Bud had probably walked by the high school over twenty thousand times in the last forty years, first as a student and then most every day since then on his way to and from work.

The school was essentially unchanged but the students seemed to evolve every few years into strange new life forms. The boys always wore blue jeans or cords when he’d been a student, and the hip kids had the legs tightened, or pegged and it was called then, to fit their legs and asses as tightly as paint. The girls always wore skirts and blouses and wearing shorts or pants would have resulted in them being sent home to change. The seventies brought in long hair, paisley shirts and bell-bottoms for the boys, and slacks were finally allowed for the girls. The rules relaxed even more during the eighties and most of the boys wore snug shorts that accentuated their crotches and see-through net shirts that stopped short of the navel and advertised their tight adolescent bellies. Hair got shorter in the nineties and the shorts became looser and the shirts more modest. Then the style had shifted to loose pants that sagged low enough around the ass to allow the waist bad of their brightly patterned shorts to serve as a fashion statement, and tee shirts that advertised bands or products that Bud had never heard of were the norm. Now the kids seemed to be dressed more conservatively, favoring denim pants, slacks, or cargo shorts. Hats were now turned the proper direction and the messages on tee and sweatshirts were definitely less provocative and obscene that a few years ago, as if the school had enacted a dress code of some sort.

One thing was still the same as forty years ago, Bud mused as he spied the cloud of blue smoke around a bunch of kids gathered near a concrete retaining wall waiting for the first bell of the day. Kids still congregated off of school property to smoke. Some waved their cigarettes around flamboyantly in defiance of the age limit and unashamed of their habits while others puffed fugitively at cupped hands, ever alert for an errant faculty member or neighbor who might squeal to a parent about their kid’s new habit. Some shared with others, and one small cluster of laughing youngsters passed a hand rolled something or other around, each taking one drag before passing it on, just like their parents had done in the seventies and eighties. The empty packages that littered the ground were mostly Marlburoughs and Camels. The youngsters were now discriminating consumers but after a few years of addiction and they’d be smoking the low priced generic brands.

Most of the kids were gone by the time Bud went home from work, but the nearby athletic field rang with the shouts of the scrimmaging football team and Bud paused a minute to watch the young warriors preparing for their next contest. He didn’t really care about football but he liked to ogle the bulges in the athletes’ tight pants and imagine what the boys might look like naked. For that very same reason he preferred wrestling and he seldom missed an opportunity to attend a meet and watch the young, testosterone-exuding gladiators grapple around the mat in the skin-tight suits that clearly showed the profile of the cock and the hang of each testicle. He liked swimming for the same reason and he frequently endured the humidity and chlorine stink of the pool to view the smoothly shaven youths parade around the pool apron in the skimpy Speedos that left little doubt as to who among them was best endowed.

Bud paused for a minute by the neighborhood skateboard park to catch his breath after the steep climb. It had been a tennis court ten years ago, but the growing popularity of what most adults considered a trash sport had pushed the Parks Department into removing the nets and installing a variety of concrete sculptures from which the young daredevils launched themselves into the air. Bud was impressed by some of their antics, but since the favorite garb of the participants consisted of baggy shorts, the sport didn’t do much for him. Today was warm, however, and one of the half dozen adolescents had stripped off his tee shirt to catch some sun while he skated. Bud had seen him there often, sometimes even in the morning, and more than once the lad had whizzed past him flying his skateboard down the hill hurrying to make the class bell. The hairless belly and beardless chin, coupled with his diminutive size had made Bud wonder if the boy had even entered puberty. The kid now wore only shorts, and Bud got close enough to see the coarse hair on his calves and the tufts sprouting from his armpits. Bud preferred smoothly shaven or hairless legs, but he still couldn’t help but ponder what the lad would look like naked, and imagining the possibilities caused Bud to pop an erection. Embarrassed by his reaction, he drooped his coat strategically over an arm and used the hanging folds to conceal his perversion as he hurried on towards his home.

He took his usual dry weather shortcut through the park and carefully scoped out some of the nooks and crannies where he frequently found used condoms. He was sure that one day he’d find one or more of the beautiful young studs doing what beautiful young studs do with rubbers, but so far he hadn’t been lucky.

Bud was breathing hard by the time he got to his house. The climb up the hill was getting a little harder each year. He’d always lived there. He’d been born there, stayed around for a few years after graduation out of economic necessity, and then a few years more to help his mother cope with his father’s death. His mother had died fifteen years ago and left Bud the house and the last car she’d bought: a 1966 Thunderbird, which Bud had never driven. His epilepsy precluded his getting a license, or so he’d been told at the time, so he’d never even leaned to drive. People were constantly trying to fuck him out of the car but he determined to keep it until he really needed the money.

Bud’s job in the hardware store didn’t pay much, but with no mortgage, no car expenses, and no social life he managed very nicely. Bud had dated some in high school, but after he’d had a couple of seizures while on dates girls were a little afraid of him. He’d eventually learned that flashing lights tended to set him off, so he avoided movies and television. He was now fifty-five years old and hadn’t been laid in over twenty-five years, and he still satisfied himself by jacking off every evening just like he’d done forty years ago. He had several different scenarios that he used to masturbate. One involved being orally and anally gang raped by a half dozen adolescents, another favorite was a kid squeezing his balls until he was forced to give a blowjob.

