Sex Histories	Sex Histories Archive

They say the 50s were bland but I don't think so. That's when the life began for me and when I'm in the mood to think back on "all the boys I've loved before" I tend to cut through the 80s, the 70s, and the 60s to the lads who were "in and out my door" in the 50s.

There was the fat, squat, 18-year-old redhead I encountered in the men's room of an art movie house in the small town in which I worked. The town wasn't one that went for art movies so I wasn't surprised on the Wednesday afternoon I took off from work to see some French film that was a hit in the cities to find that I had the place to myself. That is, until I stopped by the men's room on my way out to find the fat kid taking a heavy piss.

I

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don't much like fat kids even if they are not redheads but I did like the fat, squat dick he began to wave in front of me when I joined him at the next stall. It was on the short side but the fatness and squatness became it a lot more than did the rest of him. The piss hole was wide open from the recent exertion. The head outweighed the stalk.

A closer glance told me that he was not cut as I had thought, but that the silky cover was too fragile for the total weight and had slipped back almost to the rim.

I had never seen one quite like it and got excited. I hadn't expected to find anything at that time of day and in that kind of place.

I was wearing my office uniform, striped tie, green linen summer suit-- the young executive with the attaché case under my arm. Normally in a situation like that I might have pointed to the toilet behind us with a door you could close. What I did was plop the briefcase on the dryer to my right, sink down on the right knee, stretch my head over my urinal to his, and take him right there. Nobody came in; the next showing was not drawing any better than the one I attended. If he had come on to me on the street I would have passed him by. It took me a long time to learn that you can't always judge the book by the cover.

When we finished he left without a word and I looked in the mirror to repair any damage. My collar and tie were a little out of line, my hair a little mussed and, of course, I smelled pretty strongly of boy, but I was presentable enough to go out on the street. There was a damp spot on the trouser leg on which I had been kneeling but it was only water spilling over from the urinal. I raised it to the dryer and left the place, pleased with myself.

When I went to the movie I had planned to go straight home afterward, but now I was feeling really good. My lips were a little sticky, my tongue a little coated, and nothing goes better with that combination than a dry vodka martini. I figured I'd find me a bar and after that, whatever.

It proved to be, if not in the way I'd planned. As I passed the gangly young ticket taker on my way out he gave me a grin; he asked me how I liked the coming attractions. If he'd said the movie I would have answered but the question was strange and the grin turned into a leer.

I looked at him closely. I looked presentable. Could he smell my breath? He laughed. "Old Red's a neighbor of mine."

I was on a roll and I knew it and I wasn't going to fight it. So when he said he got off in about 20 minutes I picked up on his flipness and said, "Want me to help?" He really appreciated that and said, "Sure, stick around."

So back I went into the theater and sat in the last row. I didn't need to see any more of the movie so I sat and thought about the kid. Older than Red, about 19. Dark-haired. Not good looking really, but sexy in his string-bean way.

I started to get all revved up again and soon he came behind me, touched my shoulder, pointed toward the steps leading upstairs, and led me past the men's room, small, with a low bench stretching in front of a couple of beat-up tin closets like the ones we had in the hall in high school to keep our coats and books.

He began to slide out of his uniform, starting with the shoes, then the jacket, then the pants. He was standing in front of me in his stocking feet wearing nothing but an overlong T shirt. I thought, but when he took that off I found that it had completely covered over his Jockey shorts, which had begun to show in outline the thing they were supposed to cover.

He was skinny, as I said, but strongly built. He left it to me to lower the Jockeys to reveal a well-shaped prick about 7 inches or so. Longer and more conventional than Red's, it was clearly every bit as ready.

I loosened my tie once more, removing my jacket this time. My shirt was short-sleeved and my bare arm made nice contact with his bare ass as I pushed toward me and went back to work.

I sat myself on the bench while he remained standing. So well exposed was he that I gave in to temptation and sent my tongue sliding over his balls to do a little mild rimming before I headed back to home base.

When we finished I left him to dress in the sports shirt and jeans that were hanging in the locker. He asked me if I'd mind hanging around awhile until after he'd left the theater. I agreed. It was the least I could do.

He came down in a few minutes, tossed me a wave and another grin and left the theater.

I sat for about a half hour licking my sticky lips, tasting my coated tongue. I needed the vodka martini more than I had before. I made my way to a bar and I got one.

I went back to the theater regularly. When they played foreign films you could always count on no audience and lots of privacy. And you could always count on Ron and his locker room, which we continued to enjoy through the end of that summer, when the horny young ticket taker went back to college.

I never met up with Red there again. Ron told me that Red liked to go places where there was more risk. When I finally did catch up with him again a few months later it was in the public rest room of the post office. It was in the middle of a busy afternoon and I had to give him sex right in the center of the crowed room. He did let me do it behind the latched door of one of the shit houses and he did raise his legs so that they couldn't be seen through the space from door to floor.

I was scared but the little bastard was excited and it all came out all right.

I met him by chance one more time. It was night time on the public square very near the same post office. There were plenty of bushes inside the square but Red insisted I do him from one of the benches which lined the sidewalk. There wasn't much traffic at that hour but I'd much rather have gone into the park. I didn't because-- although it may only be in my mind-- excited boys seem to taste better.

I never saw Red after that and I had moved on by the time Ron got back from school.

But these were the 50s and there was plenty more where they came from. "Show it hard and get it sucked"-- that was the order of the day and it was written on almost every piss-house wall in town. World War II had a lot to do with it. The 50s were more fun than anything that has happened since. The cops were the biggest obstacle. They divided their time between murders and robberies and trapping us. When they got bored sitting warm and comfortable in their parked cars they could always pull a raid on a bar.

Women's Lib began justifiably as a bid for equality but turned them into cocksuckers. We didn't need this competition.

We were embarked on a liberation of our own. Just as female participation had softened the blow job to "oral sex," Gay Liberation turned homosexuals into gays who wanted respectability. Black Liberation too had its defects as far as I'm concerned. While I know that blacks can do anything whites can do, I also know that nobody can ride the back of a bus the way they can, and in the 50s my bus was always ready for the ride.

Sex in the 50s was a simple thing to be enjoyed.

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.