for renovation. Two steel holding tanks, big as tanker trucks, rested on the station’s concrete apron. The gas pumps had been removed, the station’s sign as well, and the property was roped off and tagged with NO TRESPASSING signs. We sat in back, among treadless tires and discarded batteries, smoking the cigarettes Dan had given me.
Gus came from a Greek family. Boys at school teased him about being queer since everybody knew Greek men butt-fucked Greek boys. Gus often sported a shiner, as he frequently got into fistfights over the teasing. He was a tough kid and he wouldn’t take shit off anybody, but he wasn’t a good brawler. He was slender and he lacked moves, and he took more punches than he landed. This particular day Gus was shinerless, but his lower lip was swollen and split. He brought his cigarette to his mouth gingerly.
When I told Gus about Dan and his motorcycle, Gus said, “Cool.” Then he drew on his cigarette. He made an O with his lips and blew a stream of smoke.
I said, “Dan told me he’d take me for a ride, but I don’t think my mom will let me.”
Gus looked at me and chuckled, shaking his head. “She doesn’t let you smoke, either.”
My mother worked at a department store, as division manager in ladies’ undergarments. She worked Saturdays, then took Sundays and Mondays off. After my sister and Dan began dating, Dan would visit our house on Saturday afternoons, when my mother was absent, to spend time alone with Patricia. They’d watch TV or listen to records or sun themselves on a blanket in our backyard.
One Saturday, Dan appeared on his motorcycle right after lunch. My sister was already in her swimsuit out back. I was lying on my bed, reading a comic book, when Dan stuck his head through my bedroom doorway. He clutched a pair of bathing trunks.
“Mind if I change in here?” he asked.
I told Dan it was fine. He closed the door, and then he placed the trunks on my desk. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and hung it on the desk chair. His chest and shoulder muscles were defined and his belly was flat. I stole glances while he removed his shoes and socks—my dick was already swollen. Dan unzipped his jeans, shucked them down and off his legs, and hung them over the chair as well. He wore white briefs (we all wore white briefs back then) and slipped his thumbs inside the waistband to peel them down to his ankles, then kicked them off. The briefs joined his other clothes on the chair, and he stood naked with his pecker dangling just a few feet from me.
My heart hammered against my rib cage and my mouth went dry while Dan fumbled with his swim trunks, looking for the label so he wouldn’t put them on backward. I’d seen tons of guys naked in the locker room at school, of course, but they were my age or younger, not seventeen. Dan was fully developed and, to me, highly arousing. It was hard not to stare.
I thought to myself: What a wicked little fag I am—what an asp—exploiting poor Dan’s nudity. He’s Patricia’s boyfriend, for god’s sake . The moment he left the room I locked my door and masturbated. My orgasm exploded, and fifteen minutes later I did it again.
I was in love.
On a Saturday night in mid-November Dan appeared at our house in a white dinner jacket, dark slacks with silk stripes on the outer seams, and patent leather shoes. His parents’ station wagon sat on our driveway. He was taking my sister to their school’s homecoming dance. She wore an ankle-length gown and her hair was piled on top of her head, held in place with bobby pins and several ounces of hair spray.
Dan’s shirt was pleated in front, heavily starched, with a winged collar. He held a bow tie—the kind with an adjustable elastic band—in one hand. Passing the tie to me he said, “Will you help me with this?”
We went to the bathroom, where he removed his dinner jacket and draped it over the shower curtain rod. He
Gus came from a Greek family. Boys at school teased him about being queer since everybody knew Greek men butt-fucked Greek boys. Gus often sported a shiner, as he frequently got into fistfights over the teasing. He was a tough kid and he wouldn’t take shit off anybody, but he wasn’t a good brawler. He was slender and he lacked moves, and he took more punches than he landed. This particular day Gus was shinerless, but his lower lip was swollen and split. He brought his cigarette to his mouth gingerly.
When I told Gus about Dan and his motorcycle, Gus said, “Cool.” Then he drew on his cigarette. He made an O with his lips and blew a stream of smoke.
I said, “Dan told me he’d take me for a ride, but I don’t think my mom will let me.”
Gus looked at me and chuckled, shaking his head. “She doesn’t let you smoke, either.”
My mother worked at a department store, as division manager in ladies’ undergarments. She worked Saturdays, then took Sundays and Mondays off. After my sister and Dan began dating, Dan would visit our house on Saturday afternoons, when my mother was absent, to spend time alone with Patricia. They’d watch TV or listen to records or sun themselves on a blanket in our backyard.
One Saturday, Dan appeared on his motorcycle right after lunch. My sister was already in her swimsuit out back. I was lying on my bed, reading a comic book, when Dan stuck his head through my bedroom doorway. He clutched a pair of bathing trunks.
“Mind if I change in here?” he asked.
I told Dan it was fine. He closed the door, and then he placed the trunks on my desk. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and hung it on the desk chair. His chest and shoulder muscles were defined and his belly was flat. I stole glances while he removed his shoes and socks—my dick was already swollen. Dan unzipped his jeans, shucked them down and off his legs, and hung them over the chair as well. He wore white briefs (we all wore white briefs back then) and slipped his thumbs inside the waistband to peel them down to his ankles, then kicked them off. The briefs joined his other clothes on the chair, and he stood naked with his pecker dangling just a few feet from me.
My heart hammered against my rib cage and my mouth went dry while Dan fumbled with his swim trunks, looking for the label so he wouldn’t put them on backward. I’d seen tons of guys naked in the locker room at school, of course, but they were my age or younger, not seventeen. Dan was fully developed and, to me, highly arousing. It was hard not to stare.
I thought to myself: What a wicked little fag I am—what an asp—exploiting poor Dan’s nudity. He’s Patricia’s boyfriend, for god’s sake . The moment he left the room I locked my door and masturbated. My orgasm exploded, and fifteen minutes later I did it again.
I was in love.
On a Saturday night in mid-November Dan appeared at our house in a white dinner jacket, dark slacks with silk stripes on the outer seams, and patent leather shoes. His parents’ station wagon sat on our driveway. He was taking my sister to their school’s homecoming dance. She wore an ankle-length gown and her hair was piled on top of her head, held in place with bobby pins and several ounces of hair spray.
Dan’s shirt was pleated in front, heavily starched, with a winged collar. He held a bow tie—the kind with an adjustable elastic band—in one hand. Passing the tie to me he said, “Will you help me with this?”
We went to the bathroom, where he removed his dinner jacket and draped it over the shower curtain rod. He
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