Boys Will Be Boys - Their First Time (49 page)

My hands were back around his waist.
I began inching down his shorts, planning to remove them, but he put his hands on mine to stop me
and guided them to my own shirt.
I hesitated, let him give me a look of askance
then I smiled, understanding.
He needed a bit of a breather.

He leaned back against the door and watched as I pulled off my
T-
shirt.
No hair on my chest.
No real definition of muscle.
No abs to speak of.
Just the vague outline of my pecs and two tiny pink tits over a smooth belly.
My shoulders were wide enough, I suppose, and I had next to no fat on me
,
but up to this point in time, I had only attracted older men and dip-shits who said I looked like I was still in high school (the perverts).
And I
’
d expected nothing more up to that point.
But then Aaron gave me his secret smile and pulled me close, and we kissed, again
,
and the world spun out of control, for an instant.

His arms were strong around me, the hair on them tickling my skin as he held me tight.
Enveloped me in his grip.
Oh dear God, I never wanted him to move
,
never wanted him to let go.
He slid his hands down my spine
,
down to just above my butt
,
and stopped.
I started to do the same to him
,
trailing my fingers down the small of his back to the point where his ass began to curve around
,
just under the elastic of his shorts
,
and he pulled away, shaking his head.
Not just yet, boss.
Not just yet.

No problem.
I took his hands in mine and pulled him back into the room and drew him close to me.
The room was growing darker in the night air.
Pale light wandered in from the moon (was it a full one?
It seemed that bright) and offered just enough illumination to see.
He moved close to me, his gaze wary and expectant
,
and I shoved him onto the bed.

He fell back, laughing in surprise then I collapsed on top of him and held his hands above him.
Now let
’
s be real
.
A
ll he had to do to get free was give me one quick shove.
But he didn
’
t; he just lay there
and let me kiss him
,
let me lay on top of him
,
let me rub my chest against his and my tits against his and my belly against his and my crotch against his.
Even through my jeans I could feel how rock solid he was
,
how ready.
That
’
s when I began tracing my lips down the center of his body along the path of pleasure laid out by his golden hair, he stretched back a bit to make the journey just a hint longer.

My tongue danced through the soft trail of down, gliding over and around the muscles of his abs, dipping into his navel, twirling through the patch below that slowly widened to meet the center of the universe.
I let my hands drift over to his hips to gently pull at the shorts
,
and he did not stop me, this time.
I tugged at them.
They slipped down past his tan line
and past the elastic to his briefs
and kept gliding lower and lower until I had them down to his thighs.
Now I could see how big and full and wonderful he was under the white cotton that still formed around his hips.

My heart was pounding out an earthquake.
I slid his shorts slowly
,
slowly
,
all the way down those perfect legs, using my thumbs to guide them and letting my fingers whisper over tiny gentle hairs that gleamed even in the moonlight.
His muscles curved into his knees so exactly and rolled out again to form well-developed calves covered with even more of the golden corn-silk before curling down to solid masculine ankles.

I removed the shorts, lifting one foot and then the other, then slipped off his sneakers and floppy socks.
Man
,
even his toes were good and strong and shaped just right, with hints of golden hair dancing across them.
I got to thinking
t
his can
’
t be possible.
I can
’
t really be doing this.
This guy can
’
t be as wonderful as I think.
I
’
m just obsessing and making too much over someone who
’
s only good-looking, nothing more.
There
’
s something wrong here.

So I stood up and looked at him
and everything about him
.
I dunno – it just fit just right.
His shoulders and neck and chest and waist and hips and thighs and arms and head lying across my well-crushed sheets
–
the vision accentuated by a pair of new clean white cotton briefs
and his calves draped over the bed
’
s side.
It hurt to see him lying there
,
looking up at me
,
waiting for my next move.
Suddenly, I didn
’
t trust my eyes
,
didn
’
t trust my perceptions
,
didn
’
t believe I was where I was and was doing what I was doing.
It was all too overwhelming.

I reached down and gently took his hands and silently guided him to his feet.
He almost spoke
,
but I put a finger to his lips
,
then closed his eyes
,
then slowly
,
softly allowed my fingertips to drift down his cheeks to his neck to his shoulders to his arms to his hands.
Then I closed my eyes and slid down to my knees and allowed my fingers to wander over to his thighs.
As I touched the hair that swirled up his skin, I envisioned flowing fields of grain on a brisk golden day.
As I let my fingers follow the smooth form of his muscles, I pictured rolling hills after a gentle summer rain.
As the backs of my fingers rose up the insides of his legs, gliding along the curls of his calves and small humps of his knees and the gentle build of his thighs, I saw a secret lake blessed with cool clean water laughing around a bright and happy shoreline.

