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Let me know what you think. How's the pace? Too much detail? Enough action?
All Male College, 1957
I had the terrible feeling I had made a disastrous mistake that was too late to fix. Now that I had arrived at Middlebury to start my freshman year of college, I felt a rising sense of panic that I should have gone to NYU instead of this small, preppy college in the mountains of rural Vermont. The thought of living amidst the grit and tumult of Greenwich Village had scared the suburban Connecticut 18 year old kid in me who had grown up surrounded by expansive green lawns and shady trees. Now, at this moment, the thought of living in the middle of nowhere with all of these college aged young men – and no co-eds – scared me even more.
I stood in the window in the second floor student lounge and looked down through the panes of glass at the curb below. My father opened the passenger door of the car for my mother. It was her ’55 Ford Country Squire station wagon, the model with the wood-paneling on the sides. The way-back was now empty. The books and clothes and winter jackets and starched sheets that had shared the ride with me were now neatly arranged in my dorm room upstairs. My mother hesitated for a moment as my father held the door for her and said something to him I obviously could not hear. Would they look up at the building and search for my face? Would they give me one last wave good-bye? How could they leave me here?
Only a few minutes ago, I just wanted them to hurry up and go with the hordes of other parents who had dropped off their sons and left without fanfare. I had been eager to rip off the bandage of their departure so that I could get on with the new life that awaited – and terrified – me. Now, at this moment, I wanted nothing more than to get back in the car with them and return to West Hartford, the place from where I had wanted to escape for as long as I could remember.
My mother checked her hair in a hand mirror she pulled out from her purse. My father flicked his cigarette butt on the sidewalk. He looked up at the sky as if he were a pilot about to climb aboard a plane and fly it away. He lit another cigarette and got in the car. They did not look up at me for one last wave or one last look at their only son. Instead, they sped off without looking back, and I was left only with the memory of our awkward farewell.
“Good luck, son,” my father had said as he had shaken my hand.
My mother had pressed an imaginary crease on the lapel of my blue blazer and straightened my tie. “Your father and I are very proud of you.”
“Yes, Mother.” I had responded with an ersatz formality I had summoned from deep inside, because I thought the situation and my parents were calling for it. The forced stoicism all seemed so ridiculous. The sad part of it is, I desperately wanted to be hugged and held by both of them, if even just briefly. I am a different kind of parent than mine were and would have hugged me tight if I had been them. But, back in 1957 when I was 18 and starting college, parents were afraid their sons would turn into fairies if they showed them too much affection.
The truth was, my biggest fear was that I just might be a fairy. That thought terrified me to my core, more than the fear that the Russians would drop an atom bomb and start a global thermonuclear war. Yes, I genuinely liked girls. I had even creamed in my pants as I finger-fucked Alison, my girlfriend, just last weekend. It had been in the back seat of the Ford Woody that had just whisked away my parents and my former life. Surely, that meant I wasn’t a fairy or a homosexual or a gay or a fruitcake or whatever people called people who shared some of the same feelings that people like me sometimes have, right?
It was also the truth that Alison had a diabolical way of stringing me along to the point of my extreme sexual frustration, but never giving me exactly what I wanted or needed when I wanted or needed it. For someone who was bored by baseball, she marked the boundaries of her sexual limits with bases, and it was pretty clear to me that she was protecting “home base” for as long as she could. The pattern was simple. First, we would kiss. Then, I would spend a few minutes rubbing my hand against the rigid wire undercarriage of her bra. She would pretend to resist by whispering me for me to stop while kissing me even harder.
After she dispensed with the faux resistance, she would let me go to second base. I would unhook her bra and release her large, but firm breasts. I would bury my face in them and savor the cool smoothness against my face. I would suck her nipples until they were hard and wet from my tongue. My cock throbbing like a hound at a tether, I would press against her and move my hand to reach under her dress.
Sometimes, she would reach down and give my boner a squeeze. The first time she had felt it, she had gasped. I had never seen a hard cock other than my own. But, I knew from my furtive knowledge of The Kinsey Report, that the 7 ½ inches I have is bigger than average and that I should be proud of the handful that I have going on. I would continue to press my rod against her while we kissed, each time hopeful there would be more. Then, invariably, she would stop me, and I knew she meant it. The passion would ebb from my body and brain. Soon my boner would subside, my balls still aching. I would drive her home, the silence laden with my sexual frustration.
This past weekend, however, she let me take matters further than she had all summer. She let me unbutton the top button of her jeans and let me slide my hand down through the top of her underwear. In the darkness, I slid my middle finger over the wetness while she moaned quietly. She did not put up any pretense of resistance or tell me to stop as I lingered on third. It felt so warm and wet and good. I was sure I was about to slide into home base.
