The Whack Gay Porn Blog

TRUE FICTION by Chris Kent

Do remember your ‘first time’?

The first time that someone paid sexual attention to you. The first time that someone looked at you with a look in his eyes that thrilled and terrified you at the same time. The first time that someone else’s look made your penis harden and lengthen. The first time that you knew someone wanted to touch you… down there.

Of course you do.

Go back to that person, that place, that moment. Your cock is stiffening already.

I admit I’ve always been fascinated by first time encounters. At least since the unshaven man with the smell of rum on his breath found me playing on the beach when I was six years old. Was that where it all began? Or was my destiny already in my genes.

But this is not my story…

I put out a general inquiry across the Net, and was staggered by the number of responses I got. Some of the accounts were obviously fabricated, some so pornographic and violent I dismissed them; some were sick fantasies, but some had that ring of authenticity, clearly from the heart rather merely from the genitals.

I have selected a number of these. I have changed all the names, people and places, though I imagine my contributors had already done that. I also tidied up some of the writing, but never to the extent (I hope) of altering the mood, intentions or emotional hinterland of the contributor.

I offer no comments of my own. I am neither advocating nor condemning; I leave that to others. I will, however, note Nancy Friday’s comments since her attitude seems as honest and humane as any others I’ve encountered.

“Parents worry about masturbation, but anxiety about homosexuality is so great that it isn’t even mentioned, lest the injunction itself ‘give the boy ideas.’ Kids who learn to masturbate on their own are thrilled and relieved to find the whole baseball team has been engaged in circle jerks for months. Goosing each other in the shower, mutual masturbation in the movies, reading dirty books and magazines together when there are no adults around - it’s all just horsing around, breaking the rules - that’s how boys are. Contrary to popular superstition, such early homoerotic play can strongly confirm gender identity. ‘All the guys do it.’”

And Shere Hite reported:

“What is startling is the increase in the number of boys who, as teenagers and older children, are having sexual experiences with other boys. Equally intriguing is the kind of sex boys are now having together. In the 1970’s, the contact was mostly mutual masturbation, often without touching each other. Now, it seems much more common for boys to touch each other, masturbate the other boy, while 36 per cent of boys also perform fellatio together. Around 20 per cent have experienced anal penetration.”

Nancy Friday continues: “This is not to say that these men feel no guilt or anxiety today about their homosexual memories or fantasies; after all, they’re now grown-up. and know what society thinks of such ideas. … Some men spend their lives ‘forgetting’ early physical contact with their own sex. (Some men, of course, never had it.) The men (reporting to Friday) not only remember, but like to play around with fantasies (and memories) that release those boyhood energies again. … They have the courage to face the dark mysteries and alternatives Eros offers us all. Why should our response be a kind of flight from freedom, an automatic labeling that slams the door on further thought.”

We can all agree with Nancy Friday’s conclusions: “Life is all about choices.”

Date: 25-08-98 (16:41) Number: 007 To: Apollo Refer#: 938 From: Nicholas T. Read: YES Subj: MY FIRST TIME Status: PRIVATE MESSAGE

It was the summer of 1983. I was at a language school in Eastbourne. I was twelve years old. I’m half Lebanese, half Italian. My father wanted me to improve my English. It was a residential summer school. There were students from all over the world, but especially from Spain and Italy. Everything was first class.

My English was good. I got into the top class with about 15 other 12 and 13 year old boys and girls. The guy who taught the class was great. A super teacher and really funny. It was obvious he liked me from the start. When we were getting chosen for the classes, I caught his eye in the dining room. We gave each other a big smile, and that was that.

My teacher was also a brilliant tennis player. He gave tennis lessons some afternoons. I always signed up for the tennis lessons because I really wanted to improve my tennis. It was a great bonus to find my English teacher was also my tennis teacher.

The summer of 1983 was one of the hottest summers England ever had. After the first week, everybody used to disappear into Eastbourne in the afternoon, then do sports in the evening when it was cooler. Only a couple of us stayed behind for tennis because the official lessons were changed to the afternoon because of the heat. In the end, only my teacher and I were left on the tennis courts. The whole school was pretty much deserted in the afternoons.

One afternoon, about 2.00, we were in my teacher’s room. Every teacher had his or her own bedroom. They were mixed up with the students’ rooms so the teachers could supervise us. Usually you never saw them around their rooms at all except late at night when they staggered up the stairs to bed.

We were in my teacher’s room while he was getting his tennis gear ready. I was in a tennis shirt, white shorts, white socks and trainers. It really was hot. The breeze was blowing the curtains through the open windows. I dived on the bed and lay back. Everything had become so friendly and informal. I put my arms under my head and chatted away while sir got ready. I told him I probably wouldn’t play well because I’d cramp in my legs. I really did: they were aching because I’d been doing so much sport.

Sir sat down at the edge of the bed and started massaging my legs, squeezing and kneading the knotted muscles, especially behind my calves. It felt really wonderful. We didn’t say much. We just looked at each other. Then he asked me if I ached anywhere else. I said my shoulders were aching, too.

“Take off your shirt.” He leaned over me and massaged my shoulders, his hands slipping down over my chest. His fingers and thumbs lingered over my nipples.

This was the first time anybody had touched me sexually. I wasn’t a child. I’d learned how to masturbate earlier that year, experimenting in the bath, and I knew some men liked boys, all Arab boys learn that from an early age. My penis got really hard. My teacher’s fingers brushed my stomach and then slipped slightly lower. Suddenly he stood up and walked to the window. He stood there, looking out over the school grounds.

I slipped open the top of my shorts. When he turned round, he looked at me. Then his eyes ran the length of my body. He sat down and undid my tennis shorts, stroking the inside of my thighs but not touching my prick. I could feel it bulging the silk underwear I had on. I raised my bottom from the bed and he worked my shorts and my underpants down to my ankles. I kicked off my trainers and he slid my things off completely.

My teacher began to make love to my body, still not touching my prick was hard and throbbing. I was 12, nearly 13, but I’d a good-sized prick, about 4 inches long and an inch in thickness. Of course, as a good Moslem boy I was circumcised, and it had been done really neatly. I have light brown skin (my mother is Italian) but my dick is noticeably darker in colour. At that time, my pubic hair was just coming in; I was a little worried in case my teacher thought I was a baby.

He went on making love to my body, running his lips over my chest, stomach, and then up and down my legs and thighs. It was wonderful, but I couldn’t wait for him to get to my ‘zob’, that’s what Arab boys call their pricks. At last I felt his fingers curl around my erection. He jerked me gently for a few moments, then I felt his hot, wet mouth swallow me to the base and begin sucking. His head rose and fell on my prick as he sucked me with different pressures. I can’t describe the pleasure it gave me!

to be continued…

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Author: Chris Kent