I pulled my hands back around his legs at the last moment and let them curve to the back
to where the hair grew soft and sparse just before his muscles leapt up and around to form his rear.
I could feel the bottom of his briefs, tight against him, digging into the skin ever so slightly.
The cotton rolled around tiny straps of elastic that held it in place at the junction of his legs to his hips.
It was warm
yet cool.
I could feel him shivering
,
hear it in his breath.
I hesitated only an instant before letting my fingers gently glide up and over the smooth roundness of his rear.

What did I picture then?
Only how he looked.
Only how he felt.
Only the whiteness of fabric drawn taut over ivory flesh.
The similes of image in my mind became this one reality.
I knew if I opened my eyes, I would see exactly what I saw in my mind
’
s eye, without question.

I reached up and took hold of the elastic with my left hand
,
caught it just where his cheeks flowed apart to blend into his back
,
felt the ridge of the seam were it joined
,
and I began to pull it down.
He did not try to stop me, this time.
My right hand gripped the left side of his briefs and also pulled.
He did nothing.
Now I knew we were connected.
Now I knew we were one.
Now I was ready.

I opened my eyes and watched the cotton and elastic slowly move down his hips
away from a line where golden tanned skin gave way to alabaster
then over his groin while still holding tight to his pubes
then watched the base of his crotch surrender their hold and the briefs whisked away to reveal the world.
And he was exactly what I had hoped for.

He wasn
’
t so much long as curved in a gentle slope, and he wasn
’
t so much thick as round and full, and he wasn
’
t so much hard as ready for the next stage.
His skin was like translucent sand
,
and his head was almost white pink, big and smooth, not oversized.
He was cut (so am I, so I prefer it), the circle of a scar adding to his dimensions, and the veins in his shaft added depth to it all.
The hair at the base was rich and sandy as it splayed out to dance up his abdomen and swirl down around his legs, and the neat balls (why can
’
t there be a finer word for them than that?) hanging below it all were clean and inviting.
Perfection, once again.

But this time
at this point
I believed in it.
He was real to me, now, and not just because I could smell the vague muskiness of him or see the form of him or hear the shiver in his breath or feel the tension in his muscles as my breath whispered over him.
No, he was now a part of me
,
and to make love to him, I just knew it would be like making love to myself
and would be ten times more real than anything I had ever done with a man, before
,
and it was to be everything I had ever wanted in my life
,
and I was so ready to complete the moment it hurt.

Except I
–
I couldn
’
t go through with it.

My face begged to nuzzle him
but would not move.
My hands ached to fondle him
but refused to leave his legs.
My brain screamed to put my lips to him
,
but they froze.
No matter what I tried to do to begin giving him what I knew would be the best blow job in the history of the world
,
I could not make myself do it.
Suddenly, there was something
wrong about it all.

Now know what you
’
re thinking:
Joe, you dumb fuck, what the
hell
are you doing?!
You
’
ve been lusting after this guy since the beginning of the school year!
You
’
ve been dreaming about him and sketching him and fantasizing over him as you jacked off in the fucking shower since the first time you saw him!
And here he is, ready, willing and perfectly able to do what
ever
you fucking want
,
and you can
’
t move the last few inches to actually make it all happen?!
C
’
mon!
He
’
s fuckin
’
gorgeous and he fuckin
’
wants
it, man!
Just fuckin
’
do
it, twerp!

And let me tell you
. H
ad we gotten to this point before last Saturday night, there would have been
zero
hesitation on my part.
I
’
d have pounced on him like a duck on a June bug (as my gran
’
mama used to say).
But now
after he
’
d lead me into a new world
,
a new belief in myself
,
a deep sudden realization washed over me that maybe
,
just maybe
,
he carried more meaning than just as an object of desire.

I think it was at this point my brain finally connected with my soul.
I finally realized (or accepted or acknowledged or whatever) that if I had sex with Aaron, I wouldn
’
t be able to paint him, anymore.
What I saw in him would be gone
,
maybe even dead
,
and whatever took its place would be worthless to me.
It would be like murder
,
and that is something I could never do
,
not to him
n
or to me.