“Maybe at Thanksgiving, if you still love me,” she had said. “We’re both going away to college, and we are both only 18.” I kissed her and continued to slide my finger over her wet slit and gently inside her. That was the most hope I had ever been offered of losing my virginity. My cock throbbed even harder in my khakis in a way that seemed to match my pulse. The more I kissed her and slid my finger over the slippery opening of her pussy, the more aroused I became. My hips moved back and forth in a slow grinding motion against her leg. Soon, I felt that all-too-familiar feeling and knew I was passing the point of no return.
There was no hope and no thought of stopping it. That churning, rushing, dizzy feeling came over me, and I was shooting burst after burst of warm semen into my underwear. I stifled a moan, because I was embarrassed at what was happening. I was afraid Alison would be repulsed and think I was a pervert. My breathing increased, but otherwise I did little to give away what happened. My cock was a pulsing, gooey mess, and I hoped the mess wouldn’t leak through my pants. In the darkness, there was no way to tell. I didn’t care. It felt too good.
I pulled up in front of Alison’s house, which was dark. We kissed again, and she said how close she felt to me. I said I felt the same way. I held her hand as we walked up the pathway to her door in the darkness and made plans to see each other at Thanksgiving. Just before we reached the porch steps, the lights at the front of the house suddenly snapped on and blazed the steps with blinding brightness.
In an instant, the front door opened, and there was Alison’s father. He smiled disingenuously. He was always polite to me, but not-so-deep down, I know he despised me. In his mind, I was not the responsible college boy next door with the bright future. I was just some guy who wanted to fuck his daughter. He had just started to ask how our evening was when he stopped mid-sentence. He had caught sight of the shameful semen stain that was now the size of a slice of baloney across the crotch of my rumpled khakis. My stomach lurched in fear and I placed my hand on the wet stain. But it was too late, and the stain was too big to hide.
His eyes narrowed to slits. “Good night, Jack. Good luck at Dartmouth.” He pulled Alison inside and slammed the door shut.
“Actually, it’s Middlebury,” I muttered to myself as I walked back to my car, wondering how I could ever face either of them again.
I was really horny for Alison and desperately craved for more than she was giving me. But, my other undeniable truth was that I also liked men. It scared and confused me to think that as much as I ached to distraction for pussy, I also had the “devious homosexual tendencies” you would sometimes read about in psychology text books or in newspaper articles about police raids of bars that catered to the homosexual. If I was your normal, clean cut, wholesome boy next door, why did I sometimes have the abnormal, deviant desire to look at and maybe even touch a guy’s cock, preferably a big one? It had never happened yet. But, as I looked at all of these undeniably good looking guys who would be my classmates for the next 4 years, could I trust myself to keep those thoughts safely to myself?
All Male College, 1957
I had the terrible feeling I had made a disastrous mistake that was too late to fix. Now that I had arrived at Middlebury to start my freshman year of college, I felt a rising sense of panic that I should have gone to NYU instead of this small, preppy college in the mountains of rural Vermont. The thought of living amidst the grit and tumult of Greenwich Village had scared the suburban Connecticut 18 year old kid in me who had grown up surrounded by expansive green lawns and shady trees. Now, at this moment, the thought of living in the middle of nowhere with all of these college aged young men – and no co-eds – scared me even more.
I stood in the window in the second floor student lounge and looked down through the panes of glass at the curb below. My father opened the passenger door of the car for my mother. It was her ’55 Ford Country Squire station wagon, the model with the wood-paneling on the sides. The way-back was now empty. The books and clothes and winter jackets and starched sheets that had shared the ride with me were now neatly arranged in my dorm room upstairs. My mother hesitated for a moment as my father held the door for her and said something to him I obviously could not hear. Would they look up at the building and search for my face? Would they give me one last wave good-bye? How could they leave me here?
Only a few minutes ago, I just wanted them to hurry up and go with the hordes of other parents who had dropped off their sons and left without fanfare. I had been eager to rip off the bandage of their departure so that I could get on with the new life that awaited – and terrified – me. Now, at this moment, I wanted nothing more than to get back in the car with them and return to West Hartford, the place from where I had wanted to escape for as long as I could remember.
My mother checked her hair in a hand mirror she pulled out from her purse. My father flicked his cigarette butt on the sidewalk. He looked up at the sky as if he were a pilot about to climb aboard a plane and fly it away. He lit another cigarette and got in the car. They did not look up at me for one last wave or one last look at their only son. Instead, they sped off without looking back, and I was left only with the memory of our awkward farewell.
“Good luck, son,” my father had said as he had shaken my hand.
My mother had pressed an imaginary crease on the lapel of my blue blazer and straightened my tie. “Your father and I are very proud of you.”
“Yes, Mother.” I had responded with an ersatz formality I had summoned from deep inside, because I thought the situation and my parents were calling for it. The forced stoicism all seemed so ridiculous. The sad part of it is, I desperately wanted to be hugged and held by both of them, if even just briefly. I am a different kind of parent than mine were and would have hugged me tight if I had been them. But, back in 1957 when I was 18 and starting college, parents were afraid their sons would turn into fairies if they showed them too much affection.
