Survival of a High School Freak

by Rob Loveboy

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.

Almost thirteen, she was well into puberty with developing tits that I did admire, but was never allowed to touch. The mystery of what lay between her legs was exactly that, a mystery. Making up my mind that my past was all just a misguided homo phase, thoughts of doing things with Angie almost purged clean the other, unsavory vibes. I was cured!

Until that is, the very first afternoon of serving my detention The torture of thirty or forty older naked teenagers milling around me was unbearable. How they would just loiter around in small clusters in no hurry to dress, unlike my own first year high gym class where everyone was timid; hands concealing gonads in the shower and then hastily pulling on underwear over wet bodies.

The after school teenage smorgasbord of everything from cocktail-wienies to bratwursts, flaccid and semis alike, was overwhelming. Gawking was unavoidable and like the time at Adam's house, the teens seem to demand attention with wet towel whippings, wrestling, and more than once, tossing a kicking and screaming naked boy into the public hallway and holding the door to prevent reentry.

Once most of the boys had left, I was treated to the gym teachers and coaches in all their glory as well as other faculty staff who took advantage of the workout equipment, although, there was just something weird about sitting in math class knowing in great detail what the man looked like out of his suit! No, the torturous punishment of my detention didn't fit the crime, I had a relapse into homosexuality.

That's where I saw Kyle for the first time. Ruggedly handsome, well toned body with a tuft of black hair between his pecs and a treasure trail from his belly-button to the thick mat of curlies above the perfectly proportioned uncut-cock coddled by a flared 'V' shaped pink scrotum. Amusing was the reddish glans that played peek-a-boo from the thin foreskin whilst he stood idle talking to friends.

As much as I tried not to be so obvious appreciating their bodies, it was a struggle. Mostly, they ignored me other than a few regular antagonists that threw sopping wet towels at me, accusations of staring, call me a fag, wiggle their dicks at me asking for sexual favors that if they only knew how badly I would have taken up the offer. I wasn't sure if they actually detected my obsessive interest, or teased every detentionee in the same fashion. Even Kyle caught me scanning his body more than a few times over the week. He would smile, I would blush and turn away.

It was Friday, the last day of my penance, and being the onset of the weekend, the locker room was sparsely inhabited. With little to nothing to do, I was sitting on the bench twiddling my thumbs when Kyle entered, lifting my spirits as I didn't think he would show considering none of his team mates had.

When he headed in my direction well past where he usually chose to locker, my heart was in my mouth. He smiled at me and took a locker four feet from where I was seated and began to strip making small talk. I was gaga, unable to form any words to jointly converse, just smiles and grunts, not really comprehending what he was saying, a deaf-mute. Down to only his tight jeans that I already knew his preference was commando, was the only barrier from being totally naked, my cock responded uncomfortably angled toward my asshole.

He opened his gym bag and pulled out shampoo and 'Irish-Spring' brand body wash, surprisingly, not his spandex wrestling uniform that stretched and accentuated every grand feature from his shoulders to his knees, other than the protective cup that bulged, unfortunately, shielding his truer virtues.

Kyle wasn't there for any other reason than to shower, explaining that his dad was renovating the family bathroom and that he hated bathtubs, the only option, he relayed as he opened his jeans and slid them down his thighs. A quick adjustment placed everything that had been confined back into prospective before sitting down to yank his legs and feet free and clear. I was dumfounded when he stood, gave it another tug and winked at me before traipsing off.

With the lame excuse of adding another bale of towels to the clean stack already conveniently placed outside the shower: that sadly, weren't going to be drying many nuts that day, I watched him caress himself in body-wash. Special attention was applied in such a way that alluded to a slow masturbation, not erect, but a noticeable inflated arch effect, like the curve of a sausage. I had the uncanny feeling that he was aware of my ogling presence not fifteen feet away.

Swabbing the already dry floor near the locker where he was toweling off looking at me looking at him, I swear his dick was a little thicker and longer after the lengthy, attentive toweling of that area. I made a kinky mental note to steal that towel and take it home for later use, maybe even fortunate to find a loose pubic hair or two.

Kyle rummaged his bag and retrieved a pair of gray sweat-pants and a t-shirt, carefully folding his jeans and Wranglers' shirt and placing them in the bag along with his toiletries. Sitting with his legs spread wide, first putting on his white socks followed by the t-shirt; all in all, a particularly odd systematic approach to dressing oneself. All the while he rambled on something about wrestling, an upcoming competition and a scholarship, I politely listened taking in the view, even forming three syllable words like, aha, yes, aah, and even a wow! But I think the "wow" was my response to his knob doing the turtle thingy again.

When Kyle asked where I lived, and then offered me a ride home, I completely disregarded the final hour of my detention duties, and sadly, his soiled towel. I followed him from a distance like a puppy-dog in deafening silence through the maze of hallways before exiting the school and walking the block distance to the student parking lot.

