*Gay Sex: Older & Young men*

From time to time, life can be one cruel irony after another. Shelby Martin sat behind the wheel of his truck and looked out the window at the headstone marking his wife’s grave. At the ripe old age of twenty-three, he’d lost his best friend and mate in a once in a life time freak accident, which filled him with relief, guilt, and sorrow all at the same time.

He opened the door and unfolded his tall lean swimmer’s physique out of the truck, his longish light brown hair waving in the slight breeze. He reached into the passenger seat and picked up the flowers, pink carnations today, and turned to put them on the grave. Kayla, his wife, had never known his inner torment and shame, and had been his light and his secret burden since they’d met six years before.

There had been a party, and all of their friends had been there. It was a kegger in the canyon, and Shelby had been goaded into something that until that time had been unthinkable. He strongly suspected that he was gay, but in a desperate attempt to prove otherwise, he’d had sex with Kayla Davenport. She had been so beautiful, tall like he was, and so generous about his total lack of experience. They’d become instant best friends. And parents.

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“GAWD DAMMIT ALL TA HELL, LESTER T!” the cute sixteen-year-old boy-slut hollered as he grappled for balance in the back seat of the police cruiser. “THAT’S MY ASS HOLE YER FUCKIN’, NOT RHONDA JEAN’S BIG, FAT PUSSY! TAKE IT EASY!”

Grabbing a handful of the kid’s darkly thick, unruly hair, Sheriff Lester T. Coultrane barked, “Shet up that hole in yer face, boy, afore I run you in fer solicitin’.”

Jimmy Joe had heard that one afore. Many times, in fact, since the small-town Sheriff first got a piece ‘o his ass nigh unto two years back. Jimmy’d been workin’ the nasty-assed bathroom out at that sty of a trucker’s rest stop on I-20, giving ten dollar bow jobs and sellin’ his sweet ass for twenties from ’bout the time he hit the seventh grade. Somebody had to bring home the bacon, what with his daddy servin’ time in prison fer aggervated assault and momma nuthin’ mor’n a damned lush, constantly missin’ work on account of bein’ too hung over from the night afore. If it weren’t fer Jimmy Joe whorin’ his teen body they sure ’nuff wouldn’t be able ta make rent on their trailer park lot and, while Jimmy Joe didn’t give two hoots ’bout his booze-hag momma, he didn’t plan on bein’ homeless. That rickety-assed, run-down trailer least-wise put a roof over his pretty-boy head.

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I first met Tim or Timmy when he was seven years old. I was returning home from the paper-shop with my morning paper that I had picked up late. I noticed a young lad on a bike, wobbling all over the pavement and was doing my best to avoid him, when he suddenly tipped over, right outside my front gate. I naturally hurried over to see if he was injured in anyway and to help pick him up and render First Aid if necessary. He was lying on his side with the bicycle on top of him. He was attempting to clutch his knee and was crying softly. “Are you all right?” I enquired, watching closely with all my first aid training. The boy looked up at me with wetly gleaming eyes, “I’m hurt,” he said resentfully and tried to move the bike away. “Here,” I added, “let me help with that,” and I carefully eased the bike off him. As I did so he moved slightly and I found myself looking straight down the side of his wide shorts to the small bulge of his genitals that were tightly encased in white briefs. He lay still, his arms crossed over his injured knee and only accentuating his gaping shorts that gave me an enticing view of his small package.

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It was an absolutely gorgeous late summer morning, warm without being hot, with low humidity. I could hear the birds singing, the sun was shining, and all seemed right with the world. It was also, although I didn’t know it, the first day of the new school year. Whistling a tune, I strolled out of my apartment over to where my car was parked. Then I heard the voice that would bring so much joy into my life.

“Please, please can you help us? Oh, thank God I found you!” A good-looking, if harried woman in her mid to late thirties exclaimed to me.

“What’s wrong? Is the building on fire? Someone have a heart attack?” I asked her, thinking the worst and seeing the lovely morning ruined for me (not to mention whoever was having the heart attack).

“No, I need help tying my son’s tie. I can’t seem to get it right and he doesn’t know how.”

I peered behind her to find an adorable little boy standing there with a resigned expression on his face. He had dark hair in a bowl cut, pale blue eyes, and a tanned slim body. He was wearing a school blazer, white shirt, short pants, and had an untied necktie around his neck. I think I fell in love with him in that instant. He looked to be about 10 or 11 years old.

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Gary had just turned eight when I met him. He was a cute kid with dark brown hair and eyes to match. His skin was a honey brown, at least the parts I had seen, which wasn’t much. Gary was ring- bearer at his Aunt’s wedding. Gary’s mom was Maid Of Honor and also sister of the bride. And me. I was the limousine driver for the wedding party.

Weddings are sheer torture for an eight year old. Especially when, other than the four year old flower girl, you are the only kid. Too many rules. Too much sitting around being “still”. I picked the group up at noon for the wedding. Gary was the first one to the limo and wanted to see inside. I opened the door for him and helped him in and out.

