For some time Jack had told me that when the time came, when I’d reached fourteen and started to have the attributes and capabilities of a man, and if I was still interested, he’d take me to the Candy Shop for the first time. I tried to tell him that he would be candy enough for me—that he could do me for the first time right at home—but Jack was a man who wanted to do things right. And he spelled out what was practical to me on why he was holding off until I was fourteen.

“We both need to be able to get maximum pleasure out of the first time. You need to be able to get hard and get your rocks off with it inside you like a man to be sure it’s what you want. And I want to build a relationship, not just have a one-time lay with a boy who then is disappointed that the reality didn’t meet the fantasy of it.”

“Then it isn’t because I won’t be eighteen yet?” I asked. “I can’t wait that long to be butt fucked by a man.”

“Shit, boy, I can’t wait that long either to enjoy you—as long as you’re willing.”

“You know I’m willing, Jack.”

That he wanted to know I was developed enough to enjoy it as a man was the only reason why we ever needed to discuss the Candy Shop at all, which was fine with me. I’d wanted to do it—and to do it with Jack—ever since I first watched him and my dad doing it. And Jack and I did do stuff now. We jacked and blew each other—we just hadn’t gone all the way yet. He hadn’t stuck it in me and come in me. He hadn’t made me his own yet, like he’d done with Dad.

The Candy Shop was out on Route 14 beyond the edge of Mt. Carmel, and just inside the next county—a much poorer county than ours that needed the revenue and was willing to turn a blind eye. The building it occupied originally had been one of those full-service trucker stops. A gas station out front, whose pumps now had plastic bags permanently over the handles and their gauges zeroed out and just sat there under sagging awnings, rusting away.

Inside the storefront had been a combined convenience store and short-order cook counter with a dining area off to the side with a widescreen TV where the truckers could stop to watch and bet on televised sporting events to break up the monotony of their long hauls and to catch up on the gossip of where the cop speed traps were along Route 14 headed into Memphis. In the back were a communal shower room truckers could use on long, time-sensitive hauls for a minimal fee and eight small rooms where, for less than they would have to fork out for a motel, they could rent rooms with clean sheets and towels by the hour. This served their schedule well. They rarely were able to pull over for a whole night; they had to sleep in three- and four-hour snatches in order to get their loads to their destinations on time.

It didn’t take too long before the girls behind the food counter and at the convenience store register were augmenting their incomes by adding a fringe benefit of a fuck to go with the by-the-hour rooms. And there were few truckers who didn’t appreciate this release of tension in addition to a couple of hours of sleep in a real bed. But this led to the whole operation being shut down, as the local residents put their own sense of morality over the smooth operation of trucking operations.

The place remained dormant for a couple of years and then the Candy Shop moved in, and the commissioners of the poorer county, seeing the folly of letting a revenue-paying business go bust like the trucker stop had done, turned a blind eye on the Candy Shop as long as it was bringing in revenue.

And bring in revenue it did.

When Jack drove me out there, there must have been more than two dozen cars parked there, although we didn’t see them until we’d swung around to the high-fenced area at the back of the building, where just about everyone going to the Candy Shop parked his car—out of sight of those driving down the highway.

As we came around the side of the building, though, I saw that there were maybe half a dozen guys milling around the old gas pumps and eyeing everyone coming into the Candy Shop. When we showed up, most of them broke off their discussions and ogled Jack and me up and down. Three of them came up to Jack, who was only twenty-five himself and a real looker, and started talking to him, and four of them surrounded me. They asked me how old I was, became real interested to hear I was fourteen and that, yes, I knew what I’d come to the Candy Shop for, and said I didn’t have to go into the store—that any of them would be happy to give me a ride in their car and some candy as well.

“Hell, any of us would give you a real good ride, boy,” one guy said as they were circling around me.

“Haven’t seen you around here, son,” said another guy, who looked like a trucker left over from the building’s last life. “First time to the Candy Shop?” he asked.

“Umm, yes,” I said. I looked over at Jack, who seemed to be having a little difficulty with those three guys trying to get up close. I wasn’t really worried about him being able to take care of himself, though. Jack had been football player and had kept in tip-top shape. I was sort of worried, though, because there were three of them and they were all white. Jack was what you’d call a mulatto—his father had been black from out of Alabama and his mother white, which had left him with the facial features of a Caucasian but with a rich coffee-and-cream brown skin color. One of the guys around him was pretty drunk, and was talking about dipping in the chocolate in a fairly loud voice. The other two seemed to be less belligerent—one had his wallet out and was fanning a wad of bills out where Jack could see it.

From the looks Jack was giving me, I think he was more concerned about those four guys trying to make small talk with me, though.