Tonight his fantasies involved the boy at the skateboard park. He crawled into bed, read a while then turned out the light and pulled down his shorts. Taking his cock in his hand and fondling his balls, Bud imagined the boy lying naked across a bed with his legs spread wide. Bud was on his knees on the floor, slowly licking the boy’s balls and finally taking the small but well formed cock into his mouth, sucking him off, and swallowing every drop. Bud was hard by now, but nowhere near his orgasm, so he continued by licking the boy hard again, applying a light film of lubricant to the adolescent’s cock, and then bending over the edge of the bed to allow the lad to fuck him in the ass. Bud rolled over on his side, stroked faster, and reached around with his other had to insert a finger into his ass. He felt the pressure building in his balls and when ejaculation was just seconds away he rolled onto his back, spread his legs wide, and imagined that the boy had just unloaded inside him, pulled out, and delivered a solid kick into Bud’s dangling scrotum. The orgasm was intense; the best in many months, and Bud went to sleep a happy man.

The boy was back at the skateboard park the next afternoon, shirtless, and once again served as the fuel for Bud’s nightly aerobic workout. Bud woke early the next morning and thought about jacking off again, but instead satisfied himself by idly scratching his balls and thinking about the boy. The boy was there again that morning, alone, taking the opportunity to skate for a few minutes before going to school. Bud gave him the barest of glances as he walked down the hill to his office. The kid was back at the park that afternoon, and Bud having thought the matter out thoroughly, sat down at his computer and went to work.

Bud had a computer that he used at home during the end of the month billing crunch, but no connection to the Internet. He’d learned long ago that many web sites and particularly the flashing pop up ads were likely to initiate a seizure, so he used only his billing and inventory programs and the word processor for an occasional letter to his sister. Tonight he opened the word processor and slowly composed a flyer.

“Young Men,” it began, “Don’t Waste Your Excess Sperm, Sell It! Yes That’s Right, Sell It! Buyer Willing To Pay top Dollar For Your Excess Sperm! Safe and Discrete. Mail P.O. Box 313 for Details. Limited Time Offer.”

Bud left an hour early for work the next morning and tacked the flyer to the post at the skateboard park where the boy usually hung his backpack. Bud had a pretty good idea that the boy lived in the low-income housing complex at the top of the hill, and he was certain that the lad could use the money. His anonymity was protected by the address; it was the billing address for the hardware store where he worked, and one of his responsibilities was to walk by the Post Office every morning and collect the contents of the mailbox. No one but he need ever see any response from the flyer.

The boy was skating that afternoon and the flyer was missing from the post. Bud didn’t pause on his way by and the kid apparently didn’t even notice him. He tacked up another poster the next morning, and it too was gone that afternoon. The next morning Bud hit pay dirt. Along with various bills and payments, the morning mail contained a plain envelope with only the Post Office box number he’d given. He hurriedly tore it open on the way back to the store. The reply had been done on a computer and was very poorly written, but the request for more details, particularly the amount of money that could be earned. There was no return address or phone number, instead was the suggestion that a message could be left under a particular rock near the park.

Bud immediately wrote a reply indicating that he had a rare but non-contagious hereditary condition, which was true, and that required regular dosages of fresh human sperm to keep in remission, which of course was bullshit. He offered to pay twenty dollars per dosage unit, as he put it, but freshness was extremely important and Bud would have to participate in the collection. He didn’t want to scare the kid off so he didn’t specify just how specimen would be collected.

Bud had no misgivings about the morality of the whole deal; He was of the opinion that a horny young kid forced or coerced into getting his rocks off was a lucky little fucker instead of a victim, and that there’d be no lasting mental trauma to the kid.

Bud thought about a suitable location for the liaison all day, and finally remembered that the general manager of the store was on vacation in Bermuda and had left his house unattended. The location was ideal as there were no close neighbors and the house had thick draperies that excluded any light from escaping. The back door was only a few yards from the shrubbery of the City Park, and more importantly, Bud had a key to the house and knew the disarming code for the alarm system.

“Come through the park to the house at 815 Elm Street,” Bud wrote. “The back door will be unlocked. I’ll be expecting you right after dark, and the process may take up to an hour. Please refrain from any other sexual activity between now and then.”

Bud placed the note under the rock early the next morning, and then went home right after work, changed into some loose sweat pants, and hurried to the house. He sat down to wait and killed the time reading a magazine, trying his best to ignore the erection that he’d had most of the afternoon and that by now so intense that it was almost painful. He finally heard a faint, almost furtive tapping on the back door. He opened the door to find the boy, dressed as usual in tee shirt and shorts, facing him.

“Is that the guy?” A deep voice inquired from the darkness.

“Yeah,” the boy answered. “He’s the guy that is always eyeballing me, popping a boner, and he’s the same guy that put up the flyers and left the note under the rock. It’s him, all right.”

Bud tried to slam the door, but found that the kid’s foot suddenly blocked it and before he could react four men, all dressed in black and wearing ski masks over their faces, rushed from the darkness and pushed him inside the house. “The boy should go,” one of the men said. “He doesn’t need to see this.”

“Let him stay and watch,” another man said. “It’ll be a good lesson and might keep him out of trouble.”

Bud was roughly dragged to the kitchen and forced onto the table. His sweatpants were rudely torn away and his legs were forced apart and held that way by three of the men while another foraged through the kitchen drawers. “This one will do,” the fourth man said, returning to the dining area brandishing a large knife. “You have a hereditary condition, all right,” the man said, taking Bud’s scrotum into his hand. “It’s a disease, actually, and were going to cure it right now.”