Summer of Stu II

He had longish hair, beautiful dark, sloe eyes, thick, sensuous lips ... a face that was one part rock-star and one part model; Stu, my first real lover...the first guy in high school I'd ever kissed, the first guy I'd ever had sex with, the first one to ever mutter, "I love you" to me, and ultimately, my first heartbreak.

I mentioned here before that during the summer of 1977 Stu and I lived together in his late grandfather's old farmhouse which lay at the end of a dirt road deep in the woods of a small town in Southern New Jersey. I loved that old house and I loved Stu. I was young, we were both young, just nineteen years old, unfettered and free and horny and we had each other...

Sex was an ongoing, almost nonstop event between us. When we weren't working or sleeping, chances are we were fooling around.

Most mornings we started the day with a mutual jerk off... it was nice to reach over and feel for his staff through his briefs, free it and jerk it until he came ... it was just as nice to have him do it to me.

Some times I'd rise to the surface out of a sound sleep with him going down on my cock. He'd do these mind-blowing things with his tongue to my cock and and balls and I'd shoot a messy morning load into his waiting mouth... and then he'd look up at me, those sleepy, sexy eyes of his locking with mine and we'd kiss and I'd taste my own cum...

Rock music was almost always playing somewhere in the house ... one day, in the kitchen we were throwing a meal together and Argent's "God Gave Rock and Roll To You" was issuing forth from the radio on the shelf above the stove, "This song makes me horny", he said turning from the stove top, and the next thing I knew he was playing with my nipples making me weak in the knees. I stopped what I was doing and allowed him to assault my chest, to tweak my sensitive tits until they burned and my cock was rock hard, until I fell to my knees and sucked him off while our dinner burnt...fuck it, could life be any better?

There was an old barn behind the house that Stu used when he painted (he was a tremendously gifted artist), we also rigged up the barn as a kind of sex room complete with a jerry-rigged sling that we took turns in getting fucked...sometimes we'd have like minded buddies over and engage in some multiple partner action. Often, Chris and Andy stopped over and the four of us would get it on in the barn ... other times it was just us. This one time, Stu and I smoked a bowl of some crazy Mexican weed and we were both so fucked up that I ended up banging his beautiful ass while he was bent over a hay bale...using my own spit as lube I pounded him raw and he cursed me out while I slapped his ass and rode him like a pony...


One night, in our bedroom, a thunderstorm lighting up the night with strobe effects, we smoked a joint and wrestled around on the bed, ass slapping each other, grabbing each others balls, twisting each other nipples, biting each other, spitting in each others mouth ... there was not penetration at all, no sucking no fucking...we merely came in our underwear while we engaged in erotic horseplay.

I loved getting fucked by Stu. He would rub his huge cock all over me, leaving a trail of slime on my back until he reached my crack and then he'd slide in, all at once, and I'd accept the pain/pleasure of his and hold my breath until he was in to the max and then he'd slowly, almost methodically pump away and I'd relax letting every inch of my lover enter while I'd listen for his breathing to intensify and I'd say his name while he was doing me and he'd tell me how much he loved fucking me, and then he'd tell me that he loved me and I'd wait for his climax; the feel of his jism pumping in to me...

I loved to fuck his face, to ram my cock into that beautiful mouth of his. He would take me and deep-throat my cock, and then I'd pull out and slap his face with my rod and watch as drops of pre-cum dotted his perfect face and his tongue would dart out and try and catch my seed...and then I'd reach back and pinch his nipple and he'd groan and I knew he loved it ... and somewhere in that old farmhouse a rock song was playing, and it would reverberate though the halls and when I would cum and shoot white semen all over his face and shout out-loud, my voice would drown out the music, and for a few shining moments I'd understand everything, and it was good and great and then he'd have his orgasm and it would be just as good for him, and once more I'd think; fuck it, could life be any better?

Suffering For Love

I've mentioned it before, about Chris and his athletic prowess...he was the star quarterback of the high school football team; he wrestled, played rugby and soccer in college...His body was like a well oiled machine that could perform in any situation that called for stamina and strength.

He also enjoyed using his athletic ability to dominate, to be the alpha male in sexual situations...but more than that, he enjoyed a good fight. OK, to be blunt, he loved to work his partner over as a prelude to sex. My time with Chris resulted in a lot of things, including a dislocated shoulder, a sprained ankle and several black eyes ... as well as a healthy enjoyment for S & M style erotic undertakings. Don't get me wrong, he could take it as well, and many was the time after a coupling with me that he'd emerge with a split lip or black and blue torso ... yes ,with us, love hurt and it was a lot of give and take...

I suffered for love from this man, and it was worth every bit of it ... i learned to endure as well as dish out punishment, I learned to be tough, I learned to hide my emotions, I learned about the pleasure that hides behind the mask of excruciating discomfort, I learned that a man can endure and grow, I learned that a bloody nose is sometimes as endearing as a kiss ... fighting and fucking, I also learned, are acts of passion...

When we wrestled, and we did this often, he'd try to crush me with his legs; my thighs in a human vice, his body tensed and every muscle as hard as steel.

When he had me by the hair, in a corner, crotch pressed up against my face, fist clenched ready to pummel me into submission; I knew that this was not only a savage act of cruel domination, it was also an act of love.

When he kicked me when I was down and verbally tormented me, I would grow hard and insane with love.

When i sometimes got the upper hand and put him in full nelson and made him scream in pain, I knew he was screaming that he loved me.

When he bested me and stood over me flexing, like a Greek god, I knew that I would worship him; I knew that his crotch, that always seemed ready to burst with the promise of sex, would be communion that I would readily take in homage to my personal deity.

When he yanked me up to his crotch and shoved my face to his bulge and yelled out humiliating things to me, I knew that this was the price I had to pay for loving a man such as this...I knew that I would, and could, return this favor, that I would be the one on top and that I would be the one shoving his crotch on to the face of the defeated ... but when it was me on the receiving end, I gladly took what was being served ... when I was the fallen, I'd give in and embrace the defeat and the pain and the humiliation ... that's what love was for us.

When I managed to get the upper hand and reach for his nipples and pinch and pull on them and realize that his cocky demeanor was fading, I'd grow even harder imagining that somehow, someway, I'd made this Olympian my slave, and then I'd reach for his balls and squeeze them until he begged for mercy, and I'd show him as much mercy as he showed me earlier by yanking on them even harder and more severely until he might collapse under me and for a time I'd be the dominator and he was the punk ... and later, after we were through he'd tell me how much that had turned him on, and that he wanted me to put up a fight and that he enjoyed me inflicting some pain on him, as much has he enjoyed doing the same to me...

Eventually we'd tire of brawling and sex would follow ... and it was always good. When he fucked me, he'd do it with as much tenacity as he did when he was working me over, he'd ask me if I liked it, he'd ask me if I loved it, he'd ask me if it hurt ... and I'd curse him out and tell him that I wanted to him to go faster, harder, deeper, and he'd oblige and I'd imagine that this is what it must have felt like to be had by Zeus...and sometimes, I'd be on top, fucking him and slapping his muscular ass, maybe pulling him by his hair at the same time and he'd swear revenge on me but at the same time he'd be urging me on telling me to make him hurt, make him feel it...

And when it was all over, when we finished, when we had our orgasms, we'd revert to this quiet, sensual mode. We'd hug and kiss and he'd tell me how proud he was of me, how he loved me, how he knew I was the ONE for him ... and if I was the victor, I'd tell him that it was the best sex I'd ever had ... and yet, and yet, and yet... as much as I did, I never, ever told him that I loved him...