(by Edward Zeusgany and Alex Anders, © copyright 1999, all rights reserved)

It was a spring afternoon near the end of Brad’s sophomore year in high school. As soon as he was outside the building, he noticed the smell of new grass, budding branches or warm, damp soil or all of those, or something else, and suddenly remembered the distinctive aroma from past years. Perhaps these scents were discernible all spring long, but Brad only noticed them for a few days, and for only one day sharply.

Mrs. Burlingame must have felt it too, because Brad had been able to talk himself out of detention by admitting to being a jerk and looking contrite. As the door closed behind him he made a rude gesture called “flipping the bird.” He knew he shouldn’t have, since the “old bat” had given him a break, but he couldn’t help himself, it was a reflex. For a second he thought it might bring bad luck.

He had missed the bus. He could either wait for the late bus, walk home or try to hitch a ride. Tying the arms of a thin jacket around his waist and carrying by one strap his back pack full of books, he wandered to the side of the road and strolled in the direction of home. Listening for oncoming traffic he turned and stuck out a thumb at passing cars.

Perhaps his seeming indifference caused the delay, sometimes a car got by him before he noticed it. He was half way to his destination when an old, red mustang, showing rust spots, stopped for him. Brad had expected to find a young person driving a car like that, but it turned out to be a man in his middle to late thirties. This fellow had dark brown hair and was wearing a dark blue, rumpled suit. Like Brad, he had no particularly distinguishing characteristics.

“Hi,” Brad said getting in.

“Toss your pack in the back,” the man casually suggested. Without thinking, Brad did so. He was used to doing what adults told him, specially when one was doing him a favor. When he refused or resisted compliance it was related to tests of authority with his parents or teachers. In this situation, he felt like an equal, almost anyway. Perceiving no challenge, he felt no need to be in opposition.

Right after he closed the door and the car pulled out, gaining speed, Brad fleetingly wondered if he might have made a mistake. He had. The driver did not continue along the expected route that would pass Brad’s street, but veered to the right and then turned left onto a fast road that connected Salem to Lynn but had little other use. It ran through undesirable land used for gravel pits and land fill dumps.

At the first of these turns, Brad said, “I need to get off here,” then with anger, “Stop! Let me out!”

“Shut up!” the driver shouted with even greater emphasis. That scared the boy into silence.

The car turned off the road onto a flat area of gravel and scrub vegetation, and stopped behind a clump of trees and bushes. Brad opened the door and started to get out, then he remembered his pack with its books and notebooks.

“Give me my pack,” he demanded.

“No.”

The youngster knew that he would be in big trouble if he lost his school books. There was no satisfactory way to explain it. Even the truth wouldn’t do, he wasn’t supposed to hitchhike. Telling that would be worse than saying he put them down by a tree in the park and when he went back they were gone. Someone had stolen them? Why would anyone want your homework? Somebody took them just to be mean? No good ideas came to him.

“Give me my stuff!” he fairly screamed.

“Get back in, shut the door and shut up,” the man told him quietly.

Brad complied. “I need my things,” he said evenly, trying to reason with the fellow.

“This is what you’re going to do,” the driver said. “You’re going to take off your clothes, you’re going to let me touch you and suck your dick.”

“The hell I am.” Brad began to open the door.

“If you get out, I’m gone. Do what I tell you and when we’re done I’ll take you back and you get your stuff back.”

“You fuck!”

“Whatever. You’ve got thirty seconds to start stripping. Otherwise, I’m going to push you out and take off.”

The youngster just sat there fuming. Then the man twisted in his seat and leaned over preparatory to opening the car door.

“OK, OK,” Brad capitulated.

“Get your shoes off,” the man ordered.

Brad pulled off his left sneaker, a black low rise. The man took it out of his hands and tossed it into the back. As each item followed, the boy realized that his position became weaker, that his options were reduced.

“There’s no point in holding out,” the man said. “Think about girls if you have to, but you’re not leaving here until you shoot your load.”

The youngster was relieved that the man said that last. He already had a hard on and the didn’t want the man to think it had anything to do with him. A minute later he was naked.

The man reached over the kid and did something to the seat that made it recline. Then Brad felt the man’s hands on him. He closed his eyes so that the didn’t have to look into the guy’s face. Even so Brad sensed it when the man lowered himself and just prior to his cock being taken into a warm, wet embrace. The man’s left hand was holding tight to his testicles.

For one brief moment, Brad wished that some police in a patrol car would spot them and investigate. But he wouldn’t be able to explain to his father how the man got his clothes off. Where was his bloody nose, how come he still had all of his teeth, why wasn’t there a single bruise or scratch on either himself or his alleged attacker.

Meanwhile, the man’s attentions to the boy’s penis was having its intended effect. Brad reached the point where, if he were doing it to himself, he would have pumped faster and would have liked to have his balls squeezed a little more firmly. Even so, he couldn’t ask for either of these things without becoming complicit in what was happening to him. Then he became aware that not being in control was pleasurable in novel and unexpected ways.