Another of the guys had put on a big smile when I said it was my first visit to the Candy Shop. He was a surfer type with dirty blond stringy hair and shorts and flip flops. No shirt; he had a good tan and a good build, so I didn’t think I was far off on the surfer supposition. “First time for the candy?” he asked. His voice had a hopeful edge to it.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just turned fourteen last week and Jack here wouldn’t let me have the candy until now.”

The surfer dude sucked in air and then turned and waved to the other guys over at the gas tanks. “First time for the candy over here guys. He’s fourteen. Anyone who’s interested, let’s pool our resources and see what kinda deal we can make.”

“First dipper paying more, of course,” another guy said as he approached.

“Yeah, I’d said double for cherry popping,” chimed in another voice. “Fourteen, you say? Whooeee.”

Jack stepped in at that point, however. “Let’s go on in to the store, Corey,” he said. He had moved away from the group of guys he was talking with and put his hand on my arm and guided me toward the store entrance.

“Hey, man. We’ve got money,” one of the gas pump guys called out. “More than enough for both of you.”

“Sorry, guys,” Jack called out over his shoulder. “Gotta do this right. This here’s my boy. We’re here for it to be me and him.”

“I was doing fine, Jack,” I hissed at him was we walked away from the group. “They weren’t bothering me.”

“I swear I have no idea how I’ve gotten you to fourteen untouched,” Corey muttered back. “I think you want it so bad now, you would have laid down and opened your legs for all of them in succession back there in the parking lot. Do you want to do this right or not? The first time is all important.”

“I know it is,” I shot back. “So, what are we doing here at all? You know what I want.”

“It’s just too important,” Jack answered. “You have to be sure. It only happens once. You need to see the choices before you make one. After that once, doing it right, you can go hog wild if you want. I want to know how you want this to happen—how you want to lose your virginity to me.”

That was always the problem with Jack and me. Jack had always been more of a father to me than my own dad had been—but that’s not what I’d ever wanted from Jack. I’d had what you could call a really screwed up home life, but Jack—who my mother had seen as the cause of it all—was actually the only steadying force in my life for the past three years. And I had known from the beginning what I wanted from Jack—I wanted what I’d watch him give Dad.

Jack and my dad had been on the same semipro football team, one that had spent more time on the road in small cities far from home than they’d spent at home. Mom blamed what had happened between her and Dad on those separations—and on Jack. Jack was a hung hunk. He and my dad roomed together on the road. They were virile guys. They weren’t getting it from others because of the tension of being on the road and playing all of those games. The only down time was at night. Dad needed it; Jack gave it. That’s not the way I had seen it. Dad did what Dad wanted to do because he wanted to do it. And if it hadn’t been with Jack, it would have been with someone else.

I needed it now. I wanted Jack to give it to me.

I could see that and Mom couldn’t see any of this, and she and I fought so much over that point that I guess it was easy for her to leave me with Dad and Jack when she packed up and left the state. We still talked occasionally, but not much at all in the last two years. When Dad had been killed in that freak busted play on the football field in Memphis and Mom had called and told me she was sending a ticket for me back to Tallahassee and I told her I wanted to stay with Jack—and why I wanted to stay with Jack—she hung up on me and hasn’t spoken to me since. All there were were occasional terse e-mails asking if I’d changed my mind or threatening what she’d do if there was a hint of Jack stepping out of line with me. She said she’d go straight to the police and tell what was going on with Jack and me. There wasn’t anything going on between us, but wished there was—I ached for him to fuck me the way I’d watched him fuck my dad. That’s what I told her and she clicked the phone off on me again.

For some time, I was terrified that she would step in and do something to make me come to her, but that hadn’t happened. Maybe because I told her that if I got any idea she’d move to get me back, I’d go right out and let some man lay me right then. I was more than ready to do it, and I didn’t think she’d want to be responsible for me doing it while she had me.

In the meantime, Jack had been a dad to me. He’d quit his football career, which showed some promise to stepping up to the NFL, and had settled in as a football coach at a small college—all to give me a settled life in the local junior high school.

And in all that time, even though I told him what I wanted from him, he hadn’t laid a hand on me. I’d seen him with Dad and that’s what I wanted too—and not just with anyone; only with Jack. We’d talked and fought about it. I knew he wanted me as much as I wanted him. He finally gave in. We’d do it. I’d move into his bed. I had moved in his bed already, but apart from hand jobs and mouth work, we hadn’t done more. We hadn’t gone all the way yet. I wanted to go all the way with Jack—now, not when I got to be eighteen.

Jack wanted me to be sure, though, and he wanted my first taste of candy to be perfect. So, here we were, walking through the door of the Candy Shop.

