Sex Histories	Sex Histories Archive

Long Island-- I've just been dig-ging into some memories that go back half a century.

In 1934-1935, when I was 21, I commuted between New York, where I was a graduate student at Columbia, and my home in Norwalk, Connecticut.

One day I sat next to a good-looking guy with red-blond hair and mustache, a real winner. It wasn't long before I felt the pressing of his leg against mine and not too much longer before his hand had moved under the overcoat in my lap. The upshot of all this was that we often sat together when we took the same train and under the cover of our coats we used to jack each other off.

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We didn't have too much conversation but I learned that he lived in Stratford, Connecticut, and I was a bit perplexed by his mentioning that he lived with his wife and three sons. In those days I thought that men were either hetero- or homo- and had never heard of bi-sexual. I later got married myself.

We occasionally went to the platform of our non-smoking car for a cigarette. I would look him up and down, a real cruise. I longed to go into the toilet with him and suck it but was too diffident to suggest such a thing. I never knew his name.

A few years later I was taking some course at NYU and living at the Judson on Washington Square South. During the spring intercession I got acquainted with a tall, handsome guy from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, who'd come to take summer courses. He was by himself, and expected his wife to join him a few weeks later. One balmy evening we went into the Square. He sat on a bench and I more or less inclined, resting my head in his lap. I recall his saying he enjoyed nature and the outdoors and especially his work as a Scoutmaster. I moved my hand as a pillow for my head; his cock shot up. I turned the palm of my hand downward and he creamed his pants.

The next afternoon we went to a movie together. I'd scarcely touched him when he shot his load, again in his pants. It wasn't long before he let me blow him. We knew a couple of guys living at the top of the Judson Tower. Every afternoon we'd climb the long stairway toward that room. If the guys were in we'd pay them a visit; if they were out we'd go back to the stairs, where I would sit while he stood in front of me fucking my mouth. He didn't normally reciprocate, but one night before his wife was due in N.Y. he came to my room. We undressed and had a beautiful 69. I continued seeing him and his wife but that was the last time we had sex together. It was a night, though, that couldn't have been surpassed.

During the same period I had a short but torrid affair with a young man from North Carolina who was acting in the play, "Having Wonderful Time." For a number of years afterward I received affectionate Christmas cards from him but no return address. Our break came as a result of some stupid remarks that I made after he'd visited me and my family in Norwalk, remarks I long regretted. We first met in Washington Square. The next week we had our first sex in a construction site near the George Washington Bridge (to which we'd walked from Fort Tryon Park). When I spent time with him at his place near Sheridan Square, my pulse rate would jump from 75 to 130. He had a magnificent cock and for a long time I couldn't think about him without getting a hard on (he had a beautiful face as well). Years later I tried to track this fellow down through Actors Equity but dead-ended. Perhaps he was a casualty of World War II.

Another man I met at the Judson was an NYU language professor. We started out by touching hands in the elevator, eventually getting to the point where he invited me to his suite. His sucking technique was elegant. A few years later, I understand, he was invited to leave the university because of a complaint lodged by parents of an undergraduate.

One final memory of the period: a guy I picked up came back to my room with me. I stripped completely; he didn't. What he did do was to give me a complete tongue bath, moving up from the belly button, around the nipples, face, ears, neck, spine, ass, asshole, legs, feet, up the front again, climaxing with the cock, which, I can assure you, exploded in his mouth. The payoff of all this is that he apologized for not having removed his hat. Maybe he was bald.

Yankee in my mouth

For a short time before I was posted to ETO (European Theatre of Operations) in World War II, I was stationed in a small village in Cotswold, where I discovered a fairly large "cottage" (public toilet) near an encampment of British soldiers. I was drawn to make return visits by the graffiti, including one that read, "I love to suck Yankee cocks." I never met the author of this inscription, however, and in fact never had sex there. London was a different story, a marvelous place in the blackout.

