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Archive-name: Samesex/advmemad.txt

Archive-author: Carol A. Queen

Archive-title: Adventures In Memory Adjustment

        When I met Jon he was just past chubby, melted down into a lithe

 boy who was starting to show signs of man.  He was a young man the way a

 colt is part gangly animal and part magical apparition.  He wore his

 awkwardness like a beetle wears its shell, to cover up the soft inside.

        He was my high school friend.  He sometimes flirted with me, just to

 practice.  I watched him hesitating on the cusp of growing up.  If he had

 been more self-assured I would have been smitten, and if I had been any

 more self-assured I'd have taken him -- easy, the way his hormones were

 trembling and threatening to spill over, like water from a glass.  But I

 was not the one he chose for his first affair.

        Mr. White had just been hired to teach at the high school.  He was on

 a three-year contract, and that was all the longer he would stay, because

 teachers like him are never hired back.  He must have interviewed in his one

 regular suit -- he'd never have gotten the job dressed the way he usually

 did, in old, old clothes, antique three-piece suits and wire-rimmed glasses

 and a watch and chain.  He was hired to teach drama, of course -- that's

 probably why they let him slip by -- and English.  He *looked* English,

 actually, like a headmaster at a shabby third cousin of Eton.  He had bright,

 lavishly-lashed eyes and a moustache that curled.  No one in our remote

 little town had never seen anything like him.  He was like a time traveler

 who had taken a very wrong stop.  He could not have been expected to have

 anything in common with a bunch of ranchers' sons and daughters.  Nevertheless

 a few of us had determined that we were not going to be hicks.  We were over

 him like flies on honey.

        Jon was skittish around Mr. White from the start, manic even.  For

 about a week he joined the other boys, raving about what a fruit and a

 faggot the new teacher was.  But by the end of the second week of school he

 had arranged to join three extracurricular clubs -- the Thespians, the school

 paper, and a modern novel study group -- so he could be near him.

        On any given day Jon could be found before class, after class, and

 often at lunch in Mr.White's room.  I knew that because I was in the habit

 of dropping by at those times myself.  Of all the students who clustered

 around the new teacher, I was the closest to understanding just why he

 seemed so odd.  He was so completely different from any other man I'd ever

 known, in his eccentricity so sweet and strange, that of course I began

 cruising him almost right away.  I was just learning that having sex with

 a person could teach me things about them and about myself, and I was sure

 Mr. White was a wealth of things I wanted to know.

        But he made no responde to my attempts to interest him.  Not a

 negative response -- just *none*.  He didn't even seem to notice.  He

 took flirtation as another indication of friendliness, and was friendly

 in return.  I didn't feel rejected, exactly, because it dawned on me that

 Mr. White would never want me the way he wanted Jon.

        I watched Jon become a golden boy as the teacher gentled him like

 a wild thing.  He went from edgy and defensive to a secure position as

 Mr. White's sidekick.  He starred in the plays; he was ace reporter; he

 grew handsomer and more confident as he was courted.

        Our town was so small and so remote no one saw it for what it was,

 not eve, at first, Jon himself.  Everybody thought they knew what a faggot

 was -- it was practically synonymous with "stranger" -- but after they got

 to know Mt. White he turned out not to fit the ideas they had, the faggot

 baiting ceased and was forgotten.  Only I knew that a careful dance was

 being done between Jon and Mr. White -- I knew it because I had wanted to

 do that dance myself.  I was their witness first in secret, and later I was

 the only one either of them trusted to talk about the other.  So in the end

 I danced with them, a sometimes-awkward third, as Jon gew more golden and

 Mr. White grew hungry for him.

        It was late in our senior year.  One night after a play rehearsal

 ended early we got in Mr. White's old round Volve and drove to his house.

 Neither Jon nor I were expected home for a couple of hours, and it was

 not the first time the three of us had stolen time so we could hang out

 together away from school.  Mr. White had no friends in town expect those

 few pet students who weren't put off by his eccentricity, and Jon and I liked

 to escape our student roles and pretend we were grownups who could spend

 our time as we liked.  Besides, befriending Mr. White had made us feel less

 like we belonged in our community, and all year long we'd spent as much time

 with him as we could -- a support system had formed between the three of us

 to the exclusion of everyone else.

        There was a massage table set up in the living room, although I was

 sure it was hardly ever used.  As far as I knew Mr. White rarely had guests

 of any kind.  But when Jon saw it he insisted that he wanted a massage; he'd

 never had a real one, he wanted to try it.

