Dirty Boys

by M1ke Hunt

Copyright © 1997

This is the kind of stuff that only dirty old men read. OK, some dirty old women read it too. Even some dirty young women, judging from my e-mail. But dirty young children should go away, take a bath, and then go play cards with a friend or go to the basement and play pool or something. It's a good diversion, and as you dirty old men and women know, can lead to some interesting experiences from time to time.

Dirty Boys - by MIKE HUNT

I've been accused of being a dirty old man.

I shouldn't take that kind of accusation lying down, but it was made while I actually *was* lying down, and she was sitting on me, so I took it lying down. Of course I was standing erect while I was lying down, and she was sitting up as she was sitting down on top of me.

She was smiling as she made the accusation, and I watched her lips curl while she was smiling. Her lips surrounded me, of course, and as they slid up and down around me, I knew that her smile was forced because she was pointing her finger at me as she sat on me while I was standing up. She was squatting down as she sat down, and I was angry that she forced me to take it lying down. Just ten minutes earlier I'd been kneeling down and then I wouldn't have had to take it lying down. So she was laying me as I was lying there, even though I was standing up and she was squatting down as she sat up.

Uh, maybe I should start this over again.

I've been accused of being a dirty old man.

I was never accused of being a dirty young man, and nobody ever even thought to accuse me of being a dirty little boy, but I was.

In fact I think that's why I turned out to be such a voyeur. I was the youngest kid in the class. I'd started kindergarten when I wasn't even five; they allowed that in California. Of course my parents didn't know that I'd also be late to mature, which also made me the smallest in the room.

When it was time to choose up the baseball teams at school I'd always be one of the mopes to be chosen last. They let me play second base, cause hardly anybody ever hit the ball there. When it was time to play football I was absolutely the last person chosen. Then they let me play the part of the football. Just kidding. Actually, my position was Left Out.

So I naturally gravitated to individual sports like swimming and diving and gymnastics. I was small, and coordinated, and I actually got pretty good. And during the summers I would practice my diving, and the girls would watch.

It wasn't my stunning physique they were looking at, and it wasn't my boyish and oh-so-cute face, trust me. But girls are apparently interested in a variety of different things having to do with boys, and when I found one of those thing, man did I work at it. My best dive was a one-and-a-half gainer in pike position from the 1 meter board, and a forward "two" from the 3 meter.

I almost killed myself learning the dives from the high board, but it was worth it. The girls looked.

Occasionally they even talked to me, but I was such a fumbler it never went any further. So as I say, I started to watch. No pressure, no expectations, and no pussy, but what the hell, it was a living.

The first experience I can remember happened one night when the pool had closed. Judy was one of the female lifeguards, and all the boys lusted after her. We begged her to teach us the fundamentals of rescuing someone, but only because we knew you had to swim with your arm across her tits and under her armpit to drag her back to the side of the pool. She pretended not to know what we 13 year olds were up to.

The pool closed each night at 8PM. They usually let me stay around while they stacked the chairs so I could practice my diving without waiting in line behind 11 kids who wanted to jump off the high board. I had about 30 minutes of uninterrupted time, and I used it most every night.

One Tuesday Judy and her boyfriend were stacking the chairs and I was diving. After maybe 20 minutes I noticed that they had disappeared, and having done a perfect one-and-a-quarter onto my face from up high, decided to call it a night. I walked toward the clubhouse. It was twilight and the place was deserted.

I remembered my towel and walked back to the pool. I heard her giggling and him entreating, and I slowed down my pace. It took me a few moments to figure out where they were, and when I did I didn't think, I just sort of walked quietly around the edge of the pool.

They were in the filter house room down behind the embankment by the deep end. I'd been in that room a couple of times; typical teen-age boy curiosity kind of thing, and I remembered it as an industrial cavern the size of our living room at home, except with giant metal containers and pipes and valves.

And I heard her giggle again.

"He's gone," I heard him say. "Come on."

"You're terrible," she chirped. "I'm at work, thank you."

"You're in a tiny little bathing suit and you're hanging out all over the place and I can't stand it," he said.

There was a metal grate directly under the business end of the low dive. You hardly ever noticed it because the room wasn't usually lit and the metal pipes holding the diving board camouflaged it, but from the right angle you could just see into the front half of the place.

And I saw.

They were playing and they were kissing and he suddenly took her in his arms and her arms wrapped around him and they embraced and started making out with the passion that 17 year olds have.

And I watched. I saw his hand reach up and pull her shoulder strap to the side and then down. I watched as her breast popped out of the top of the stretchy material, and I unconsciously imprinted the scene so strongly that I can still "see" it today, as though it was a 35mm slide that my father had taken during some random summer vacation.

