The Boy Avengers (2 page)
He was blond. His pubic hair was as fair as the hair on his head, and did little to conceal the starkness of his heavy genitals. The most remarkable impression was created when he walked, for his thighs pushed his balls out one at a time with each step, which in turn pushed at his cock, making it swing from side to side even when he walked slowly. It was almost as though his genitals and the rest of his body were in constant conflict, which reinforced the impression of heaviness.
Curiously, even seeing him in full sexual intercourse with my mother or my father was not more exciting to me than seeing him walk naked, though it was more interesting.
Was I surprised when I saw my mother enter his room and strip off her robe, then his? Yes, I was surprised. But I was not shocked. It seemed natural to me that others should want him as I wanted him. And when that someone was as beautiful as my mother, she had every right to him.
Her body naked was as attractive as it was in clothes. It was exactly as I would have pictured it, had I been given to picturing it. He sat on the edge of his bed, and exactly as I would have liked to do, my mother knelt between his powerful thighs and buried her face in his overflowing genitals. There were no surprises here, either, for she did nothing that I had not already fantasied myself doing. Up to that moment, all I had known of erections was my own, so inconsequential that I had never observed it in a mirror, as puberty-stricken boys are apt to do. His cock became hard as my mother ministered to it, but it did not grow a great deal larger. It was larger, I now know, than many men's. But it was especially larger limp, and I understand that when a man's penis is like that, it often does not gain much size in erection. But as I watched avidly, I could observe that it was solidly hard, for my mother's mouth distended to accommodate it.
I have seen pictures, stills and movies, of the act of fellatio. Usually the face of the one performing becomes grotesque, distorted. But my mother's didn't. It gave me pleasure to see how he stroked her hair to indicate that her passion was pleasing him.
But finally he pulled her onto the bed, on her back, pushed her legs apart, and without subtleties, without preliminaries, he mounted her. Her full breasts, at which once I had happily nursed, were squashed beneath his muscular chest. The foot of the bed angled towards my peephole, so I got the view I most cherished. For the first time since my mother had entered his room I took hold of my cock and began masturbating, for it was a beautiful sight, his hard, massive cock plunging relentlessly into her, his balls swinging violently with each plunge. Later I would learn that this swinging was most unusual, that with most men the testicles retract hard against the groin in full erection, but to me those heavy swinging balls were the most beautiful part of the whole act. And for the first time a word I'd heard only as an expletive, casual or intense, assumed beautiful meaning. At last I saw and knew what fuck meant.
Jack Foster did no more than plunge his cock hard into my mother. But it was more than enough, as I felt it should be. Her body tensed with ecstasy, she cried out her pleasure with each stroke, her hands clutched at his back and buttocks, her legs clenched and unclenched at the small of his back, her heels drummed into him. He remained silent. Even when he had his orgasm he made no sound. The only difference was a sudden furious increase in the power of his thrusts. But her cries more than made up for his silence: Wait, wait!
He stopped suddenly, withdrew his cock from deep inside her. It was limp. Did you come? he asked her.
It doesn't matter. It was beautiful!
Yes, it was beautiful, I had whispered. And I realized that I had come without knowing. I returned to my bed and masturbated. The image in my mind was of his great balls swinging wildly as he fucked my mother, so graphic that I myself cried out when I came.
The next night, way past my bedtime, I went again to my closet to watch Jack undress. He was down to his shorts when he looked up sharply towards the door. I guessed there had been a light knock. He went to the door and opened it, standing behind it so his body was concealed.
It was my father. He was wearing a beautiful Japanese kimono Jack and I had picked out for him for his birthday, only a week before. My father came into the room. Jack peered anxiously down the hall to see if anyone had observed this clandestine arrival. My father smiled at his nervousness. It's
my
house, he said, which the three of us knew was far from the truth.
JACK CLOSED THE DOOR CAREFULLY AND TURNED to my father. As though he had come into the room only to show off his new kimono, my father slowly, coyly revolved, much as I had seen my mother do when showing off a new dress. It was the first feminine thing I had ever seen him do.
How did he look at that age, at that moment? He had been only nineteen when he married my motherher age, alsotwenty when I was born, so he was twenty-nine now, at the zenith of his handsomeness. Perhaps at fourteen he had been more exquisitely beautiful, more directly appealing to a pederast, but at twenty-nine he was strikingly handsome. Young maturity set well upon him. He was attractive to male and female alike, and for all his history as the lover of a rich mansurely more homosexual than bisexualhe had a natural manliness about him. His hair was nearly black, and though cut short in that age of short hair for men, it gave the effect of fullness because of the smooth ringlets. His eyes were deep blue, not the brown one might expect, his skin extremely fair, but not pale. He was exactly as tall as Jack Foster, but looked taller, for where the latter was solid, nearly stocky, he was magnificently slim. His legs were straight and well-formed, his hips slim, his waist slimmer still, his shoulders broad, his chest full and well-molded with clearly-defined pectorals.
