Author: Pervitron
Title: Fight Night
Summary:  You're 13 in mid-1970s NYC.Blacks really, 
really wanna put it to whitey. What do you do?  Isn't 
it obvious - you become a LITTLE WHITE COCKSUCKER!!
Keywords: mm, mM, interr, ped, viol, humil, cuckold, ws

  WARNING: The following story contains graphic descrip- 
 tions of a sexual nature. It is intended for mature 
 persons only. Any persons not old enough to legally 
 receive adult materials or who are offended by them 
 should read no farther. Further distribution of this 
 story--and all others of this nature by this author--is 
 permissible only to appropriate persons and only if the 
 contents and author credit are unchanged. 

 NOTES: 

 1. Copyright (c) December 2000. 

 2. The persons and situations depicted in this story 
 are entirely fictitious. Any similarities to actual 
 persons or situations are completely unintentional and 
 coincidental. 

 3. Reader comments and feedback are always encouraged; 
 send to Pervitron@Hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr.org/~Pervitron 

 4. This story may be copied for free distribution, 
 provided the author credit is retained. 

 5.  This is a FANTASY.  I'm nothing like the people
 in my stories -- I'm really a nice person.

Fight Night
by Pervitron


I was a child until the early spring of my thirteenth year.
It was March of 1975, and the world seemed to have left its
orbit.   The communists were humiliating us in Vietnam.  We
had hounded Nixon from office, and now we had a President
who needed the Secret Service to help him to his feet after
falling down the stairs. Patty Hearst was robbing banks and
recording TV messages for her black kidnappers, the
Symbionese Liberation Army. And New York City, the financial
capital of the world was sinking into bankruptcy -- the
streets beneath our sixth floor apartment were ruled now by
drug dealers and street gangs.

Dad had been unemployed for more a year.  Mom took off with
her black lover in January, and the two of us sat alone in
our apartment that late winter and early spring, getting on
each other's nerves.

"You know you look like a girl," he said for the millionth
time.  He sat in his recliner, his face buried in the Daily
News.

I wanted to tell him what he looked like.  Sitting there in
his Gold's Gym tank top, showing off his sagging shoulders
and his spreading waist.  You shouldn't wear a shirt like
that unless you actually went to a gym - and he hadn't seen
the inside of a gym for years.

I stared at the TV.  I was watching the Jeffersons.  No, I
wasn't getting a haircut -- I liked the way I looked, the
way my blond hair fell around my ears.  It was another act
of sullen, wordless defiance on my part - part of my arsenal
of things he found offensive.  When I really wanted to get
him I wore my black Kiss T-shit, the sight of Gene Simmons
in makeup and high heels made him speechless.

"I'm sick of listening to this crap." He raised the remote
and switched the channel, cutting off the end of one of
George Jefferson's cutting remarks.

"C'mon Dad - I was watching that!"  He got me -- I reacted.
I even spoke to him.

Looking back, I feel sorry I was such a pain in the ass.
Now that I'm middle aged, I understand the mixture of anger
and despair he was feeling.  But I was thirteen, things were
happening to me too.  Puberty was turning everything upside
down inside me.  I had a cock that seemed like it was always
hard.  No matter how often I masturbated, I still woke up in
the morning with wet underpants. My cock was like some
ravenous alien creature that was grafted onto me - I
couldn't go more than a minute without seeing something, or
thinking of something that made it stir. If the world had
been kinder to my father, if he was still the strong,
vibrant man I grew up with he might have helped me with
this.  He might have shown me that all men feel that way.
But the father I knew was gone.  Instead of feeling sadness,
I was angry at him. Angry at his weakness, fearing that his
defeat by the world meant that I too would be beaten down.
I'd look over at him with contempt, wondering how he could
let the world treat him this way.

"C'Mon Dad - put the Jeffersons back on!"

"I'm sick of seeing jigaboos.  I see enough of them without
having to watch them in my own house."  He wasn't even
looking at me.  Funny though -- it seemed like every channel
he switched to had a black person on it: Barbara Jordan
pontificating on Nixon; Soul Train;  Howard Cossel
interviewing Muhammed Ali.  And when he saw Ali, he flicked
the set off.

And then it started: that roar that started every night at
this time from upstairs.  Our walls started vibrating as the
music of James Brown thundered over our heads.  They must
have speakers like steamer trunks up there, and it sounded
like they were placed face down on the floor, so loud was
the rumble.

He tried to ignore it. He pretended it didn't bother him.
He buried his face in the News.  There was no place for him
to hide, because even the News was about blacks - the front
page had a picture of a couple of black killers being led in
handcuffs up the stairs of a precinct.  Still, he just sat
there, and I felt this strange feeling rise within me.  Each
time the music started I remembered what happened a few
weeks ago.  It was a Saturday morning when a black woman and
three tall boys got on the elevator with me.  She said
hello, she told me they had just moved into the building,
and when I spoke with her I realized they were in the
apartment above us.  She seemed really friendly.  Her sons
were between 17 and 20, they were tall lanky kids with huge
afros, they looked down at me coolly, saying nothing.

When I went home and told Dad, he looked pissed, as if this
was just the latest in a long line of personal wounds.  He
didn't say anything, but I could see the anger on his face,
the way he looked upwards as if he might see them through
the ceiling.  That night the music started.  Not too loud,
but loud enough for both of us to hear. I think it was Sly
and the Family Stone, once he heard it he sprang out of his
recliner and stormed out the door. I hadn't seen him act so
decisively, so boldly in months. A few minutes later I heard
footsteps from upstairs as they answered his knock on the
door.  Then I heard shouting -- whoever answered the door up
there had answered his complaint with a tirade of viscous
curses.  As I sat there listening I remembered I hadn't told
him anything about them, I didn't tell him how big the boys
were. Dad came back a few minutes later, and he went right
to his bedroom and spent the night there.  They didn't turn
the music down that night - no, after that they really
cranked it up. Now every night the music thunders above our
heads, an invitation to come upstairs and complain again.

Every night he sits there, acting like it doesn't bother
him, pretending it's not an insult, a dare to come upstairs
for another round. I knew that this was another unspoken
bond between us, because I too was afraid of blacks.  I was
a freshman in high school, I was one of a rapidly
diminishing group of white kids that walked the hallways
with fear in our eyes, hoping to make it through the day
without being picked on. We huddled together like mice, we
walked as close to the lockers in the hallways as we could,
allowing the roaming groups of black toughs to swagger like
princes down the center.

I didn't dare wear my Kiss T-Shirt to school.

Bitterness was all that was left in him.  The humiliation of
having his wife leave him. "Bill, we just don't have fun
anymore." We sat and simmered that spring in the pitiless
heat of those words.  Fun she wanted, fun I knew she found
in the lean, agile muscles of a black man named Les, an
electrician that was working in one of the apartments
downstairs. The first time I saw Les was a day I came home
sick from school.  I could smell the grass as soon as I
opened our apartment door.  The Doors were playing on the
stereo:  "Try it on for size . . ."  I  should have left
when I saw the tool belt on the floor of the hallway.  If I
had left I could have told myself one of the super's men was
working on something.  If I had left I could have remained a
child a bit longer. But beneath the music I heard another
sound, a muffled cry that seemed to call to me, as if I
heard it before.  I walked down the hall, and when I got to
my parents bedroom my eyes opened in wonder.

All I could see was his ass, the big black haunches pushing
into her, rocking the squeaky bed, and making her cry: "I'm
almost there, Les!"  Her legs were up over his shoulders,
and her hands told me what was happening inside her. She had
her hands on his ass, her red nails were caressing the
stubby spiked hairs he had down there. "Oh, Jesus, Les . .
." They didn't hear me, they didn't hear my heart slamming
and the blood rushing like breaking surf up into my head.

She left a few months after that.  Even though her words
were directed at Dad, they hurt me too.  I don't know if Dad
knew what she was doing; if he did he knew it as something
unconscious, a truth too painful to face directly.  But I
knew why she left - whenever she called I only half
listened; I was lost in the memory of what I saw that day,
and the inner picture of what she was doing these days . . .
for fun.

****

We had always been happy together, the three of us. Mom was
there when I got home from school.  We'd talk in the kitchen
until Dad got home.  Every night we had dinner at exactly
seven o'clock, because Dad and I liked to watch Star Trek
reruns at six.  We'd eat dinner, and then most nights we'd
take a walk in Riverside Park.  We were a good family.  Like
most we had our problems, and like the better ones they were
handled with care.

Now that I'm an adult and understand relationships I have a
deeper picture of their problems.  My mother had always
wanted another child. Even then I could see the look in her
eyes at the children in the park, and now I understand why
my father stiffened whenever she pointed them out.  She
spoke often to me about what I was like when I was little,
and I knew from the sound in her voice that I was killing
something inside her by doing what all boys do: growing up.

But whatever disappointments they had between them, they
were managed, they never flared above a low simmer.  But the
earth shifted on them, the January day my father was laid
off, the snow day when I was home with mom, and we heard him
walk in the door and saw first the flakes of snow and ice on
his uniform, and the look he gave my mother.

Dad was a 44 yearold bus driver who never went to college.
He tried.  There were many nights when mom and I ate alone
because he was out in the suburbs looking for work.  I'd say
goodnight to him while he was sitting at the kitchen table,
pecking slowly at the typewriter in a cloud of cigarette
smoke.  I'd lay awake, listening to the tap of the
typewriter.  So there were a few weeks of intense effort,
but that was all he had.  By the early spring, the phone
stopped ringing and the typewriter was back up on the top
shelf in the closet.  He'd be sleeping in the morning when I
left for school, he'd be asleep in the recliner when I got
home.

They were desperate for money.  My mother came home and said
the car was gone, and when they made a few phone calls they
learned that the finance company had taken it away.  My
mother went to work.  She was even less employable than my
father - the only job she could get was a ticket collector
in a ancient movie palace on Broadway and 107th where she
once took me to see the Sound of Music.  That was a long
time ago.  The surest sign of their panic was that she
swallowed her reticence and kept the job even after they
started showing XXX movies.

Mom was working, and Dad sat home, floundering in some
backwater of despair.  He blamed the world for what happened
to him, complaining that "none of them paid the fares."  I
had no doubt of that "they" referred to blacks.  There was a
puzzle though.  I remember when I was small hearing him talk
of his bus as if it was a fiefdom, how if there was any
trouble, if anyone dared to sneak on, or smoke, he'd stop
the bus and "take care of it." He didn't say what he did,
all he said was that he "didn't need the cops to handle
things."  So I wondered when I heard him complain about
"them" what had changed?

Whatever it was, it ate at him. When he stood up he seemed
smaller to me, I'd look at the pictures of him in the
hallway.  There were a half dozen photos of him in fighter's
poses, centered around a framed page from of the Daily News,
showing the 1959 Golden Gloves standings and the proud
circle around his name.  "Bill Williams 11-1-4"  He was a
lot closer to the top then the bottom.  The collage was
completed by a picture of mom and Dad, she was leaning back
into his rippling chest, his arms hung around her into his
big shoulders.  They met during that tournament because mom
was a fight fan.

Each day I grew further from him;  Age and the cruelty of
economics was killing him drip by drip, while my 13 year old
body was rabid with new life.  I spent hours in my room
masturbating, rubbing myself so often and with such
intensity that my cock had red sores.  Sex was all I thought
about.  Once a week I'd run up to a news stand, and continue
running as I reached up and pulled the latest edition of
Screw magazine from the top of the stand.  I wanted it that
bad, bad enough to risk being caught stealing.  What an eye-
opener Screw was!  Not sex the way it was in library books,
reduced to some bloodless diagrams, but sex the way people
dreamed about it: crude and dirty. I wanted to know what
people looked like down there, something in me reveled in
the look of naked bodies, and the leer of Screw's attitude:
Fuck morality, let's just get it on! The revolution of the
sixties had receded from its political high water mark, but
it was still cutting new channels within the uncharted
Amazon of our desires.

There were no more walks in Riverside Park.  We lived
together, but the inner lives of the three of us had spun
away from the close orbit of a few months before.  Dad
seemed to get weaker almost every day.  I was growing
stronger, hair was sprouting all over my balls, and while I
still had the remnants of a child in my face, I had the
hungry, devouring appetite of a leering adult man inside me.
And mom? There was something changing in her as well. I was
astonished that she kept the job in the movie theater when
it switched to adult, XXX, only.  Some day's I'd walk up to
107th street just to see it.  I knew from my weekly Screw
the story line from the marquee title.  I knew from the
review how good it was, whether it was a "one erection" dud
or a "four erection" title that was so intense you could
close your eyes and smell the accumulating arousal of the
men in the theater.  I don't know why I walked up there.  I
couldn't go inside, I would just stand there a few minutes,
occasionally seeing one of the neighborhood men walk in or
out.

She was changing.  Sometimes while I was in my room I could
hear Mom and Dad talking in the living room.  Or rather her
talking, and some polite grunts from him.  And when I heard
them I would stop masturbating, because sometimes I would
hear an exchange that was extraordinary.  She would mention
the theater, as if what went on there was amusing, or I'd be
laying there with my dick in my hand, hearing her tell him:
"You know . . couples go there Bill . . . "  There were long
TV background silences, punctuated by mom's attempts to
engage him.  I'd hear scatterings of what she said.
Sometimes she'd tell him about the movie, as if it was
something funny, not to be taken seriously.  But I knew one
thing: if she mentioned it she took it very seriously
indeed.  She'd describe some of the men in the theatre,
masturbating.  That was enough for my father, he mumbled
something, all I heard was ". . .Jigaboos. . ."  The theatre
was ten blocks uptown, so he knew what I had seen:  all the
men going inside were black.

You should have listened, Dad.  Maybe then she wouldn't have
needed Les.

She was different. She had always seemed a typical mother,
someone who seemed above the animal feelings that were
overwhelming me now.  But the exposure of my father's
weakness and the strange place she worked in must have
shifted some fault line in her soul. I can see how it must
have happened, how one day she must have given in to
curiosity and used a lull in the flow of patrons to walk
slowly up the balcony stairs; knowing as she did so she was
about to see something sordid, something base.  But while
she expected something bad, she must have been completely
unprepared for the shock of it, the dizziness she felt
seeing the same screen that once featured Julie Andrews or
Audrey Hepburn now with the beaming face of Marilyn Chambers
while she was taking it right up the ass.

**

There was one, and only one bright spot in my father's life.
During the preceding summer and fall I had started playing
baseball.  I was really good.  Games I wasn't pitching I
played short, and I could hit too.  I was by far the best
player on my team, and maybe even the best kid in my league.
Neither one of us had been baseball fans before that.
Boxing was my father's sport, but when he saw how good I
was, when he heard the other parents speak of me with
admiration, he seemed to find some purpose in this, at
least. Several times during the winter he commented on my
growth, saying I'd be even better in the spring. It was the
only reference he ever made to my body changing.

I was in a serious league;  we started practicing the first
week of March, a full month before the other teams.  My
father came to watch me, and his hopes were fired.  The ball
was streaking off my bat;  the cold stung my hands, but I
didn't care - I was locked in, hammering almost every pitch
with the clubhead.  The extra inches were all strength. And
when I stepped to the mound, I was amazed at the lightness
of the ball, and the power I felt when the catcher ran back
to the bench to get a sponge for his hand.  This was going
to be a great year.

My coach, Mr. Puglisi was a firemen who worked all his hours
in three days, so we practiced after school Wednesdays,
Thursdays and Fridays.  The third Saturday in March he
arranged a scrimmage for us.  "The real way to learn is game
situations." His firehouse was in East Harlem, and one of
the firemen there had a team as well.  So early Saturday
morning my father and I walked to Central Park for our game.

They were already on the field.  They were all black or
Latino - Mr. Puglisi hadn't said anything about that.  I
guess there was no reason to.  But he should have told us
how good they were.  We were champions last year, but we
were completely unprepared for a team like this. They
gobbled up hard liner on one bounce, and flung the ball
around the infield like it was a small pebble. They laughed,
and had fun, trashing each other as they played. 
Their second baseman was unbelievable.  I'd picked up his
name from the kidding: Kyle.  He had skin the color of rich,
fertile earth.  He was a few inches taller than me, and he
wore a white T-shirt that clung tightly to his muscles.  He
was only a bit bigger than me, but I could see from across
the diamond that he was much, much harder. I think his coach
was showing off.  He ended the practice by hitting three
liners down to third as hard as he could:  Screaming shots
that brought blades of grass up where they skipped. Each one
was picked, and rifled over to Kyle, who turned and threw so
fast, and so quickly that it seemed like a ricochet, except
that the ball gained speed in his hands; it flew into the
first baseman's mitt with more sound, and more speed than
the original line drive to third.

A handful of parents accompanied each team.  We won the
toss, so they batted first.  My father liked to stand behind
the backstop and watch, where he could study my mechanics
and second guess the umpire.  While I was warming up he said
a few words of encouragement.  A very tall, lanky black man
with dreadlocks walked over and stood beside him.  "Your
son?"  When my father told him he said, "He's got a pretty
good arm."

