Survival of a High School Freak

by

Caution: This True Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/mt, Consensual, NonConsensual, Rape, Gay, Heterosexual, True Story, Gang Bang, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, School, .

Desc: True Sex Story: A synopsis true story of being outed in high school during the 1970's and a young teen's ordeal at the hands of homophobic bullies. His decided upon survival tactics were somewhat desperate; use his already undeniable and tarnished reputation to his advantage and offer sexual favors for protection.

This true story is dedicated to those brave men and women who fought long and hard and at great personal sacrifice for a cause. The dream of a tolerant society seemed far fetched, impossible to obtain in their own life times, but a torch that was carried on by a few equally persistent generations that has seen leaps and bounds in changing non-conformist attitudes, and a safer environment for today's gay youth. A long way to forge still, but a down hill trek.

Maybe I'm a dreamer in believing the harmonic future of a live and let live culture is entrusted to those being born every hour of every day, innocent of ignorant past influences of a learned hate and prejudice instilled by past societal views. Today's parents will rear these babies and toddlers much differently than ever before, as they themselves have accepted a certain tolerance to diversity. The up coming brood will ensure it!

Hope you enjoy this personal biography, feed back loved and cherished.


Setting: 1976, South Shore Community of Montreal.

I Knew it was a bad idea when seventeen-year old Kyle suggested it. He begged and pleaded until I gave in, my weakness not only being the common sight of his tight Levi jeans stretching the buttons as if he stored a tennis-ball down there for safe keeping, but the added enticement of the material down his left thigh jutting the denim with the girth and length of two rolls of silver-dollars stacked end-to-end, instead of the usual ten-dollars worth of wrapped quarters.

Yes. My fourteen-year old gut instinct warned me about his chosen, spontaneous venue for me to pinch open those buttons one-by-one, hook my thumbs in both sides of the loosened waistband and struggle them down his hips and over his plump half-moon cheeks until his manhood sprang free.

Nope. He couldn't wait until after school. After a short drive, the front or back seat of his car parked down by the river had always provided an element of privacy since the first time he produced it and I seduced it. My first taste of cock; balls; stray hairs that stuck to the roof of my mouth, and the intoxicating scents that emitted, not to mention my just reward for a job well done that spewed forth in gobs at a surprising volume and velocity.

His desire for a fifth-period blow-job located me in the cafeteria, half way through my peanut-butter and jelly sandwich and carton of milk. Odd, was the fact that he seldom acknowledged me in public, preferring that we rendezvous after final bell outside the Jiffy gas station three blocks west, well out of sight of his chums.

He insisted we go the boys' washrooms in the south wing that housed 'Shops' classes where the entire area perpetually smelled of car exhaust, burning wood and metals, with a sometimes hint of baked goods, depending on what the girls were preparing in 'Home-Economics.'

With its 'T' shaped design, the battery of toilet stalls tucked to the right and left end of the bank of urinals and sinks, was probably a more prudent choice as any in the least inhabited part of the 1,400 student and faculty campus.

Perched on the throne with my face between the tails of his denim shirt and a mouth full of prime senior-grade beef that I knew every vein, ridge, ripple and crevice of like the back of my hand, I slurped over the length to the encouraging sounds of Kyle's coos and whimpers heard over the din of machinery of classes in progress.

It was that same clamor and perhaps my obliviousness of anything other than my task at hand that prevented forewarn knowledge of imminent danger lurking in our midst. The distinct tee-hee caused my eyes to open and veer down to the right where two beaming faces stared up at me from under the separating partition. Busted!

The silence was shattered, along with my life as I knew it. "It's a fucking guy blowing the dude!" a blond teen exclaimed,, "Not a chick like we thought!"

Humiliation would be an understatement, I wanted to flush myself down the toilet. Adding insult to injury, two more heads appeared above, obviously standing on the toilet in an effort to confirm the unfathomable plaint of their buddy.

Lowering my head into my hands in shame, Kyle stooped to gather his jeans heaped at his ankles, painfully bumping my head in the process and struggled to pull them up. Any other time it might have been comical seeing the slimy semi-hard cock and one shirt tail hanging out the gap of his fly, followed by the laborious effort to house it with shaking hands and fingers toiling with the taught buttons.

