(While I'm making a quick trip south to visit my dad this week, I'm reposting a few older entries. They might be favorites to longer-term readers; to newer readers they might be completely new. This week's theme, vaguely, is of youthful indiscretion.)
When I first started keeping A Breeder’s Journal, I wrote about the comprehensive list I kept in my youth of all the men I had sex with—no matter how briefly, or how many times. If we kissed, sucked, fucked, or so much as groped, I’d scurry home, pull my ever-growing record out of its hiding place (in the recess behind the drawer of the old dining room table that served as my desk, in my room), and scribble down the latest fucks.
Here is another encounter from that expansive list, from 1976.
Mustache and eyebrows 2nd fl Hibbs basement Hibbs metal + - @
It wasn’t the fact that the stranger was in possession of eyebrows that was so astonishing. It was the fact that his eyebrows were equally thick and uniform as his mustache. It was as if three enormous caterpillars had wandered onto his face and decided to nap there.
I was sitting in the middle stall of the men’s room on the second floor of a classroom building on the campus where my parents both taught. The doors to the student cafeteria, such as it was, were twenty feet away, but at night they were closed and this part of the building tended to be deserted. Which made it perfect for horny students to cruise each other. The gray marble walls were covered with inked graffiti advertising times to meet.
I wasn’t a student, of course. I was a horny kid who’d just been fucked for the first time a week and two days before and several times since, all by the same dick. I’d also sucked off a stranger I’d picked up in the Richmond Public Library basement restroom two days before that night. Two notches on my belt, and I thought I knew it all.
My jeans were around my ankles. I had my T-shirt hiked up my skinny little chest to my nipples. And my little dick was in my hand. I’d been watching two guys sucking through the peephole in the marble partition earlier, but I’m fairly certain I wasn’t shooting cum at this point—my dick would have been merely red and angry from all the stroking I’d done. My heart beat a little faster when I heard the outer door swing open and a pair of slow, deliberate footsteps enter the room.
The fellow who’d entered the empty restroom stopped at the urinal across from my stall. I listened to him fumble with the fabric of his fly, unzip, and then pause. No sound of urine followed.
I’d cruised enough restrooms at that young age to know the drill. My dick in my hand, I leaned to the right and peered through the crack in the door. I saw the guy at the urinal turn his head and look over his shoulder. Our eyes met.
Inch by inch, I opened up my stall door so he could see the painfully skinny blond kid beating off in the heat of a summer night. Though he was nothing more than an average-looking guy, all I could see was that enormous Fuller Brush of a mustache, matched and maybe even rivaled by the bristly eyebrows. The man couldn’t have been any older than twenty-four or twenty-five, but to me, he was a real man, seasoned and ancient. He blinked at the sight of me. Then, in the flash of an instant, he pulled up his zipper and turned. I thought he was going to leave.
Instead, he strode over to the stall and planted himself in front of the door. His arm shot out to prevent me closing it. “You’re coming with me,” he said at last. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips.
I didn’t dare disobey. I wanted to suck dick.
He took me down a back stairway into a basement bathroom at the bottom of a stairwell, next to the closed campus bookstore. It was even more deserted than the men’s room near the cafeteria. The minute we were both in the smaller enclosure, his hands were reaching for his oversized belt buckle. “You’re a mighty little cocksucker,” he said in a rush, undoing it with a clank. “I bet your mouth feels real good too. You a good cocksucker? You a real good cocksucker, boy? Take your pants off.” He kicked open the restroom’s one stall and pushed me into it as he pulled down his green slacks.
My dick had been painfully stiff from the moment I’d attempted to stuff it into my tight jeans until the second it met its release again in that dimly-lit restroom. He didn’t give a shit about my dick, though. “Turn around,” he said. Though he kept his voice quiet, he didn’t dampen it entirely to a whisper; he was loud enough to carry considerable force. “Let me see that butt. Fuck. Fuck!” I flushed. Passive as I was at that moment, I still had considerable pride about being able to recognize arousal and even to enflame it. I was a newborn Circe playing with nascent powers I barely understood. “I bet I’ve got something you never seen before,” the man said. Although his slacks were unbuckled and unbuttoned and lay open around his thighs, he hadn’t yet pulled down his white briefs. He rubbed his hand over the bulge of them then, showing me the fat dick they barely restrained. “You wanna see it? Look at this.”
His dick flopped out of his drawers. It was short, thick as a forearm, and ugly as fuck. When I saw the flash of metal at its tip, I knew I wanted it badly. “It’s called a Prince Albert,” he said, showing it off. His dick might have been as hard as mine at that point. The round piercing must have been one of the bigger gauges, heavy and wicked looking as it was. He tugged at it with his forefinger. His dick was so hard that it barely moved in response. “So. You ever seen one of these, cocksucker?”
I shook my head. I didn’t know such monstrosity was possible.
The metal ring forced open my lips and teeth before I was able to open wide enough to accept it. Instinctively I knew better than to let it chip my teeth; from the sucking I’d already done on Mikey’s dick and the bearded redhead from the library restroom, I knew to open my mouth wide, let my lips curl to the underside of my incisors, and let him do all the work. He tasted not filthy, exactly, but not clean. It was the taste of a cock that hadn’t been cleaned since the morning, on a hot day when everything got easily sticky. The metal ring battered my molars, but eventually the guy figured out where he was going the deepest. His stubby flesh battered my throat for a few moments, bringing tears to my eyes.
The shock of it was nothing compared to that of having my teeth rattled to the roots when he ripped his dick out of my mouth, however. My lower lip started to sting, as if he’d bruised it on the way out. “Turn around,” he said. I obeyed, and leaned my chest and forearms against the wall where he pushed me. His left hand reached for my hole and felt it. The tip of his thumb invaded me, making me jump.
“You been fucked yet?” he asked. I nodded, while I watched him spit on his dick. “Well, you ain’t been fucked like this.”
I thought my first time had hurt. The three minutes that followed were brutal. I was in heat, though, and stayed hard throughout. He was too overexcited to last long; it seemed that barely had he managed to get his pierced dick in me that he started shaking and pushing me so hard against the tile walls that I thought he might crack a rib.
“Not bad,” was his remark, after he pulled out and yanked up his slacks. He couldn’t stop sniffing, as if the orgasm had set off his nasal drip. His hands were trembling hard. It took him much longer to manage his belt buckle than it should have. Then as quickly as he could, he dashed for the exit and left, saying only, “Keep on truckin’.”
Which I think was out of date even in 1976.
The man with the P.A. had been the second man to fuck me. I had to clean his semen off of my jeans and underwear, where it had fallen. Then I carefully wiped my raw and sore hole, and checked my lip in the mirror. It was bleeding slightly from where he’d bruised it, but it would heal quickly enough.
Once I was reasonably clean, I closed the stall door, sat down, and beat myself to a climax. Then I did it twice again, before leaving the building and going dutifully to sit outside my father’s classroom until he’d finished his lecture.