Free Beach Boys by S, #232, phera Gir, #243, n Page B

that intimate view, and the act of creeping out onto the roof became something else entirely.
    There they were. Henry and Lance, both in their thirties. They had paid a neighborly call at our rented house the week we arrived. They were mystery novelists writing under a shared pseudonym. I’d heard they were fairly successful. But I wasn’t thinking of their literary abilities that first night I spotted them, as my eyes widened and my jaw dropped.
    Henry and Lance were naked, unknowingly showing off bodies hardened by dutiful morning jogs and healthy diets. Lance, the taller blond one, was lying back into the pillows of the bed, legs spread. Henry, more darkly complexioned, a tattoo marking his thick biceps, was kneeling between Lance’s thighs. He was sucking intently on Lance’s big cock, kneading his balls with one hand.
    Henry, sporting a large hard-on of his own, was obviously relishing the procedure. Lance’s head was whipping faster and faster across the pillows. I watched, stunned and enthralled at this first sight of live naked males.
    I’d had a feverish and closeted adolescence, and had often tried to imagine the practical physical mechanics of man/man lovemaking. I would comb through books, reading andrereading oblique references to gay male sex. I would’ve given anything in those years for a queer sex magazine to stroke off over. In school I’d festered through pointless crushes on other males, but had never received even the vaguest coded hint from any that they might be interested. I’d never had any luck with or interest in females. My parents said I was just
shy
and would meet the right one someday. I didn’t have the nerve to tell them the truth about myself, and didn’t really want to. I couldn’t see what business it was of theirs.
    Henry turned Lance over onto his stomach. Mesmerized, I figured now I would get to see some actual anal sex. Upon first sight of those two beautiful bare male bodies, I’d immediately grown a wicked hard-on of my own, sitting there on the garage’s gravely roof, with the warm black caress of the night on me. Now, helplessly, I slipped my mahogany-hard cock out of my jeans, into my slowly pumping fist.
    Instead of thrusting his cock into Lance, Henry put his wet mouth to Lance’s ass. Incredible! I’d heard the vaguely defined term “rim job” before and was uncertain about it, but both men were plainly enjoying the act. I bit through the filter of my forgotten cigarette as I stifled an excited moan.
    After several long minutes of ass-eating, they got down to business. Henry mounted Lance, sliding his cock into the moistened hole, and proceeded to fuck him. I watched their bodies moving in muscled tandem. It was a beautiful procedure. They were like glistening mechanisms. The sublime grace of male/male fucking. I was amazed at how natural it looked, how structurally uncomplicated, as if nature had designed the cock specifically to fit the male ass. A thousand fantasies and wonderings were justified by that gorgeous display for me that night.
    I jerked off frantically and came when Henry did. Then I watched from my spying perch in the sensual afterglow as Henry finished blowing Lance, taking his load in his mouth and swallowing.
    The following weeks were quite an education for me. I witnessed every sexual combo possible between two men. On several occasions—and these were my favorites—a third man was thrown into the mix, and I would watch the carnal frenzy with great excitement and envy, imagining myself as the third lover, taking cock into my mouth and ass at once. Didn’t I wish!
    It was, however, one of these friends/lovers that spotted me in my secret rooftop nest, looking up at just the same second when I was straining too far out over the edge of the garage roof, eyes goggling, my jeans in a denim pool around my ankles, jerking my cock to the fabulous rhythms of that three-way. I pulled back and went scrambling back through my window, heart hammering.