Thus encouraged, the game started.  I was a little off the
first batter, I was too nervous so I was holding back a bit,
and a few pitches kicked up some dust, falling short.  I got
it on the third pitch, I got my back and legs into it and it
came in low and sailed up over the plate on the outside
corner with a satisfying pop in the glove.  "That's it!" my
father said, and I was pumped.  "Woooohh!" I heard from the
other bench.  They were laughing, kidding around.  I did the
same on the next pitch, but the batter, a little kid named
Luis, was quick enough to pull it between short and first
for a single.

The second batter was a short, stocky black kid that they
called "Chops."  I gave him some heat on the first pitch,
busting him up and in, but the pitch turned into him and he
backed off the plate and glared at me.  "Hey!!"  I looked
over at the bench, and heard "fucker's throwing at us!"  I
had a bad feeling about this.  I was used to supervised
play, sportsmanship enforced by watchful parents, but this
felt different.  The next few pitches I eased off, trying to
spot the ball carefully, and I would up walking him.

Then Kyle came up, and there was lots of yelling from their
bench.  He stood in the box and I studied him a moment.  He
had big cheekbones and long, full lips that were fringed
with a hint of a mustache.  I knew he could hit from the way
he stood at the plate; he had that balance of tension and
relaxation that can't be taught.  "This one's easy Kyle,"
the man with the dreadlocks said.  "No problem at all!" My
father stared onto the field, uncertain. I started him off
with my best, I wound and fired the ball using everything in
my shoulder and back.  I wanted this to be good.  It was,
but not nearly good enough. I heard the crack before my
motion was even finished.  He hit a rifle shot between
center and left, far over both fielders' heads.  Far enough
far him to kick back and ease up his run as he rounded
second.  I was red faced as he did an exultant dance as he
rounded third.  His teammates waited at the plate.  High
fives and shouts.  "That's it! You baaaaad!" his father
said.  Before Kyle got to the bench he turned and faced me,
smiling as he pointed to me.  I got you, man.

The rest of the inning was a horror.  More runs than I'd
ever given up.  And with each run the other team grew more
cocky, more arrogant.  They started clowning around on the
bases. When they were up by six runs, they started walking
off the bases, daring us to try and pick them off, and when
we did they'd take off for the next base like jaguars.  Two
kids walked themselves into a rundown, and then ran quickly
enough to run out of it.  Their bench though this was
hilarious.

When we got back to our bench, we were silent.  We thought
we were good, but it took just a half inning with these kids
to know better.  "We'll get them back," Mr. Puglisi said to
a very quiet bench.

And then Kyle walked out on the mound.

We knew we were in for it with the first warmup pitch.  He
started with a little jerky motion, and then released the
ball like a slingshot.  "Shit!" a kid next to me muttered.
I had never seen anyone throw that hard, and the amazing
thing was that aside from the initial little jerks in his
windup, his throwing seemed effortless -- as if he wasn't
even trying.

I was the third batter up.  The first few batters had done
nothing:  they backed away from strikes, and swung weakly
when they were down two strikes.  I was determined to get
him back for his homer.  When he coiled into his windup, I
was ready, I set myself according to the release point I
picked up while I was watching from on deck.  But I was
closer now, and when he released the ball I was astonished
at what I saw.  It had liveliness, a hop, that you couldn't
appreciate unless you were right there, in the box.  Before
I could even think of swinging, the ball whizzed past me for
a strike.  His father roared.  "Yeah, that's it.  Show him
what uptown boys are like!"

Jesus.  I turned and look back.  His father was smiling,
grinning over at my father.  "He's somethin' else, huh?"  My
father had stepped away from his usual spot, he had drifted
off to the side.  I was on my own.

I stepped back into the box, determined to catch up with
that unearthly speed.  I started moving even before he
released it, practically ripping my arms from their sockets
as the ball bore down on me.  I was still late, and even if
I wasn't I couldn't have hit it, because it was up at the
level of my forehead.  I heard catcalls from the other
bench, a tide of laughter was running along the line of kids
like an electric charge.

I stayed in the box, and choked up on the bat slightly, a
bit less than I would have liked, but I didn't want anyone
to notice, to see I was giving in.  I started even earlier,
but when I the ball appeared my body froze.  It was right on
me!  Suddenly, I was on the ground, fighting for breath.
The ball had hit me with the hardness of a billiard ball,
right in my upper ribs.  Mr. Puglisi was rubbing my chest,
trying to coax the breath back into my body.  My breath did
come back, but in the form of muffled tears.

The game was a nightmare.  When I was pitching, I was
distracted by the antics from their bench, and the thought
of what my next at bat would be like.  Mr. Puglisi ended
half my misery by moving me to the outfield in the second
inning.  It was 11-0 -- I hadn't retired a single batter.

My heart was racing when I came up in the fourth.  I stood
in the box, and Kyle seemed to be smiling at me.  I wondered
if he noticed the shaking in my knees.  Maybe not.  But I
knew he noticed the way my ass backed away from the plate as
he threw the first two pitches.  I wasn't going to hit
anything.  I knew it.  He knew it, and his father knew it.
"You the biggest badass!"  So there was no need for what he
did.  The third pitch came in like a wasp, heading right for
my temple.  When I got up from the ground, and dusted myself
off from the near miss I was hopeless.  Kyle was smirking,
because he could see it now.  Their bench was rolling with
laughter, because one of them, a little dark Latino, had
grabbed a bat and took a stance just like mine, a comic mime
of a batter with an uncontrollably shaking ass.

We ended the game early thank God, after Mr. Puglisi walked
over to the other coach and apparently begged out.  No mas.
The only concession to sportsmanship they made after a
morning of abuse us was to line up and shake our hands.
"Good game," they all said, in a voice that let us know they
didn't really mean it.  When I approached Kyle in the line,
though he had a different greeting for me. A special
greeting. He smacked my hand and said, loud enough so my
teammates could hear: "Pussy."

**

It was just a game, just one morning in a season of
battering for my entire family.  But like my father's
layoff, and the strange inner odyssey of my long-gone mother
it affected me deeply.  I walked home in silence with Dad.
He didn't even bother encouraging me, knowing that what
happened was too blatant a demonstration of my limits.

The two of us came back to the apartment.  He took up his
station in the recliner, and flipped on the TV as I
continued down the hall towards my room.  I had something I
needed to do. But I stopped for a moment, checking something
that I thought of in the silence that hung around us during
the walk home.  I looked at the framed Daily News, at the
line of standings that held my father's name a dozen lines
from the top.  I understood everything now.  The names below
him were names like O'Malley, Mancuso, Schmidt.  And above
were the fighters that no doubt continued in their careers.
Ruiz, Robinson, Cleveland, and, at the very top:  Joe Louis
Johnson.

Like every other night, I spent the evening in my room,
masturbating -- only this night something new was raging
inside of me.  I went back to an issue of Screw that was a
few weeks old.   There was a pictorial spread that was so
primal, so base that it seemed to speak directly to some
inner Neanderthal within my lower brain.  Every other issue
was spread out on my floor within a minute after my arrival
in my room, but not this one.  Once I opened it that spread,
the grainy black and white pictures that made my heart start
racing, I put it aside.  This was sex mixed with something
awesome, something dangerous, and so I put it aside that
day.

Today, though, something had been taken from me.  Kyle's
complete and utter defeat of me, the look in his eyes as I
lay on the ground, suffering from his first, deadly lesson
in the way of things had ripped open something basic, and in
it's absence feelings that once orbited in separate systems
were now free to combine.  I knew I was different during the
walk home, and when I got to my room, I closed the door and
looked for that issue, the one that was perfect for the
feeling that was calling me.  I pulled it out of the pile,
and spread it open on the floor by the bed.

Just a few words: "White cum-buckets."  A half dozen
pictures of women, all of them white, and all of them teamed
up with black men.  Men with tight, athletic bodies, and the
biggest pricks I had ever seen.  I pulled my cock out of my
pants, and I went to work on myself as my eyes danced around
the tableau.  There was a woman on her back, looking down
along her body at the camera, a camera that was placed just
for me, so I could watch her expression as the impossibly
long black hammer was lowered into position right at the
gates of her pussy.  Women like dogs, hiking their ass up
they could get more man than they ever had before.

I rubbed feverishly, pulling myself into an ecstatic high as
my mind switched back and forth between the pictures and
what I had seen in my own life.  I heard the sound of my
father's bed, as my mother's black lover went to work on
her. The sight of my mother's long fingers caressing the
flanks of her new man.  As the wave rose within me I settled
on the picture I liked best: the half-page closeup of a
women with an upturned face.  Her lips were stretched by a
rude black thing that was hard and muscled enough to sire a
thoroughbred.  A backflow of cum ran from the edge of her
lips and was dripping down her chin, spilling onto her tits.
Her eyes were looking up at him, marveling at him.  The
power that was inside him, in that wonderful strong body and
the look on his face.  A face that was arrogant, and the
eyes that were bright and pitiless, the eyes of Kyle, the
boy that had told me that I was a pussy.

**

There was nothing wrong with us; my mother, father and I had
loved and cared for each other and so there was no fault in
all this, no blemish that we shared the would rob the
strength from my father, the dignity from my mother and all
innocence from me.  It was the times that was our undoing.
In the mid seventies, any working class family like us that
could afford to had left the city, fleeing the chaos and
violence.  We that remained lived like Japanese, huddling 
in their wooden houses listening to the approaching
engines of the Third Air Force.  Our doors were stainless 
steel barricades, fire escape windows were nailed shut in
the calculation that it would be far better to be trapped 
by a fire than suffer the torments from those that would 
break in. But nothing, nothing, could keep out the times. 
Children like me hid Screw magazine under our covers, 
and what number of Sunday masses would it take to
outweigh that?

Until that spring, at least my father and I still had the
consolation of a "nice" building, meaning that almost all
the residents were white.  But no amount of Rent Control
subsidies could keep the old residents there when the
building was sold to new owners who let no scruple stand on
the way of a quick, profitable turnover. In a stroke of luck
for them, two adjacent apartments on the first floor had
become vacant. And these owners knew just what to do. By the
time the mover's lights disappeared down 96th Street, a team
of workmen, one of whom was Les, my mother's lover, were
hammering and sawing the two apartments into one grand
suite.  We were pawn in an economic chess game.  The grand
suite was a whorehouse, a running concern that more than
paid for the necessary payments to officials, and one that
was designed to send the old, white residents packing like
refugees.

But we remained.  We couldn't afford to move.  And so we
huddled in our apartment, my father hid in the television,
and I stayed in my room, masturbating, and listening to
Kiss.  In the middle of March, I went to my first Kiss
concert in the Beacon Theater, and I felt like a new world
was opening for me.  There was something thrilling about
seeing grown men that celebrated their sexuality, men who
had the same dirty little boy energy that I had. It was
heaven for a confused 13 year old for me.  I danced in the
crowd, I was high on grass, and I was shaking my ass as the
electric power of their music blew all my inhibitions away.

**

The final, irrevocable break inside me came in the last week
of March.  I had gone shopping at the A&P with my father.
While we were waiting for the elevator in the lobby, a man
and a boy came up behind us.

"Hey, how you doin!"

We turned around and saw a tall black man and a boy my age.
It was Kyle and his father!  The man held reached out and
offered his hand to my father.  "Good to see you man.
Remember us?  Our boys played ball against each other a few
weeks ago - I'm Ken."

As if we could forget.  My father was as stunned as I was.
What were they doing here? Dad switched the grocery bags to
free a hand to return the other man's handshake. "Hi," he
grunted, looking up at Kyle's Dad as he did so.  "I'm Bill."

I was looking at the two of them, feeling anxiety rise with
me at the exchange.  I avoided looking at Kyle, but I was
focused on him nevertheless.  He was wearing a white cotton
tank top, dark purple nylon shorts that ended below his
knee.  He had a baseball cap turned backwards on his
forehead, and I knew he was looking at me steadily.

We stepped into the elevator.  I pushed our floor, and Ken
said.  "You guys live on 5?  So do we, we just moved in on
Thursday."

A weird feeling was rising in me, a mixture of panic and
something else that was unfamiliar.  As the elevator made
it's slow climb I tried to tune out what was happening.  Ken
was acting real friendly, smiling at my father while he told
him how happy he was to be in such a nice building.
Something about the sound of Ken's voice made me feel
uneasy. He was standing closer than he had to my father,
leaning into him and smiling.  It was too friendly, it felt
like he was running some kind of game. I could tell my
father was uneasy too, but he was forced to respond with
politeness.

When the elevator stopped, Ken and Kyle got off first.  I
was still in the elevator, following my father out when Ken
spoke to him again.  Pointing to Dad's Gold's Gym T-shirt,
he said:  "You a fight fan, Bill?"

"Yeah, very much so."  That was the first time he responded
to Ken with more than a word.

"Should be a good one tonight, eh?"  He glanced for just a
brief moment at Kyle when he said this.  Almost like he was
saying:  "Watch this."

Jees, Dad . . . no!  I was saying no to something I couldn't
even think about.  C'mon Dad!  I was screaming at him inside
my head.

"Yeah, I'm looking forward to it."  Dad was stiffening a
bit, there was the slightest edge of sharpness in his voice.

"Yeah.  Quarry-Norton should be a good one."  I knew Ken
didn't mention Ali-Wepner, the top of the card, on purpose
to try to draw an opinion from my father.  It was obvious to
me, even as a thirteen year old, that ABC was using race to
promote the fights. Wepner was the latest in a series of
quick cash-in's that Ali had used in the year since
regaining the heavyweight crown from George Foreman.  Every
three months or so he'd offer some white unknown a "title
shot" so Ali could pocket another three million or so from
ABC. Wepner was typical; a thirty-three year old liquor
salesman, a big man slow man that could hit hard enough to
gain a few knockouts over opponents that were even slower
than they were. Each one of these fights had the effect of
fanning the flickering hopes of millions of white fight fans
who would grasp at any hope now to defeat Ali, their
nemesis.

I was only thirteen;  I had no investment in these things,
but my father still spoke of Rocky Marciano with reverence.
And he hated Muhammed Ali, enough to take a liking to Joe
Frazier, because he was a man that beat Ali, and his because
his style was close enough to Marciano's that it convinced
my father that Rocky could have beaten him.

"Tell you what, Bill. . ."  Ken smiled at my father. " . . .
why don't you and your boy come down to our place tonight."
He motioned down the hall.  He and Kyle exchanged a quick
glance.  "Four of us can watch the fights tonight."

"Well, I don't know . . ," Dad said, looking down as if the
excuse he needed was written on the dirty hallway tiles.
Kyle was looking at me.  I met his eyes and immediately
looked away.  Jesus, Dad.  No.  Kyle was smirking, the thin
wispy hairs that formed a fringe around his upper lip made
him look evil.

Now Ken stiffened.  The smile was going quickly.  "C'mon
man.  I'm just being friendly.  We're neighbors. . ."  He
seemed to stand taller, harder.

"OK. OK. I guess we can come down."

Shit!  Kyle was grinning now, daring me to look back at him.
My eyes had nowhere to go, they kept getting caught on his
torso, the white cotton stretched tight over his dark brown
body, over a chest and abdomen that was hard, rock hard.

"OK, then," Ken said.  He and Kyle turned, and he said over
his shoulder"  "Come by around 8:30.  5E"

We turned too, towards our apartment on the opposite side of
the long hallway.  When we got to our door, Dad fumbled with
his bags, and started opening the locks.  I looked back over
my shoulder at them, the two of them still walking, laughing
about something.  But Kyle was looking back too.  He was
waiting for me to turn, and when he saw me he gave me the
finger.

**

We didn't say a word about it.  My father didn't want to
admit he had been cornered, outmaneuvered by Ken's wily
friendliness, a friendliness that only partially covered
something malevolent underneath.  I thought about telling
him I wouldn't go, but he might challenge me - he might ask
what I was afraid of - as if his fear wasn't apparent.

So at 8:30 we walked down the corridor like soldiers who'd
rather take a bullet than admit even the most understandable
fear before their comrades.  We knocked on the door, and
knocked again, louder so they would hear us over the
Temptations.  Their stereo was loud enough that we could
hear the base as a pulse against the floor.

The door opened.  Kyle didn't even look at my father, he
bored in on me with his eyes, and didn't manage anything
beyond a sullen "hey."  We walked past him into a small
entryway. The living room was off to the left, and a hallway
led to the right.  Kyle was behind me.

This was a man's home.  While our apartment still had many
of the outer niceties of my mother, clearly any female
presence in their lives had left long, long ago.  There was
a small amount of furniture scattered on the hardwood
floors, furniture with sharp, metallic angles covered with
either polished glass or rich, black leather.  The wall
opposite the couch had an entertainment center with dozens
of fine controls and flashing meters that reacted to the
Motown beat.  And right in front of it was a white, fluffy
rug.  Bearskin, and my mind formed an immediate and vivid
picture of what it was used for.

Ken walked towards us from the hallway.  "Hey, glad you
came!"  He smiled and shook my father's hand, and then he
extended it to me.  "You're Jamie, if I remember right?"

I said "Yeah, Jamie."  When I returned his handshake I saw
how big his hands were.  His fingers were so long they
reached halfway up my forearm.  I looked down and saw that
the edges of his fingers and the skin around his palm were
almost as light as I was, but it quickly darkened around the
surface towards his backhand.  He was a bit darker than
Kyle, more the color of cocoa beans than Kyle, who was, as
I've said the color of rich topsoil. Still the hands were
huge, but as I looked down at then and felt the warmth of
his skin I was struck by the contrast between the hard
ridges of his knuckles against the large, but seemingly
sensitive fingers.