His hand covered her breast, and then he was tugging at the other strap and lowering it and I watched with a 13-year old's fascination as he pulled down the other side and her other breast came into view. And they stood there, kissing and fondling for at least 20 minutes, and I watched.

I had an immediate reaction, but I was standing in public view, and even though there was no public I didn't touch myself.

I've learned as I've gotten older this early part of the sex ritual gets shorter and shorter, to the point where once you're married you're not allowed to make out or do much of anything but stick your dick where the sun don't shine. It's a rule, I think.

But 17-year olds are more eager and yet perversely take more time in petting and foreplay, and I eagerly drank the scene in, wondering if such an event would ever happen to me.

He was moaning and she was sighing, but the scene went no further, at least while I was there. Because I stupidly shuffled my feet and happened to kick a pebble and it made a noise and they both jumped back with a start. I quietly raced out of the pool before they could compose themselves and come upstairs for a look. But I'll always remember Judy and the filter room. I'll bet I remember it better than she does, and she was there!

About a week later I was spending the night at my friend Tom's house on the other side of town. I'd ridden my bike there, because it was becoming very uncool to have to be delivered everywhere by Mom, and anyway I was 13 and had plenty of excess energy.

Tom's folks were very hip, and didn't mind a bit when we took off on our bikes at nearly 10PM. In my house it was practically lights out, but Tom's folks were looser. So Tom and I took off for the "bend", where we knew teenagers went parking after the movies.

We fairly flew up the deserted road, picked a spot and rolled our bikes into the brush. We climbed up a small hillside and sat down.

"Now what?" I asked.

"Well, there's this..." he said with a grin. And he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro's.

"Cool," I said, trying to be cool.

He lit one and took a big drag, expelling the wispy smoke in a steady stream from his mouth and his nostrils. He handed one to me. I lit it and took inhaled deeply.

"Arrgh. Huuuh. Awhooo. Chhwz! Huuuh. Hoh, hoh, hoh. HOH. Whooof."

Tommy laughed out loud at my discomfort. "Never smoked one before?"

"Uh, no, not really." No point in trying to be cool when your face is redder than a third-degree sunburn and you're about to puke.

"You'll get used to it," he said.

"Of course," I said, taking a tiny drag on the cigarette and pushing the smoke immediately out from between my lips. "Hoh. Awhooo." I gulped. "That was better."

"Yeah," he laughed.

We finished those two, then talked for a while, then smoked another one each. About 11:00 we saw the cars start to come down the lane. They never drove in together, and they never parked too close to each other, but we were lucky and watched as two of them parked within sight. And the ambient light from the full moon was enough to be able to see.

And we watched.

The car farther away had two couples in it; a double date, apparently. And they wasted no time in getting to business. The two people in the front seat merged into one larger unit, and the couple in the back seat did the same. They were far enough away from us that we couldn't really discern any details, but it was clear what was going on. Heavy making out. Maybe some petting. Like I say, it was tough to see.

The car which parked directly in front of us had just two people. We could see her clearly through the large glass window; he was hidden by the heavy dark roof. But as he slid from behind the wheel and across the bench seat that was popular in those days, he came into view, and we watched as they melted together in an embrace of teenage passion.

And we had a perfect sight line as his hands began to wander across her front, grasping and squeezing at her breasts, and fumbling with the buttons as she acceded to his desires. In the dark my own hands slipped to the front of my trousers and I surreptitiously squeezed myself while I watched. I didn't dare glance at Tommy, but I suppose he was doing the same.

At last the front of her blouse was completely unbuttoned and we could see her heavy white brassiere, and we watched as he pushed her blouse down her arms and off her shoulders in his eagerness. He fumbled with the bra clasp behind her for probably five minutes, and finally she must have gotten as frustrated as he was and reached around behind and undid it.

Her lacy white support fell away and her nudity was revealed to him and unknowingly to us and then he moved back toward her for a deep kiss that hid our newly found treasures from view. We could see his hands dancing across her chest, and while the view wasn't perfect, there was not an iota of doubt in our minds what was happening.

"You gotta buy some binoculars," I said absently.

"I know," he replied.

It was our only conversation for the next half hour.

We watched as their petting continued, and then suddenly she bent down and disappeared from view. Her face was now hidden behind the heavy door of the passionmobile, but it was obvious what was going on.

Either she was trying to read the word "Talon" on his zipper in the dark, or she was sucking on his dick. I figured it was the dick. I was squeezing my own, now, by trying not to be obvious about it, and I figured Tommy was too. I never actually found out. And I never actually came that night, although I'll bet the guy in the car did.