Kyle was a semi-jock, not good enough for the senior football team despite his neanderthal mentality, but excelled in school popularity as captain of the wresting team. His evil look of contempt was enough to send the four teens scurrying from the washroom.

As it it was my idea to do the nasty in such a risky place, Kyle glared at me venomously, shook his head in disgust before opening the door and leaving me to wallow in my own misery. All of which, I knew was unbecoming of a scrawny, long haired seventh-grade newbie who flunked and repeated the sixth year elementary class while his class-mates advanced.

It was a gym-class detention for repeatedly forgetting the proper regulation attire in one form or another that I had to serve a week as locker room attendant after school. Discarded shower towels and paper towels, ensuring toilet paper and soap dispensers were stocked and mopping up the endless puddles lest one of the naked, extracurricular sport-jocks slip and fall headed to or from the communal showers.

During my extended stay in grade six where puberty commenced and ultimately blossomed, my sexual orientation was also being mapped out for me. Girls were pretty, but boys were much more attractive, I discovered during the transitional phase from primarily asexual to a full sexual awareness.

It was in my thirteenth year when I became fully cognizant of male splendor. Adam, a newly acquainted school chum a year younger, invited me to his home. His sixteen year old brother and five of his friends got drunk that night during a weekend absence of parents. The teens decided to shed their clothes for a swim in the backyard pool. Without a care in the world, the six frolicked and horse-played in and out of the water as Adam and I watched the spectacle.

Having occasionally been exposed to, and intrigued by the site of naked men and teenagers at the recreation center and conscious not to stare at the curious display as any respectable boy would, the antics of the six only invited attention to my lustful eyes. They climbed each other in attempted pyramids, or vied for supremacy to knock the other from his perch atop a partners shoulders. The diving-board granted me the unrestricted view of full genitalia bouncing about, or simply hanging mere feet from my ogle as they stood around sipping beer.

I fought those strange demons that haunted my masturbatory fantasies thereafter, only to have the engraved mental images resurface and in greater detail that only my imagination followed up to visualizing them sporting erections. The more I allowed my mind to wander in immoral fantasy, the greater my orgasms intensified in pleasure, but soon after ejaculate, shame wracked my brain each and every time.

Months later, my obsessive crazing for cock drove me to feeling up Adam in his sleep during a sleepover at my house. My back-hand went from an innocent flop over top the covers and by not getting a reaction in his deep slumber, an accidental palm plant under the covers and directly over his underwear. My own cock felt like the bone was going to burst through my piss slit as I gingerly fondled the dough-like mound that I had never even seen exposed during our short friendship.

Adam, dead to the world, never stirred. My bravery intensified, sliding my fingers under the elastic waist band and finding sparse pubic hair. I was so close to busting a nut without even touching myself when snailing forward, the base of his shaft was felt. Daringly, I wormed ahead until my hand enveloped the warm, soft flesh that stirred in arousal subconsciously stimulated by touch alone. The moment of truth of feeling another guys genitals caused shock waves up and down my spine, the familiar sensation of orgasm couldn't be averted.

I hadn't even finished soiling my underwear before that other familiar sensation of shame superseded any of the carnal pleasures derived down below. I withdrew my hand and rolled over, disgusted with myself and counting my lucky stars he never woke up, and very thankful that my uncaring mind set was thwarted before going out on a risky limb and going down on him.

Adam and I drifted apart after that night, perhaps he had indeed woke up mortified and paralyzed. Even as early as the next morning, a certain aloofness was detected. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that he knew my secret and it scared the hell out of me. Truthfully, I was paranoid enough to hope he would meet with an unfortunate accident and take it to his grave before the incident slipped from his lips and made public.

Adam and I averted eye contact the balance of that fretful year of final elementary school. In order to keep up appearances, I dated a pretty girl from class. Angie was infatuated by me, the older, more masculine boy with a thick mat of black hair under his armpits. A good score for a grade six girl, with certain bragging rights among her peers.

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