The rest of the day, I kept Gary amused and out of everyone else’s hair. It is amazing how often a limo driver is pressed into baby sitting service during a wedding. During the three hours of picture taking, Gary and I played hide and seek. I always seemed to be “it” and had to find him. We were in a large Conservation area by a lake and there were lots of trees to hide behind. The game soon evolved into catch Gary; tickle Gary. He seemed to like this as he became easier and easier to catch and took longer and longer to squirm out
of my grasp.

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I lived in an small trailer park by myself. On Friday evenings, I would stay up all night getting high and whacking off. It was easier and safer than going out to hunt down any strange dick or dicks to suck on, so this routine became a habit for me. There weren’t many guys in the park that I thought were attractive, except for the park manager’s teenaged grandson. She was raising her daughters two boys, the youngest was about nine years old, the other was about sixteen. He had long sandy colored hair, a thin body, and usually walked around looking like he was always in a bad mood. I avoided him whenever I saw him, and he never acted like he knew I existed. I tried to get a good look at his face to see if I liked it, and sure enough, underneath the gruff exterior, he was a pretty good looking kid. So, I liked what I saw from a distance and never let the idea of having sex with him enter my thoughts. There were times when I would be out walking back from the AM PM late at night, thinking of sex with men, when I would see him walking either to or from his grandmother’s trailer. At first I felt like I had been caught doing something wrong being out so late at night when I realized that he was up and moving about that late also.

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Bugger! The weatherman hadn’t said about his. It was pouring and I was soaked through. When I had started my paper-round it was warm and sunny. Track and trainers would be just right to wear as I cycled the route this evening. (When it is real warm I don’t always wear pants under my tracksuit on my bike.)

My name is Nicky and I’m almost 16. I’m 5′ 8″ tall with a 32″ waist and a 37″ chest. I’m dirty blonde and have no body hair except round my 6.5″ penis, and there’s not that much there yet. I knew I was gay, or was pretty sure, by the time I turned 15 and hand done a few things with men in public toilets, but not much.

I had almost finished my round, just one house left then home. I cycle my route so that I end up out of the village. Then I can get a straight two mile ride home after the last house. Mr Rogers is my last call. He lives in a bungalow with quite a large garden. Its not a modern place but not bad. I knew he was into model trains cos of the magazines I deliver. He’s about 43, a bit over weight and going grey, but a nice bloke. He had given me a drink of orange or tea sometimes and tipped well at Christmas.

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This all happened twenty years ago when I was 14, I was a small child, about 5ft 4inches tall. I had dark brown hair, brown eyes, and was quite skinny. I had no body hair at all, apart from about a dozen pubes; I had small brown nipples, and a little belly. My saving grace was my cock, it was quite thick with a mushroom knob, and was nearly 6-1/2 inches long when hard, which was most of the time since I’d woken up one morning about a year ago to find my belly covered in spunk. I loved to wank it, as did a lot of the boys at school, they loved the size and feel of it. I had the biggest cock of my year, and there were only a couple of 16 year olds, and one 15 year old whose cocks were bigger. It was uncut, with loose foreskin, and I loved the feel of my soft, silky skin rubbing against my steely shaft. All the boys knew I loved cock, but I was popular (the class clown), so they were O.K. with it. I was forever ducking into the toilets with any available boy for a mutual wank, or, if we thought the teacher wouldn’t notice, I’d play with my neighbour in class and vice versa.

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I was in a right mess. I’d missed the last bus home. I had been to badminton in Southampton. I went on the bus and it was only the second time I had done it. Until I was 15 I could only go if Mum took me. Now they thought I was old enough to go no my own. The last bus went at 10pm and it took an hour to get home across the New Forest to my village. It was my own fault in a way. I’d hung around the changing room too long. See I always get a hard when I am in the changing room so I wait till the place is empty before I change. Don’t go thinking I’m queer or anything just because this happens. I bet it happens to all boys of my age after exercise, and being in a room with naked men. I just look to see what their cocks are like and wonder if mine will grow that big. Yeh I play with myself at night, but all boys do that anyway. Well now I was stuck with no bus, and I knew if I didn’t get back by just after 11pm then my Mum wouldn’t let me go again.

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In fifteen years working for the department of motor vehicles, I’ve administered the road test to all of them. The young and old, the male and female, the nervous, the overconfident, the experts and the klutzes. But at least once a week, I get one of the Desperadoes. This candidate has to pass the driving test. He or she is desperate for a license, and would probably sell his or her soul to the devil to get one.

Maybe it’s the thirty-year old who has just completed his DUI program and now must get his license back. He needs the car for his job. Maybe it’s the seventy-year old whose children want him off the road once and for all, and state law requires he be retested every five years; but he’s been driving all his life and if he were to lose his license now, he might as well quit living. Maybe it’s the young mother, who has never driven before but is going crazy stuck in the house now that her child has started school. But most often, it’s a young kid like Tommy, who got into my test car last week.

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