Free Foolish Fire by Guy Willard

three, stretching my pain threshold to greater limits. But this wasn’t enough like “the real thing.” I thought of another object I could use in place of my fingers, something long and cylindrical…an empty bottle…a carrot…a banana….
    Late one night, after everyone was asleep, I crept down to the kitchen and got a banana from the refrigerator. Surely there was nothing odd about a growing boy having a late-night snack….
    Back in my room I excised the banana’s hard tip with my Boy Scout knife, then coated it carefully with Vaseline, which I’d discovered was a more practical lubricant than cold cream.
    With one hand, I pulled off my pajama bottoms and my briefs, then lay back on the bed, giving myself up to my fantasies….
    Completely naked upon the bed I was a beautiful young girl with her hands tied behind her back, helpless, about to be forcefully violated. “No…no…don’t!” I moaned softly, feeling the ravisher already nudging at the rim (coated beforehand with a slick layer of Vaseline.) But at the first slow thrust I felt myself let go, copiously, without the need to touch myself at all.
    “Oh!”
    I blinked, and felt a single teardrop trickle out the corner of my eye, slip down my temple.
    “Oh….”
    I lay still for a long time afterwards. It seemed odd that the house could remain so silent after I’d just felt the whole earth convulse.
    Finally, I stirred. “So this is why the fags do it,” I thought to myself. “No wonder they like it so much.”
    A lone cricket chirped from somewhere out in the yard.

The Music Lesson
     
    Fads came and went with a dizzying rapidity in junior high. All of a sudden, it seemed, all the boys in our class were goosing each other like crazy. I don’t know how it got started, but one day while I was in line at the cafeteria, a boy named Todd sneaked up on me from behind and gave my balls a quick squeeze. I yelled out in surprise, almost spilling the glass of milk on my tray.
    Before long we were all greeting each other by making playful grabs at the genitals—in the locker room, in class, in the hallway. It was a boyish assertion of masculinity done in imitation of our older brothers. In a way it was also a gauge of popularity, for the most liked, most envied boys were also the most frequent victims.
    I was delighted to discover that the quietest boys would let out loud surprised squawks when I squeezed them. And the playful grabbing gave me a legitimate chance to do something I’d always dreamed of: touching other boys’ penises.
    I couldn’t have been the only one who had this interest, for all the boys were beginning to make jokes and references to each other’s penis size. Under cover of the game I was able to touch as many boys as I wanted. However, I was shy about doing it to the boys I really liked.
    There was one group of boys who were significantly left out of the sport: the “sissies,” those effeminate, mincing boys who walked like girls and fluttered their hands when they talked. Ever since I was a kid I’d felt an instinctive dislike of them, for there was something about them that was extremely distasteful, though I couldn’t say exactly what. Now I began to notice them more and more, perhaps because they conspicuously avoided the rough-housing of the other boys. Whenever I saw the way they carried their schoolbooks—cradled against their chests like girls, not slung low at their sides like most boys—I felt a vague sense of shame.
    Mark Warren was the worst of them. Many boys made fun of his mannerisms, and, egged on by Richard and other classmates, almost against my will, I found myself beginning to bully him. At first I was disgusted by the malicious, vicarious delight of the other boys as they stood by watching me do it, but soon the perverse pleasure of seeing Mark humiliated became a source of gratification for me as well. It got to the point where, if I spotted him, I couldn’t pass up the chance to do something. Now my