Who was I to argue when he produced a baggie of pot from under the seat and suggested a detour. Adam and I often pinched a bit from his brother's stash. Trouble was, neither me or Adam had the knack for rolling it and the end results were anything but a finely rolled joint. Ours always caught fire, the contents falling out in clumps if we didn't hold it straight up with tweezers and crane our necks to take hits from below.

Stereo blasting, Kyle either had a very heavy foot, or he was anxious to get where we were going. My head came very close the the dashboard at stop signs, made contact with the passenger window, or his shoulder more than once turning corners. On open stretches, the little Toyota zoomed like a race car as far as a rutted dirt road that he traversed at a crawl for a good mile before coming to a stop at a river. A rather long, overly precautions trek to smoke some weed, but the scenery was very nice.

Kyle formed a decent size stogie in his lap, the mound in his sweats served the purpose well. Reclining his seat for comfort, I did the same. The pot was smooth, barely choking on it after exchanged puffs. I heard the birds tweeting and the frogs croaking, even the crisp Autumn leaves rustling and falling. I was as stoned as never before, but fully conscious of the uncomfortable silence.

Pulling off his t-shirt and laying back in a peaceful daze, unmoving with his eyes closed, Kyle broke the quiet. "Fucking shit always makes me horny!" he confided, his hand went to his groin, "I could beat one off right now!"

Shock couldn't describe the moment, it was more of a wallop to the senses! Intrigued, but no idea how to take things further. Without really thinking I blurted, "Go for it!" then shyly added, "I mean ... if ya want; --no big deal."

Kyle ran a finger up and down the shrouded backside of his expanding member, inch by inch, raising the material along its path forward. Snagged at his waistband, he pulled the bow-tied draw-string to let the cobra exit and slither ahead before coming to the impressive length hovering above his navel. The one-eyed turtle proudly exposed it's raw, tender looking crimson head atop the sleek shaft that I would learn to be a very sensitive area for those wholesomely kept males.

It couldn't be happening, my stoned eyes were playing tricks on me. I clenched my eyes and opened them moments later to the same magnificent pageant, only better. Kyle had lodged the waistband under his well pronounced masculine spheres, the taught shrink-wrap-like skin highlighted the protruding multi-colored, spider-web of veins as well as the mid-sack seam that his finger repeatedly grazed the scar-like path of. I marveled at the masculine beauty seen in a whole new perspective.

"You ... you have a really nice cock, Kyle." I dangerously complimented. Guys just didn't say those things. An ounce of self preservation prevailed to tread carefully. "I- I- mean girls must ... must like sucking it for ya, --and stuff."

Kyle chuckled, continued to finger his gems, never opening his eyes. "Never had a blow, the bitches I've been with won't go there, --or anywhere, for that matter!." he confided.

Kyle's revelation of virginity floored me. Most guys would brag of their conquests, fact or fiction, or merely the exaggeration of minor trysts in order to gain an edge of envious superiority over their peers. I'd heard all the bullshit professed by even my own age group, whom most likely did get felt-up over his pants, but stretched the truth and brag of a hand-job.

Deciding to push the pendulum with a spine-tingling, sixth-sense that the odds were stacked in my favor, I dared to say, "I just thought ... well, a nice looking guy like you, --I would have thought ... ya know, ya wouldn't have to jerk-off much. --I mean ... if I was yer girlfriend..." daringly said, I left the connotation open.

"Nope!" he exclaimed, turning his head to look at me, his eyes barely slits. "But I want one so bad, ya know? I'm so fucking horny for it lately that any mouth would do!"

Like a sudden epiphany, I knew my purpose for being transported to his little Eden at the end of a desolate road. It wasn't fate, or karma, or good fortune. It was premeditated seduction. Kyle's appearance in the locker room was deliberate. No scheduled Friday after-school sport practices; his choice of locker within the near empty venue; the unprecedented friendly chit-chat; the shower excuse to peacock his body, most likely for his final affirmation as to my suspected sexuality, and then the offer of a ride home with the afterthought of a detour to inebriate us into a sedate, devil-may-care, marijuana induced state of mind. He was offering himself on a sliver platter, reclined naked from the thighs up. Even more revealing was that he was not carrying forth the plan of masturbating himself.

The moment of truth had arrived and his shrewd manipulations hung in the balance. Kyle had nothing more in his arsenal of bait tactics, other than perhaps a blatant verbal request, that if I denied, he would bare the shameful repercussions of the suggestion, not unlike the aftermath of emotions that I experienced with Adam.

Sounds strange, but it would have eased my conscience if he would have asked, or even forced me into it, placing some onus on himself as initiator, but a gut feeling told me that neither was going to happen. To much was at stake for Kyle. The decision was squarely mine, and if anything, that's the only way it was going to happen.

What made me impale the gear-shift in my gut without further ado, was the possible scenario that he may tire of the cat-and-mouse game. Develop abrupt moral thoughts and repackage the goods cutting his loss of dignity with some inane excuse for it all, ultimately, denying me years of pining for the opportunity that was within my grasp.

And grasp it I did. Thick and meaty and feverishly hot in my left hand, the passion juice smeared my lips before my tongue absorbed its flavor. An impatient hand atop my head needn't have encouraged me down the shaft, I had far greater designs than merely nursing on the ample supply of sweet slime being manufactured by the firm testicles clutched in my right palm and fingers.