"Why don't you two go in and sit down."

I followed my father into the living room.  He sat on the
couch, perhaps because he didn't realize how low to the
ground it was. He seemed to sink in. I sat in a leather
rocker on his end of the couch, and was able to look down on
him slightly.  His eyes were expressionless, as if the
strangeness of this, his presence in the home of some black
people, his sitting on their couch listening to the
Temptations, had caused some inner persona to flee.

After a minute Kyle and his Dad came in.  Ken handed each of
us a Colt 45, and I looked over at my father before
accepting it.  "C'mon Bill, no harm in this, eh?" Ken said.
"Just boys havin' a drink with their Dads."  My father
surfaced and gave a slight nod.

I gulped it, knowing from some drinks I had already had that
it would deaden me, make me more able to handle this.  It
was good, real good, stronger than the other beers I had
had.  I leaned back in the rocker, while Ken switched from
the stereo to the TV.  Kyle sat in the chair that matched
mine over on the other side of the sofa.  He took a pull
from the beer, and gave me a wink.

Ken sat on the couch next to Dad.  A lot of his additional
height must have been in his legs;  His head was a few
inches above my fathers, but his knees were at eye level, so
he had to spread them to see the TV.  He was wearing red
track shorts;  I looked at the veined granite of his thighs
and his hamstrings and I guessed he was a runner.  He was
younger than Dad, maybe his mid thirties, tops.

The beer tasted great, I settled back in my chair and
listened to Howard Cossell.  Quarry and Norton were in the
ring, exchanging a flurry of punches. Querry was fighting
for his professional career.  A few years ago he lost to
Frazier in a fight for the crown that Ali abandoned when he
refused the draft.  Since then he'd dropped rapidly in the
rankings.

In the fourth round, Quarry developed a cut over his left
eye.  "That's it, fight's over."  Ken said.  He was bleeding
badly enough that the referee stopped the fight a few times
and brought a doctor in.  "Norton's just gonna work on it."

As the bleeding accelerated, Quarry grew wilder and Norton
more methodical, both man knowing that the cut changed the
calculus of the fight, making it improbable that Quarry
would last 15.

Ken downed his beer in a few quick gulps, I looked over and
saw the muscles in his neck shiver as he brought the beer
down.  "These are going down good!  Kyle, why don't you get
another round.  Looks like Jamie there is ready for
another."

"Yeah," I said quickly, holding up the can.  I had only
finished two-thirds of it, but I figured I could down it
while Kyle went for more.  "How bout you, Bill?"

Dad held out the empty can.  I hadn't realized he was the
first one done.  He was the same as I was, liking the buzz
from the beer, the calming, restful drowse of it.  I downed
mine as Kyle took my father's can, so I was done as he came
over to get mine.  He took my empty and sauntered down the
hall.

While he was down there, Norton connected with a flurry of
punches.  Quarry's chest was covered in blood now.  "Hey
Kyle, c'mere."

By the time he walked back with the beers the referee had
stopped the fight again.  "C'mon, man, let them fight!" Ken
said.

Inexplicably, the ref let it go on.  Maybe it was the TV
schedule, but it was obvious to me that Quarry had no
chance, he was just barely holding on, while Norton seemed
fresh and strong.

Kyle handed my father a fresh Colt, he tossed one to his
Dad, and he held mine out to me.  When I reached for it, he
pulled it away quickly, like a tease.  I looked up at him,
and he was grinning like a cat.  I felt a jolt in my body.
His father and my father were both watching us.  I didn't
reach again, knowing he'd just do the same thing.  After an
eternity, he handed it down to me, and it was then that I
noticed that his hands were almost as big as his father's.
I took it and gulped.  He walked over to his chair, smiling
at his father as he did so.

"Nice place you got here, Ken." My father said, trying to
diffuse the tension.

"Got a bitch come in three times a week.  Bitch cleans like
you wouldn't believe."  One thing about my parents - there
was never any obscenity in our house, so it was strange
hearing this kind of talk with Dad around.  Ken kept on
going though.  "Real fine piece of ass too, right Kyle?"

"Shit yeah!" Kyle said, as he took a slug of beer. He was
slumped back in the chair, one leg with was hiked up on the
glass edge of the coffee table.

I took a long pull on my beer.  I was slightly giddy from
the beer, and the unreal situation around me. I knew Kyle
wasn't any older than me, but he seemed so . . . confident,
so sure of himself.

Cossel was carrying on about the fight, trying to make a
romp seem like something dramatic.

Ken had been trying to engage my father in the discussion
about the cleaning lady, leaning over making the leather
groan as Ken bent down to him. My father seemed to sink
deeper into the seat. "You got a woman in your place Bill?"

I took another drink, watching the two of them.  The buzz I
was feeling gave me a curious feeling of detachment.  I saw
the teasing beneath Ken's mock friendly demeanor.

"No."  Dad turned to the side and looked up at Ken.  "The
two of us live alone."

"Just like us, eh?  Just a couple of bachelors with nothin'
holdin' us back."  He straightened up a minute and looked at
the TV.  I could see him measuring something in his mind,
timing something.  I was folded back into the leather
rocker.  He turned towards Dad again.  "Tell me Bill-" he
dropped his voice a bit, but it was still easy to hear.
Kyle looked away from the fight and turned over towards his
father. "-You get lots of pussy?"

He was smiling, but the words came out like a challenge.
Just how much of a man was he?  Howard Cossel seemed very
far away.  "Yeah, I get my share." Dad said.  I knew he was
lying, and from the sound of his voice Ken knew it to.

Ken was about to follow up with something, when Kyle
shouted. "Look at this."  We looked over at the set.  They
were stopping the fight - Quarry couldn't take any more
punishment.  Norton was surrounded by an exultant mob.

"Why'd they stop it."  Ken said.  "Damn, Norton was just
getting warmed up."

"Too much blood," Kyle said.

"Shit."  And now that the distraction was over, now that the
picture had shifted to Chuck Wepner's dressing room, Ken
picked up where he left off with my father.  But he had
found another point of attack.

"Man, why do those white guys bleed so much, Bill?"  Dad
looked up from his Colt like he heard the sound of an
approaching predator.  "I mean, the fight just gets started,
just a round or two, and these white guys, they start
bleedin' like pigs on a spit. All of them."

"Marciano never got cut."  Dad said it with surprising
force, as if Ken had hit some tripwire.  I could feel the
anxiety bubble up within me from beneath the sudsy drowse of
the beer.

"Marciano never fought men like this," Ken said,
dismissively.  If I was expecting some confrontation I was
disappointed.  Ken said:  "Kyle, get us all another round."
I was glad.  My beer was empty, and I wanted another,
because while Ken eased back a bit, I knew it wouldn't be
long before he started picking at Dad's scabs again.  This
was just the early rounds -- I needed another beer.

Check Wepner was sitting on a bench in the training room,
huddled over in concentration as his trainer worked on his
shoulders, talking to his man.  The TV announcer said:  "Six
month's ago he was a liquor salesman, and he got a phone
call. . ."  Building him up, encouraging people like my
father to believe that fate and desire could somehow win
over the gravity of talent.

Kyle was standing over me, holding a beer out.  I reached up
slowly;  I wanted the beer, but I didn't want to be teased
again.  He didn't this time.  He handed me the beer
casually. I looked up and said "Thanks." He had that same
smirk on his face, that same hard look in his eyes, but I
felt different.  For just a moment, fear was supplanted by .
. . some other feeling, something strange. This boy had
something I wanted, something I wished I had.

After a flurry of commercials, the windup to the bout began.
Ali came in like a prince, surrounded by a huge entourage.
The arena was electric with adoration.  He tossed his robe
away like a Sultan, and the hangers-on fell away like
chariot dust.  He started dancing around the ring, shadow
boxing.  "Damn, he looks good!" Kyle said.

"What a body.  Damn he's ripped!"  Ken and his son were
joyful, watching the great Ali.  "Ain't he pretty?" Ken
said, and it was another departure from the world I knew.
Two men free enough to talk about a man's body, the
specifics of his build, and the way he carried himself.
"Look at those hands, so quick," Ken said.

"Yeah, fast like a mutha, but big.  Seven inch fists."  Kyle
said.

Dad and I were left out, feeling a bit like Chuck Wepner.
He was standing still in the ring, another spectator to
Ali's show.  He was big, and covered with hair.

The fight was almost started.  A beer commercial started,
and I took a slug and looked at a wire frame clock on the
wall.  I wondered how long before we could leave, and get
back home to a place that was familiar, safe.

Underneath, I knew I was frightened of something.

"So we were talking about pussy before, Bill," Ken said.
"Tell me, any fine ones in the building?"

Oh God!  Like my father would know. Like the women from the
building came in and strutted around his LazyBoy.  My father
stayed motionless on the couch, he couldn't bring an answer
up.

"Bet Jamie here knows some nice ones, eh?"  Ken had a small
grin on his face, as if he was trying to stop himself from
laughing.  "You like pussy, Jamie?"

It was almost funny. I went from fear at my father's
paralysis to the playful realization that no adult had ever
spoken to me like that before.  Man to man.  No bullshit
about love and marriage.  None of that shit about treating
girls with respect.  Just the plain, unadorned fact that all
a man really wants deep down is to fuck. So I said it: "Hell
yeah, I do."

Ken leaned back on the couch and laughed.  Kyle almost spit
his beer out on the table.  This was funny!  My father
laughed too, he couldn't help himself from joining in.

"Bet you're just like my boy here."  He was smiling at me,
he seemed genuinely friendly; this had none of the guile of
his other talk.  He took a big gulp from his can.  "Kyle,
here, he's like his Daddy . . ."

He stopped because the fight had begun.  Wepner came out
like a bull, big and menacing.  Ali met him in the center of
the ring and started dancing, moving back towards his left
as Wepner chased him.  Chuck started throwing punches, but
Ali slipped them easily.  About two minutes had elapsed
before Ali threw his first punch, connecting with a quick,
stinging jab.

As the round was ending, Ken started in again.  "I'll tell
you Bill, Kyle here, he gets pussy like you wouldn't
believe.  Girls over here all the time.  Some of them real
sweet young things - look to be nice and tight."

"Shit yeah!"  Kyle tipped his beer can up in
acknowledgment.

Lots of kids my age bragged, but it was easy to see they
were making stuff up; like me they had never done anything
with a girl.  I knew it was different with Kyle though.  I
knew the type of boys that girls liked, the type they'd open
their legs for: boys like Kyle, boys who were cocky, and who
looked like they could handle themselves.  I remembered him
from our ballgame, the way he looked out on the mound.  Even
laying back in his rocker, he looked strong and agile; his
young black body was hard with tight muscles.  He had deep
set black eyes beneath long, sweeping eyebrows, eyes that
were wide apart, and bright with animal attention.  Yes, he
looked like he had everything that girls looked for.  He
looked like he had balls.

"Gets it from me. See that rug there?" Ken pointed over to
the white bearskin rug.  "At least a couple of times a week
I get me a new piece of tail down on that rug.  Can't wait
for my first score in my new place."  He must have noticed
my father's discomfort.  Dad was sitting there, just staring
off into space.  Ken leaned back and stretched his long
arms.  "Damn, can't go more than a day or two without
getting my dick wet."

"I think we're gonna get going," Dad said, sitting forward

in the couch.  I was surprised, I thought he was just going
to sit there and listen silently all night.

"You wanna go?"  Ken sat up too, and his expression changed
in an instant.  He drew his head back, as if recoiling from
some insult.  "What's the matter, you don't like it here?"
Ken's eyes were like hot coals, and his body that was
relaxed and fluid just a moment ago was now tense, ready for
something, something that scared me.

"No . . ,"  my father looked up at him. "I-I-I umm . . ," he
was looking for a way out.  "I-I-I mean I just w-w-want to w-
w-watch the fight."  Then he settled back.

"OK, then,"  Ken said, and resumed his lazy recline on the
sofa.  He stretched his arms again, and placed one arm up on
the shoulder of the couch, his big hand almost touching my
father's neck.  "Ok, then, Mr. Bill.  We'll w-w-watch the
fight."  He grinned like a kid at Kyle as he mocked Dad's
stutter.

We sat in silence, and watched the fight.  Wepner was
standing in the center of the ring, turning like a pinwheel
as Ali circled around him.  Every five seconds or so, Ali
would fling a jab that shot from his body like the bite of a
cobra.  Wepner was holding his hands just a few inches below
his face, but Ali's jab was so quick that he could fling a
punch the few feet that separated them and land it squarely
before Wepner could raise his hand to block it.  Every time.

The silence remained for a round or two.  I had to pee,
badly, all the beer I had drunk was stretching my bladder
painfully.  But we just sat and watched, while Ali continued
hammering Wepner.  The silence broke when the ref called the
doctor in.  "Shit!  Fucker's bleedin'," Kyle said.

"Damn!  That shit again!"  Ken said.  He sat a minute and
said some more.  "Know how that works Bill?"  He didn't wait
for my father to ask;  Ken moved over along the couch right
next to Dad.  Ken drew his right hand into a huge fist and
said:  "Ali hits like this. . ."  Ken demonstrated the
movement of a punch.  "See, just as the punch lands, he
turns his hand just a bit. . ."  He pivoted his hand
counterclockwise an inch or so.  "Just a few punches with
that little turn there cuts the motherfucker's eye open."

My father didn't move, and didn't acknowledge Ken's lesson
in any way.  He was shut down, hiding somewhere deep inside.
Ken looked at him,  waiting a long time for a reaction from
Dad.  I wondered if he was breathing. Then Ken stood up, and
he said to Kyle:  "Let's go in the kitchen and get some more
beers."

When they left, I could hear them down there, laughing and
giggling, and talking about something in low, basso
whispers.  Something was up, and I was becoming very
frightened.  I leaned over at Dad.  "Dad, can't we just get
out of here?"

He was frozen.  Maybe he had the same fear I did;  whatever
it was though, he seemed pale and bloodless.  "It's not
going to last long . . . maybe another round or so."

I was about to tell him I wanted to go then, at that moment
before something ugly happened.  I was about to speak, but
they had stopped laughing in the kitchen, and now they were
speaking to each other low, deep whispers.  I turned my head
and strained to hear them over the TV, but I couldn't.  All
I could pick up was the feeling - they were planning
something, something serious. I turned back to Dad.  I
started to tell him that I was going to go even if he
wasn't, when I heard their footsteps in the hallway.  Ken
and Kyle sauntered back in, holding two beers each.

Kyle walked right over to me and stood by my chair.

"Hey Jamie, c'mon."  I craned my neck and looked up at him.
"C'mon, I want to show you my room."  He wasn't smiling.
His eyes were cold, but very bright - I couldn't look away.
"C'mon man - I got somethin' I want to show you."

It was my turn.

**

The first thing I noticed when I walked into his room was
the pictures:  there were dozens of Hustler magazine
centerfolds pinned to the wall.  Girls from the front, girls
from the rear and even underneath, but no matter the angle
the thing of greatest interest was centered in each picture.
Every girl was pulling her pussy lips apart, showing the
damp pink skin that makes the blood rush to our cocks.

He was behind me, closing the door while I scanned the room.
I was struck by the openness;  my pornography was hidden in
my closet.  His was displayed proudly on the wall.  Aside
from that difference, the room was just like mine:  an
unmade bed, dirty clothes on the floor, and a stereo system
on a small bench.

I turned and faced him.  "Like my girls?" he said.

"Yeah."

He walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder.  "You
done it yet?"

I felt awkward being so close to him.  I wondered if his
hand could sense my tension, my unease.  "No."  He would
know if I lied.

"Man, what you waitin' for?  I get pussy alla time. Whatsa
matta wit you?"

I didn't like where this was going, I didn't like the sound
of his voice, his closeness.  I started to draw away, but
the hand that was just resting on my shoulder grabbed hold
of my shirt.  I wasn't going anywhere.  "I know whatsa matta
with you" he said.

"W-w-w-what?" I said, almost choking.

He moved his face closer and growled in a low, cutting
voice: "You a queer."

I was like a cornered animal, my heart was beating against
the walls of my chest.  I pulled away again, fighting his
grip on my clothes.  "Where you think you're goin?"  His
voice was low, almost a whisper, but every sound he made
sliced into me like a hot knife.  "I didn't show you what I
brought you in for."

He relaxed his grip slowly.  I might have run, but by then I
knew there was no chance.  He could handle anything I tried.
He took his hand off me and put it down by his side.  I
looked down and watched what he was doing:  pushing the
front waistband of his sweatpants down, exposing the
biggest, darkest thing I had ever seen.  He pulled it up out
of his pants and it hung there.  I couldn't believe the
size:  not just the length, but the fatness of it.  Before
it tapered slightly at the end, it was as wide around as my
wrist.

"What are you doing?" I said, still looking at the thing.

"You gonna suck me off."

Now I looked up at him. "No I'm not."

"Think again motherfucker.  You either git down on yo knees
or I kick yo ass so bad you be beggin to suck it."