Unlike my tutor, he displayed no unnatural modesty with me: we often stripped together to go swimming. But neither did he flaunt his body. He was natural about it.
So until this moment, I had thought of my father's body as a natural, unsexual thing. People coming suddenly upon some scene of great beauty are astonished and awed by it, while those who live near it all their livesas with the Grand Canyon, for examplesee it as only another part of the landscape, until they are infected by the awe of a stranger and suddenly see it through his eyes.
And so it was with me this night. As I mentioned before, Jack was still wearing his constricting shorts when my father arrived at his door, so I did not have the image of his genitals to dilute my attention to my handsome father. After he had paraded the new kimono in a manner so nearly feminine, he stripped it off. And I, who had been waiting impatiently for still another look at my tutor's genitals, looked instead, intently for the first time, at my father's. Even to my eye, prepared for to be aroused by my tutor's genitals, they were no separate thing but very much a part of him, in perfect harmony with the rest of his fine body. And it was a natural fine body. Though he enjoyed swimming he made no fetish of physical fitness.
His genitals were as well formed as the rest of him, seemed to have no separate life of their own the way my tutor's did. Jack smiled as my father stood naked before him, and through his eyes I could appreciate how handsome my father was. The black ringlets on his well-shaped head (he bore a striking resemblance to certain pictures of Lord Byron) were echoed in his pubic hair, the only other hair on his immaculate body, which simultaneously called attention to his groin and shielded it, so that his perfect penis, his perfect testicles were not as nakedly apparent as Jack Foster's.
Now he came up to my father, tentatively at first, the only time I had ever seen him uncertain. He put muscular arms around him and kissed him, his mouth opening as it reached for my father's full lips. My father seemed to receive the kiss passivelyas I would have done, but his hands reached down and pulled my tutor's shorts away from his hipsas I would have done. He pressed his groin hard against my tutor's turgid genitalsas
I would have done.
Without interrupting his open-mouthed kiss my tutor lifted one foot, then the other, to step out of his shorts.
When my mother had been with Jack Foster I had been thrilled, uplifted at the sight of her worship of his sexuality, her body's ecstatic devouring of him. With my father, Jack Foster's active response amazed me, since I had until this moment considered him a priapic object to be worshipped; but suddenly his reaction to my father's beauty seemed only right. For suddenly my father, whom I had loved dearly but blindly, emerged in his own right as a person apart from this emotional attachment. The complexity of the situation was great, for to my eye he became two persons, both different from the one I had known and loved-one objective, one subjective. The objective person was the beautiful man Jack took so consumingly into his arms. And, subjectively, he became an extension of myself, for I almost felt those powerful arms about
me,
those open lips hot against
my
lips. I had enjoyed seeing my mother with my tutor. I
became
my father with him, and my father became me. I ceased to exist as a person huddled in the womb of that closet.
Jack Foster's aggressiveness ceased with the kiss. He pulled away from my father and sat on the edge of the bed. He beckoned to my father. My father knelt before him and, as my mother had done, he burrowed his face in the riches that powerful groin offered. But during those few steps I glimpsed something new that astonished me, re-embodied me, for my father's inconspicuous penis had erected into a fierce, aggressive rod, as large as Jack Foster's. And for the first time I realized how astonishingly explosive an erection could be. It seemed especially incongruous on my father's perfect body, an anachronism, a violation of the beautiful, passive lines. For a brief moment I felt as active a desire to take my father's swollen cock into my mouth as I had ever felt for my tutor's.
Jack's passivity was only fleeting after all, perhaps only a gesture, an act of will his lust quickly destroyed, for now he pulled my father up off his knees, kissed him hotly again, and stretched him out on the bed. My father's head was at the foot of the bed, towards me. My tutor straddled him, and I thrilled with love as I saw my tutor suck his rigid, enormous cock into his mouth. I had an orgasm at that moment. I have every reason to believe it was the first time in his life that Jack Foster had ever done such a thing.
Jack's swollen genitals were dangling over my father's face. He reached out, as I would have done, he weighed the heavy cock, the heavy balls with both hands, and avidly sucked the rapidly-hardening cock into his mouth. This was my introduction to the position known as sixty-nine", and I thought it remarkably beautiful, remarkably natural. I was a welter of emotions. I was my father sucking and being sucked. I was my tutor sucking my father and being sucked. I was myself watching the whole beautiful ritual, happier than I had ever been in my life.
Jack Foster, so silent with my mother, began moaning. He tore his rock-hard cock, from my father's mouth, rudely pushed him over and powerfully rammed his cock into my father's small-looking anus. My father cried out. It could have been pain, it could have been joy. I could feel my own anus contracting violently. I knew for certain that joy and pain could be the same thing (a belief of the moment that I would later, on both intellectual and physical grounds, permanently reject).
My father braced his hips against my tutor's powerful thrusts and reached his hands around to part his firm buttocks so my tutor could thrust in even more. Oh, the beauty of it! As that great shaft thrust in, my father's anus become concave, as if eager to receive it. As it pulled out for the next mighty thrust, that anus became convex, stretched tightly about the gleaming, piston-like shaft as though reluctant to surrender those several inches.