The truth was, my biggest fear was that I just might be a fairy. That thought terrified me to my core, more than the fear that the Russians would drop an atom bomb and start a global thermonuclear war. Yes, I genuinely liked girls. I had even creamed in my pants as I finger-fucked Alison, my girlfriend, just last weekend. It had been in the back seat of the Ford Woody that had just whisked away my parents and my former life. Surely, that meant I wasn’t a fairy or a homosexual or a gay or a fruitcake or whatever people called people who shared some of the same feelings that people like me sometimes have, right?
It was also the truth that Alison had a diabolical way of stringing me along to the point of my extreme sexual frustration, but never giving me exactly what I wanted or needed when I wanted or needed it. For someone who was bored by baseball, she marked the boundaries of her sexual limits with bases, and it was pretty clear to me that she was protecting “home base” for as long as she could. The pattern was simple. First, we would kiss. Then, I would spend a few minutes rubbing my hand against the rigid wire undercarriage of her bra. She would pretend to resist by whispering me for me to stop while kissing me even harder.
After she dispensed with the faux resistance, she would let me go to second base. I would unhook her bra and release her large, but firm breasts. I would bury my face in them and savor the cool smoothness against my face. I would suck her nipples until they were hard and wet from my tongue. My cock throbbing like a hound at a tether, I would press against her and move my hand to reach under her dress.
Sometimes, she would reach down and give my boner a squeeze. The first time she had felt it, she had gasped. I had never seen a hard cock other than my own. But, I knew from my furtive knowledge of The Kinsey Report, that the 7 ½ inches I have is bigger than average and that I should be proud of the handful that I have going on. I would continue to press my rod against her while we kissed, each time hopeful there would be more. Then, invariably, she would stop me, and I knew she meant it. The passion would ebb from my body and brain. Soon my boner would subside, my balls still aching. I would drive her home, the silence laden with my sexual frustration.
This past weekend, however, she let me take matters further than she had all summer. She let me unbutton the top button of her jeans and let me slide my hand down through the top of her underwear. In the darkness, I slid my middle finger over the wetness while she moaned quietly. She did not put up any pretense of resistance or tell me to stop as I lingered on third. It felt so warm and wet and good. I was sure I was about to slide into home base.
“Maybe at Thanksgiving, if you still love me,” she had said. “We’re both going away to college, and we are both only 18.” I kissed her and continued to slide my finger over her wet slit and gently inside her. That was the most hope I had ever been offered of losing my virginity. My cock throbbed even harder in my khakis in a way that seemed to match my pulse. The more I kissed her and slid my finger over the slippery opening of her pussy, the more aroused I became. My hips moved back and forth in a slow grinding motion against her leg. Soon, I felt that all-too-familiar feeling and knew I was passing the point of no return.
There was no hope and no thought of stopping it. That churning, rushing, dizzy feeling came over me, and I was shooting burst after burst of warm semen into my underwear. I stifled a moan, because I was embarrassed at what was happening. I was afraid Alison would be repulsed and think I was a pervert. My breathing increased, but otherwise I did little to give away what happened. My cock was a pulsing, gooey mess, and I hoped the mess wouldn’t leak through my pants. In the darkness, there was no way to tell. I didn’t care. It felt too good.
I pulled up in front of Alison’s house, which was dark. We kissed again, and she said how close she felt to me. I said I felt the same way. I held her hand as we walked up the pathway to her door in the darkness and made plans to see each other at Thanksgiving. Just before we reached the porch steps, the lights at the front of the house suddenly snapped on and blazed the steps with blinding brightness.
In an instant, the front door opened, and there was Alison’s father. He smiled disingenuously. He was always polite to me, but not-so-deep down, I know he despised me. In his mind, I was not the responsible college boy next door with the bright future. I was just some guy who wanted to fuck his daughter. He had just started to ask how our evening was when he stopped mid-sentence. He had caught sight of the shameful semen stain that was now the size of a slice of baloney across the crotch of my rumpled khakis. My stomach lurched in fear and I placed my hand on the wet stain. But it was too late, and the stain was too big to hide.
His eyes narrowed to slits. “Good night, Jack. Good luck at Dartmouth.” He pulled Alison inside and slammed the door shut.
“Actually, it’s Middlebury,” I muttered to myself as I walked back to my car, wondering how I could ever face either of them again.
I was really horny for Alison and desperately craved for more than she was giving me. But, my other undeniable truth was that I also liked men. It scared and confused me to think that as much as I ached to distraction for pussy, I also had the “devious homosexual tendencies” you would sometimes read about in psychology text books or in newspaper articles about police raids of bars that catered to the homosexual. If I was your normal, clean cut, wholesome boy next door, why did I sometimes have the abnormal, deviant desire to look at and maybe even touch a guy’s cock, preferably a big one? It had never happened yet. But, as I looked at all of these undeniably good looking guys who would be my classmates for the next 4 years, could I trust myself to keep those thoughts safely to myself?
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