The world stopped.  I stood there, unbelieving, hearing the
low noise of the traffic outside, and the wail of faraway
police sirens. I looked towards the door, wondering if I
could run outside to my father and Ken.

"He ain't helpin' you.  He be too busy suckin' my Dad's
dick."

I must have looked stunned, he must known he cut me good
from the look on my face, because he added: "Yeah, that's
right, you know it."

"My Dad wouldn't do that!"  It was the first time I had
raised my voice, he had said something so revolting I
couldn't allow it to remain unchallenged.

"You Dad's a fuckin' faggot, just like you.  'Sides, when my
Daddy needs some he just takes it.  Don't matta who."  He
paused a moment, and I could see a thought develop by the
way he started to smile.  "Tell you what -"  Oh!  What an
evil smile!  " - you so sure about yo Daddy - if you  walk
outta here right now you can forget about suckin' my cock."
His eyes were knowing and sure; he was happy with this new
torment he discovered.  "Go ahead.  Open the door.  Go see
what's goin' on out there."

I just stood there.  I looked at the door, and wondered what
would see in the living room when I opened it; I looked back
at Kyle, standing there with his hands on his hips, and that
big black thing arching out of his pants.

I just stood there.

"Go ahead man."  He stepped back a few feet to the side of
his bed; his cock bounced as he walked.  He stood next to
the bed and pointed to the door.  "Go ahead.  I won't do
nothin' to stop you. Walk right outta here."

A coldness rose up in me - stress was starting to make me
shake inside. But I couldn't move.

"Last chance man."  I watched his smile disappear and his
jaw was clenching.  And now I saw that look, that same
pitiless look that I saw that day when he was standing on
the mound getting ready to hurt me.  "Now - " he pointed to
the bed, and said with a voice that sounded like a growl.
"Git yo self over here and sit down."

Nature has some graces.  When an animal is defeated, when it
has spent all its energy in an adrenaline-fueled fight
against a superior opponent another chemical replaces
adrenaline.  A sedative, something that courses through the
bloodstream healing wounds in the body, and calming synapses
in the brain.  So when the issue is settled, the defeated
can settle into their new role.

I took a big breath, a huge gulp of air, and then I did what
Kyle told me to.  I walked over slowly and sat down, feeling
the groan of his bed as my head was brought level with that
thing of his just two or three feet away. He pushed his
pants down to his ankles, and then crossed his hands over
his stomach, grabbed the bottom of his T-shirt and pulled it
up his torso and over his head.  I watched the movements of
his body; the dark brown skin of his, and the curl and play
of dozens of hard, tight muscles.  He moved towards me.

"Open your mouth."

I closed my eyes.  I didn't want to look.  I thought that if
I closed my eyes it would be easier to face what I was about
to do.  I could smell him as he moved toward me, the deep
sweaty odor of his balls.  I waited for him, I waited for
the feel of that thing on my lips.

"Stick your tongue out."

And then it happened. He touched me with that thing of his
and I was changed forever.  I knew I would never tell anyone
else about this moment, about the feeling I had within me
when he touched me with that . . . that . . . thing of his.
He tasted of pee and precum, and I could feel the soft skin
of his hood slide up along my tongue toward my lips.

"Open wider."

I don't know why I opened my eyes.  I don't know why I
opened my lips and looked at that thing, because I was
gagging at the taste and feeling sick to my stomach.  But I
did.  He was even bigger now, his head was extended out of
the fold of his foreskin, and I could see the swollen veins
bulging out of his skin.  I opened up a little, and he began
pushing himself inside my mouth.

"C'mon, open wide I said."

It was so fat I had to pull my tongue back inside to make
room for it.  He reached his hands down and grabbed my hair
and held my face steady as he pushed further in.

"Fuck!"

Now my nose was just an inch or so from the base of his
cock, just an inch or so from the crest of scratchy little
hairs that surrounded his cock.  I couldn't breathe through
my mouth now, and so every panicked breath I pulled in with
my nostrils filled my with his odor. He wasn't moving, but
still I could feel movement inside my mouth.  That thing was
still growing.

"That's it."

He must have done this before.  This must have been a very
familiar feeling for him, because he seemed so cool, so
unhurried about what he was doing to me. He began to move
his body very slowly; I could feel him slide along my
tongue, and the pulling and pushing of him on my lips.

"Shit, that feels so nice."

With each pull I took a breath, and with each push back
inside I stretched my mouth wide open.

"That's it, keep your lips on it while I slide."

I could see his balls shake as he pulled away.  He had big,
heavy balls, and the skin that held them was rippled with
little bumps.  I knew from my own body that these bumps came
from that shiver inside, the shudder that rises inside when
you're about ready to blow yourself off.  But like I said,
he was in no hurry.  His movements stopped with one long
pull outside my mouth.

"Damn, you gonna be OK at this."

His thing was fully outside me now, about an inch from my
mouth.

"Open up real wide, now motherfucker."  I did as I was told.
"Now stick your tongue out."

He put his hand around his balls, and used his thumb and
forefinger to move the head of his cock all around my
tongue.

"Look up at me."

And I did.  I looked up along his body, up along the corded,
anchor chain bends of his belly to his chest.  Up along the
hard, proud ridges of his shoulders.  He looked down at me.
His eyes were like suns.

"We gonna do this lotsa times."

He kept moving that thing on my tongue.  I could see the
almost imperceptible movements in his eyes, the tiny jump
between my eyes and the place on my tongue where he touched
me with his meat.

"Yeah, we gonna do this a lot.  Gonna make you my own little
cocksucker."

He started slapping my tongue with that thing. I kept
looking up at him, hearing the soft, wet sounds of each
slap.

"That's it, keep that tongue way out there.  Yeah, that's it
- you like this, motherfucker."  He was grinning, and his
eyes blazed.  "See - I ain't holdin' you.  You like this
shit."

And he wasn't holding me.  He had taken his hands away a few
moments before.  There I was, straining to keep my tongue
way out.   I realized that I had my hands on his ass,
feeling the round, full cheeks and the tiny hairs on them
with my fingertips.

"Yeah, you a little faggot."  He started rubbing the head of
his thing on the outer surface of my lips.  "Get ready,
motherfucker.  Gonna shoot my jizz right on your ugly white
face."

I knew it was coming.  He started rubbing himself, snarling
with pleasure as he pulled his hand all along that cock of
his.  He was so strong!  So alive!  So proud of the power he
had in those big black balls of his.  Yes, I knew Kyle would
unload any minute; the stuff would flood out of him and
spatter all over my face.  He would mark my soul with that
stuff the way an animal marks newly won territory.  His
strength and his hardness had broken me completely.  But it
was not the break of death.  No, it was like the break of a
shell, and with the break a new person peered out from
inside me.  A new person whose first sight was that hard,
black cock of his. A new person who spoke for the first
time:  "Please . . ." The words burst out of me with a sob.
". . . Please . . . call me a pussy again!"

**

When he was done, I wiped my face in silence, and then Kyle
took me outside.  He opened the door and walked outside, and
I followed him into the living room. My father was gone.
His father was on the couch, listening to Ali talk about his
victory. I was walking towards the apartment door.  Ken
stood up and headed me off before I got to it.

"You have a good time Jamie?" he asked.  He leaned down and
looked closely at my face, his eyes were like lasers beneath
his drooping dreadlocks. He was studying my soul, as if he
could see all the nuances of my humiliation written on my
face.  When he saw what he needed he straightened up and
looked over me at his boy.  A loud, wild laugh rose up in
him. "I'll bet we'll be seeing a lot of you!" he said.  I
hung my head and walked past him through the door.  I could
still hear them laughing as I walked down the hallway to my
apartment.

**

They did see a lot of me.  When Kyle was in the mood, he
would wait downstairs in the lobby and meet me when I got
home from school.  He would take me up to his place.  We'd
go inside and would head straight to his room.  Ken was
always there -- he and Kyle would high-five each other as we
passed him on the way to his room.

I would suck Kyle off, and then head home with the taste of
him still in my mouth.  I'd go into my room and masturbate,
thinking of his cock, the way its big head probed my throat
while my lips were stretched.  I'd rub myself, and think of
his voice;  I'd linger on the dirty things he said to me,
and feel the thrill that made me shiver at the sound of that
hiss in his voice.

For weeks we were like that.  I was a cocksucker now. He was
in the full rush of boyhood, he needed to empty himself out
almost every day, and so it was every day that he'd be down
in the lobby, smoking a cigarette, waiting for me. When you
spend that much time with someone's cock in your mouth an
intimacy grows. I began to notice that I could control his
sensations with subtle movements within my mouth.  I'd look
up at him, and see the reaction in his eyes to the way I
pursed my lips.  I'd shift the shape of my tongue and my
hands would feel a little shake in his ass.

But for all my conceit of control, he was the one that was
calling the shots.  He was the one that laughed at me with
contempt; he was the one that called me a motherfucker as he
rubbed his cum around my nose. He was the one that decided
it would be fun to do me in my own apartment, and so one day
when I made a right off the elevator he grabbed my arm, spun
me around and pushed me down the hall the other way, to my
apartment. This so I could see the look in my father's face
when he saw us at the door; this so my Dad could listen at
the closed door of my room and wonder what was happening in
the silence.

He was insatiable.  I don't think any 13 year old boy ever
had what he had won: a little white cocksucker all his own
just a few doors away. But he wanted more; it wasn't enough
that he had broken me - he kept looking for more torments,
for new undefiled parts of me that he could stomp on. And so
there came a day when he wasn't alone downstairs.  I pushed
open the lobby door and he was standing there with another
boy, one of the crowd of foul-mouthed toughs he smoked grass
with on the corner.  The kid was tall and skinny and much
blacker than Kyle; He had big, wide lips and a huge afro
with his comb propped up in the back. Maybe they were just
talking, I hoped -- maybe Kyle wasn't waiting for me. So I
walked past them, until I heard: "Where the fuck you think
you're going?"

Kyle took me into the stairwell.  He wanted to do me right
there, right in front of his friend, and never mind that the
stairs were used frequently by residents. Kyle unzipped
himself while his friend watched. His friend kept looking at
the door, seeming as uncertain, as unsure about this as I
did  -- at least until he saw me start in on Kyle.  Once he
saw that, once he saw Kyle stuff that black thing into my
mouth the boy's look of hesitation disappeared and it was
replaced by a lecherous grin.  "Jesus . . ." the boy said
and he reached into his pants and pulled his thing out.  I
looked at it out of the corner of my eye.  It was a sleek,
jet black hammer with a huge, very pink head, and he started
rubbing it even before it was completely out of his pants.
Kyle took his time.  He always did, but now he seemed almost
. . . lazy about it.  Cool about it, like he was, well . . .
entitled to this. But this other kid -- he was like a rabid
animal, so excited at what he was seeing, so charged with
the thought of really putting his meat to a white boy that
he couldn't hold back. I was sliding my lips up and down
Kyle's prick even as I knew this other kid wouldn't be able
to wait.  I flicked my eyes up to his face, and I recognized
the glassy, distracted look of a boy that was about to shoot
-- by then I knew the signs quite well. Sure enough, he
unloaded on me - a thick streamer of seed flew across my
face and into my eyes. "Oh, Fuck!" he said.  And Kyle, so
cool, so casual up to now got carried away himself -
thrilled with the way I winced when that stuff flew into my
eyes. Suddenly he grabbed my face with both hands, he gave a
big long heave into me, and blew himself off in the back of
my throat.

And so I was a cocksucker, a faggot that looked at other
boys with sneaky, furtive eyes.  I'd walk in my neighborhood
and sneak peeks at the shirtless black kids in basketball
courts, watching the way the sun and sweat highlighted their
tight, athletic bodies.  I watched the way they moved, and
most of all I watched their eyes, looking for the signs of
what I liked - a boy with big balls.  And there were so many
of them! I'd walk past a crowd of them hanging out in the
street.  They'd curse at me as a walked by.  I'd hear:
"white cocksucker" or "c'mere, shit face" and the cutting
words would send a shiver inside me, a shiver I'd feel again
when I jerked of later.

Sometimes I'd see a boy that had that look, that big-ball
arrogance in his eyes, and I'd think of walking up to him.
"Wanna b-b-b-low job?"  Just the thought of saying that to
one of them, just the thought of the way they'd look at me,
the leering smile that would break on their face would fill
me with a manic excitement.  I came close to doing it a few
times, but I couldn't get past the fear.

I wasn't quite there yet.  I knew I had changed, I was a
cocksucker, but I still had other lessons to learn.

**

It was an evening in early June when I heard my fathers
knock on my door.  I put my cock back in my pants and said
"What?"

"Kyle and his Dad are here for you."  I could hear the
disgust in his voice through the door.

Jesus!

I opened the door and asked my father what they wanted.

"I don't know."  He said this and looked behind him, as if
he was wondering if they could hear him. He lowered his
voice. "Something about showing you something."

We just stood there looking at each other, and I had no
doubt that my father remembered that phrase from the night
of the fight.  I wasn't afraid of Kyle, it was his father
that scared me.  Lately his comments when Kyle took me back
to their place had seemed cruder.  There was meanness about
him.  Kyle had that same meanness, but for all his threats,
for all the cruel things he said to me, he had never
actually hurt me.  But his father - from what I had seen so
far, he seemed like someone who would get off on pain.
Someone who would hurt you, just for kicks.

"I'm not going."  I said.

My father took a deep breath.  "OK," he said.  He stood
there a moment, as if he was trying to gather something
together inside of himself. "OK.  I'll tell them."

I looked across him at the framed photos, and thought of the
Golden Gloves standings.  What would happen when he told Ken
no?  Dad seemed resigned to something as he turned away.
"Never mind,"  I said.  One way or another I knew I was
going, and I didn't want to leave seeing Dad spitting blood
and teeth on the floor. "Never mind, I'll go with them." I
said.  He tried to hide the relief he was feeling, and I
walked past him, grateful for the effort.

They didn't smile, or say hello.  They were all business as
they turned and started walking.  I followed, wondering what
was going to happen.

We walked into their apartment, and continued, as I
expected, down the hallway to Kyle's room.  Ken walked over
to his bed, and picked up a couple of pillows and stacked
them in the center of the bed.  "Take your pants off."

For all the shame of the things Kyle made me do, I had never
been naked in front of him.  I unbuttoned my waistband and
pushed my jeans down and kicked them away.  "Those too," he
said, pointing to my underwear.  When I pulled then down,
they started laughing.

"Shit, look at that sorry-ass little thang!" Ken said.

"Can't hardly see it."  Kyle said.

My cheeks were burning.  I reached down and pulled my briefs
off, glancing at myself as I did so.  Yes it was small,
nothing like the fleshy shanks and ballsacs I had seen on
Kyle and his friends. The anxiety I was feeling, and the
blood in my cheeks had left it smaller still.  Now it was
just a tiny knob just barely visible within the wisps of my
hair. I pulled my briefs off and threw them on top of my
jeans.

"Get down on top of those pillows." Ken said.

I climbed up on the bed, knowing without being told that I
was to lay face down, and that I should position myself so
my ass rode high on the pillows.  I lay down, feeling the
press of Kyle's pillow against my cock, and feeling their
eyes on my ass.  I drew my arms up by my head, and I buried
my face in the bend of my elbow.  I wanted to hide in
darkness.

"I wannns get sucked off first," Kyle said.

"No, none of that now.  Here, take some of this." Ken said.

"What's that stuff?"

"Grab a bunch and rub it on his asshole."  Kyle must have
given him some sort of look, because Ken got impatient.
"Hey, you wanna do this or not?"

"Alright."

After a moment I felt something cold and wet on my asshole.
He started rubbing, I could feel the pressure of his index
finger on my opening.

"Put some more on your finger and push it inside him."

"My finger?  I ain't pushing my finger inside his ass!"

"Fuck you then - you wanna be a baby then get the fuck
outside.  I'll do it.  Fucking kid's a cherry, you asshole.
That shit is for you, so you go in easier."

I felt him push inside me; I could feel my butt tighten
around his finger, and when he pulled it out, I could feel
it close again, slowly.

"Alright then.  Go for it, boy."

I closed my eyes and pushed my face deeper into my elbow.  I
heard the bed shift from his weight, I could feel him plant
his hands on either side of me.  And then I felt it.  It was
like a clenched fist, pushing at me.  I could feel the flesh
around my asshole pull together, and the muscles of my butt
tighten up.

"It ain't goin' in." Kyle said.

"Just push boy."  I felt the pressure increase, sharp,
cutting pain started to burn inside me.  "C'mon, c'mon put
ya ass into it, son!"  I started to make a sound, I could
feel myself tightening against Kyle.  I couldn't help it, my
body fought on it's own, tightening against the invasion
even though I knew in my head my resistance was what was
making it hurt so much.

I think I was starting to cry.

"C'mon, bust 'em up boy!"

I felt Kyle draw back slightly, pull himself up just a bit,
and then he really let me have it. Something broke, I felt a
tearing back there, and he was inside me.  "Oh, damn!"  Kyle
said.

"Yeah that's it!"

"Christ, this fucker is . . . tight!"  Kyle was breathless
with excitement, with the thrill of breaking into me with
that hard black thing of his.