No fantasy, or imagined concept prepared me for the reality. No shame or guilt prevented even the slightest hesitation to explore my unmanly perversion by trial and error. His first blow-job, and my first time performing one left any preformed expectations to chance, we were both virgins to our common vice.

Far too soon, disappointment flooded my mouth without warning. Disappointment, meaning I was really getting into it. A latent talent discovered for an obscure art. Warning, meaning that unless another deep sigh of many could be construed as fair notice. Taking his load wasn't an option anyway. He held my hair in both hands even through my burst of vigorous oral enthusiasm, my mind already set on milking him to the last drop.

Servicing Kyle became a mutually appreciated bond. We passed each other in the hallways at school unacknowledged by the other. If he didn't pick me up at the gas station after practice by five o'clock, I would sullenly make my way home. Like a junkie, I was addicted and he was my dealer.

I welcomed his spontaneous late-night weekend visits crawling through my bedroom window. It was on those occasions that we would get completely naked together and I would rub his hard upper body with hand-cream and later, tongue-bathe his lower extremities without inhibitions.

The scent on either side of his scrotum and inner thigh was intoxicating. A slimy perspiration that clung and lingered in my sinuses and fingers long after he'd left, compared to the perfumed soap that sadly washed away the manly pungency having always showered before car sex. Daring to explore analingus on his whimsical suggestion, and finding that that disgusting act drove him wild, it had become an expected foreplay during our bedroom encounters, followed by a blow-job.

As did anal sex, requested out of the blue one night. Producing a bottle of baby-oil and a condom, Kyle was insistent, persistent and impatient. The excruciating pain and fear that my parents would barge in at any second, forced me to muffle my screams in a pillow while he knelt from behind and without mercy, forced himself into me.

Kyle's complete control over me was complimented by ego bolstering words whenever he prompted. I said exactly what he wanted to hear; how I loved his big cock in my mouth and, subsequently up my ass, and how I was his fag boy. Never really getting used to the rough pounding of my innards and bruising marks from his fingers on my hips, I did enjoy finishing off what I started when, at the last second, he'd tear off the condom and fuck my face. A generous compromise at my request.

It kept him coming back to my bedroom for more. Every Friday and Saturday night after outings with the guys and gals, beer on his breath and a hint of pot from his clothes and hair. After sex, he would pass-out and spend the night on several occasions when too much alcohol was consumed. I would suck his flaccid cock as long as it took and relish its gradual expansion in my mouth and then practice taking more and more in my throat without his hand on my head, inevitably gagging me. He never came, that would happen later morning when he woke up with what he called, the hangover hornies.

Kyle never once touched me in a sexual way, I mean in the sense of genital contact. However, afterward he would watch me pound my pug while he got dressed, claiming credit for my powerful orgasms as the result of his allowing me to "faggot" his body. In all sincerity, he was very correct.

When I tell this story, people often ask if I was secretly in love with him. The answer is a blatant no. We served each others needs, no more, no less. Our secret kept safe between us. Or maybe not. My mother!

On one of those morning-after a drunken sleep over, mom knocked once before opening the door to tell me something of importance that I still can't recall the nature of for the unprecedented intrusion. I wasn't quick enough to come to my waking senses and pull the sheet over Kyle's naked posterior. A look of embarrassment overcame a look of horror as she apologized and departed as quickly as she came in. Thank God, Kyle never woke up, sparing him the uncomfortable moment.

Later, explaining the much older, naked teenager in a single bed with her fourteen year old son, I nonchalantly passed off as an acquaintance from school who got locked out of his house and asked to crash with me. His nudity was another, more difficult explanation to come up with.

I looked her in the eye when she questioned it and rolled my eyes back like she was totally daft, exclaiming, "Dahhh, Mom! --We're both BOYS in case you didn't notice!" grasping the last iota of fabricated truth and shrugging my shoulders, I added, "I guess Kyle doesn't wear underwear, ... lot's of guys go commando nowadays, --no big deal!"

She thought about that for only a second, "Well, in the very least, he could have slept on the floor."

My mind scrambled at that logical insight, "What, ... on the hard floor? --Even Benji has a doggie bed, mom!"

I may, or may not have gotten away bullshitting my mom, and she obviously never mentioned the incident to my father, but getting caught in the act at school closed that chapter in Kyle's and my relationship and opened a new, horrific one for me. Amazing was the collateral damage that four unknown teens could cause in a heavily populated high-school. Had it not been for Kyle's popularity, perhaps only a ripple of scandal would have ensued and been slowly forgotten.

Everywhere, people were pointing at me in greater numbers as the days passed. My locker took on a graffiti laced object of homophobic slander that the janitorial staff contended with on a daily basis. My assigned share mate moved on to greener pastures. He need not have worried his pretty little homophobic ass, all my worldly school possessions were absconded from the locker and laboriously carried in my back-pack, never having to stand idle in front of it like a sitting duck!

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