Love at a Tender Age (John Warren Wells on Sexual Behavior)

by Lawrence Block

  • • •

  The masturbation of male infants for purposes of releasing tension is not uncommon in certain cultures. Generally the male infant is masturbated, even fellated, by a female—either the mother herself or an older sister or nurse.

  • • •

  By the time Mike was a year old, he could experience his climaxes with as much equanimity as an adult. He was used to the stimulation, fully realized what the culmination of it was, and found it pleasurable. At this time, George took to bathing the boy every day, usually sucking the boy to orgasm during the bath and trying to condition him to associating such things with the bath and bathroom and privacy between father and son. It apparently worked, and Mike never made any unsettling moves in the company of others; nor did he request fellatio anywhere but in the bathroom. He would play with his father’s cock in an interested yet casual way, but it was quite some time before he could be taught to jerk the man off. It took George too long to come and the boy would lose interest, unless George had been masturbating himself and allowed Mike to perform the motions just before he shot off. Then the boy was fascinated by all the “white stuff” coming out of Daddy’s cock.

  Their relationship continued in this manner until Mike was about nine. Then George feared their bathing together might arouse suspicion and he also felt that Mike was old enough and intelligent enough to discuss this openly with him. He told Mike that he enjoyed the sex with him and that they would have to stop bathing together, but that now they could suck and jerk in other places and use such opportunities as when mother was at the Laundromat or occupied with her incessant church work. Mike seems to have enjoyed the situation immensely and benefited by it.

  I should mention here that George also, like every pedophile, loved to kiss boys, and his son was no exception. He kissed Mike through all this period so that kissing, even tongue kissing, was completely accepted by the boy as perfectly natural. I think this proves the point that almost anything can seem “normal” and “natural” if one is exposed to it frequently from a young age.

  They used a code expression. Whenever Mike felt like being sucked, he would ask his father for “some sugar,” usually whispering it into his ear. Sometimes the father sucked him in the woods surrounding the house.

  George told me that a boy reaches his most gorgeous, delectable “bloom” at around eleven. The cock is getting slightly larger and the boy begins to shoot—and boy’s cum is like ambrosia to boy lovers. They never seem to be able to quaff enough of it! George said that when Mike reached his “bloom,” he was so delicious that he could hardly keep his hands off him, and sucked him every day, usually on the bed after school. At that time Mike liked to peruse Playboy, gazing at all the bare-breasted pictures while being leisurely sucked to climax by his father. George even laughed about how Mike liked to prolong it now and would tug his father’s head when he was too near orgasm but didn’t want to come just then. Like a dutiful boy-lover, the father would do as the boy pleased, mouthing his balls until the boy indicated he again wanted penile stimulation. When he wanted to come he would say, “Make me pop, Dad. Make me pop my nuts.” Then George would proceed until the boy ejaculated.

  Like his father, Mike tended to be quiet, speaking only when he had something to say. And he lived up to the cliché of silent people being good sex. In sex he was lively and erotic, sensual and abandoned completely unlike his nonsexual self.

  Whenever I would comment upon how gorgeous Mike was, George would counter with “But you should have seen him in bloom!” I suppose I did have an advantage in that I had not known him previously and was simply pleased that the son I was destined to meet was so attractive. I grant that he was beginning to get gangly like most adolescents, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and to me he personified that which is beautiful in the most beautiful of boys. George fairly burst with fatherly pride when I told him all of Greece would have been at Mike’s feet had he been alive in the days of Sophocles and Euripides. And I still mean that.

  Malcolm, Mike, and George spent the evening watching pornographic slides together. George ran the projector, while Malcolm engaged in love play with the boy.

  Mike had only his torn shorts on and I caressed his legs and chest and stomach as he worked furiously to reduce a Popsicle to the wooden bone. When I kissed his cheek I found it downy and soft as a girl’s, and was quite surprised when Mike turned and gave me an orange-tasting kiss right on the lips. What surprised me most was that he kissed like a veteran. This was no kid’s kiss, but an experienced kiss which most men would never have been able to acquire until they were well into their early twenties! I put my hand on his crotch and felt the swell of his genitals. He was quite large for his age. (I sometimes wish he had been otherwise. I get so tired of hearing others tell of how big the prick is on whatever they go to bed with that I know for sure no one believes me when I talk about Mike. But he did have a five inch prick, which, for twelve, is more than adequately endowed! I suppose the frequent suction by his father’s mouth might have accounted for some of it. Certainly he was exercising those “muscles” at an age when most boys are still playing with toys and blocks.)

  At the end of the evening’s show, Mike asked if I could sleep with him. George gave permission. Mike had set up a tent in the yard, where he sometimes slept on hot evenings. There were two cots in it. I can remember how my heart beat as I was led to the tent, this young boy’s hand holding mine, guiding me through the intense darkness—and the fantastic feeling of knowing I was going to have sex with him and that his father knew and approved! It seemed like something out of Kraft-Ebbing, or, worse, out of de Sade . . .