"Didn't I tell you?.  They all tight like motherfuckers the
first time."

"Damn!  This . . . is better than pussy!"

I was bawling now, my arm was wet with tears.

"Ok, now you gotta push in some more.  You wanna push alla
way in."

I felt the bed creak as Kyle shifted his weight, and then he
leaned into me again, driving that thing deeper.  I felt
like I was tearing inside.  "Please . . . p-p-p-please . . .
stop!!" I cried out.

"Stop ya damn cryin'!!" Ken said.  "Just shut your fuckin'
mouth."  Then he said to Kyle:  "Don't let that baby shit
stop you. . ."

"Damn right, I won't."  And he wasn't - he grabbed my
shoulders, digging his fingers into me.  So he could pull,
add his pulling to the weight of him. It seemed like my
crying, my pleading had only made him more thrilled with
what he was doing. "Gonna push me alla way inside your pussy
ass!"

"That's it, boy!  Tell him you gonna do it!"

I had stopped crying.  Now I was numb, feeling dead inside.
There was no place to hide, I felt like he had driven a
stake through my soul with that thing.  But it was all the
way in now - I could tell because I felt the scratch of his
hair on the sensitive skin between my cheeks.  I had to
struggle for breath - he seemed so heavy, so big on top of
me.  He pressed his belly down on my back.  I could feel him
close.  I could feel his hot breath on the back of my neck,
the hot blast jets of some snorting bull.

"Dad . . ."  He caught his breath. "Dad, this feels . . .so
. . .fuckin' . . .good!"

"I tole you.  Nothin' like puttin' it to some white fucker."

And when he pulled enough air back into him he pushed his
torso up off me, he shifted his legs and pulled back out.
He hovered there a moment with just his head inside me.  And
then quick, hard, all the way back in, making me cry out
with the shock of it.  And then all over again.  He did this
slow at first, experimenting with the motion.  With every
downward stab the springs would groan, and the mattress
would recoil, so that as he pulled up my ass would follow
behind him. He would pull way, way back, high enough that I
could feel the head of his cock actually pull my asslips
back.  He'd pause there a minute, waiting for the bed to
settle down.  And then quick, suddenly, he'd hammer me down
into the bed again. Each time he did this his downward
thrust became harder, more viscous.  He repeated this cycle
a few times, and then he going faster.  The bed was moving
continuously now.

"That's it, enjoy yourself boy!"

Now he was really into it; he was timing it so that his
breath, my shriek and the heave of the bedsprings ran all
together like some obscene dance.

"That's it.  Slam that motherfucker!"

So this was what girls felt like.  This was what it was like
to have a boy on top of you, pillaging your soul with that
thing, that long hard thing that hurt you with its strength.
This was what it was like to feel him change from a boy you
thought you knew into something else, into some wild demon
that feeds on your tears.

"P-P-P-Please . . ."  I picked my head up, I turned around
and looked at Kyle through my tears. "P-P-Please!!"  His
face was twisted with pleasure - he didn't even pause, he
just looked back at me and kept on fucking.  I looked over
at Ken then.  If he cared about my pain he didn't show it.
He came towards me, he reached into his pants and pulled out
the biggest, blackest prick I had ever seen.  He climbed up
onto the bed.

"Want him to stop?"  He kneeled by my head.  "Want him to
stop, you little white piece a shit?"  He pushed it against
my cheeks. "Tell you what.  He'll stop when you swallow my
load!"  They both laughed, they thought this was funny.
"You bring me off like this - else when he finishes I'm
gonna tear your little sissy ass open."

I had him in my mouth before he even finished.  While Kyle
continued hammering himself inside me I took as much of him
as I could in my mouth.  I could only get less than half of
it in, it was so big, so wide. I wasn't on the pillow
anymore - I had to push myself up off the bed so I could
reach him.  Kyle stopped while I did this, he held himself
deep inside me.  Once I got Ken in my mouth he started in
again.  He grabbed my belly and started doing me like a dog.
With every pump, he drove me forward and my lips would slide
along his father's cock.  My balls were swinging loose. My
body felt like an electric wire between them, charged at
both ends with their hard, driving power.

Oh they were having a good time!  They talked to each other
while they got themselves off.  They talked like I wasn't
even there.

"Oh, fuck Dad.  You were right, this is . . . dynamite!"

"Best part is you know the little shit ain't ever gonna
forget this.  Till the day he dies, he ain't ever gonna
think of sex without thinking of you."



His father came first.  He made a moaning sound, threw his
head back and let himself go.  I held him in my throat,
feeling that head of his jump and a stream of warm stuff
fill my mouth.  He had so much seed that I almost choked, I
stretched my lips slightly and it came running out the side
of my mouth, even as still more of the stuff came pumping
out of him.

"Damn, you taught him good!" Ken said.  "Whata fuckin' sweet
mouth!"

He grabbed my head and pulled me off his dick. He pushed my
face down into the mattress and held it steady there with
his hand on my neck.  I could smell his cum, as my nose
mashed it into the sheet, and I could feel more cum drip
from his prick onto the back of my head.  "You ready boy?"

"Yeah, Dad . . . I'm ready."

"Don't rush, though.  You can do this all night if you want.
Take your time, boy."

"No, it's OK.  I . . . wanna . . . cum now."  He was
breathless, overcome with the thrill of all this.

Ken held me still - his fingers held the back of my head
like a vice.  All of my senses were pinned back in my ass.
I could feel every ridge and muscle of his son's cock as it
rode up and down the raw, sensitive channel inside of me.
Now that I had my ass way up like that, now that his father
was holding my body still, Kyle was really coming deep
inside, and he was making strange, low noises. Suddenly his
movement slowed, and his father saw the signs:  "There,
that's it boy!!  Let him have it."  He was straining, he
just pushed as deep as he could inside me.  He held himself
there, as deep as he could go.  "Ohhhhhh fuck!!" His knees
started shaking, and I felt a tickle inside me as he shot
off, a strange, inner sensation that was like nothing I've
ever felt, before or since.  He kept shooting inside as the
bed shook.  I could feel his shudder as he continued to pump
his spunk into me - he was in so hard and so deep I could
feel the hair on his scrotum rubbing against the underside
of my balls.

When he was done, he climbed off the bed, leaving me there
to catch my breath while the two of them talked about what
they had done.  Kyle told his father what my ass had felt
like in a voice that was shaking with excitement. He spoke
of the tightness of my clenched muscles and the rush he felt
when he forced himself in. "That's the hardest I've ever
been, Dad." And he said something else - how when I started
crying something happened inside him.  Something thrilling.

Ken understood. He told Kyle about his first time. Many
years before he and his friend liked to burglarize houses.
One time they hit a suburban house, and found out that the
place wasn't empty - there was a family at home, a married
couple with a couple of kids.  They overpowered the husband,
and they were about to rape the wife, when the husband said
something to Ken. "Man, he got me so pissed off we forgot
all about the wife. I fucked that sucker good - had him
cryin' like a little girl with his wife watching."  That was
when he discovered what a kick it was to put it to a white
guy: "Couldn't believe how good it felt.  What a fuckin'
rush! And the best part is, me and my friend realized they'd
never call the cops after that. No fuckin' way!  After that
we start lookin' for houses where there are people at home."

There was a message in his father's story, a message I
understood even though it wasn't meant for me.  He was
telling his boy that he wasn't a child anymore - he had won
his manhood. I lay there silent, listening. I knew I was the
arena for a moment of dark intimacy between them, when Ken
used me to show his son a secret truth that some men sense
but only the strongest explore - the thrilling truth that
rushes up inside you when you mix sex and aggression.

**

My father and I had our moment too.  When I came back to the
apartment, he got up from his recliner and met me by the
door.  I just stood there, and he put his arms around me and
pulled me close to him.

He hadn't hugged me in years.

"How are you, Jamie?"

"My ass hurts."

I felt him stiffen, and I knew he didn't want to hear any
more.  He held me close. He comforted me in the only way he
could.

I lay against his chest, listening to the sound of his
breath, remembering the smell and embracing warmth I felt
when I lay on him as a child. But I was a child no longer,
and I knew because of what they did to me that I would
never, ever be a man.

"There was nothing you could do," he said.  "They're just
different.  They're . . . ummm. . . stronger than we are."

He sounded so strange when he said that, and so I wondered
again what had happened to him that night with Ken.  There
wasn't any anger at all in his voice, he sounded resigned,
helpless, even weak.  And there was some other feeling,
something strange. I replayed it in my mind: ". . . they're
stronger than we are."  Yes, there it was - there was an
unconscious sound of admiration, even jealousy deep down in
his voice. I lay against him a few minutes more, until I got
up the nerve.  "Dad, did you suck Ken's dick?"

I pulled away from him and looked up at him.  He wouldn't
look me in the eyes.  I was afraid he would turn away, and
so now I was the strong one.  "It's OK Dad . . ." -- he
looked down at the floor, I knew if I said the wrong thing
the chasm between us would never close -- "It's OK . . . I
mean . . . I did too."

He looked at me, and I realized how deep the gulf between us
really was.  I remembered the shock of what Kyle did to me,
the feeling I had that first time a black dick slid into my
mouth.  I was young and my sexuality was unformed, and in
the weeks since then I had reconciled myself to my new role,
the way a domesticated animal bonds to its master, no
matter how brutal it's treatment had been.  But my father
had a fully formed manhood, he had a lifetime of settled
attitudes and I knew the effect on him must have been far
more wounding.

"Yeah . . . but it wasn't just once. . ." he said.

"I know Dad . . . I know."  Now I was comforting, I wanted
him to know it was OK, that he wasn't less of a father in my
eyes because he sucked black cock.  "I've done Kyle lots of
times, too."

"It's like they . . . they . . . they want it all the time,"
he said.  He was nervous, distracted. He scratched his
armpit and he seemed short of breath.  We stood still there,
in the hallway near his fight pictures. We were on a
precipice, there was a secret here, something even more
shameful than what had happened to each of us.

"You know, Dad . . ." My heart was beating wildly, I needed
to tell him something else. "Dad, I, I . . ." I had to force
the words out. "I umm. . . you know . . ." He looked at me
closely. "I . . . like it . . . I like sucking Kyle's dick."

He took a deep breath, a breath that seemed to soothe him.
The tension in his body was gone. "What's he . . . like?" He
said it softly, like a whisper, and he moved slightly closer
to me.

"He's really built.  Really long, Dad."  This seemed so
strange, talking like this to my father.  About other boys -
- what their bodies were like.  "His body is all muscles.
No wonder he throws so hard."

"Ken's like that too . . . really, really tight."

"I know.  I saw him tonight. Couldn't believe how big his
cock was."

"They're all like that - believe me."

"You did others?  Before Ken?"

"No -- not before Ken.  But I used to see them in the gym,
in the showers.  I mean, I'm a good size myself, but nothing
like them."

"What's it like to fight one of them?"

He looked over at his pictures, remembering.  "God, it was
unbelievable.  You can't believe how tough they are.  And so
quick.  It's like you feel helpless.  I thought I was pretty
good, and I was."  He pointed to the pictures.  "I mean I
thought I might even be city champ.  Then they matched me
against this guy.  Cleveland.  Earl Cleveland . . ."  He ran
his fingers down the yellowed standings, and found his name.
"Guy had a jab like a rocket.  Couldn't even see it coming.
Plus he had a mouth on him."  The story was coming out of
him like a flood, and I knew he had never told anyone this.
Maybe the facts of the fight, but not what it really felt
like deep down inside.  "Started calling me names . . .
white boy . . . queer . . . pussy ass."

Pussy.  That was the word for me. I jumped in.  "Kyle calls
me that. Pussy. When he's about to shoot."

"I think it was his mouth, more than his jabs, that beat me.
Once Earl started mouthin' off like that - I started feeling
weak, scared."  So strange - my father was describing a
beating he'd received, and I could feel myself becoming
aroused. "It's like they know how to get to you.  They're so
cocky, so . . . mean."

So it had happened to him too.  I could hear it in his
voice, that same feeling I had.  I knew listening to him
that he had turned that long ago beating, and Ken's
humiliation into something sexual.

"I've done Kyle, too," he said.  Now he was smiling.  "It
was that day you and him went into your room and closed the
door. . ."

"Did you hear us?" I whispered.  We were standing close to
each other, speaking very softly. These were secret things
that we said. "I wondered if you could hear us . . . if you
could hear the noises and the things he was saying to me."

"I listened at the door.  I heard every word. . ." That was
the day Kyle got off my telling me my Dad was a sissy.
"Remember I went out later that day?  I met him on the
elevator.  Just him and me.  And he started telling me about
you.  He just stood there, slouching against the wall,
saying what a good little cocksucker you were. . ."

I stood there, wondering if he was as hard as I was.  He had
that look in his eyes, that milky distraction that I'd seen
in Ken, Kyle and the others.  I wanted to reach into my
pants.

"God that kid had nerve!  Slouching there, saying that about
you.  What a pair he had. . . smirking up at me . . ."

I did it.  I reached down and felt myself. My cock was hard,
it had poked out of the side of my underwear and it had
pushed its way down my pants leg. Everything around me just
dissolved, except for the sound of Dad's voice . . .

"We got off the elevator and he said: 'Come with me."  Just
like that, like there was no question.  We went into the
stairwell."

Jesus.  This was like a dream.  I felt my cock in my pants -
- it was throbbing.

"God, that kid is built!"  Dad was doing the same thing; he
had his hand on his crotch too.  "I hadn't seen a black kid
that age since I was a freshman in high school . . ."  He
sounded like he was in a trance - I don't think he was even
aware that we both had our hands on our cocks. "I mean they
were big then, bigger than us.  But Jesus, not like this . .
."

I pictured it in my mind, remembering the light in the
stairwell, and look Kyle gets when he pulls his thing out.
So proud . . .  I started to rub myself, and then stopped
suddenly.  There was a knock on the door.  My father and I
came back to reality, and looked at each other.  We knew
what it meant.

The two of them were back.  They wanted more.

**

The time I remember most vividly was about six weeks after
that. It was late May. Our apartment windows are open
against the heat, and the noises from outside fill the air:
Boom boxes and shouts, a burglar alarm that rings unheeded,
far away.

I'm sitting on the couch watching Kyle and his friends work
Dad over.  They're standing around his recliner.  One of the
boys is the one I did in the stairwell with Kyle - I'd seen
him a few times since then, enough to know his name: Reed.
The other kid is older than Kyle or Reed.  He's a tall, dark
brown kid who looked to be about sixteen.  Lionel was his
name, he had a short, close cropped Afro, and he had gold
all over him:  a half dozen thick chains around his neck, a
bracelet on his wrist with "Badass" in big, block letters,
and a couple of rings on each hand, rings with short, sharp
spikes designed to cut skin in a fight.  He had wide
shoulders and a lean, hard belly, and there were tattoos
running down both of his arms.

I liked that boy.

The three of them were having a wild time. Lionel was a coke
dealer; I'd seen him around the neighborhood leaning against
his white Lincoln Continental, and Kyle and Reed had taken
him up to our place to score some coke, and get in good
with him.  Now the three of them stood around my father with
their backs to me. Dad had the recliner in the upright
position, so he could lean forward and take turns sucking
off each of the boys.

God it was beautiful!  So hot to see those young black boys.
From the couch I could see their shiny black asses bump and
shake as Dad went down on them.  I loved the electricity of
this, the smell of rank, dirty sex that seemed to rise off
their bodies.  I loved the sound of them, their laughter,
the wild animal looks that shot out from their eyes.

And most of all I loved what was happening to me.  I was
naked on the couch, naked and snuggled up to Ken.  He had
his long arms around me, I rested my hand on his thigh, and
I traced tiny circles there with the tips of my fingers,
keeping him excited because I loved that huge, black Johnson
of his.

I was his now.  When the three boys first came into the
apartment, they looked at me, their eyes streaked across my
body.  Me, Dad and Ken watched them do the coke, and when
they were done, Reed started for me.  Ken stopped him dead
in his tracks. "This one's mine," he said, and that was the
end of it.  He was like that all the time, now.  He'd taken
a special liking to me, and no one, not even Kyle, touched
me anymore.

And that was fine, just fine with me.  Ken had proved far
different than I had supposed.

**

Ken had scared me since that first night, the night of the
fight.  Kyle was mean, but Ken seemed almost evil.  I
remembered him leaning over Dad on the couch, using his big
fist to show Dad how Ali cut an opponent. Ken looked like a
man who liked to hurt people, like he enjoyed inflicting
pain. That first night with Kyle he was mean, sadistic and
brutal. For the first few days, Ken just watched me with
Kyle. He didn't even make me suck his dick again, all he did
when the four of us were together was make Dad lick his ass.
But I knew it was coming.  Even though he kept away from me
there was a feeling I got from him, a look he had when he
and Dad were watching me suck Kyle off.  Yes, I knew it was
coming - sooner or later he was going to put that big thing
of his right up my ass.  I'd heard Dad's screams, I'd
watched Dad limp down the hallway after an hour at their
place and I knew. One way or another, Ken would get himself
all the way inside me, even if it meant killing me.

But no, it didn't happen that way at all.

