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Age Eighteen, the Day Before:
Furious, sweating, dripping, the kind of hot thats sheer on the body, as the hand strokes passion, fantasy, images before the eye, one scenario then another, the fingers, stripping, the hand, gripping, the teeth clenching, the eyes rolling, as the tongue is moaning, and moaning, and moaning, and Age Sixteen: Sweet sixteen. Shit. Whoever believed in sweet sixteen anyway? Brad never wanted candles on his cake, never wanted any of that crap his sister mooned over in her teen magazines. Pretty girls in gauzy gowns quick-stepping with some lecherous acne-bound creep whose dick pressed hard on her thigh. Brad was cynical for sixteen, apathy long replacing a fourteen-year olds angst, much it should anyway, because who ever wanted to live a life in hiding? Bringing home girlfriends you never wanted much, forcing your hands to touch their breasts, pressing your palm onto those horrible silicate-imitative things How good it would, might, feel to press yourself up against a guy a flat-chested guy, both your torsos fitting together like slick sheets. The thought alone produced a not-altogether-unwanted erection, painfully bound in his jeans. He fitted his palm along the curve of his cock, memorizing each burst of pain and perfection beneath his touch, and fantasized. Two more years. I can have it all in two more years. Age Eighteen, the Day Before The orgasm spilled over his body,
sweet-scented seed
heralded by half-purred gasps.
His tongue caressing chapped lips
His erection subsiding
Ah, post-connubial bliss
Bliss
He caught his eye in the mirror tomorrow. I can have it all tomorrow.
Age Eighteen, a Month Before
The slick magazine trembled under Brads uncertain touch. Everything he wanted was there all right, but it was a definite case of careful what you wish for. He was growing half-stiff just thinking about the image of himself, dickless, his testicles pooling lonely between his thighs, wondering why their trio had been reduced to two.
But, all in all, he liked his cock.
It was a nice thing, really. Reddish. But that wasnt abnormal hed seen enough porn to know that his was a nice specimen of circumcised manhood. If it had been on someone else, he would have been glad to get on his knees and lick it which was the problem.
Temptation
His palm was a well-formed cup over the shaft, by now well-accustomed to the shape from the rigors of twice-a-day masturbation.
His computer hard drive was a bursting collection of gay porn which his mother, with her horn-rimmed glasses and shy, Southern belle smile, had never seen. Thankfully. Shed die to know how much he liked watching men shoving their cocks into each other, thrusting, enjoying, sweating
all those other nice words that end in ing
ecstasy written on their face in universal Rosetta stones.
Damn. Hard again.
A quick jerk was all it took. A few well-planned caresses lavished upon his penis head elicited a brief but intense orgasm.
A few spurts of his seed coated the slick magazine ad, and Brad picked it up again, lust temporarily sated so that his reason could take control.
Spring Break, it advertised, in sunny Walani, nude beaches.
The bouncing bronzed breasts revealed happily by the photographer were unappealing in comparison with the quickly scrawled announcement beneath. The language was cryptic, and it had taken Brad about an hour of internet searches to confirm that the slang was what he suspected. There were clinics on the beach that would give him what he wanted.
Soon. He could have everything he wanted soon.
If only he could convince his parents it was a good idea
Age Eighteen, the Day Before
It was sort of embarrassing to have masturbated in the plane. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Quickly, Brad collected a wad of toilet paper in his hand and dabbed away his excess seed, tossing it down the toilet.
It was, in its way, depressing that the only places hed ever leave his seed were toilets and trash cans.
It was also awfully arousing, but luckily even Brads appetite wasnt enough to make him want to jerk again. Pleased with himself, sated, he went back to the airplane seat. He was too excited to read, to drowse off.
He watched out the window, bowing down so he could see past the fat brunette snoring in the seat next to him, and waited for the landscape to change to rosy tones and glittering sea The watched pot eventually boiled. Walani was golden.
Tomorrow, he reminded himself as he disembarked. Tomorrow.
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