warming my bare skin, my cock going bump, bump, bump against my thigh, I have to hide as Widow Esslin walks her dog Scrat up from the other direction – crouching down behind a screen of shrubs, I realise the clover is still in place. Pulling it out is the only time it stings!, then I'm crossing the road nude and startling that poor truck driver. I finally find my jeans and T-shirt in an untidy pile inside the empty barn, minus only my underpants, which never reappear. Had Jo-Beth kept them as a kind of trophy? Or had they just been dropped and got lost as they laughed their way carrying my clothes down from Witty's Wood to here? Oddly I was expecting some 'you want them back, you gotta do something for us' deal. In fact that night, lying in bed, fingering myself where the clover-stalk had been, I was imaging all manner of weird things. What might they have made me do to get my clothes back? A wank here, a suck there? I'd have no choice but to do it, right...?

Hearing such stuff was maybe why Vince had selected me out in the first place. And yes, I admit it, despite what I've said after that night, I also went with the fat kid again. He was eating in a 'Krusty-Burger' fast-food joint beside the big chrome jukebox, and he says 'hi'. He buys me a Shake, and seems ingratiatingly friendly. He told me his name was Jerome, I'd not known until then. He says he has something to show me that I'll like. I was dubious but had nothing better to do, nowhere to go, no-one to see, and time to kill, so curiosity gets the better of my lethargy. He lives over the tracks in a rundown part of town, not what I'd expected. He still lives with his parents, doesn't work, and doesn't seem to do much of anything.

We go in the back way, sneaking up the stairs to his bedroom. I was warily on guard, but he reaches under his bed and pulls out a faded red box, flips the lid, and inside is his secret stash of Gay Porn mags. Mostly they were small pocket-size publications lavish with black-&-white photos. One or two are pulp-size with colour-spreads. All are full of nude guys in pin-up poses, or entwined in sex acts. Some are real hard-core, with dirty fiction and letters. We sit on the bed and begin browsing them, his little porcine eyes glittering as he sniggers. The magazines are well-thumbed, some of the pages stained. At length he reaches out and puts his hand on my groin – 'to see if I'm getting off on the explicit photos'. I was. He holds the evidence. When I make no objection he unzips my pants and pulls me out, begins playing with my erection and wanking me with his clammy pudgey fingers. Vince never did that. Vince never touched me in a sexual way.

There's still something about him I don't like, yet his firm touch feels good. I relax and let him do what he wants. Then he makes to ease his own pants down. I see the ghost half-moon of a skid-mark on his underpants. For a second I was alarmed, then remember how big he is, and how he tasted, and I'm already past-persuaded. My heart tells me what to do. Soon I'm feeling him up too, firm and warm to the touch, and inevitably sucking him, as I knew I would, from the moment I saw its fat cock-head quivering up into view. How could I not? I was fated. Almost before I know it, and against my better judgement, its fleshy urgency is filling my mouth. When he simpers 'Wow, your gob would make a Popsicle real happy' his voice is oddly tense, and he makes a lustful grunting noise like a strangulated piglet when he comes across my tongue, around the same time I come in his fist.

Almost immediately he says 'I remember you at Vince's party, Shee-it, was that a night! What do you think about when you're sucking a cock?' 'Sometimes I think of nothing at all' my face colouring in a warm bashful flush, 'or else I pretend someone's down there sucking me, and I try to do to the guy I'm sucking what I'd like the imaginary guy to do to me'. He considers my response while wiping his fingers, 'good answer'. 'When you suck another guy's cock, what you're really doing, subconsciously, is sucking your own' I explain. 'You can suck me, but I'm never going to suck you, understand? I don't do that kind of stuff' he insists. 'That's fine, I didn't expect...' 'That's as well, 'cos I could never bring myself to do that'. Maybe he's protesting just a little too much to be entirely convincing? Despite disliking him, his cock still looks so good. I was tonguing a pubic hair from between my teeth, as he begins pointing out to me photo-pages of pretty boys bent over being buggered, with an obvious agenda. I'm not ready for that, the thought of a big cock up my little bottom, it scares me, I concentrate on the oral photos instead.

How had he acquired these mags anyway, out here in the sticks? He sure as hell hadn't bought them at the local store, or got them mail-order? Did he have an older male friend who... er, shares his interest? Maybe brought them for him from out of town in trade for... er, favours? A randy uncle maybe? I was scared to ask, but could luridly imagine. I manage to steal a couple of his mags when he goes to take a piss. Later, as I slip out the back way I hear his Mum calling out 'does your friend want a bite to eat?' and Jerome sniggers suggestively 'no, he just ate'.

