Snowfall is rare in the South. Very rare. I wouldn’t see snow more than a couple of inches deep until my mid-20s when I moved to Washington, D.C. So that winter — probably in early 1979 — would be the next time I was alone with him.
For my home, almost two inches of snow covered the ground, creating a white blanket over the landscape. I found it mesmerizing. I can’t recall whether the power was out or not, but he and his wife had wandered over to assure we were all fine. I imagine it was his suggestion to go out into the woods behind our house to look.
We found tracks for rabbits. He explained what they looked like. My sister and I were fascinated. But she got cold or, perhaps at her big brother’s insistence, returned home and left us in the woods.
I think he decided to take a piss and suggested I did the same. My cock was immediately hard. I remember the cold air, my gloved hands around my cock. Only my face and cock exposed. I would never pee. But I stood there, looking straight ahead.
He reached over and pushed down on my cock, “You need to get that fixed.”
“What?” I uttered.
“Your prick,” he said. “I should point straight out like mine. See?”
I saw his cock. Even today, I would consider it significant. At that age, an eight inch cut cock at about a thick six inches around made mine look small. And it did. It pointed straight out from his body. And it grew larger.
“Want to touch it?”
I did. Tentative at first, then I pulled my hand back.
“Go ahead. Just take your glove off.”
I did. I remember how much warmer it was than my thin, rock hard cock.
He would touch me a few more times, inspect it, stroke it. And he encouraged me to do the same.
But this would also begin his abuse, the mindfucks I would endure from him. As he would scold me about wanting to touch his cock. And the words he’d use about how my prick was broken, how pricks were supposed to stand straight out from the body. Mine didn’t. It never would.
I started down the trail. Who knew I’d started back that summer? In the pre-Internet world where I’d learned about sex a couple of years before from a World Book Encyclopedia, this action continued to confound and confuse me. He didn’t cum. He had accomplished the next step in his abuse. And part of me wanted him to show me more. For now, I’d touched a cock other than my own.