Boys Will Be Boys - Their First Time

by Mickey Erlach

  “Keep your eyes closed,” he said.

  I smiled, and did, and proceeded to the left nipple to repeat my motion and got the same response. His breathing quickened. So did mine. Then he shifted in a way that made me think he was growing erect, and I finally felt a stirring in my own crotch. I began to wonder if I really had to stop at the top of his shorts. Time to find out.

  My fingers drifted up the center of his chest, fanning out a little with the hair they caressed, then I let them slip down, down, down the middle of his abs, feeling the flowing smoothness of the taut muscles and laughing little follicles that surrounded his navel. I was still drawing and felt it gave me the excuse to send my hand gliding around his belly to his right side and trace up to his rib cage, to feel the ripple of small bones under elegant skin. Then I pulled my hand back across, slipping below his chest to his left side, and let the tops of my fingers trail back down to his waist. I heard him swallow just as I reached the cruel nylon top of his shorts.

  “Keep your eyes closed,” he said.

  I did, but only because the sensation of touch had overwhelmed any need I had to see. I followed the waistband of the shorts, felt the ridge of elastic peeking through, noticed they grew tight and dipped, and before I realized it, I was touching hair.

  I stopped and my eyes flew open without me even thinking, and I saw he had pulled the waistband of the shorts down with his right thumb and was holding them tight against his right thigh, exposing his pubes.

  “Told you to keep your eyes closed,” he said.

  Suddenly, I felt betrayed, for some reason, and I jerked my hand away. “What the fuck is this, Aaron? You think you can play games with me? ‘You can’t touch my dick, but I’ll fuckin’ tease you with it!?’ Shit!”

  He blinked and straightened, startled by my outburst. “Sorry, Joe. Thought you’d like it.” He let go of the shorts and they snapped slightly into place low around his hips. He was about to pull them up when – hello – my brain snapped into awareness and my hands snapped to atop his to stop him. My thumbs were resting in the curve where his leg curled away from his groin, at his tan line, touching skin that was smooth and creamy. Some of his pubes were still exposed, looking soft and inviting in the gentle light.

  “I would,” I said, my voice aching, “but not like that.”

  I knelt before him, as does a knight before his king, my hands still resting on his. He watched me, warily – no, maybe a little scared of me – but did not try to shove me away. And me – I was so full of my own sense of being, I didn’t even think about what I was doing. I leaned up and took his left tit in my teeth and felt the golden hairs tickle my lips and chin and nose as I pulled at it oh-so-gently and my tongue darted across its top. He gasped and tensed but did not pull away.

  “Like this,” I said, softly, as I let my lips drift through the sea of soft down over to his right tit, then took that one gently in my teeth and slipped my tongue across it and got the same response.

  “Holy shit, Joe,” he stammered.

  “Call me Jam,” I said and then to my complete amazement, I rose and kissed him. His lips were everything I’d dreamed they could be – warm, soft, molding themselves to mine. I didn’t try Frenching; it seemed wrong for the moment. I think that’s why he let his mouth linger on mine, for a moment (for a lifetime), before he pulled back, pulled away, completely. He bolted to his feet and grabbed his T-shirt.

  “I ... better head,” he said, his voice shaking.

  “Aaron ...”

  “I’m not that way, Joe!” he snapped as he pulled his shirt on. “Never even thought ‘bout it, an’ I don’t ... I can’t ...”

  “Nobody says you are,” I said, rising to my feet. “I’m just like ... like an Olga to you, showing you how much you like to be touched.” Man, what a lame argument! “Besides ... one ... one time doesn’t make you queer. Not even two or three or a dozen, if at the end of it all, you still prefer girls. It ... it just means you’re ... adventurous.” (Oh, and that was even lamer.)

  But he stopped by the door, his shirt only half on. I noticed the light had faded, outside, to the point where everything had taken on a soft sapphire hue and the world seemed calm and wonderful. I had no lights on in my room.

  “Not ... not tonight,” he murmured. “I ... I gotta think.”