        "I can't do it through clothes," Mr. White said, and I really think he

 was trying to put Jon off.  But Jon replied, "I'll take them off, then," and

 began shucking his t-shirt.  For a split second the man looked panicked, but

 when he glanced over at me, for help or permission, I held out a joint I had

 fished from my bag.  I had a feeling I was supposed to be there for this,

 that maybe Jon wouldn't have been so forward it he and the teacher had been

 alone.  "Go ahead, I'm occupied," I said, pulling a couple of Mr.White's

 art books off the shelf, opening 'The Collected Aubrey Beardsley.'  I didn't

 look at it, rhough.  I watched Jon's body emerge, watches the golden hairs

 on his arms and legs catch the low lamplight.  And I watched Mr.White's eyes

 follow his movements; Jon was turned away so he couldn't see how both of us

 lapped up his beauty as he revealed it.  He was slender, just beginning to

 muscle, and his skin looked so soft that I wondered how Mr.White would be

 able to touch it.  My panties felt slick.  I squeezed my legs together and

 watched as Jon got on the table.  All nonchalance, he lay back with his

 head on his hands like a boy in an Eakins painting, like it was a century

 ago and he'd just crawled out of the swimming hole to lie in the sun, his

 cock lolling on his thigh, but I saw him trying to control his too-fast

 breath, I saw he had put his hands behind his head to hide their shaking.

        "I feel funny being the only one naked," he said, and he wasn't

 addressing this to me.  Mr.White's eyes went wide, he pretended not to hear

 as he hunted in a heavy old cabinet for massage oil, but Jon insisted: "Take

 your clothes off too.  I feel silly like this."

        I tried to disappear into the cushions.  I was afraid Mr. White

 wouldn't do anything with me there;  I wanted to watch his hands carressing

 Jon, and I wanted to see *him* naked, too.  More, I wanted something to happen

 to give Mr. White pleasure -- I thought abot how lonely he must be, his bed

 as empty as his massage table.  He desires Jon, and I wanted him to have him.

 I hid behind the big volume of Beardsley, lowering my eyes in intent study

 of the fey young dandies sprouting huge cocks, and watched my two friends

 through my lowered lashes.

        For twenty years I have marveled at Mr.White's courage in the face

 of the fear he must have felt: stripping his clothes off in front of a

 woman (I don't think he ever had), exposing his body so like the naked

 androgynes in the Maxfield Parrish prints that decorated his walls, and

 reaching to touch a boy who, by the laws of the state was only just barely

 old enough.  That night I marveled at the way he looked, even naked, like

 he had landed in the wrong time, and how looking at them filled me, choked

 me with lust, and the excitement summered in my without boiling, for I

 was only there to witness.  The man warmed a pool of oil in his fine, slender

 hands and touched the boy, just lightly.  "Here, turn over," he said.

        Jon lay on his stomache on the table, head turned toward me, eyes

 half closed.  Mr. White held his shoulders for an instant and Jon sighed,

 giving up a bit of his fright to the warmth of the man's hands on his skin.

 Then Mr. White began sweeping strokes down Jon's body and I realized I didn't

 have to pretend not to be there, not to see: my presence had not prevented

 their touching, it wouldn't stop now that it had begun.  I let the book

 fall and watched openly, watched Mr.White's cock rise, growing with each

 stroke as if hands were stroking it to fullness.  I watched him grow

 mesmerized, his hands on the young body he had wanted for so long.  I learned

 how to watch that night, for I could feel the strokes of his oiled hands

 on me as I watched as if they were on my own flesh, and I could feel Jon's

 tender boy-skin under my hands as if I were the one touching him. I stayed

 curled in the corner of the sofa, wanting to be just there, one hands on my

 pussy squeezing tight and the other holding my breast, realizing I could

 make love with both of them just with my eyes.

        Mr. White was making love with his hands, and Jon was moving his

 body subtly into them, responding to the touch in a way I knew was sexual --

 it was the way I moved when someone touched me.  He let out an occasional

 little sound, and his breath was even now, but beginning to quicken again,

 not in fear this time.  No one has ever touched him like this before, I

 thought, and another jolt of arousal coursed through me, thinking that Jon

 was a virgin.  The man was exploring him, every inch of skin oiled now and

 gleaming in the light, every muscled traced and kneaded, every curve of his

 body voluptuously stroked.  Each time he stroked up Jon's thighs and over the

 muscles of his ass Mr. White brough his hands closer together, testing the

 boy's response as he came neared the cleft of his asscheeks.  I could feel my

 cunt frankly wet through my panties now, and Jon squirmed in an encouraging

 way each time the hands neared, raising his ass for more pressure.  Mr. White

 responded by stroking harder, pulling the cheeks apart each time; I couldn't

 see the puckered anal ring from where I was sitting, but I felt sure that

 if I could, I would come.  I wondered if Jon had never had anything in his

 ass --- when I masturbated I sometimes slid a finger into mine, or fucked

 myself with a candle, and I thought about him sliding a slick wax taper

 up his ass in the secrecy of his room, getting used to the feeling and pumping

 it in and out, and I thought of him fucking himself in the ass and thinking

 of Mr. White's long, slim cock sliding up into his soft hotness there --

 and I did come.

