Tag Archives: winter

April Fools! Who The Fuck Would Believe I’d Go Safe?

April Fools! Who The Fuck Would Believe I’d Go Safe?

double-bag-it-douchebagI lied Opens new window of a page on this blog. April Fools!

When I posted earlier on April 1 that I was going safe — so safe I’d begin double bagging my cock for fucking — it was nothing more than an April Fools joke.

Oh come on. Did you read it? I wrote I would fuck all for the bottom’s pleasure!

When in the fuck would I do that?

Just a little humor. Sometimes I let things get a little too heavy around here.

Here’s to spring. Let’s hope this winter shit and all the cold is behind us.

Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: Follow the Rabbit

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.

 

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Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: A Murky Beginning

I don’t recall exactly why. Seems like my mother had to go to the doctor or something medical. On a summer’s day in the South, the perfect solution seemed to be letting the kids go to the nearby lake with neighbors.

Not just a small lake. This one had several access points and so the “beach” attracted dozens of people. An older man and woman — very distant relatives of ours — picked my little sister and me.

Who knows the exact date, but I’m guessing 1978. My memories fade from extremely blurry to crystal sharp, so forgive the moments in between. It’s as if some of my memories live beneath the murky lake water where it started and then emerges as it gets closer to the surface until it breaks and emerges above the surface. And then I can see what happened. But more than see it, I can feel it. It’s not just the sensation of him but also the confusion and conflicts I felt every moment of that day. Drawn to stay in the water and allow him to touch me.

I remember us going into the men’s changing area and him teasing me. At the time, he was probably in his early 40s with a respectable body — big wide chest with a little hair, more than six feet tall and a long angular face. We changed.

As an awkward, not very athletic child, my photographs show me as lanky, too thin with a bowl-cut for a haircut. Indistinct. At least this occurred prior to the plague of acne would take away my smooth ivory skin.

Playing in the water with my sister and others probably was the norm. But the moment his strong arms wrapped around me, I didn’t move much. I’m shy by nature and, back then, even more so. At some point, a game of swimming beneath the water’s surface and between each other’s legs occurred. At first, just a brush. Then a little more obvious. My cock ached beneath the surface of the water.

As I would swim beneath his legs, under that crotch, I remember him making sure to push me down and toward his cock. I know I felt it, but it would be months before I really touched or saw it.

My cock pulsed harder than ever. I’d felt it like this in the gym when we did something called “donuts,” lying flat on our stomach and lifting our legs and shoulders off the floor so our tummies and crotches were the only thing on the gym floor. It would be years later before I’d realize the dry orgasms I’d had everyday in gym, looking forward to this “exercise.” So much so, I’d do it at home on my own.

As my cock ached, my sister retired to the beach with the wife and we were alone. I didn’t dare return to shore. Unsure whether I wanted to stay here, in the water, with this man I barely knew. But something kept me there. Something in the back of my mind. Something that made me fantasize about Tarzan rescuing me from the jungle and carrying me to safely against his bare chest and in his strong arms.

That fantasy seemed to turn reality, as he stood behind me and took me deeper into the water but held me safely in his arms. Around my back, his hands rested on my bathing suit shorts. Right on my cock. He stroked me through the thin fabric.

I remember his hot breath on my neck. The only words about what was happening beneath the murky surface, “Do you like this?”

I hesitated. How should I answer this question? What should I say?

I stuck my face into the water and screamed into it, “I don’t know.” Only bubbles emerged and I swam away.

When we changed to go home, I found a stall by myself. I made sure not to be alone with him. I stayed quiet and distant. I do remember getting ice cream — an orange cream “push up” as they were called.

Only recently do I recall these details. If you want to know, the man lives — still a neighbor to my mother. He suffers from cancer and Alzheimer’s. My stories do not end here, but my next memory occurs in the winter. I’m not certain if I’ve somehow blacked out some of those moments or perhaps there’s no memory because nothing happened.

But it began at a lake in murky waters. He touched me. I was changed.

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