  “I understand,” I said. “You don’t want to, that’s fine. I’ll still do the painting. But buddy, don’t think this to death. People make too much out of things that just ... just happen. They politicize them and ... and label them ... and that’s wrong. That’s just wrong. You and me ... that won’t mean anything but ... but you and me.” And don’t ask me to explain what I meant by that; I can’t.

  He eyed me, no trace of his smile or special look, just raw conflict. His breath was fast and sharp. He licked his lips a couple of times. I had to say something, say it now. Now!

  “Aaron, I mean it: you put up a boundary, and I’ll respect it. But I ... I really want to do more renditions of you. Watercolors. Acrylics. Oils. Pastels. Everything. I ... I look at you and I ... I see perfection, and I want to capture that.”

  He rolled his eyes, and I can’t say I blame him. So I shut up. Probably the smartest thing I ever did. He closed his eyes, crushed them closed for what seemed like hours, or minutes, I couldn’t say. Then they opened.

  “If my daddy could see me,” he laughed then seemed to make up his mind. He curled back against the door, clicking it closed, his hands at his sides. His eyes seared into mine. I think my heart stopped, for a moment, when he said, “I’m not turnin’ queer for you.”

  I carefully slipped over to him. “I know,” I whispered then I kissed him, again. And this time, he didn’t break away.

  What can I say about that moment? About drawing Aaron close to have his lips touch mine and feel his breath dance over my cheek? About my hands slipping ‘round his waist to the small of his back to hold him next to me? About molding myself against him and knowing his strength and grace and beauty as it caressed my body. Even through two layers of clothing I could feel his exquisite muscles quivering against me. I began to shake from the intensity of the emotion as the meaning of it all overpowered my own concept of myself.

  I’d never gotten even close to being with someone as gorgeous as Aaron, before, but that didn’t seem to matter. The intimidation I’d felt so many times as I watched him cross the campus with his slow genial saunter – an intimidation I’d always believed was endemic to my makeup – vanished in the reality of his skin warm against mine. The understanding that I was bland or plain or average (choose your adjective, here) dissolved into nothingness like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy did when I learned my dad and mom filled the roles, respectively. My life prior to this moment was nothing more than myth-filled half-truths and misconceptions laced with fears and stupidity, and now none of it carried any weight. The only important thought was that he and I were together, even if it might be for just a few moments and then never again. I could have died right then and been happy.

  I moved away from the kiss and let my lips dip to his chin and down his throat to his chest as my hands slipped under his shirt and slowly, carefully slid it up, up, up over his body. He raised his arms and let me guide it higher and higher, let my fingers tickle the sandy hairs under his arms as the material slipped past, let the palms of my hands caress his skin as I pushed the shirt off him, completely. Then I let my lips drift back to his right tit, let my teeth gently take it, let my tongue flit over it.

  Instinctively, Aaron moved back, but then held still, letting me play with his nipple and pull it harder until he was cringing from the sensation and little whimpers of joy were escaping him. I could tell he was wearing briefs, this time (which only added to the sexiness of the moment, so far as I was concerned), but molded against his body like I was, I could also tell that the screaming lightning had launched itself from my mouth to his thighs and slammed him into straining hard against the cotton fabric. I almost moaned for joy when it became
too much for him, and he breathlessly curled his right arm around my head and slipped his hand over half my face to guide my mouth away from his chest.

  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. All 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 this 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 whatever 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. Had 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 nor to me.

  I leaned back and sat on my heels, stunned. My hands were still on his thighs, still holding the white briefs. He was beginning to soften, making him even lovelier. I wanted nothing but silence, at that point, but then words floated into my space.

  “Everything okay, boss?” I blinked and noticed he was looking down at me, frowning, confused.

  I looked back at him with such intensity, he almost flinched then I asked, “Why do you want this?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why do you really want me to do this?”

  He gave an incredulous snort and said, “Why you think?”

  “I don’t know ... but I don’t want to do anything with you if the only reason you’re doing it is to ... to get it over with. Like you have to do it for me to paint you.”