  I must confess that the sex was great. I was not at all disappointed. I won’t go into terribly great detail, but I found that Mike could make love like nobody’s business . . .

  The following day, Malcolm took a motel room and brought George and Mike there for a swim in the pool. The three ultimately went to Malcolm’s room and had sexual relations.

  I was constantly studying father and son, trying to discover a flaw in their relationship or some sort of friction between them, but I could not discern any such thing. Neither seemed to feel any guilt whatsoever. Mike seemed to take his father’s pedophilia normally. After all, his father’s friends were almost all pedophiles, and almost all of them had made love to Mike; therefore, might it not be natural for him to conclude that it was normal for men to make love to boys? I wonder . . .

  We returned to the bedroom, where Mike immediately took over the bed. He was really a cute kid and his mannerisms were equally cute. He was a mild natured boy and not bad-mannered at all, very polite and sensitive. George knew that I was dying to see him do something to the kid. He pulled Mike to the edge of the bed. Then George knelt down before the boy and began to suck him. That sounds crude, but it was a most beautiful thing to watch—the way the father tenderly kissed the smooth thighs and worked his way up to the genitals. As I watched, it seemed as though every line was erased from his face—as though sucking a boy was what he had been born to do and that his great happiness in life came at such times. I sat myself in a chair nearby to watch the spectacle, the old butterflies once again returning to the stomach, as I, for the first time in my life, witnessed a homosexual incestuous act. I was thrilled to the core.

  It was beautiful the way Mike lay back and accepted the tribute of his father’s love—or lust, whichever you’d prefer to call it. It didn’t matter to me. Either would have been desirable when I had been his age!

  . . . I was beside myself. My cock was stabbing the air and I wanted some piece of any kind of action. I hastily made my way to George’s side and took his cock into my hand, fisted it, and pumped it gently for a few minutes. If his pedophilic mind had any objection, his cock didn’t, and it throbbed responsively. I worked his foreskin back and smeared some of the precoital secretions around the sensitive glans until he fairly moaned as he sucked Mike. I then bent down and took his cock into my mouth, sucking it as he sucke
d his son. Mike sat up and wanted to see what I was doing. He was entranced at my ability to swallow this adult cock. He had not expressed surprise at our ability to get his, but I guess he had considered his father’s to be impossibly large.

  George blew off a generous load and I had to open my mouth to satisfy Mike’s curiosity about the volume of it and, I suspect, whether I was really going to swallow all that stuff! He watched interestedly as I showed him that I was really going to do just that, his face mirroring a mild distaste, but he shrugged as though to say, Well, everyone has his own bag. He coyly stated, “Pop blew off in my mouth once. Yuck. It was really messy.” I looked at George, who had previously told me that Mike didn’t like to suck cock, and George explained. Whenever Mike wanted something real bad, he would suck his father off. If not, George had to be content with a “palming,” or, as they used to say, “Five-Finger Mary.” What Mike really minded was the physical work of sucking, which, if one is to admit the truth, does get tiring unless one is hot himself. For this reason, many people are disinterested in sucking after they themselves have shot off. And Mike was not as turned on to cock as his father was.

  Mike had not climaxed yet. His father returned to sucking him off and I remained close to them, gently feeling the father’s cock and balls, still rather engorged with blood. Mike rested his legs on his father’s shoulders. Later, after George had again prolonged the stimulation by stopping short of climax and letting Mike cool off, Mike asked that I be allowed to suck him a bit. George moved over slightly to the side and offered me his position, which I greedily took. I sucked for about five minutes as George knelt beside me, watching close up and telling me that even though many of his friends had sucked Mike, this was the first time he was actually witnessing the act. He apparently enjoyed it voyeuristically.

  Then I let George return to his fount of happiness. Mike was very near orgasm and begged me to come on the bed with him. When I was there, he begged me to kiss him as he shot off. As I cradled him in my arms, ravishing his face and mouth with kisses, he came, tongue-kissing as he shot off into his father’s mouth. George made a gurgling sound of appreciation, audibly enjoying this dose of ambrosia.

  • • •

  The troilistic orgy continued for some time, but I think I’ve reproduced enough of it to provide an adequate picture of who did what and with which to whom. No anal sex took place, and in this context Malcolm offers the following observations:

  • • •

  I had earlier discussed anal relations with George, but he had told me that he was primarily interested in boys’ cocks and not their assholes, and also that he feared Mike might get to like being fucked and become homosexual because of it. He desperately wanted Mike to be heterosexual and I suppose some of this might have been to assuage any guilt he might have had about subjecting his son to homosexual practices. Though I must admit that in most cases I’ve heard of, few sons with such intimacy become homosexual. Most become die-hard heteros.

  All too soon it was time to take them home . . . The entire thing assumed a dreamlike quality, almost like a masturbation fantasy, immediately after the experience was over. I felt somewhat depressed over the fact that it had to end, yet I knew that I could not intrude into their lives. I was an outsider, after all.