Kyle met me downstairs one day, but when we got to his
apartment, his father told him to go to his room and leave
the two of us alone. Kyle looked shocked.  He became sullen,
he started to say something but Ken stopped him with a low
growl:  "Get the fuck in your room."  I was terrified -- I
started shaking while Ken sauntered lazily over to the
entertainment center and put a tape on. What was he going to
do?  I forgot completely about his fucking me.  No, there
was something he was going to do that was so ugly that it
couldn't be seen. He turned back and started towards me, and
I started to gag.  I looked down as he approached.

Then I felt his big hand on my neck.  An electric jolt
ripped through my body as I started to jump away.  But his
other hand leaped like a stinger, closing around my
shoulders and he pulled me hard against him.

"Please." I sobbed.  I thought he was going to strangle me.
I fought to get away, both of my hands were pushing against
his belly but it was futile - one of his long arms was
coiled around my back, keeping me tight against him.

And his other hand was still on the back of my neck, pulling
my face against his chest. I knew that hand was big enough
to close full around my neck.  A scream welled up inside me,
but my body had no breath to release it.

And then his fingers started moving on my neck.  Slowly,
softly they moved.

"Sssssssh," he said.

He was sliding the tips of his fingers along the skin
beneath my ear, leaving a wake of sensation.

"Sssssssh," he said. "Be still, boy."

My body was stretched between two extreme sensations: his
right arm pulled me tight, but those fingers were still
rubbing the skin on my neck softly.  The tape started
playing, the soft deep sounds of "Sexual Healing"

"I won't hurt you, boy."  I could feel the vibrations of his
deep voice in his chest.

And then he released the pressure on my back.  I could feel
the muscles in his arm relax, and as he did so I pulled a
huge gulp of air into my lungs.

"That's it . . . relax." His hand started moving behind me,
moving slowly around the base of my back while I continued
breathing. "Relax . . . I won't hurt my sweet boy . . ." His
big, warm hand continued up and down my back.  Continued
what I knew now was a . . . a caress. "I won't hurt my
sweet, pretty boy."

And then he did the most erotic thing I've ever felt. He
leaned his head down and planted a kiss on the top of my
head.

When I felt that kiss all the tension that was surging in my
body rose up in me; it welled out in the first sound I made
since he had started: "Ohhhh."  It was a soft sound, for all
its power.  I don't know if he heard it.  He kissed me
again, and then drew his upper body away.  He put his big
hand under my chin, and raised my head up so I could look at
him.

"I won't ever hurt you, sweet boy."

His face was beaming down at me.  I had my hands on his
hips, the palm of his big, black hand covered my ear, and
tiny fingers - so long, so, so gentle! - played with my hair
sending shivers of delight pulsing though my body.

He leaned down closer to me, his face was just a few inches
above me.  I looked up at him, aware of the feeling against
my lower belly. I was pressed against him there, and I could
feel that long, hard thing of his against my skin.

"You gonna be mine now."

I was hard, my cock was straining against my pants, and I
felt like it was reaching upward, upward to him.

"You gonna let Daddy inside that sweet, pretty ass of
yours?"

"Yes!"  I thought my heart was breaking open. "Oh yes!"

There were tears in my eyes, I had to blink so I could keep
looking up at him.  And Oh!  He pushed me away slightly.
Oh!  He touched me - he touched me down there!  I started to
sob as I felt that big, black,  hand of his on my cock.
"Oh, yes, Daddy!"  He unbuttoned my pants and pushed then
down, and - OH!  Jesus! - I felt his finger on my balls!

 "Take your clothes off and lay down on my rug."

I stepped out of my pants, and pulled my shirt off.  I lay
face up on his rug, feeling the exquisite softness of the
white fur against my ass.  I lay there watching him undress,
watching him pull first his shirt, then his pants off.  I
couldn't believe his body - it was a perfectly tight,
perfectly shaped engine that was built for combat, and for
sex.  He had the wide, hard chest and thin torso of a
fighter, and his cock filled me with fear again.  Laying
there, looking up at the sheer length of him, the fatness of
that proud, black hammer all I could think of was pain.

He bent down and planted his arms on either side of my
chest, and I lay there, eclipsed under the sheer size, the
sheer bulk of him.  He bent down and whispered into my ear:
"You so pretty."  I reached my hands up and felt the sides
of his belly, running my hands along his shanks.  He kept
whispering in my ear.  "So, so pretty."  And each time he
did I felt a shudder, I felt a tingle run down through my
body into my cock, and as I hardened I could feel the tip of
it touch his cock.  "Pretty, pretty boy."  Oh, the sounds of
his deep voice!  The thick, raspy lick of it spoke a
language deeper than words, a language of pure erotic sound
that spoke to some secret self that lived deep inside
me.

And then he moved, he shifted his body lower down and
nuzzled his face into my crotch, kissing the tip of my cock.
I thought I would die, so electric was the sensation, the
joy of that feeling.  No one had ever done this, I felt like
I would explode with sensation, the softness of those lips.
This was why he wanted to be alone with me - not to hurt me,
but to make . . . to make . . . love to me!

When he straightened up again, and brought his face back
above my own, I threw my arms around his shoulders.  I
thought I knew what girls felt like when Kyle did me, when
he used his boycock as a cruel, selfish instrument of his
own pleasure.  But this was the other side of being a girl.
The feeling that rose in you when you lay underneath a
strong, powerful man and you feel yourself . . . melt.
Melt, that was the word for what was happening inside me,
because all the tension inside me was gone.  My asshole was
open, wide open for my man.

"You gonna let me inside you, sweet boy?"

"Yes, . . . oh yes!"  I was sobbing.

"Put your legs up on my shoulders."

I loved the look in his eyes, the film that came over them
as I swung my legs up over his shoulders, and I held my
boybutt up there for him.  I kept watching his eyes, seeing
the feeling that he got as he pushed the head of his thing
against my lips.  I felt a sharp pain as he pushed inside
me, but a pain that was distant, nothing against the
fireballs of pleasure that flared up in his eyes.

"Sweet, sweet pussy ass."

God, he was big!  It wasn't in more that an inch or so, but
it was so thick, so wide that I knew I couldn't take much
more. Especially because his thing was wider still near its
center. The pain from even just that inch was incredible.
He was so, so tender though, just holding himself there,
holding that thing still inside me so I could adjust, so I
could relax, and take more.

"God, you're so . . . so big!" I gasped.

And he loved it!  I watched him smile, and knew he liked it
when I acted like a girl.  He took a deep breath, and I
could see him start to push in some more;  I had my hands on
his lower back, and I could feel the bug muscles hardening.
"Oh, J-J-Jesus!"  I cried as I felt the pressure.

"Sssssh," he said softly, and he bent his head down and
kissed me on the ear.  "Good girl - Daddy's gonna go real
slow.  Real slow."

And he did.  It must have taken him an hour, it seemed like
an eternity that I lay there beneath him, watching him work
me patiently, pushing me to the edge of screaming, and then
calming me with those deep, secret whispers.  All so I could
take more than I ever thought possible.  Almost half of it,
almost up to that fat, middle part.

Finally, when he was satisfied that I couldn't take anymore
he anchored his arms and asked me:  "You ready for your ride
now?"

"Yes . . . Yes, Daddy!"  I started to cry, not ashamed at
all to let him see what a little pussy I was.  I wanted him
to see, because it seemed to make him feel good.  I began
the session with him thinking I would die, but by the time I
was finished I felt I had died.  Died and gone to heaven
beneath this strong, dark lover who stretched my insides so.
I was hard beneath him, my tiny knob arched upwards towards
his belly, and my balls shook with each rock of his lovely,
hard body.  I wanted to come, but I knew I couldn't - not
until I had done my duty.  So I lay there beneath him,
watching his muscles dance, hypnotized by the glitter of the
gold chains that hunk loosely down from his neck.

When he was done, I lay there in his arms, feeling the heave
of his chest as he caught his breath.  He reached down and
started to rub me, thrilling me with the tease of his long,
graceful fingers.  For all the sex I had had, no one had
ever brought me off. Oh!  It felt so good!  So fuckin' good
to lay in his arms and feel the thrill of his touch.  Just
before I shot off I moved my head up and whispered:  "Please
. . . please Daddy - tell me I'm pretty again!"

**

So I was his now.  During the weeks since that awakening he
had had me many times.  It was like I was some little love
project of his.  I knew he still had his girls - there were
times when I lay down on his rug and I could smell the
perfume of the girl he had just had.  I didn't care - he was
so much man there was always plenty for me no matter how
many whores he had on the side -- and I knew there were
thrills I gave him that no girl could.  No girl could be as
tight as I was, no girl could make him feel as big, and as
hard as he felt inside my tiny punk ass.

So I knew I was special to him.  He always did me in secret,
and I felt good knowing he was somehow ashamed of showing
tenderness and affection.  I loved the looks Kyle gave me,
the jealousy in his eyes as he looked back at me after his
father sent him to his room.  I could see the questioning on
his face: what was I giving his Dad?  What was so secret
about me that his Dad wouldn't let him watch.  I was
secretive about it too.  When I would get home, I'd tell my
father it was Kyle that had me, making up stories to satisfy
his prurient interest.

**

So that was how I came to be on that couch, laying like a
lover in Ken's big arms while we watch the three boys romp
all over Dad.  They weren't paying any attention to us - Dad
was such a good cocksucker now.  He kept moving from one boy
to the next, sometimes trailing a string of precum from one
boys cock to the other.  He kept them all hard.  "Damn, this
fucka's goooooood!" Reed said.  They were so intent on what
they were doing that Ken felt free enough to reach his big,
black hand over and rub my little knob. Oh, what a feeling!
I felt so safe, so special.  I had the biggest, blackest
badass of them all, all to myself.

Ken was getting ready.  His thing was rock hard, excited by
the combination of my caress on his inner thigh and the
sight of his boy in action. My face lay against his chest. I
felt his heart jump as I moved my hands down to his balls.
Oh!  It was so hot!  His fingers stopped rubbing my cock, he
knew I was about to shoot off, he knew I was right on the
edge, suspended over that tingly precipice where just the
slightest additional sensation, just a touch, or even a
breath, would make me spasm with unstoppable delight.  I
moved my head and nuzzled into his ear.  "I'm gonna take you
all in this time, Daddy."

He brought his head down and nibbled my ear. "Let's you and
me go inside and be alone."

I started to go, but something happened inside me.  I
remembered something my father said once;  he said it
softly, hesitantly during one of those moments of discovery
between us, when we learned how much we shared in our
attitude towards blacks. It was something dark, maybe ugly
maybe even shameful, but something that also gave me a
shiver inside when he said it softly, with downcast eyes.
Yes, I wanted to see that.  So I nuzzled onto Ken's ear
again and whispered, and after leaning back and giving me a
quizzical look - man you white cats are . . . strange! - he
called Kyle over.

Kyle didn't act surprised at all.  Kyle just grinned, as if
he knew just how sorry white people were all along.  He
passed the message to his buddies, and I watched what
happened like I was in a movie - a dirty movie, a movie
where you look around the dark theatre and see all the other
men in the theatre jerking off  -- and you're glad.  Glad
because you feel free to reach into your own pants and do
what you want.  Kyle started it off - Dad was licking Reed's
balls when Kyle turned sideways, grabbed his cock, and
started peeing, releasing a slow, arching stream at first,
and then relaxing into a full-throated flood that shot right
onto Dad's face.  Dad sat upright and tried to avoid the
stream; the three of them started shrieking and laughing.
"Oh, fuck!"  Reed reached down and grabbed Dad by the
shoulder, and Dad started swiveling his head to avoid the
line of Kyle's pee.  He'd move it to the left, and Kyle
would find his face again.  "Gotcha!"  Oh, they thought that
was funny!  Then Lionel pushed Reed aside and grabbed Dad by
the hair.  He grabbed him with both arms, and while Kyle let
him have it from the side, Lionel started unloading from the
front - right into Dad's eyes.  The pee splattered from his
eyes all over the recliner.  Dad fought with Lionel, his
neck muscles strained against Lionel's hands.  But then
Lionel started pulling his hair; I could see the tendons in
his tattood forearms bulge and Dad's face turn beet red.
Finally, Dad gave up, he sat still and took the flood of
Lionel's pee right in his face.

When they were done, Dad was soaking wet, and the recliner
was spattered with pee.  Ken didn't want to wait anymore -
he got up and motioned me to follow.  As I got up and
followed I turned behind me and saw Dad start in on the boys
again, leaning forward and taking Malcolm in his mouth, even
while piss still dripped from his chin.  I was as excited as
I have ever been.  I followed Ken into my father's bedroom,
feeling my cock bounce as I walked, and watching the
wonderful cheeks of Ken's ass dance.  I went into the
bedroom and assumed my position on my parent's bed, holding
my legs up high so they could meet Ken's shoulders as he
bent down on top of me.

He wasn't slow.  He wasn't soft.  He wasn't gentle at all as
he looked down at me and watched my face clench in pain.  He
was too excited, too loaded to be patient.  He didn't stop
when he was halfway in, where he was as deep as he ever was
inside me before.  He just kept pushing.  I think I
screamed, but if I did I don't remember.  What I do remember
is that look in his eyes, the same white, pitiless glare his
son has when he's taking what he wants.  What he needs.
Strange, though - for all the pain, for all the surprise in
his manner I was still hard, there was still pleasure even
in this.  Pleasure in the strength, the glory of his hard
black body that drilled into me from above like a spider.

 "You such a tight, tight, pussy ass!"

"Oh, Daddy!"  I fought for breath.  "Oh, Daddy, I love your
big balls."

"My big black balls!"

"Yes, Daddy, I love your big black balls!"

And with that he started doing it, pushing and pulling
inside of me.  Getting himself off.  I had to time my
breaths between his thrusts.  I could feel the bed creek,
and I knew my mother's picture was behind me somewhere.

I kept my promise - he did get all the way in.  Far enough
that our bellies touched; far enough I had trouble
breathing, for that thing of his seemed to drive all the air
from my lungs as it pushed inside. Far enough that I came
myself, from the rhythmic contact of his belly on my cock as
he thrust into me.

When he was done, he rolled off me, and lay beside me to
catch his breath.  I slid over and placed myself in his
arms, but when I lay on his chest he felt different. He
wasn't really touching me. He felt so different that I
picked my head up and looked at him. He was looking up at
the ceiling.

"Now I wanna watch them do you," he said, still not looking
at me.

And then, once again, I knew what girls felt like.  How they
felt when they gave in to a man, when they let the sweet
talk and the whispered secrets soften them for the hard cock
that always followed.  And how it was afterwards with them,
when they realize that the intimacy they thought they won
was an illusion - they're just one more pussy.

But I wasn't a girl.  I was a boy, and I felt the pull 
of a different tide.

"So send them in here, then."

**

That was the spring that formed me.  That was the spring
when I learned who I was, and what I wanted deep down
inside. Not that I was gay - no, I never did stop loving
pussy.  If anything, my experiences with black men made me
more sensitive to women - I understood their perspective.
I'm married now; I live with my wife and my two children on
a leafy Westchester acre. I spend my weekdays in the city
and Lori and I spend weekends on the ball fields, watching
Christina play soccer or Anthony play football.

But I have never stopped wanting black cock.  There's
something about big-balled black boys, they have such animal
fire in their eyes, and they saunter along the streets,
strutting their stuff like young lions. Since those days in
the seventies, their sexuality has become even bolder.  It's
like they're built for sex, and I have no doubt that over
time the human race will turn darker, yielding to the
cumulative pressure of longer, harder dicks and seed that is
far more potent.

So in the years since that spring I've sucked hundreds, maybe
thousands of black cocks.  I've stayed in the city after
work, spending hours in the bathrooms of City College where
the young bloods know to expect me.  One after another they
come in, they know the times I'm there -- sometimes I'm
doing one when I hear another one bang on the stall door:
'C'mon, don't take all day."  I've had black grandfathers,
and boys as young as fourteen.  It's dangerous, I know.  I
know that the day will come when I'll take a terrible
beating, one of these days when I solicit a boy I'll make a
mistake.  When I do that it's because something in their
manner, some arrogant smirk on their face and the promise of
a lean, hard body makes me fight the fear, makes me approach
them even though I feel like I'm going to pee in my pants.
They're always good, always they have huge, fat johnsons in
their pants. It's like I can smell that about a boy, it's
like the raw animal power in their loins expresses itself in
subtle signals, that only the attentive pick up.  But I know
that same power will come out another way someday.  Someday
I'll pick a boy and he'll beat me near to death.

But I won't stop doing this.

Lori likes blacks too.  She was always a highly sexed girl,
I loved the fiery Italian passion in her.  She didn't mind
my near obsession with sex.  No, she seemed to delight in
it. For years we made it a regular practice to rent X-rated
videos.  Once a week I brought home an armful, and we'd
spent some wonderful Friday nights working ourselves into an
unbearable passion, and then spend the rest of the night,
and most of Saturday morning feeding on it.  That was
important enough to us that we continued doing that even
after Christina was born.  Lori thought nothing of
breastfeeding her while watching a gangbang compilation.

