Little Squirrels Can Climb Tall Trees by Michael Murphy

straight.
    Saturday afternoon I introduced Kyle to an experience he had reportedly never had—I took him to a movie theater! In broad daylight! With people around! Watching! And lightning didn’t strike. No pitchfork-wielding demons appeared to wrestle his soul to the underworld. Still, he was a bit nervous until the movie started.
    The task of taking someone to his first movie was a heavy responsibility. I had carefully considered the choices and had deliberately selected a very funny romantic comedy for the virgin’s deflowering. I was delighted to watch his reaction as he became totally captivated by the story, the photography, the acting, and the overall movie-in-a-movie-theater experience.
    Afterward we took a long walk in the park. The day wasn’t as sunny or as warm as the previous day had been, but it was still pleasant—good walking weather, as my mother would say. And personally, I’d rather listen to my mother than the crazy nutcase Kyle had described as his mother. Talk about demons with pitchforks! That was all I could picture when I thought of Kyle’s mother. I kept picturing a demonic woman shoving her pointy pitchfork into her sweet son’s ass, making him dance like some marionette doll.
    Despite how commonly people say we hate something or someone, I didn’t really hate anyone. I hadn’t been raised that way and just wasn’t a hater, but I thought that I might have to make an exception for that woman, even though she had given birth to the gorgeous man who sat across the table from me at the moment, laughing at some stupid thing I had said unintentionally. I hadn’t set out to make a joke—it had just happened. And I didn’t care, because whatever I had said let me see Kyle’s smile, listen to his laughter, and watch his eyes dance with delight. And those were all good things.
    Without planning or discussion, Kyle again spent the night at my place, and again on Sunday, we spent the day together. Sunday was gray and overcast with drizzle off and on all day—a perfect early fall day for lying inside being lazy and reading the extra-thick Sunday New York Times , napping, and reading some more.
    On Sunday evening we shared something that it turned out we both had a passion for—we watched 60 Minutes . It wasn’t really surprising. Both of us were news junkies and followed what was happening in the city, in our country, and in the world. We both fervently believed that you couldn’t live in a world without knowing about what was going on in that world.
    That evening we went to bed early—really early. But there was no sleeping until later. I treated Kyle to one of my extra-special blow jobs, this time more slowly and deliberately, taking my time and taking the man repeatedly to the edge of ejaculation before bringing him back down to Earth for a few more minutes. The third time I felt Kyle getting close, I decided the poor man had suffered enough, and I gave my all to help him over the edge and into the Promised Land.
    And my God, did the man ever thrash around when he came! At one point I was actually afraid that I was going to be thrown off the bed and go flying onto the floor. Somehow I managed to stay on the bed and to keep my mouth wrapped around Kyle’s dick until it started to shrink back to normal size.
    It took Kyle a good five minutes to get his breathing back to normal, and ten minutes before his heart rate slowed down to under a hundred beats a minute. When able to move, he pulled me close and held me, kissed my head, and said, “Thank you.”
    “You are very welcome. And from my perspective, thank you as well.”
    “Why?”
    “I got to suck your dick!”
    “You like doing that?”
    “Duh! Didn’t it show?”
    “Yes, but I thought you were just doing that for me.”
    “I wanted to make you feel good, sure—don’t get me wrong—but it felt pretty good on this side too.” I stroked Kyle’s chest and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you all about feeling good and