        I didn't make much noise, but enough for them to hear me.  Jon let out

 a real moan then, and I saw that he had begun to thrust, stroking his cock

 against the table.  Mr. White stopped him with the pressure of a hand. "Turn

 back over now, Jon," he said, in a voice I had never heard him use, low and

 sexual and almost enough to make me come a second time.

        Jon's cock was hugely hard, an incongruous man's cock jutting up from

 his boy's body, and seeing it I wanted to climb onto the table and lower

 myself down on it, take him, be the first, almost as much I wanted to watch.

        I could scarcely believe Mr. White had the self-control not to reach

 right for it, but he teased Jon -- or maybe he was intent on giving him a

 good massage in spite of himself.  He stroked up and down the boy's body,

 missing the cock each time, but attentive instead to nipples and belly, until

 Jon started to buck again with desire.  A beaded strand of pre-come gleamed

 in his downy belly-hair like a spider's dewed web, and I wanted to lick

 it off, but thought if I waited maybe I'd get to watch Mr. White do it.

        During the next near-brush with his cock Jon lifted his hand, and for

 a moment I thought he was going to touch himself in frustration.  But he

 reached for Mr.White and took the man's cock, which leaped and strained

 at his first tentative touch, and began to stroke it.  Mr. White gasped,

 then said, "Jon..."  Jon tugged on Mr. White's cock, pulling the man

 closer.  "Your mouth -- please..." Jon said.  "Your mouth, I want it...

 I want to feel it..."

        Mr. White moved closer, all semblance of massage gone with the boy's

 request, and stroked Jon's cock a few times, taking its measure, getting

 the full feel of it in his hands.  Then he bent to run his tongue up and

 down his length -- Jon started gasping immediately -- and then sucked the

 head into his mouth.  I thought Jon would come righ taway, but the man knew

 what he was doing.  He remained still until the boy's orgasm ebbed, and

 then began sucking his cock in earnest, pulling it all the way down his

 throat, drawing back to just tongue the tip, keeping the rhythm just uneven

 enough that Jon could keep from coming.  He held the boy's calls clasped

 in one hand and squeezed them -- whenever he squeezed them harder I

 heard Jon gasp.

        I had pulled my panties aside and had three fingers deep in my cunt.

 I was dreaming about kneeling next to Mr. White and taking his cock deep

 down my throat, maybe wetting a finger and sliding it up his ass, but I was

 afraid.  I was sure he had had his cock sucked by plenty of men.  I hadn't

 done it very much, and I didn't want to do it badly in comparison.  I

 contented myself with watching him, trying to figure out what exactly he was

 doing to Jon.  Whatever it was, he was responding like it was an angel whose

 lips were wrapped around his dick, not just his teacher's.

        Jon had begun to murmur: "I want it, I want it..." rhythmically, 

 entranced.  He was twisting his torso, trying to reach Mr. White's cock

 with his mouth, trying to suck him in return.  Mr. White finally knelt over

 him on the table, obliging him, and Jon went for his cock with the hunger

 of an overripe virgin.  He held the man by the waist and tried to bring him

 down closer, tried to get more of hic cock, and Mr. White swallowed all of

 Jon's cock and, with a moan, began thrusting into Jon's mouth.  Jon took it,

 moaning too.  His oiled body still gleamed in the lamplight, golden, and he

 fucked up into his teacher's throat.

        I had been coming for five minutes by the time they finally came, Jon

 shooting with a last hard thrust and what would have been a yell if his mouth

 hadn't been so full, and Mr. White with a long groan, in immediate response.

 The boy took the man's come like he'd sucked cock before, but I don't think

 he ever had.  He lay whimpering a little after his blast, suckling at the

 man's softening cock and breathing hard.  After a while Mr. White turned     

 around and held him, and Jon buried his head in his neck and hugged him 

 close -- once again I saw the young boy in him, and wondered what would

 happen now that that boy was playing tug-o-war with man.    

        Mr. White came to me and kissed me, once, lingeringly, before he

 took Jon to the shower to scrub off the oil, letting me have the scent of

 the boy's sweet cum.  I rose and went to the empty massage table, running my

 fingertips on the warm oily surface.  At my feet the Beardsley book lau

 open, a black-haired young fop sprouting an enormous erection, fondled by

 a man much older than he.


        Author's Note: Much love and gratitude to the people who composites

 make up these portraits -- and much love and luck to anyone growing up

 queer in a small town.  *


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