I never went back, but read the stolen magazines over and over until I know them off by heart. Each picture of naked smiling youths proudly displaying their ample todgers. Of naked smiling boys playing with each other's erections. Big-cocked boys cavorting care-free on beaches, or in gardens. Of naked boys obviously enjoying sucking cock, unashamedly revelling in the sensuality of it. It was those pages which first intimated to me that there was sex-life beyond what I knew, beyond the county, and that there were other boys out there who love doing what I love doing. It put things into perspective. I wanted to be one of those out-proud boys in the photos. Not the shame-faced furtive hiding-in-corners sex I was having to settle for. The difference, I decided, was that Jerome's sexuality was probably gay. Vince and the others were not, they were chasing skirt – only when that was not available they'd settle for me. Vince had said as much that night of the party when he'd explained how you're gay 'if you've got someone's Dick in your mouth, maybe, but if you're getting sucked – hell no, a mouth is a mouth'. He once told me 'I suck cock like a bad girl'. I'd taken the comment as a compliment. But this is what he'd meant. I was a convenient substitute for a 'bad girl', an available 'sword-swallower', a fuckable mouth. Nothing more. It was all on his terms, I was just a mouth he needed to get off in. A purely functional way of getting rid of excess sexual energy. That's the bitter truth.

There are a couple of other times I go with Vince, once some time later, passing me in the street in his Daddy's car he picks me up, he doesn't say much, we barely speak. I'm always tongue-tied in his company, in case I say anything dumb. I long to tell him how much I appreciate the taste of his cock, the feel of his spunk spurting off in my mouth, in bed at home I practice ways of saying it that will sound casual, 'I like your cock, Vince, you've got a nice cock', but instead I just sit there, my throat dry with nervous trepidation as he takes me to Lookout Hill where her says 'OK kid, lollypop time', and I suck him off in the car seat. He doesn't need to say more or tell me what to do, we both know what we're there for. I know what I'm doing, and like doing it. Humming softly to myself, perfectly happy doing it. I was careful not to drool a spunk-stain on the upholstery so he'll catch hell from his old man. I hope he appreciates that. I doubt he does.

Another time we go to a movie (I pay) and I suck him off under the cover of darkness as the movie plays. While the horror-zombies on-screen are up there sucking brains, I'm contentedly sucking something else entirely. I imagined it was almost like a date. Me, and him, together, his hand resting gently on the back of my head as I swallow his sudden rush of sperm, almost tenderly. And as the lights come up he asks me for my crumpled handkerchief and wipes dribble-smudges of spunk from my chin in a way that seems almost considerate... although it was probably so no-one can guess what we've been doing. He didn't like for us to be seen together, but I could never pass up the chance of being with him, even though it was never quite the same again.

No, he wasn't my first. But he was the first guy I was serious about. The first that I cared enough about what he thought. That's why I remember him. I was learning the game. Experiences like this, however painful, are necessary. But after that party at Vince's word seemed to get around, and I was more popular than I'd ever been. Yet when the guys invite me on a fishing trip to the old weir I know what they have in mind, I know exactly what I'll be fishing out of their pants and into my mouth, 'cos that's the only reason they let me tag along. If I don't go down on them, they won't include me next time, and that'd be worse. Or if I don't suck on it for them, they won't let me come around to their house when their parents are out, and do it there. Jo-Beth has suddenly got the kind of tits some guys go for, and she's not shy of using them. Like her trailer-trash Mom. She apparently has other little-town-flirt attractions too. I'm competing with her for their attention. All I have to offer is my deep-throat.

Of course, I have crushes on some guys, and I have my favourite cocks, but I can't afford to be too choosey. My chromosomes are different. I want what I could never have, and what I could have, I didn't want. And those small-town guys, they're probably married now, or divorced and bitter, into alcoholism and alimony. I wonder, in the midst of it all, do they sometimes think of me, and how much easier and less complicated it was to get something as simple as a richly satisfying blowjob back then? Or has time rewritten every line? And Jerome – has he straightened up, gone to fat-camp, or moved to the Frisco Gay Village and found his true self? Or is he the small-town weirdo-perv that mothers avoid and kids whisper about behind his back? And me? I don't know. It doesn't matter. I just like what I like, and take what I can. While I'm out here, doing this...