On my first visit there I made it with a boy (young man) who was standing at the next urinal in the men's room of the Regent Palace hotel in Piccadilly circus, persuading him to walk with me to a dark alley not far away, where he gave me a beautiful blow job.

Near our headquarters on Grosvenor Square there was a dark street, where any soldier leaning against a certain wall would soon discover somebody going down on him. And at Marble Arch, where people crowded around the soapbox speakers, there were special opportunities. If you rested your hands on the small of your back you'd soon find someone's cock in one of them; conversely, if you put your cock near someone else's hand you'd soon have the pleasure of feeling the hand close on your cock. I think a lot of officers enjoyed this means of making it with GI's without verbal propositioning; at least three or four officers connected with me in this way and took me to their flats or hotel rooms.

A number of pubs were mainly homosexual meeting places and I encountered in them with many of fellow GI's whom I hadn't suspected when I was with them on duty.

One experience I had with a civilian could have been disastrous. We went by late subway to the north of London, headed for his digs. There was something in the fierceness of his clutching my arm as we went along that warned me of possible danger. I suddenly pulled away from him and ran back toward the tube station, my paramour in hot pursuit. I just managed to elude him and get into the last train that would be running that night. Later that week I saw him in the pub. He didn't recognize me; I'd been just another conquest for him. He handed me the same spiel as before but this time I ignored it.

There was one occasion when I went with a mixed group of servicemen from a bar on Leicester Square to a suite in the Green Park Hotel on Half Moon Street, previously reserved by one of the men. A Canadian solder came on to me but I came on to a beautiful young pilot from the RAF, with whom I went to bed. Unfortunately, he disapproved of my attempts to suck him and just allowed me to jerk him off. After he'd left to get back to his camp early the next morning, an English sailor in the next bed, who'd heard what was going on, offered his condolences and his cock, which he invited me to suck. I did.

In a "cottage" behind our headquarters, I made the acquaintance of a retired English colonel. He took me to a fine Mayfair house, whose accouterments included autographed photographs of George V and Queen Mary. He had been in the US on a special mission and he sat down at his grand piano to play me some of the songs from "Oklahoma," which I'd heard of but hadn't heard. He was fastidious and insisted on furnishing me with pajamas to sleep in and also on my moving to a separate bed once we'd both come. But I liked him (despite his being old) and called on him frequently.

After the war he once came to see me when I lived on East 10th Street in Manhattan. We had dinner at Sea Fare, and then returned to my apartment. I gave him a blow job, which he said was even better than what he recalled my having given him in London.

In Paris I had no trouble making connections with both my fellow GI's and with Frenchmen-- really good sex. One of the French was a solder I encountered in a pissoir near the Etoile. We stood in a doorway nearby; he unbuttoned my fly, stuck his prick through the opening, and came almost instantly. Though I usually wouldn't enjoy wet underwear, I kind of enjoyed it then.

On New Year's Eve (1944-45) I was going through Etoile Metro station when a young Frenchman and I made eye contact and miraculously extended our hands toward one another. I spent the rest of the night with him in his Neuilly flat, a wonderful night.

I ended the war in Berlin, that was a different story. My whole sex life was with myself. I used to jerk off into a rubber and I sometimes would drink my own come from it the next morning.

The last night I was in the army, at the Fort Dix separation center, I was sitting on a latrine toilet where I had a full view of the showers. There was a beautiful young man lathering himself in one of them. I followed to see where his barracks was and later stationed myself below the window he was looking out of. He saw me, emerged, and walked down the road with me. Our swinging hands touched and clasped. We talked, then sat down in a field, discussed our army careers (I was a master sergeant, we was a technical sergeant) We stood up, embraced, and kissed. He started pushing me down toward his crotch. He was so excited that he started shooting his wad before I could get my mouth around his cock, but I managed to catch most of his load and drank it. It was an ecstatic finale to my life in the army.

My friend Tony is due from England this week-- not the colonel, a young one. We'll be going to the Cape for Christmas week. I talked to him last night. I'm really excited.

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.