I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Well, obviously it was the guy in the car who was in heaven. I was sitting on a hillside amid the poison ivy trying to play with myself through my heavy blue jeans without having Tommy think I was being queer about it. 13 year olds are like that.

Just a couple of weeks later I had my first real sexual experience. Once the hormones start running, they don't rest, I've found out. I'm still waiting for a breather, frankly.

I was at Jimmy Vertis' house, and his parents were gone for the night. A movie maybe, or cards at the neighbors, I don't really remember. I was telling Jimmy about my two experiences so far, and he said "Want to see something?"

"Sure," I replied with all the savior-faire a barely teenage boy can muster.

He went to a bureau in his parents room and returned with a deck of cards. The box that held them was frayed, and had a strange design cheaply imprinted on just one side. It looked like there was a German word in big letters. Maybe Polish or Dutch. Foreign, for sure.

"So?" I said.

"Let's play cards," he smiled, extracting the deck from the cardboard housing and giving them a quick shuffle.

"Fine," I responded.

He dealt us each 5 cards, face down on the rug where we were sitting. "Straight poker," he said, "one-eyed tits are wild."

"Huh?" I said. I picked up my cards. It was a real deck, with aces and kings and everything else. But in the center of each, instead of those boring diamonds and spades was a picture of a naked woman.

"Holy shit!" I said, actually dropping three of the cards in my excitement. Jimmy howled.

"Come on, pick them up," he said.

"Holy shit!" I said again. I stared at the cards. My young penis went from zero to sixty in 3 seconds. "Holy shit. Holy holy holy shit."

I studied ever millimeter of every card in my hand. Whew! The only naked women I had ever seen to that point were a couple of saggy titted African ladies in an issue of National Geographic and Judy-through-the-grate and the brassiere girl at the bend with Tommy. Whew!

I focused in on a brunette with beautiful breasts. She was sort of hidden behind a gauze top which actually hid nothing at all, but was all the more exciting for the tease it created in the "now you see me but now you don't" pose. Whew!

"Uh, what did you mean, one-eyed tits are wild?" I asked.

If you can see both her tits, then it's a regular card. If you can only see one tit, then it's a wild card, unless you can't see the nipple. Then it's also a regular card," he explained patiently.

"I get it," I said. I studied the cards in my hand. Two wild cards. I hadn't yet thought to look in the corners are see what the actual numerical value of them was! We played the hand and I won. I couldn't wait for the next hand.

"How about we make it more interesting," he asked.

"It's plenty interesting," I said. "Gimme some more cards."

"No really," he said. "Let's add something."

"Like what?"

"Let's play strip poker."

"Uh, OK," I answered. The hormones were raging. I couldn't wait to get more cards in my hand.

Jimmy dealt the cards. One eyed tits were wild, and I had a bunch. I won the hand and he took off a sneaker. I won the next, and the next, and both shoes were joined by a white sock. Then it was my turn for a run of bad luck. Soon we were even, and on the next hand he pulled ahead.

I won one, he won one. The tits were flying, I was studying, the clothes were piling up. He lost his shirt. Literally. We argued after the next hand whether his belt counted as a piece of clothing. I didn't have a belt, so it didn't seem fair. In the end he agreed, and when he lost that hand, dropped his pants onto the growing pile.

As he stood to remove his trousers, it was obvious that he had an erection. It distorted the natural flow of his briefs, and I could see the general shape and outline through the cotton cloth. He sat back down.

I dealt the next hand and I made two eyed tits wild. And I lost. My pants came down, and it was just as obvious that I had an erection. My boxer shorts had acquired a third dimension that could only have been produced by a stiff boner.

Neither one of us was uncomfortable, but neither one of us wanted to lose, either.

I got two aces and a wild card. Good enough to win almost any hand of the night. Jimmy got two eights and two wild cards. I looked down at my one remaining article of clothing, and now I started to sweat.

"Come on, come on," he said.

I bounced up off the floor and pushed at the material and slid it off my waist and down my legs. My little pink dick pointed skyward. Jimmy stared.

"I've never seen a dick before," he said. "Except for my own, of course." He paused. "And my Dad's, but it wasn't big at the time."

I nodded in my embarrassment. "One more hand?" I said. "Gimme a chance to get even."

"OK," he said nonchalantly.

I got a king, a jack, and three numbers. I looked again. The jack was a wild card. She had the biggest tit popping out of her top I ever saw. Of course I hadn't seen much to that point, and I was still at the point where really big tits were the most important thing, but my pecker reloaded with blood, which was tough since it was already quite full.

