Sunday, October 15, 2017

The Boy Hooks Up with the Christmas Ghost

Rome City, Indiana, December 1974

The boy sat on the bed, reading about fairies.

It was very cold in his aunt's attic room, so he was under the covers.  A space heater glowed orange beside the bed.  Downstairs, a Christmas party was going on, with his parents and aunts and uncles and friends from town.  Most he didn't know.

But they were all paired up into husbands and wives, male-female couples extending in all directions to infinity.

Even Santa Claus had a wife.

The attic door was open, to let some heat up.  Downstairs he heard talking and laughter, and a song, "Winter Wonderland."

In the meadow we can build a snowman,
And pretend that he is Parson Brown.
He'll say "Are you married?"  We'll say, "No, man,
But you can do the job when you're in town."

Wife, kids, house, job, his destiny.  His doom.



Suddenly he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.  A dark shape that quickly resolved itself into the form of a young man, probably college age, tall and slim with thick reddish hair and very pale skin.  He was wearing a red sweater and jeans.  Oddly, he was barefoot.  The boy didn't recognize him from the party downstairs.

"Can I come in?"

"You already are in."

"Fair enough."  The stranger sat down on the edge of the bed.  "I saw you come up here, and wondered if you were ok."

Bogus!  Why would a complete stranger come upstairs to check up on him?  Why not his mother, or Aunt Nora?

"I'm fine, just tired.  And this is my room. Mine and my brother's while we're visiting, so I can be here.  Are you friends with Cousin Joe?"

He ignored the question.  "What you reading?"

The boy had hidden the book -- his parents disapproved of non-religious books in general, and especially science fiction and fantasy.  "Um...science homework."

The stranger reached up and pulled the book from under the covers.  "Fairies?" he asked in surprise.

"Not that kind of fairy," the boy said, cutting off the criticism,  He wasn't reading fairy tales -- he had always hated Snow White, Cinderella, Rapunzel, and their ilk, stupid boy meets girl stories with some flittery things added, shouting that the meaning of life is to be found in feminine smiles.  He was reading about fairies, the dark, sinister figures of European myth, like Puck in Midsummer Night's Dream. 

"Midsummer Night's Dream!" the stranger exclaimed.  "I love Shakespeare.  I used to be a grade-A riot on stage!"  He flounced about the room, reciting:

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding, but a dream.

"You look pretty solid to me," the boy said.

"Who cares?  It got you to smile.  Cold up here -- got room for one more, Jackson?"  Without waiting for an answer he climbed under the covers next to the boy and put his arm around him.  His hard bicep bulged against the boy's shoulder.

"I'm not a little kid," the boy protested, while he instinctively cuddled against the stranger's hard chest.

"I never said you were.  You've got all of your grownup parts in place.  You shave?"

"Once a week!"  He actually hadn't started shaving yet.

"I can tell."  The stranger brushed his open palm against the boy's face.  "You've got some hair under your arms..." he caressed the boy's shoulder.  "A manly chest,  a regular Jack Dempsey..."  he caressed the boy's chest.

The boy began to get aroused, and quickly placed the book over his crotch.

The stranger chuckled.  "You have other adult parts, too, I see.  Have you spooned yet?"

"Huh?"

"You know, kissed."

"Sure, lots of times!" Adults often asked about kissing girls.  Other boys asked about screwing them. You were always supposed to answer "lots of times."

"Banana oil!  Not the stories you tell your friends.  Have you kissed anyone yet?"

The boy looked down at the book barely covering his arousal. "No."

"Would you like to?  Be honest, now."

"No.  I don't like girls."  It was a heavy admission to make to a complete stranger.

"What fools these mortals be, to tell you it has to be a girl!  Any fairy can tell you that boys kiss boys, too."

Boys kiss boys?  Was that possible?  

As if in response, the stranger pulled the boy close and pressed his lips against one cheek, then the other cheek, then his mouth, and they were kissing.  It was bright like fire.

Suddenly the stranger was lying on top of the boy, hugging him, pressing his crotch against him.  He was aroused, much bigger than the boy, thrusting, rubbing.  The boy wondered how to let him enter.... he reached down and grabbed the stranger's penis and pulled it out of his jeans.

The stranger moaned, his body stiffened and trembled, his tongue thrust savagely down the boy's throat, and he spurted into the boy's hand.

He kept kissing the boy for a long time, then lifted his head up and asked "Any kleenix around?"

The boy pointed to the night stand.

The stranger wiped off, put his penis back into his pants, and stood.  "That was intense.  I gotta go, but we'll see each other again before you go back to Rock Island, ok?"