But she must have sensed something different about me.
Maybe it was the number of fight tapes I rented - she must
have thought it was strange that I sat up nights watching
white guys take the beatings of their lives at the hands of
Tommy Hearns, Sugar Ray or Mike Tyson.  Or maybe it was the
number of interracial videos I rented for us.  Every night
there was always at least one, and sometimes two or three.
She sensed something, and she had the appetite to use
it to her advantage.  So one night we were watching a
Anabolic tape, watching Sean Michaels giving it to some
faceless girl, and Lori said:  "You know . . . I wouldn't
mind some of that."

I tried to be cool, I tried to act amused.  Unaffected.  I
didn't want her to know how thrilling the idea was. She
might wonder at my eagerness. She might even wonder what I
did those nights I told her I was "working late" - in the
bathrooms of City College. So I didn't say anything at
first, but I . . . well adjusted.  Soon every single tape I
brought home was interracial, we'd spend all night Friday
watching white lips stretched by the biggest, longest black
cocks the industry could find.  We both started doing
ourselves right there while the tape was on.  We used to
watch, and then turn the set off and go into the bedroom.
Not any more. Now I would finger her while she watched Sean,
or Jack Napier.  Sometimes she'd grab the remote, and replay
a facial cum shot from one of these monsters in slow motion.
Finally, I couldn't wait.  "Lori . . . you know, there are
couples. . . "  She looked at me with those dark Sicilian
eyes. " . . . where they have black guys come in.  And the
husband just . . . watches."

She didn't even try to act disinterested.  Once I said that
any lingering reserve was gone, and all I heard for the next
few weeks was: "Did you get any answers yet?".  That was
before the internet, back in the days when Screw magazine
personals were the only way to meet, well, unusual needs.
It took almost two months before we were sitting in the Rio
Diner in New Jersey, having lunch with Henry, a young black
man in his early twenties who'd driven up from Philadelphia.
He was perfect - about 6'4" with wide shoulders, clothes
that hung loose around his thin waist, and a shaved head.
Just perfect, and I had a practiced eye indeed.  Perfect
because he had something more than just a physical presence
- he had that look, that attitude. Yes, he knew just how to
treat me - with cool, dismissive contempt. But what I
thought didn't matter - once he stepped into the diner
Lori completely ignored me. She looked up at him like he was
a Sun God.  After a few minutes of small talk she got up
from my side of the booth and slid over to his side, and
they started making out. God, that was hot!  I was sitting
there, stirring my coffee, watching him work on her, working
that Italian romanticism of hers. He nuzzled her ears, and
whispered dirty things to her.  Her face was turned towards
me. She was looking blankly over the top of my head because
she was listening attentively to everything he said. She
liked it - she was beaming.

Lori and I had game-planned this, of course.  On the way to
the diner we told each other that this was just a lunch, and
that afterwards we would talk it over, and decide together
if he was the right man.  Some of this was her fear.  Some
of it was my fear, and the rest of it was my conviction that
I could tell what a black man had just by looking at him -
and I wanted someone really good for this first time.  But
once Henry started in on her all the planning was for
nothing.  She asked him to drive home with us even before
the main course had arrived.

That was fine by me.  Her intuitive sense as a woman was
every bit good as all my years of experience.  Henry was a
stud. I've had lots of sexual thrills in my life, but moving
a kitchen chair into my own bedroom, so I could watch Henry
with my wife was the most intense erotic rush I've ever
experienced.  So much came together for me there: the sight
of my mother and her black lover; the fact that she was my
wife, and the force of his manhood was about to shatter the
fortress of our sacred vows.  And finally, the sounds of his
voice, the natural sensuality of black men - these were
things I knew firsthand.  So while she lay down on our bed
and he climbed over her, I positioned my chair at the foot
of the bed. I sat down and immediately leaned far forward so
I could peer underneath him.  I wanted to see the actual
moment of contact.  I wanted to see when the very tip of his
shaft touched the black hair of Lori's pussy.  The stillness
was electric. I watched unblinking as he touched her down
there, and then he started rocking slightly, the head of his
cock brushed slowly along the thicket of her hair. He was
searching for her lips.  When he found them, he shifted his
weight, and the long, hard muscles of his legs started
stretching.  I was transfixed by what was happening there
right in front of my eyes. The veined, black, impossibly
long love muscle of his had begun its long descent into
her.

It had taken months for me to make her Lori cry during sex,
and tears were the payoff for me.  I knew from Ken what
tears meant during sex, and I never felt I really had a
woman until I made her cry while I was inside her.  But for
all Lori's sexual drive, for all her physical energy during
sex, there was an emotional distance those first few months.
So I watched her while I tried different strokes, different
rhythms on her body.  I listened to her breathing for the
signs of arousal.  I studied her eyes, and watched them
flicker when I said different things.  And I remembered
everything, I strove to make every bout with her better than
the last.  But it was months before that special day, the
day when I looked down and saw what I had wanted all along:
tears in her eyes. Then, and only then, I knew she was
mine.

But there she was now, as Henry drove himself into her she
was making strange little noises, high pitched shudders that
I had never, in all the years I'd loved her, ever heard
before.  And he wasn't even all the way in! No I leaned
forward and saw there was still plenty of room between his
big balls and her hair.  Room enough that I could look
further up under his body, up along the ribbed archway of
his torso, and I could see her face.  Lori had her arms up
over his shoulders, she was looking up at him, and yes, yes,
her lips were quivering.  There were trails of hot tears
running down her cheeks.

**

He was the first of many.  Lori and I still care for each
other, we still make love with tenderness and real
affection.  Every night we lay in each other's arms and
settle asleep, warm and safe in a love that will last
forever. In fact, we love each other more since we've had
all these young stallions  - it's like the erotic drive I
was satisfying in the stalls of City College was brought
back home.  I didn't do that anymore, because these frequent
adventures with Lori and these black strangers had become
far more thrilling for me.

Every few weeks we have a new one.  Another black steed gets
to blow his love juice off in our marriage bed. Now I go
down on them, now Lori watches while I kneel down and mouth
her new lover-to-be, I work him like a trainer, getting him
ready for the main bout with her pussy.  And she has dark
needs of her own, needs that are unspoken but known well by
me.  She likes to tell the men that she's never had anal
sex.  Ever.  But she's curious.  She want's them to talk her
into it.  Persuade her.  Tell her they'll be gentle.  And
she turns over and lets them in.  Just a bit though, just
enough to get them started, and then she says: "No.  Please,
stop.  You're too big."  She knows just when to say it, she
waits long enough that she knows they won't stop.  She's
refined this game of hers over the years, she's worked on
her timing, her tone of voice, her body language.  All so
she can draw the man into the exact scene she wants - she
wants to be taken, she wants to feel his raw, dominant power
as he forces himself all the way inside her.

And she's had, and I've accepted, the most secret desire of
all satisfied.  I don't know which one it was:  Whether it
was the Franklin K. Lane High School Senior;  the high
jumper who was good enough to later make the Olympic
trials; or the police Lieutenant from Newark who told us he had
fathered 23 children - and we believed him.  There were so
many of them it was impossible to tell which.

But one of these men was the father of our boy, Tony.

She never asked me if she could, she never told me before he
was born.  She knew she didn't need to.  She was sure enough
of my reaction that she gave me a bright, fearless smile in
the delivery room. And I smiled too, because when I saw
little Anthony, when I saw his glorious dark color I felt -
awed.  His skin was as black as night;  in all our scrutiny
of these men, all our care to select only the finest, only
the sexiest of that wonderful breed we had chosen well.
Whoever his father was his bloodline rode through Lori clear
and undefiled.

I had loved so many black men, and now I would love one as a
father.

**

Anthony is 13 now.  We get looks from people.  I'm a pale
blond, Lori is a dark Italian.  Christina is 15, and she has
my coloring.  While her eyes are brown and she has Lori's
olive complexion, her long hair is almost as blonde as mine.
But Anthony is as black as any pure African.

So everyone looks and wonders, but they say nothing.  We see
the way they look at him, but we don't care.  We know we are
all different.  Lori and I look back at them, knowing we
have a deep refreshing arena of sexual kicks those safe,
conventional couples couldn't even imagine.  So the
questioning looks of other have only drawn the bonds of our
family tighter.

Christina knows that I am not his father.  She knows because
she's grown up with all this; as a small child she grew
accustomed to waking up every few Saturdays and finding a
new, always black "friend" enjoying breakfast with us.
There must be memories of those times when she woke with a
nightmare, and came into our room to find Lori nestled in
the embrace of a muscular black man. When she was old enough
to ask questions, we never hid what was going on. We told
her that Lori slept with these "friends" because we want to
share her love, and that satisfied her enough that she never
commented on the loud noises Lori made, the shouts and
screams of one of the dramas she evoked.

Christina is 15 now, and so we've had to make one adjustment
to our romps.  She's just too pretty, she has all of Lori's
fiery promise in a body that still has the freshness of a
child.  She's just too tempting for these men.  Once we saw
her start to flirt with them around the dinner table, and
when we sensed the electricity start to build between
Christina and our lovers, Lori and I decided to avoid those
dangerous, though intriguing, waters.  She was too small,
too young to handle these men, and we knew that all of our
men were too tough to be restrained once they decided they
would do her.  So now we always send her off when our lovers
arrive.  She pouts and sulks, even tough we've explained to
her that there's nothing wrong with wanting a black man -
when she's old enough to handle them.  So while we have our
fun, Christina spends the night with my father.

Anthony, though stays with us.  We want him to see. Not
what we do in private.  Rather we want him to see and know
the proud, strong black men that we love.  I think of
Anthony like a son, I care for him and advise him on many
things in life.  But there is no denying the importance of
his blackness, and I could never be a model for the type of
man he should become.   So when we sit around the table with
these men, he sees how a real man carries himself. He gets
to see the signals and looks when sex is anticipated, and
the closeness between Lori and her new lover during
breakfast.

And we'll continue to do this, even as he continues to grow
sexually.  It's already started.  He's only just turned 13,
his black cock is still nearly hairless, but it's huge for a
boy that age, it hangs long and fat.  I wonder when I look
at him if he's bigger erect than I am. In just a few short
years, he'll be unbelievable.  He's very, very interested in
sex. We're comfortable enough with each other that he asks
me lots of questions. Boys want to know all the details. 
He's fascinated with blond woman - a few times now he's 
asked me:  "Are they that color down there too?" No matter 
how many times I tell him yes, a few weeks or a month later 
he asks me again.  He has this distant look in his eyes, I 
don't think he remembers asking  me before. It's as if he 
wants some reassurance that some image of perfection in 
his mind is really attainable.  Yes, already he's thinking 
long and hard about pussy.

He's all boy.  He plays football like a demon.  I don't
think there's a single kid in all of white Westchester that
can catch him when he finds an opening in a line and kicks
it into gear.  I watch him dance and strut in the end zone
after another touchdown and I think of that long ago
baseball game with Kyle, when he beat me under the measuring
eyes of our fathers.  Now it's my turn.  Now I get to be the
father of the stud.  I know what all the other parents are
thinking: I should talk to him, tell him to tone it down,
tell him that it's not right to humiliate a boy once he's
beaten him.  Sportsmanship, that's the word I hear under
their breath, and to me it's just a word for losers.  Why
should he hide his fire?  Why shouldn't he exult in his
power?  As far as I am concerned, the other boys should just
learn to deal with it -- they can deal with it the way I
did.

**

I have been to Africa.  I took Anthony there just a few
months ago - I wanted him to see where his people came from.
We spent three wonderful weeks in the jungles, plains and
cities of East Africa.  I had never been there myself, I had
never been anywhere in the tropics, and it affected me
deeply.  Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the power of a
sun that burned with an equatorial brilliance. Or maybe it
was the shock of arriving in Nairobi, the sudden realization
that since I didn't go to Harlem anymore, I had never been
in such a concentrated mass of black people.  And they were
spectacular.  Men of every shape, more shades of black than
I had ever seen, and almost all of them radiated sex in an
almost casual way.  I came close to indulging myself, I
wanted nothing more that to make inquiries at the hotel, to
find out where I might go to find a suitable man.  But I
refrained -- Anthony was with me, and I wanted this trip to
be for him, not me.

I took him to some museums in Nairobi, hoping he'd be
impressed with the archaic history of the area, its place of
singular prominence in the history of mankind.  He was
uninterested, though.  While I walked among the display
cases, studying skull fragments from earlier humanity, he
wandered around listlessly, listening to rap CD's on his
earphones.

Then we joined a long safari, and he was thrilled.  He loved
the freedom, the adventure of it, the wildness of spending
all day in a muddy, shaking jeep that leaped when it crested
a hill as we chased through herds of Zebras and Gazelles.
Sometimes we saw lions licking each other in the noonday
sun. We had planned on doing this for just a few days, but
we both loved it so much we did it for more than a week.
Anthony would stand up in the jeep, holding onto the gun
racks, and he was always the first to spot a new type of
animal in the high grass. We slept in camps under the open
skies with other groups of tourists, traveling to every park
in Kenya and Tanzania.

We got to meet people from all over the world.  Vehicles
from different safaris would pull into a campsite, and the
visitors from different parks and savannas would mix
together.  Every night there were stories in many languages
around the campfire, we'd sit there beneath the stars and
talk about the animals we'd seen, and we'd laugh about the
style of our drivers.  People everywhere were drawn to this
place.  There were overdressed Japanese that kept to
themselves;  travel-jaded Australians that spent all their
time talking about other places they'd been, and were
planning to go.  But mostly Europeans, drawn because of the
closeness of Africa.  Europe had been stripped of its wild
forests a millennia ago, but people everywhere are
fascinated by brute, roaring nature, and so they came here.

After a few nights, some of these people began asking about
Anthony and me.  I found it almost refreshing to find people
that weren't inhibited by correctness, people that just
asked directly:  "How do you come to have a black son?"  I
knew these were passing friends, people I'd never see again,
and so I answered honestly -- I said that my wife likes
black men. I'd answer the question, and a sort of hush would
fall over the campfire.  Other conversations would pause as
their groups heard what I said. There were a few people that
glanced at each other in amazement, and some, as a few more
details came out, drifted off to their tents shaking their
heads in puzzlement.  But many were untroubled -- Europeans
especially pride themselves on their sophisticated, adult
views about sex, and so I had some very interested
listeners.

There was a general turnover of people around the campsites
each night as different safaris followed their own routes.
But there were many people that I saw almost every night.
And after a few nights, in a sort of selection process,
there was a small group of French and Germans that I noticed
always sat near Anthony and I, hoping to hear more about us.

Anthony would say goodnight to me around 11, and a few
minutes after he left for the tent someone new would ask
about him.  Once I answered, the Europeans that sat around
me always followed up with new questions, seeking to learn
more about what Lori and I did than they learned the night
before. Michelle and Claude, a French couple, were part of
our safari, I saw them almost every night, and they seemed
very interested indeed. Claude was a college professor from
Orleans.  He was a thin, balding middle aged man with bright
eyes that reflected the campfire despite a pair of small but
thick wire framed glassed. He listened intently, and when he
asked a question he did so in slow, careful English.
Questions like: "Which of you . . . chooses the men?"

He had an obvious pride in his young wife. Michelle lay in
his arms each night.  She said little, her English was poor,
she just lay there watching the flames. Claude had reason to
be proud. Michelle was an exquisite prize, she had long
brown hair that was dense with curls, but never seemed
unkempt even after a full day in the tropical sun.  She
dressed very casually, with short cutoffs, sandals and thin
cotton blouses that were tied across her chest.  She showed
a lot of skin, she had dark, buttery flesh that attracted
the steady stares of all the native jeep drivers.  I knew
Anthony liked her - I saw him looking at her body, and we
joked about her every morning.

After a few nights, I noticed that they always sat by me
around the fire. She was so beautiful laying next to him by
the fire, the light of the flames dancing on her face. And
he seemed so happy to have her, as if the touch of her young
flesh was something he cherished. Soon we became friends.  I
learned that he was a professor of anthropology, and she had
been one of his students.  He had been to Africa many times.
In fact he had been all over the world, he'd lived for
months among hunter-gatherers in the Amazon and the remote
outer islands of the Philippines.

As interested as he was in the story of how Anthony came to
be, I was interested in his knowledge.  I was fascinated by
some of the things I had seen in the museums;  I would have
stayed longer if Anthony wasn't so restless. The history of
this place was Claude's field, and so I asked him some of
the things that puzzled me.  The museums had charts that
showed that humanity actually came out of Africa three
separate times.  In the last million years, there were three
major migrations from Africa.  Each time brought a new type
of humanity onto the steppes of Asia or the forests of
Europe, and each time they supplanted the local people, the
descendents of the prior migration.  Why, I asked him, why
here, each time.

"Because there is . . . more . . . how to say?" searching
for the word.  "Diversity.  Here, there were always more
people, more types of people."

I thought about what her said, but I didn't understand.  He
continued explaining.  Even though Africans look alike, they
are actually more different genetically from each other and
any other people on earth.  "Forget the color." He said,
rubbing his dry skin.  "All we see if their color, but
blacks are really . . . very different from each other.
Very different."

I had had so many of them.  I sat in silence, looking up at
the quarter moon and listening to the crack of the fire.
Yes, there were all different, so many body types, so many
ways of looking at me, while . . .  Then I realized - I had
never done many white men, so I had no reference.