Jimmy smiled, and I saw his wanger bounce inside his shorts. He discarded three cards, as did I. I got another king and two numbers. It was time to call.

"Three kings," I said. "How about you?"

"Two jacks. Nothing wild. Guess I lose."

"Guess you do."

He stood up and began pushing his shorts down. It took some effort, and when he had them down a few inches it became apparent that this was going to be a show. He pushed them further, and his dick bent down, held by the elastic waist band. He pushed further, then bent at the hips to try to give himself some room, and finally with a quick shove pushed the elastic below his throbbing member.

It sprang up with the force of a torsion suspension, sticking straight out from his body. It was longer than mine. And thicker by size.

"Holy shit!" I said. "Look at that!"

"Yeah, well..." he said.

"Holy shit!" I said again. I couldn't take my eyes off his dick, bouncing as it was with every beat of his heart. "Holy shit!"

He sat back down even though he was standing straight up. I was also standing up as I was sitting down. No wait. I've already done this.

We both sat there, quite unashamed, both fascinated with each other's erection, both pawing through the 52 little pictures Jimmy's folks had so thoughtfully provided.

"Look at this one," he said, leaning over to me. "Isn't that awesome?" He handed me a card with a beautiful girl winking at the camera. Her hands were clasped just in front of her cunt, and her arms were squeezing her tits together; they were pointed right at the lens like a couple of 38mm howitzers.

"God, how do they get them to do that?" I wondered.

"She's just squeezing them with her arms," he answered.

"No, no. How to they get them to take off their clothes and stand in front of a camera?" I asked. "Girls don't do that," I said with the assuredness of my many years of experience.

"Sure they do," he said. "Haven't you ever seen a Playboy?" I shook my head. "You're kidding," he said. "Wait here."

He disappeared down the hall, his dick waggling with every step, and he returned with a magazine the likes of which I had only seen behind the counter at the local drug store. I could only imagine. He set it on the floor, and immediately opened the centerfold.

"Holy shit!" I said. "Look at her." She was beautiful. She was a goddess. She had life sized tits. Her lower half was hidden behind a table; this was in the days before pubic hair was common. In magazines, I mean.

My eyes drank her in, my dick throbbed in agony. I looked over, and saw that Jimmy was touching himself. Actually more than touching himself, he had his hand wrapped around his dick and was stroking back and forth.

"You do that to?" I said. "Doesn't it feel great?" My hand went to my own penis.

"Yeah, it does feel good," he admitted.

"And isn't the best part at the end?" I said.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"What do you mean, what do I mean?" I said.

"I mean what do you mean, 'at the end'?" he replied.

"You know, when you do that for a while, and then you just *go*. It's like you have to pee, only it's not pee." Hey. I was 13 years old. I didn't have a manual. They didn't teach it in school. I had a shitty vocabulary, OK? Don't laugh.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said.

"Really?" I said. It was obvious that he was telling the truth. I didn't press the issue. I just said, "Watch."

I began playing with myself. With my free hand I turned the page and saw more pictures of a lovely girl. In one of the poses you could see her hanging breast and erect nipple peeking out from between her unbuttoned blouse. I stroked myself some more.

It didn't take long, and soon I felt myself on the way to the "end." I didn't know what to call it. I didn't care. "OK, OK, watch," I said.

Jimmy's eyes focused on my dick, and suddenly I came, and little gusher of white erupting from the tiny slot at the end of my member. One spurt, then another, then still another. I grasped my dick and stroked in between each of the surges, and pumped some more. I watched him as he watched me and I looked at the magazine and I looked at his dick and I looked back at the girl. I pumped again.

I collapsed back on my haunches, the remnants of my orgasm still coursing through my system.

"Whew!" I said. "See what I mean?"

"I don't understand," he said.

"Just do it," I said, years before any slick ad on TV encouraged me with those words.

"OK, but I don't get it," Jimmy whined.

He began to play with himself, and I turned the magazine toward him and occasionally flipped the pages. I could only look at the girls upside down now, but it was enough. And anyway I was fascinated with watching him jerk off. He did, and after several minutes, far longer than it took me, by the way, he got a strange look on his face. I knew what was coming, so to speak.

His eyes opened with wonder and he increased the rhythmic pounding of his wrist, and I watched as he hit his peak. He erupted a gusher, spurting everywhere. On the rug, on the magazine, on his folded leg in front of himself. His eyes squinted closed; mine stayed wide open as I watched him traverse the course I had traveled just a few minutes earlier. He kept pounding, even when he was done.

His breathing was labored, his arm tired, but he didn't stop. Nothing more happened, of course, and I waited a minute or two before explaining that you couldn't repeat the exercise for a few minutes. He didn't understand, but he took my word for it.