We walked in and stood inside the door for a moment and scanned the store. The store was laid out in a long rectangle with a counter cutting it in two almost in the middle. On the side the entrance door was on were a series of small malt-shop type tables with café chairs. Several of the tables were occupied—all by men, mostly one per table. Half of the section of the counter separating the two sections were glass-fronted cabinets with displays of candy in them. The rest of the counter was set up as an ice cream shop.

A couple of men stood behind the counter, ready to take orders, but, somewhat strangely, there were several guys sitting in the large space behind the counter, in the area that had once been the truckers’ dining area, who were sitting and watching a big screen TV, probably the same one that had been there when the truckers’ rest stop occupied the space. They didn’t appear to be involved in selling candy or ice cream at all—they were just sitting there waiting for something to happen. There were all types of men and even a couple of boys who looked as young as I was. Those younger boys looked a little nervous and fidgety.

I started toward an empty table, but Jack put his hand on my arm and murmured that I should stand over by the candy displays for a while until I got an idea of what I really wanted.

As I moved over there, a middle-aged man walked up to the candy counter and perused the display. A salesman came over and stood behind the counter.

“What is your pleasure, sir?” he asked.

“Umm, I’m not sure. I’m checking out what you have.”

“Well, we have available quite a variety today,” the salesman said. “We have the nut-centered chocolates in white chocolate and a limited supply of the milk chocolate. The dark chocolate should be available in an hour or two if you wish to wait for it.”

“Routine, customer bottom,” Jack whispered to me.

“Umm, no, I don’t think so,” the man muttered. “Perhaps something ... well, a bit more special.”

“There’s the rope candy over here—the licorice or strawberry twists—we have a vanilla version as well. And the pull toffee of course.”

The customer took a step away from the counter, almost visibly recoiling. “No, no. Not that, thanks.”

“SM and bondage,” Jack muttered.

“Well, perhaps the cream centered, then. We have both white and dark chocolate on hand. And I think the milk chocolate will be coming back in shortly.”

“I thought you’d stopped that line altogether,” the man said.

“Well, I thought ... since you mentioned special,” the salesman answered. “We do still make those available. Of course, we provide certificates—and the customer, of course, as well, needs to provide recent certification. But we do still have that line, yes.”

The customer looked dubious.

Meanwhile, another customer had sauntered up to the counter and drawn the attention of one of the other salesmen. He asked for vanilla rope candy and turned over a credit card. After running it through a machine, the salesman went back to the area behind the counter where the men were watching the TV and spoke with a swarthy-looking fellow who was on the thin side but all ropy muscle, bulging biceps, and angular facial features. That guy flashed a look over at the customer and nodded his head. He stood and moved toward a door at the end and inside the counter as the salesman guided the customer to a door on the storefront side of the counter.

When the swarthy guy went through the door behind the counter, a young blond guy in gym shorts and an athletic T came into the store through the same door. He was moving toward the section with the TV, when the salesman intercepted him and said something to him. Then the salesman called out “Vanilla Shake Number 6” and one of the guys sitting at the café tables stood. He went through the door the previous customer had gone through and the blond went out again through the door the swarthy guy had used.

I looked at Jack, the question evident in my expression, and Jack whispered back to me. “Customer tops; Caucasian bottom. You’re not really interested in any of the shakes, though, are you? Or am I wrong. That’s why we’re here. It’s all your choice. I may not like it if you pick any of the string candy, and, even though I caution against the cream filled, it’s your choice; You don’t need tested—it’s your first time—and I’ve brought the certificate. Remember, we’re both good to go natural. Maybe barebacking the first time is the best way—as long as it is safe. It’s certainly the most incredible feel. The problem is that once you’ve done it, you’ll want to do it all the time, and sometimes it just isn’t safe.”

“The cream filled?” I asked. I had noted that the middle-aged customer and salesman had discussed that briefly.

“Bareback, customer bottoming,” Jack answered tersely. “Customer doing the barebacking is some form of ice cream Sunday, I think. But...”

“Oh,” I responded.

I turned his attention back to the middle-aged customer, who was still hemming and hawing at the candy counter.

“Do you wish to make a selection, sir?” the salesman asked politely, only slightly seeming to be trying to jolly the man along in the transaction. “If you wish to think about it further, you are certainly welcome to sit at one of the tables over there. Or if there’s a particular piece of candy you have spied over there in the television room, I would be more than happy to tell you what kind of candy it is. Some can be more than one kind of candy, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know.”

“Well ... I wondered ... I heard,” the middle-aged man said, evidently having something in mind but not being able to get it out. “I’ve heard of there being something ... well ... very special on offer.”