  But it was a wonderful experience for me, and I continue to hope something like it will be repeated some day. However, it is most difficult to manage introductions to this type of thing, and also I fear many of them do not wish an interloper joining in.

  • • •

  The image most often used to justify repression of male homosexuals is that of the pedophile as corrupter of children. It is, of course, an impossible rationale for homosexual persecution; to the overwhelming majority of homosexuals, pedophilia is as odious as is to heterosexuals. Yet the fact remains that it is difficult to extend one’s concept of sexual freedom to embrace those men who turn to young boys for sex.

  Malcolm’s observation to the effect that most boys in such relationships ultimately emerge as exclusively heterosexual is certainly interesting. Weighed in the balance with the many case histories of boys who recognized themselves as homosexual in orientation long before any approach was made to them (and in some cases were the ones to initiate homosexual overtures, without any prior experience or knowledge), one wonders just what effect such molestation has upon the presumably innocent. George, certainly, was able by conditioning from earliest infancy to force his son Mike to enjoy homosexual relations, but perhaps this enjoyment in childhood will have little or nothing to do with the ultimately emerging sexual nature of the boy. Perhaps one’s sexuality—heterosexual, homosexual, or bisexual—is somehow predetermined, whether by genetics, biochemistry, or a less comprehensible mechanism of destiny.

  My own personal bias is intransigently opposed to pedophilia. I cannot but regard such men as emotionally immature and criminally irresponsible.

  A Letter from Susan

  Hey man,

  Like, I sat here one day (eve. really) tryin’ to catch a few rays and gettin’ horny pettin’ my dog “dawg.” And thot ’bout you—but only like for a second so don’t get no big head. At least not that one on your shoulders anyhow . . .

  Hey, like I dig you and most of what you write. That stuff about whippings and spanking and etc. really turns me off tho, so could you cool about two thirds of that pleeze? Hopefully tho I aren’t the only one askin’ you to—I’m sure lotsa people did it, but now I’d like to dismiss my problem . . .

  I’m in love, Baby, really and deeply! What’s the problem, my love wants me to groove on this sex thing with my dog “dawg.”

  So how ’bout it? She and I have been tryin’ just about everything lately including a fantastic 8” vibrator to a double dildo—ooooohhh! And so, she just brought over this book on Female Bestiality.

  Some of those pics are cool, but isn’t most of that dangerous? I respect what you say and leave it all up to you! You don’t necessarily have to print this letter, however, I am curious to see the reaction to a gig such as ours.

  I love her and could never lose her, so should I?

  I don’t suppose I’m really real, but I really am, no shit. I was kinda scared at first to write, and was only scribbling is the reason for the scribbles on page 1. I’m still scared and nervous now.

  Can you please keep all this quiet. I’m 18 years, 5’ 8½”, brown hair, green eyes, and ugly—or sometimes I think I am—want a pic? Yeah, I love you too! But I’ll wait almost forever for a reply. Hell “dawg” looks better all the time, who knows—(hush, hush, please.)

  With Much Love,

  Susan

  (Damn, I’m really scared)

  P.S. I know you probably don’t believe any of this, but if you do—and can reply—pleeze don’t let my parents find out. Lucy will know of course (she’s my Sis). Good lookin’ too—but only digs guys. No harm there, I guess—but I hope you’ll return an answer (personal type) to only me . . .

  Susan

  A Male Soul Trapped in a Female Body

  I’ve never met Bobbie. My acquaintance with her has been limited to a batch of letters written over a period of a few months. They are, as you shall see, some deeply disturbing letters about a deeply disturbed young woman.

  Bobbie is a transsexual. This is rather a different matter from a homosexual, who desires sexual relations with his own sex, or a transvestite, who derives pleasure from taking on the appearance of the opposite sex. A transsexual is a person who is cursed with the personality of one sex and the physical attributes of the other—in Bobbie’s words, a male soul trapped in a female body, or vice versa.

  Most often vice versa, it would seem. Sex-change operations to convert males into females à la Christine Jorgenson are being performed with increasing frequency, while operations to convert women to men, while occasionally encountered in speculative fiction, have not to my knowledge actually been performed. (Of course, there are more obvious reasons for this than a lack of demand; it is ea
sier for surgeons to remove than to supply, easier to amputate a penis and create a vaginal canal than to reverse this process.)

  One’s interpretation of Bobbie’s letters will depend to a large degree upon one’s own mental orientation and the degree of belief one manifests in the occult and paranormal phenomena. To those who agree with Hamlet that “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” Bobbie’s story is an absorbing testament of possession and reincarnation. To those whose outlook is more skeptical, the same story is an equally gripping example of psychosexual disturbance and neurotic obsession.

  Decide for yourself.

  Mr. Wells—

  I don’t really know where to begin, but I feel I must convey myself to someone who might understand the frustration encountered by living not only as a social deviate but as a sexual deviate also.