"Sure."

Then the stranger left.

Through the closet door!

Later the boy was looking through an old photo album, and he saw a picture of a teenage boy who looked like the stranger. He even had the same red sweater.

"That's Bryant, one of my high school friends, at a Christmas party a thousand years ago" Aunt Nora told him.  "You never saw such a cut-up!  After graduation he went to Indiana U., and then I lost track of him.  He's probably got a wife by now, and grown-up kids."

"Or not," the boy said, smiling.

See also: The Gay Ghost Who liked oral

Saturday, October 14, 2017

Matt's Date with Johnny Sheffield's Son

San Diego, July 1989

My ex-boyfriend Fred's boyfriend Matt was loud and proud, out to everybody and everything.  "Hi, I'm gay, and I'd like to order a large pizza."  "Hi, I'm gay.  What time will the flight from Kansas City be arriving?"

Fred didn't care for gay pride events, but Matt dragged him to Christopher Street West in L.A. every year, and sometimes to the parades in San Francisco and San Diego too.  "Mon chevalier blanc, it will be fabulous!" he promised.  "And, as any queen knows, they come with nonstop cruising.  Finding a Cute Young Thing to share my butt and our bed will make it all glorioski, n'est pas?"

In 1989 they went to the San Diego gay pride parade, and afterwards to a "hair cutting" exposition at the Eagle.  One of the guys in the chair was a Cute Young Thing named Stewie (this was before Family Guy co-opted the name): early 20s, tall, slim, very tanned, with brown curly hair, a round open face, pinprick nipples, and an average-sized cock, cut.  Plus he came from a wealthy family and attended a private school, just like Matt.  They immediately hit it off, and were so busy talking that they almost forgot to cruise.

They went back to Stewie's apartment, where Fred topped him while he went down on Matt.  Then Stewie topped Matt -- versatile, not like those West Hollywood queens who were only into oral.  And kissing and cuddling afterwards!  Merveilleux!  Matt was almost in love.

Lying in bed enfolded in each other's arms while Fred dozed, they shared coming out stories.  Stewie had known since he was in high school, but he hadn't told anyone in his family: "Mom might be ok with it, but Dad's old school.  He was in Hollywood in the 1940s, when being gay was the worst thing in the world."

"Has he been in anything I may have seen?" Matt asked.  "I'm quite the movie buff -- the silver screen was my only escape from the dreariness of the Midwest.  Let me guess -- your papa is Marlon Brando?"

Stewie smiled and began kissing Matt's chest.  "He was in some jungle movies.  I guess they were popular back in the day."

"Your papa was Tarzan, Lord of the Apes?"

"Close.  He played Tarzan's son, a kid named Boy.  I know, lame, right?  No wonder he doesn't like to talk about his acting days.  How would you like it if...old guys grabbed you at the Target...and said 'Can I have your autograph, Boy?""  He moved down Matt's belly to his crotch and began to give him a blow job.

Later Matt checked a movie reference book and discovered that Stewie's father was Johnny Sheffield, "Boy" in 8 Tarzan movies (1937-1946) and "Bomba" in 12 movies (1948-1956).  He had never heard of him. 

"Mon petit etalon, it makes no difference if your dear papa is Jerry Falwell -- you must come out to him.  It is the only way to be free of the monsters of our childhood.  And the sooner the better.  How about tomorrow?  Fred and I can come along for moral support."

"Tomorrow's not good," Stewie murmured, licking Matt's shaft.  "Mom might be ok with it, but she's out of town.  Dad's all by himself, and he'll kick me out of the house, seriously."

"You don't live in his house, so voila! Problem solved!" Matt exclaimed, pulling Stewie's head away and drawing him in for a kiss.  "Tomorrow you and I will go to Papa and come out,  ok?"  He nudged Fred.  "RĂ©veillez-tu, mon etalon -- tomorrow we have a date with Tarzan!"

Stewie hesitated, but Matt could be very persistent, particularly when his aroused penis was in your face, so finally he agreed.

Fred had to get back to San Bernardino, but Stewie invited Matt to stay with him for a couple of days.  In the morning he called his father and got an invitation to dinner that night.

Fortunately, Stewie lived in the heart of Hillcrest, San Diego's gay neighborhood, so while he was at work, Matt had a marvelous time wandering among the shops and boutiques and bars.  He had lunch at a quaint little Japanese bistro, bought himself a new outfit, and worked out in the gay gym/bathhouse.  Stewie got home at 6, with just enough time to shower, change clothes, and drive them to a Tudor-style house near Hilltop Park in the suburb of Chula Vista.