My tutor came with a loud shout, ecstasy and pain, and visibly collapsed atop my father. He made no effort to withdraw but remained with his cock deeply embedded. After a moment I saw his hands reach out to fondle my father's shoulders, his neck, his head. My father remained still, seemed almost asleep, a look of utmost bliss on his beautiful face.
I slipped back to my bed. For the first time I masturbated with the fantasy that my tutor was fucking me, that it was
my
anus his magnificent penis was violating gloriously. And when I came, I cried out as much as he had cried out.
I awoke next morning feeling curiously drained. According to the clock it was already nine. Usually I got up at seven on Saturday. Someone would call me on the intercom by my bed to make sure I was awake. And by eight I would be out on the tennis courts. Jack was trying to teach me a passable game of tennis. Even then I hated all kinds of contrived physical activityas I do nowexactly as I hated all kinds of contrived mental activity, even chess. But I was not bored. I regard boredom as one's own failing, as an inability to use one's mind and perceptive faculties to a significant degree. So as I played tennis with my tutor, I imagined in my mind's eye that he was naked, and exactly the way his vigorous movements would be swinging his great heavy genitals. And I was not bored.
I sprang out of bed, washed and dressed quickly, and hurried down to the breakfast room. My parents were sitting at the table listlessly drinking coffee. This was unusual in itself. Rarely had I seen them at the Saturday breakfast table together. Also, neither was reading a newspaper. My mother liked to sleep late, my father was an early riser and as often as not came to watch Jack try to teach me tennis.
It was on one of those mornings that my father startled me with an astute observation. I was doing particularly badly. Perhaps I was too intent on the swinging genitals. Why don't
you
teach him? Jack called over to my father in rare exasperation.
Because I love him, my father called back. He meant it as a jest, but I knew then it was far more than that. He knew how stubborn I could be, and that if it had gone sufficiently against the grain I'd never have submitted to the lessons.
Then Jack and I would shower (separately, of course, to my regret) and join my father at the breakfast table. There were always four copies of the
New York Times,
three of the
Daily News,
and three of the
Baltimore Sun.
I was snobbish even then and insisted that no copies of these inferior papers be laid out at my place. Actually, we didn't need that many copies. My tutor read only the society news of all three papers, my father the sports news, while I read everything pertaining to the arts and let the brief news summary on the first page of the second section satisfy me on that score. My parents, separately, had asked me to keep them informed of major news and arts events, so they'd know what their friends were talking about. I worked hard and seriously at this. To my mind this was the only game worth playing, to inform my parents accurately without boring them, and I believe I did it well. They did not seem to think it odd a nine-year-old should be their source of what the world regarded as important information; nor did I. I was eager that they make a good impression on others. Sometimes, at parties, I would listen proudly as they used my exact careful phraseology in conversation.
But this morning the newspapers lay conspicuously untouched. What happened? I asked.
Nothing, my father said.
Your tutor has taken the day off, my mother said without looking at me.
Will he come back? I asked. They looked at me strangely.
Why
shouldn't
he come back? my mother asked. It was almost a challenge, and this time she looked directly at me.
I don't know, I said. And I didn't. It struck me that with
both
my beautiful parents to pleasure him, Jack Foster had every reason never to leave. I was too young, too innocent, of course, to know about the many curious forms sex guilt could take.
Let's go for a walk, my father said to me.
He hasn't had his breakfast yet, my mother said.
After breakfast, then, my father said patiently.
I wanted him to ...
To what? my father asked.
I've forgotten now, my mother said. It was the first time they'd ever wanted me at the same time.
It doesn't matter, my father said.
No, agreed my mother.
They left the table. I saw no more of them during the day. Already I felt curiously uneasy. I found myself too restless even to read the paper. I spent the day organizing my record collection.
The house seemed strangely empty, if you can imagine a house with a dozen servants seeming empty. My parents remained out of sight. I had lunch and dinner alone. Neither came to kiss me goodnight.
Around midnight I came suddenly awake. I had a curious prickling feeling. I slipped out of bed, went to my peephole closet. Had Jack returned?
There was a naked form sprawled face-down on his bed, but I knew it wasn't my tutor. It was my father. He wasn't asleep. He was moving his hips to rub his groin against the bedclothes, legs spread apart. I knew he was fantasizing that Jack was fucking him.
The door opened. It was my mother. What are
you
doing here? she demanded.
He quickly sat up in bed. His erection arose unashamed from the black ringlets of his pubic hair. I might ask you the same thing, wife.
You've always known about it, husband.
Well, now you know about him
and
me.
It's a lie! my mother snapped. My father said nothing. He fondled his hard, enormous cock meaningfully. You're obscene! my mother cried.
Jack didn't think so.
Couldn't you let me have even this? Did I ever try to steal one of your truckdrivers?
There was enough for both of us, my father said. Besides, I felt sorry for him.
Sorry! You bastard!
