Sex Histories	Sex Histories Archive

California-- The current scapegoat of the Nazi DA's office in Santa Clara is a middle-aged coach. The DA is preparing to ritually sacrifice him for having made love to 40 Little Leaguers, each instance of love referred to as a "count."

I have highlighted the important parts of this story in yellow, much as the copy of Tropic of Cancer was highlighted, which circulated from hand to hand in Mr. Littlefield's 7th grade P.E. class in 1963.

I'll never forget the class tag lines from those days:

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"How's it hangin'?"

"Like a lollipop. Wanna suck it?"

And, "I owe you a blow-- why don't you blow me again and make it two?"

I always wondered who liked to do it and who didn't.

Neither I nor my two steadies ever joked about owing each other blows in public, I'm fairly sure that Jimmy and I were even, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that I was a few blow jobs up on Gary after four years together. Jimmy and Gary were my mentors. It was they who originally taught me about jacking off:

"Do you know what that means?"

"No."

"It's what soldiers do to release sexual tension."

Gary taught me to blow. He learned it from some older kids. The first time he mentioned to me that guys would stick their dicks in other guys' mouths was when we were walking by the oleanders in front of Nancy Nordlin's house. (Those oleanders were useless-- there was no fence on either side, so you couldn't hide behind them and watch each other piss and stuff.) He was busy so I looked up Timmy Jones and went behind the toolhouse to try it on him but I didn't really want to touch it with my tongue because his hygiene level wasn't all that great. So we just sort of wrapped our mouths around it but didn't lick. The feeling of hot air was interesting but not earth-shaking.

Later that day or next Gary explained, "No, you really have to suck it with your whole mouth and tongue and everything."

Behind the toolhouse was the perfect place. We went there during nominal games of Hide and Seek. It was set in a corner, with a kid-size passageway on both sides so that you could not be surprised by a lone parent. It smelled like dry leaves and piss when we were young. Later it smelled like dry leaves and sperm.

Gary should know about soldiers-- his father was a combat photographer for the Marines in the Pacific theatre. If Gary's parents and little brother weren't home, Gary and I would blow each other or else watch "Combat" and jack each other off.

When he got old enough to shoot he would take his dick out of my mouth beforehand. One night he asked me, "Is it OK if I shoot in your mouth?" He about gagged me and spilled on the rug. Right then his parents' headlights appeared on the curtain. Quick cleanup. I always swallowed it after that. Between his legs smelled like peanut butter.

After I started swallowing his sperm there was always "You better have a cough drop so my mom can't smell it." In retrospect I can't imagine our parents challenging us because they thought our mouths smelled like dick.

I once knew a Tony whose sexual orientation is even yet a topic of animated conversation. I always chuckle when I think of the impression my friend Gary does of him stretching out like a cat to get a blow job in the style of trade. Tony is "straight." I remember one afternoon when he was 14, his begging to blow me in the front seat of a car in front of his parents' house in broad daylight and everybody home, too. That didn't transpire. Tony is lately an aficionado of the burgeoning "grow-your-own" movement among pederasts.

Gary's father died in the 70s sometime, He had a bad heart & smoked too much. My mother and I went to see him on his deathbed and he told us, "Gary's doing all right for himself. He's got a job in Jack's gun shop up on El Dorado. He blues the gun barrels." **

Editor's Note: Excerpted from Boyd McDonald's Lewd

Author Profile:  Boyd McDonald

Born in 1925 in South Dakota, Boyd McDonald entered Harvard as a high-school dropout after serving in the army in World War II. Jobs with Time, IBM, and several Wall Street firms preceded Boyd's career as a chronicler of gay sex. He was the founder and editor of Straight to Hell (alternatively the Manhattan Review of Cocksucking), and later published a number of anthologies of true sex histories. Boyd died in September 1993, two months after completing his final book, Scum.