Stewie parked the car, honked, and waited for his Dad to restrain the dogs so they wouldn't get out.  "I don't think I can do this," he said, literally trembling.  "Can we just say that you're dating my ex-girlfriend?"

"Mais non!"  Matt said.  "Seize the day, mon petit etalon!  I guarantee you that dear Papa Falwell will know before dessert!"

John Sheffield was in his fifties, tall and rather portly, with Stewie's round open face, graying hair, and glasses.  He offered them both handshakes, then invited them into the back yard, where he was grilling steaks.

"All I can cook is steak and burgers on the grill -- put me in front of a range, and I'm all thumbs," he said, drawing a steak from its marinade and placing it on the grill with a smoky flourish.  "I'll bet you're a great cook, Matt.  In six months you'll have him fattened up into a blimp!"

"Well, I don't like to brag, but one bite of my Poulet CĂ©lestine and you'll be giving me the deed to the ancestral castle."

"Great, then give me a hand, won't you, and bring out the salad?  The kitchen is through that door, then turn right."

"I'll show you the way!" Stewie exclaimed, not wanting to be alone with his dad.

When they returned, John said "I've been wondering when you would bring one of your friends around.  Patty and I always thought they would be a great bunch of guys.  So, Matt, are you and Stewie...um...."

Dad knows already!  Matt thought  "No, Monsieur Sheffield, we only met yesterday."

"Where did you meet" John asked.  "There was a lot going on in San Diego, a lot of cultural events.  Parades, festivals."

"At...um...church," Stewie exclaimed.

"I came down from West Hollywood especially for...um...church," Matt added, although he actually lived in San Bernardino.  Come on, Stewie, your Dad knows.  He wants you to say something!

"West Hollywood!  Now there's a great town.  So much to do for guys like you and Stewie to do.  I'll bet you could go out every night for a month, and not go to the same place twice."  He brought a steak to a plate.  "Like it rare, I hope?"

"Still mooing, monsier papa.  Bien sur, there is a lot of partying in West Hollywood, but eventually one longs to settle down with that one special man..."

"Or woman," Stewie added frantically.  "Depending on who you...who you are, a man or a woman yourself..."

"And who you fall in love with," John added.  "Let me tell you guys a story about me and Johnny Weissmuller, who played my Dad at RKO."  [You can read the story here, except in John's version it was a kiss, not a blow job]

They finished dinner, watched an old movie, and left.

"Wow, I never knew Dad was bisexual!" Stewie said on the way home.   He nudged Matt.  "Hey, sorry I didn't come out.  I just couldn't get the nerve.  He thinks of me as this raging heterosexual ladies' man."

"Bien sur," Matt said dryly.

This isn't really a celebrity hookup story, so Matt never thought of telling it at a party.  He and Stewie stayed friends -- I may even have met him -- but I never knew that his father was Johnny Sheffield, who filled so many of my adolescent fantasies.

It's probably for the best.  Who wants to win "10 minutes alone in the bedroom" with someone at a party, and have him spend the whole time gushing "Your Dad was so hot!"

By the way, I have found no external sources attesting that Stewart Sheffield is gay.

See also: The Blue Power Ranger Dates Fred and Matt; Johnny Sheffield Almost becomes Tarzan's Lovr

Friday, October 13, 2017

The 10 Ugliest Well-Hung Guys


Have you ever noticed that the uglier the guy, the bigger the penis?  It's as if nature has compensated for his clock-stopping face and gag-inducing physique, or it's giving you a reward for being able to look beyond the Ugly Duckling exterior.

Here are the 10 ugliest well-hung guys I could find on the internet.

1. Backward baseball caps do not belong on any guy over age 20.  And he should find some other hobby besides getting those gross tattoos that draw attention away from his Kielbasa.


2. Nice physique, really nice delts, and a thick Bratwurst, but the room would have to be very dark to hide the tiny round head and Nazi moustache.

















3. A good-sized Bratwurst, but the greased-back hair needs work.  Maybe the dopey expression is due to selfie-taking concentration.

















4. Gigantic Kovbasa, even when you consider the camera angle and photoshopping.  But who can pay attention to the shaft with that face looming out at you?  Another dark room for this guy.















5.  Probably photoshopped, still a thin 8" garden hose. But the skinny arms, ugly tattoos, and face like a weasel are definite turn-offs.  He'd better have the mother of all scintillating personalities.



















More after the break.