"Holy shit!" he said. "I've never done that before. That was GREAT!"

"Yeah," I said. "I know."

Isn't it funny that I don't remember my own first orgasm, but I remember his?

I remember many more, although not with this kind of specificity. Jimmy and I got together pretty often after that. He lived just down the street from me. And while I had a couple of National Geographics in the basement, his father had Playboys. And cards.

During the next twelve months we progressed from simultaneous solo masturbation to well, mutual masturbation. I thought nothing of having my hand around another boy's cock; I'm guessing that I might have been sufficiently distracted by having his hand around mine. At that age, I just wanted the experience again and again.

Jimmy and I stopped our little society cold the following summer. He found a girl who would let him unbutton her blouse and who would play with him. I visited my cousin on a farm.

We'd still share experiences, of course, but we never touched each other again. One time he told me about his summer job at a shoe store. I told him about feeling up Jenny Sue Walters while teaching her to play pool in my basement. He liked that story, and though there wasn't that much to it, it was more information which he processed and added to his store. Neither one of us could believe that girls actually let you do that! And then at other times if you looked at them funny they'd treat you like dirt. We never figured it out.

Still haven't.

Alfred Kinsey, of sex research fame, talked to thousands of men and women about their sexual experiences. And even though it was during a time of complete sexual repression, he gleaned a vast amount of information about the sexual habits of Americans. He even made dirty movies in his attic!

One of the things he firmly believed was that every person is potentially bisexual. In fact, he rated people on a scale of 1-10. No, there was no "Athena" rating. But he gave a "1" to someone who was exclusively homosexual, and a "10" to someone who was exclusively heterosexual. He says that less than 20% of the population properly falls into one of those two categories.

He also says that the great majority of people rate themselves as either a "1" or a "10" and are hung up about choosing any number in between. Societal pressures and all. Peer groups and all. Maybe he's right.

His theory, if I understand it correctly, (and not stated exactly this way for Nobel Prize purposes), is that any pair of lips around your dick feels pretty good. I'm guessing he used a thesaurus when he wrote his book to dress it up a little.

And of course you just have to look at the vast array of pornography available to see just how clearly the lines are drawn, at least for men.

It's fine to have two women having sex with each other, and it's fine to have two guys humping a girl at the same time, but the guys NEVER touch each other. Not for a millisecond. Can it really be that it's so weird? Suppose you stuck your dick through a glory hole with the promise of a right-fine blow job on the other side. If you didn't know what gender the lips belonged to, would you not cum?

Anyway, I'd guess that I'm an "8", though I feel the same societal pressures as everyone else, and if asked, I'd answer "10". That's what makes it so embarrassing to spell my name with a "1".

Boy that was a long way to go for a lame joke.

But it really is true. I really did feel up Jenny Sue at the pool table. She claimed she didn't know how to use the cue stick, so I'd stand behind her. And as she bent over to take the shot, I'd lay my hand down on the table, palm upstretched, and she'd carefully place her breast right into it. She pretended not to notice. I pretended to be aiming the shot. The funny thing is we weren't boyfriend and girlfriend or anything. I never kissed her once. I just took what she gave me with the gratitude that a 14-year old can only express with a bar of soap in the shower. Again and again. For months afterwards.

I even told Jimmy the story while he blew me one afternoon over at his house. I came right in his mouth. And I wasn't hung up about it at all.

Like I said, I'm probably an "8" or so. It's entirely subjective, of course, and I've lived the life of a "10" ever since. And no, I'm not posting this in the gay forums, because while I like expanding my audience, I'm not looking for a lot of weird e-mails from guys. Weird e-mails from girls, now that's a different story. Maybe I'm an "8.5", verging on "9".

Speaking of e-mails, if you'd like to get some of my more heterosexually inclined stories on your computer, send me a note. Make sure to tell me you're at least 18, and if you want to include a rating from 1-10 that's OK, too. No, you can't be an 18/18. The scale doesn't go that high.

Address your request to MrM1KE@aol.com. Remember that the second character in M1KE is a "one" (1) not an "eye" (I). Yes, how embarrassing.

I have lots of stories on my webpage. They all involve girls. Most also involve me. You can visit it at <http://members.aol.com/mrm1ke>.

This story is Copyright 1997 by M1KE HUNT. You can distribute it, archive it, or burn it, as long as you do it for free. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't repost it, especially on gay boards. That's all I need. Next thing you know I'll be sliding down the scale to a "3" or something.

I'm pretty adamant about this request. If you violate my wishes, I won't take it lying down.

Uh oh.