Rapidly following this latter thought was the perception that he was about to reach climax. A plan of revenge came into Brad’s mind. He wouldn’t warn the guy of the approaching orgasm, but would “shoot his load” right into the man’s mouth. Steeling himself not to tense his body, not to make a sound, to keep his breathing even, the boy hid the signals of the oncoming ejaculation. All these things added to the intensity of the feelings that swept through the youngster when his prostate vigorously pumped out its store of fluid.

Brad had expected that the fellow would quickly pull back when the first spurt hit the back of his throat. Instead, the man’s mouth remained where it was, containing him and the successive jets of semen. Nor did the guy move away even after the boy had finished, but milked him like a cow. The youngster thought that surely now the man would spit out the window or into a handkerchief, but it was obvious that he wasn’t going to do either of those things when he said. “OK, you can put your clothes on now.”

The lad, needing no further encouragement, vaulted into the back and hurried into his pants. He didn’t bother with underwear or socks, stuffing them into his pack. By the time he was dressed, they were already on the road back toward Salem.

“You really like that stuff,” Brad asserted, his voice full of reproach.

“I do when it’s yours. Thank you.”

“You didn’t have permission, you just took it.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry about that part. Do you think maybe we could do it again sometime? With your permission.”

While Brad was searching his mind for a really cutting reply, one that would hurt as much as possible, he heard himself say, “Maybe.” He recognized immediately that this meant yes and before they reached Brad/s side street they had made a date for the following week. Stanley left him off just beyond the intersection.

*****

The usual pattern was for Stanley to get the motel room before picking Brad up. They used a place that had half of its rooms in the back, away from the office and the street. Stanley would always ask for one of those. It was less noisy, he would tell the manager. They had quite a few customers who preferred the quieter side, even though it was necessary to drive around the building to get there.

The boy would strip and stretch out on the bed. Stanley would kneel at the side. They did it the same way each time. Afterward, Stanley would take Brad out for a burger and fries, if it were a weekday; to a movie on the weekend.

They didn’t have much to say to each other though. The youngster didn’t ask the man any questions. He knew that if he did, he would open himself up to being asked in return. Stanley sensed the kid’s reluctance to reveal anything, and respected his wishes. He thought that in time the boy he knew as Bob, would begin to trust him and open up. Several months later, Stanley was still disappointed in this regard.

One day, when they had agreed upon a date, the man’s car wasn’t parked and waiting for him a block away from school. This had not happened before.. Brad wondered how they would resume contact, neither had the other’s phone number. At the end of each school day the boy looked for the car in the usual place and then thumbed a ride home, expecting at any moment to see the red Mustang and Stanley’s smiling and relieved face as he pulled over to give him a ride. Maybe they’d do it in the car for old times sake. Maybe they’d pretend they didn’t know each other and that this was the first time.

*****

Two weeks later, Brad saw Stanley’s picture in the newspaper. The man had been arrested on a morals charge, it reported; two counts of indecent assault and one count of statutory rape of a child under the age of sixteen. The district attorney was quoted as saying that other charges were being investigated. He was being held without bail as a “danger to the community.” Did he bite someone, the kid wondered.

The boy’s reaction was a mixture of annoyance and alarm. Brad was worried about a continuing investigation. At home, he jumped every time the phone or doorbell rang. Going over things in his mind, he couldn’t see how he could be linked to Stanley unless the idiot told the police about him. Only a fool would keep any sort of written record, like a diary, of his own misdeeds. Then again, the man had given Brad his real name and the business in the car was certainly a risky thing to have done.

As time went by and nothing happened, Brad began to relax, the concern faded and left him merely annoyed. He told himself that this was due to not having sex and not because stupid Stanley had been involved with other boys. He didn’t care about the man after all, he wasn’t even gay after all. The gender of the mouth that satisfied him was irrelevant.

Being a practical sort, Brad began a search for a high school girl who would please him. He looked for an ugly slut, knowing that the girls who were both loose and attractive would already be attached to football players. Linda fit the description and was willing to give fellatio. Unfortunately, she wasn’t very good at it. Neither was Claire, although a few years later he married Claire. She was more than competent at the other thing.

Still having a longing for oral sex, Brad began getting into gay bars with fake ID. At nineteen, he found it quite easy to find someone, specially an older fellow, who would give him what he wanted and expect nothing else in return. As he neared middle age, Brad found that it took more time to find willing lips. But he had learned about public toilets and highway rest stops. It was truly amazing to Brad to discover how many men liked to suck and how many of these were handsome, rugged guys.

One day he was sitting in his parked car waiting to see who might stop for a little quick action when he saw his grown son pull in. They shared an embarrassing moment prior to making departures earlier than planned. This chance meeting turned out to be fortuitous.

A couple of years later Brad was at a road side rest stop sitting in his car with the window open. A nice looking young fellow approached him and started a conversation. Eventually the young man asked Brad what he liked. As soon as Brad told him he was arrested. Because this “sting” operation yielded a large number of middle aged, married men they were all allowed to plead guilty and accept a $200 fine. The real punishment was to have their names listed in the newspaper.

Brad’s son came to his defense with Claire. It could happen to anyone, Brad, Jr. told his mother. When it’s your word against a policeman’s and you risk jail time if convicted, it just makes more sense to plead guilty to a misdemeanor.

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