"What happened to the earlier people," I asked.  "Were they
just . . . wiped out."

"Probably," he said.  "That's been the way it's always been
when different people meet.  Native Americans.  Jews."  The
point was clear.  "Think of why people migrate, why they
move.  Usually, it's fear.  They're afraid."

So that was the reason why man spread over the earth.  I
thought of people on reed boats that were sinking under
their owners.  The few lucky ones found refuge on a small
Polynesian island before the boat gave out.  Or people with
bleeding feet walking on the ice across the Bering Strait.
Not adventure, not a thirst for new places, but a need for
safety, to find some faraway niche, away from the stronger
ones that were always there just over the horizon when they
looked behind.

I must have looked troubled, because he said something else.
"It may not have been all violence, all killing. Men fight
but women . . . " -- he glanced at Michelle, I had the
feeling she was listening, that she understood English
better than she spoke it - "women . . . adapt."

I looked at him, not understanding.

"We . . . Anthropologists . . . call it 'Sexy Sons.'  Men

will fight other men for their women, but women want to mate
with . . . sexy men.  And the newer, stronger men were
always more attractive.  So even while the men fought, the
women . . . desired the other men."  Yes, I understood now.
Yes, this was something I knew.  "You see, it's called
sexual selection.  Women want strong, virile sons, so their
genes live on."

Yes, I knew.  The men may have been driving across the
desert, or hacking through a new jungle trying to get away,
but their women were looking back -- with desire.  I thought
of the pictures in my hallway as I grew up.  My mother's
happiness when Dad held her.  He was a young, strong fighter
then.  And then I though of what I had seen in their
bedroom, the way she sounded with that black man on top of
her, the strength of his muscles, the clench of his black
ass as he took her.

"You know this, no?"  Claude was looking at me.  "Your wife
. . . Lori? . . . she had her sexy son."  He smiled
slightly.  Michelle smiled too, she shifter closer to him.

"Yes."  It was all I could think to say.  I was overwhelmed
with what I learned.  I knew more than he suspected.  I knew
from the inside how women felt, what they might see in men
like Kyle and Ken.  And soon Anthony.  I decided to risk it.
"Is it only women . . . " I started, not quite sure how to
say it.  ". . . Only women who . . . submit."

"No."  he spoke without hesitation, as if he was prepared
for just that question.  "You see men allow themselves to be
taken too.  See there are many way to survive.  One way, the
usual way in contest, is to fight and risk losing.  That is
to risk everything, though."  He spoke like a scientist, the
English was precise and crisp now. I don't think he realized
that he was stroking Michelle's hair while he spoke "Nature
is very subtle, though.  There are many strategies for
survival.  You don't have to fight to the death.  You can
allow the stronger ones to use you, perhaps enslave you.
Let them have your women.  But when your master's back is
turned, maybe when he's fighting someone else, you can sneak
in and take their woman.  Mix your seed with theirs, and one
of your children may survive."

"Like the African slaves."  I said.

We sat in silence for a while.  We could hear the sounds of
the African night.  The wind streamed through the waving
high grass, and every few minutes there was the sound of
some animal in the distance.  The full moon was surrounded
by bright stars.

"They are sexy."  I said.

"Are you . . . you are attracted to them too." He said.

I remained silent a moment.  "Yes," I said.  "Ever since I
was a kid, I've had this . . . this fascination with them.
There's something about the way they act.  So sexual."

"Tell me . . . " his voice lowered - there was no one else
around us, the tents were far way, and most of them were
dark - his quiet tone was an invitation to deeper intimacy.
"You're wife . . . what's it like to . . . watch her?"

The reserve was gone.  He wanted to know something that was
terribly important to him.  "It's like I'm watching her
actually . . . become a woman . . . for the first time.
Like something different comes alive in her."  Michelle
swung her eyes over towards me.

"It was her choice . . . to have him."

"Yes.  She didn't tell me.  I'm not even sure she knows
which one it was."

"Oh, she knows.  A woman always knows," he said quickly. I
wondered if this came from scientific analysis, or some
personal experience on his part.  He moved on.  "Your son .
. . has he had sex yet?"

"No, I'm pretty sure he hasn't.  He's dying to, though, I
know he wants it."

Michelle picked her head up.  She whispered something in
Claude's ear, and then settled down and looked at the fire
again.  The fire was dying, I could feel the cold spreading
on my back.  Claude said:  "She wants to know . . . " -- he
gave a little laugh --  "if he's . . . how you say . . .
built?"

I felt the chance of something, a prospect for Anthony in
the question.  Michelle was looking at me as I spoke.  "Yes.
All of the men we chose were very big.  After a while we
discovered we had a sense of how big a man was just by
watching him.  So he's big, very big for his age.  Bigger
than me."

"But he has not had a woman yet . . . no?"  Claude asked
again.  When I shook my head he bent down and nuzzled
Michelle.  He might have said something to her, I wasn't
close enough to hear.  She pushed herself up, she gave him a
soft kiss on the cheek.  "Good night." She said to me.

We watched her walk across the camp to their tent.  We saw
her go inside the tent and light and light the flashlight,
seeing the dark outline of her body on the canvas as she
undressed.  When her tent went dark, I said to him.  "She's
very beautiful."

"Yes . . . yes she is."  The fire was almost completely out.
He was hunched over in the cold, seeming diminished by her
absence.  "I am so happy.  We are only married two years."

"You're very lucky, I said."

He changed in her absence, as if when she was away he
doubted that he did indeed have someone so young, so
thrilling.  "But I feel old, sometime.  Sometimes I wonder .
. ." He paused, looking at the moon. "I wonder if she is
satisfied.  She looks at other men. . ."  I didn't know what
to say, jealousy was something I never could relate to. ". .
. she likes black men."

Countless men had sat like this, lingering around dying
fires in a frightening world. Wondering what their women
were dreaming about, what that strange look in their eyes
meant.  Men like us, who knew there were other men
approaching, men that were better in every way.

"You asked me before what it was like to watch my wife?" I
said.  "So you . . . thought of this."

"Yes," he said.  "I know she'll do it anyway. She's young
and passionate. And I do want to . . . see them.  To watch
her, the way she responds . . ."

That I understood. I may have had some feeling of jealousy,
but if I did they were submerged under a foaming sea of
voyeuristic thrills. I thought of his young wife, wondering
if she'd be like Lori her first time.  Just the thought of
it aroused me. I told him about things, wanting to share the
extraordinary thrill of it with someone who seemed to share
my views. I told him about how Lori acted, I described the
faraway look in her eyes, the way her face contorted when
she pulled a man into one of her strange rape dramas.

He stared at me, his eyes were bright, and yes, I could see
him grow excited. "I wonder . . ." he was choosing his
words, his voice was hesitant. ". . . she's mentioned your
boy."

Yes.  He needn't have hesitated, it was such a thrilling
idea.  I knew he'd need no encouragement - all Anthony
thought about now was pussy, and I'd seen him glancing at
Michelle.  Yes.

"Would he do it?" he asked.

"Do you remember how you were when you were thirteen?" I
asked, astonished at such a question from a student of
humanity.

**

Through all the wild, spontaneous meandering of our safari,
we never lost sight of Mount Kilamanjaro.  It was always
there, looming above us like an approaching weather front.
The day after Claude and I had our long talk, we were almost
at the base.  This would be our last day among the animals.
Tomorrow Anthony and I would climb it. We'd begin our four
day walk up into the clouds.

Claude and Michelle made arrangements to join our vehicle.
Claude had taken me aside and said he spoke to Michelle that
morning, and yes, she wanted the boy.  She didn't take his
word for it, though.  I felt a hand on my elbow as I was
loading my bags onto the jeep.

"Your boy . . . "  -- she spoke softly as I turned to her,
he was approaching us from the tent --  ". . . you know I
like him?"

I couldn't speak for a moment.  She had lovely brown eyes,
the spill of her hair held the morning sun like a halo.  Her
hand was still on my elbow, I could feel her warmth, and I
was overwhelmed with the idea that all her beauty might be
his today.

"It's OK?  That I like him?"  Words that were like a
signpost, pointing to her meaning.

"Yes." I said.  "Yes.  It's all right."

Once I said that she sprang into motion.  She grabbed the
gunrack and slid quickly into the front seat, getting there
just as Anthony approached.  She smiled at him and patted
the seat beside her. He didn't even look at me, so quickly
did he take her offer.

All day long she worked him.  She sat close to him, and
spoke to him with a thick, fragrant French accent.  She
asked him about American life.  School.  His friends.
Surprisingly, she even knew his music, she was able to mimic
lyrics from some of the Gangsta Rap songs he liked;  they
laughed as she sang the ghetto lyrics with her French
accent.

By the late morning she had her hands on his leg, we drove
in silence as I watched her teasing caress.  I knew he was
on fire.  It would have thought it was cruel if I didn't
know she'd give herself to him today.

It wasn't a good day for seeing animals.  We stopped and
waited at watering holes, we sat in the jeep while it was
parked on a hill overlooking a mile wide sea of high grass.
We saw a few elephants; we saw a single giraffe pulling at a
faraway tree;  we saw a herd of zebra, their stark colors
dancing in the shimmering air.  But these were all things we
had seen before, and the rising heat between Michelle and
Anthony was far more interesting.

We stopped at noon.  We parked in the shade of some trees,
and ate lunch while we were sheltered from the blast of the
sun.  We talked about Mount Kilamanjaro while we ate.
Claude and our driver had done the climb.  But the
conversation was just filler, something to cover our
interest in Anthony and Michelle. Anthony was becoming more
active now; he was feeling her breasts and kissing the base
of her neck.  There was a huge bulge in his shorts.  The two
of them were unashamed. I had spoken to Anthony that
morning, I had told him about Michelle and I could see his
eagerness. We talked it over - he wanted her, even if it
meant being watched.

Our driver was a young man from British Colombia, whose skin
was creased and leathery from years in the sun.  He sat
there like Claude and myself, watching our two young lovers
with his sharp hunter's eyes.  The driver was used to things
like this.  During the days we had spent with him, he had
told me stories about what people did on safari, so I knew
that what was happening was not all that unusual.  Something
about this place, something about the sight of so many
animals seemed to fire the lust in people.  He told me that
most safaris ended the way ours did - people realized they
were going home, they knew they would never see such a wild,
vibrant place again, and so they spent the last few days
coupling like beasts in the grass.

Anthony began pushing his hand under her top, reaching
upwards so he could feel the bare skin of her tits.  I
glanced over at Claude.  He was pale, his head was down, and
he was picking nervously at his fingers.  I knew he was
sorry he had started this. He had the same wishes I had, the
thought of his young wife being filled with black cock may
have been exciting to him, but there were other fears, other
doubts that rose up unexpectedly. It was too threatening for
him.  But he couldn't do anything, there was a momentum of
energy between the two of them.

Anthony's hand roamed over her tits.  I could sense his
delight as his thumb and forefinger played with the nipples.
I remembered the first time I touched a girl's tits, the
amazement I felt that skin can feel so wonderful, so soft.
He bent and started kissing her chest just above the open
cotton of her top, adding her scent to the mix of his
senses.  He sat up and started to pull at the knot of her
shirt.  Michelle's eyes flashed at Claude.  When she saw the
fear in his aspect, she became troubled - she gently pushed
Anthony's hands away.  We all watched intently as she sat
up, drew her knees up against her chest, and folded her
arms, gathering herself for a moment of reflection.  Our
world beneath this shady tree hung still on the precipice of
her inner thoughts.  She looked at her husband; she looked
at Anthony.  Calm, measuring looks, comparing her husband
with the young, hard boy that stared back at her with hungry
eyes.

"This was your idea," she said to him.

"I know," he looked at her, and then looked down as he
continued. "I didn't realize how I'd feel . . ."

She considered that for a moment.  She was looking back at
him when Anthony did something extraordinary.  He reached
over and put his black hand on her thigh and began caressing
her, reminding her of what she might have.

She stood up and held out her hand to Anthony.  "Let's take
a walk," she said.  He got up; he took her hand and walked
with her into the sunlight.  They headed towards a line of
bushes about a hundred yards away.  We all watched them as
they walked away.  Claude looked sad;  for all his study of
people and cultures, he had miscalculated his own response
to the situation he wanted to happen.  I had no such
reservations.  I wanted to see my son; I wanted to see him
feel the rush of his manhood in the glory of his first fuck.

They stayed in the bushes for a long time.  When they came
out, happiness seemed to radiate from him as he approached.
None of us said anything, as if our inner feelings about
what had happened between them in the bushes were too deep,
too jagged to fit together into words we could share.

**

He told me about it the next morning, during the daybreak as
we walked up the slopes of Mount Kilamanjaro.  He told me
how he felt when she lay back and he saw her naked body
beneath him in the grass.  How stirring it was, how his cock
seemed to be controlled by the look in her eyes.  And how
once he saw her, his hesitation, his boyish uncertainty
disappeared in the upwelling tide of desire.

I listened and said little.  We climbed and watched the sun
burn the haze away, and studied the farther reaches of the
plains as more of the region became visible. She was smart
enough to pace him, knowing that the feeling was too new for
him to control it.  Rather than have him explode in a quick,
passionate release, she held him off.  She let him mount
her, she gave him a feel of the inside of her pussy.  She
lay beneath him and let him all the way in, and allowed him
some initial strokes.  But then she asked him to lay down
himself, and then she took over.  She kneeled down over him,
holding her pussy a foot or two over her face, and she told
him to look closely at it, to feel around inside it with his
fingers.  She told him how to touch her, she showed him the
secret switches of a women's anatomy.

He told me a lot, but I also knew there were things unsaid.
He said nothing about what they said to each other, but I
knew from the way he spoke of her, the way he said her name,
that they became truly intimate.  And something else was
clear - when I saw them walk out of the bushes, there was a
look in her eyes.  She was in control on the way in, she had
held his hand and led the way.  But she was changed utterly
when she came out.  She discovered something about him, some
wildness that surprised her.

But it wouldn't have surprised me.  I had close and intimate
knowledge of his stock.

**

We had a good climb.  We spent the rest of that day and most
of the next walking in silence.  He had come into his own,
he was leading the way, and I was tiring.  During the second
afternoon, when we got so high we could see the Indian Ocean
in the far distance, I became weak and dizzy from the
altitude.  He slowed for a while, hoping I would recover.
But the air was too thin for me.

I didn't want to hold him back.  He seemed so much older
now, so energized, now that he had taken his first pussy.
And so I said:  "You go on."  He looked at me thankfully, I
knew how badly he wanted to make the climb.

I stood there a while, watching him climb until he
disappeared in the mist.  I spent the rest of the afternoon,
climbing further down into better air, feeling joyful for my
son, and glad we had made this trip.  I felt close to him
that night, even though he was at least a mile above me.
With the thicker air, I drifted off into a seep, settling
sleep, imagining the coupling of my son and Michelle.

I waited on the slopes all afternoon. It was a clear day
with a sea of clouds beneath me, and I studied the land,
imagining the birth of human history in the great savannas
below.  Finally, I could see him in the distance, and I
could tell by the way he walked that he had, indeed, made it
all the way to the top.

We embraced on the slope, and when we pulled apart he told
me all about his climb.  How steep it became as the summit
drew near, and how he had to draw on some inner reserves to
make it all the way up.  He was thrilled, he was so young
and strong.

We stayed on the slope, not wanting to go down.  We sat
there on the spot where I waited, and watched darkness
descend.  We spoke of many things.  He knew the facts of
what Lori and I did, but not the meaning.  "Why do you do
that?" he asked, as if his experience of lovemaking made him
question why anyone would ever share.  I told him
everything, honestly.  I told him I had always loved black
men, I described the feeling I got in their presence, the
sense of hyper-masculinity that seemed to ooze from their
hard bodies.  He looked at me, and he understood.

**

Everything was different after that trip. A couple of times
a week now he has a new girl over, they head right for his
room and close the door.  Lori and I look at each other with
pride.  We love the sounds they make upstairs, and we love
to see the change in those girls when they come downstairs
after a few hours with him.  It started with the
cheerleaders, the trashy little cupcakes that dance on the
sidelines and flash their panties at the boys they like --
once he did a few of them the girls burned op the phone
wires talking about him: this boy will give you the ride of
your life.

This is the way it should be.  These girls are his due, his
right.  And it isn't just them.  There's a charge growing
between him and Christina. His sister goes to the same
school, and so she's heard what's been said about him, and I
can see some of Lori's fire, her adventurousness in the
flash of Christina's eyes.  So many nights I lay awake, and
when it's quiet I go walking in the still house. Always I
stop and listen at their doors. I know it will happen, I
know that one night soon I'll hear the sounds, I'll hear her
muffled sobs as he slides into my daughter's pussy.

Yes, I want that. I want to be there, listening when it
happens, because then I'll know that I've won what I've
wanted all along.  My seed will fuse with his in the profane
sacrament of their coupling. He will have sons as strong
and as ravenous as he. A tiny part of me will be carried 
forever within the lustful stampede of all his sons.

The End.
- New York City 1997 - 2000

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####################################################### 
  I'd love to here from you, no matter what you thought 
 of my story. Comments and story ideas are welcome at: 
 Pervitron@Hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Pervitron/
####################################################### 
  



