FRICTION FICTION: BACHELORHOOD by Billy Wolfe (1983)

[monshanjik]

BACHELORHOOD

By Billy Wolfe

(Torso.July.1983.)

THE DAY THE BASEBALL SAILED OVER THE HIGH FENCE INTO THE FORBIDDEN
NEIGHBORS BACK YARD WAS THE TURNING POINT IN BOBBY'S LIFE — BUT A FULL
NINE YEARS WERE TO PASS BEFORE BOBBY CAME FACE TO FACE WITH BACHELOR.

Mother had always warned me about him. His was the one house on the
block she forbade me to visit, even when collecting for the March of
Dimes, or trying to get subscribers to my paper route. I was 16, and The
Bachelor, as Mother called him, was probably thirty. But for me he was
more than just twice my age — he was Manhood — forbidden and distant,
isolated, for some reason, from the rest of our neighborhood.

He drove a flesh colored convertible, a squat Austin Healy, and he drove
it swiftly, impatiently, somehow giving the impression that the sports
car engine had less horsepower than the driver behind the wheel. My ears
were subconsciously attuned to that small, yet imposing sports car, and
frequently I found myself rushing to the window to watch him slide it
smoothly into the asphalt driveway. There was a lot of foliage
surrounding his house, and soon, after slamming his car door shut, he'd
disappear within the lush, green protection of his house, like Adam, I
thought, returning to Eden. I think he was the most handsome man I'd
ever seen.

And, almost every time I'd see him, I experienced an emotional upheaval
— I had to be alone for a while. Usually I'd go to the bathroom — the
only place for privacy in our house of five children. There, surrounded
by my sisters' brassieres, hanging to dry from the shower curtain rod,
I'd lock the door and look at myself in the mirror. I'd take off my
shirt, and squint, trying to imagine what I'd look like with a beard or
mustache, and an extra 30 pounds of muscle. I wasn't too bad looking —
for 16.1 hid behind a lot of straight, brown hair and a typical teenage
slump, but — through the squint — I could see the promise of a perfectly
presentable man clawing his way out of pockmarked boyhood. But would I
ever be as handsome as The Bachelor?

"Bobby, get out of the bathroom! You're not the only one, you know!"

Somehow I felt like I was the only one. There was something different
about me — something I couldn't share with my closest friend, or even my
conscious self. It loomed there, vague, difficult to clarify . . .
difficult to zip my pants back up over. I let my sister in to use the
bathroom.

The Bachelor was the only neighbor on the street who had a swimming
pool. As a child I'd thought that might be why my mother didn't want me
associating with him — afraid I would drown, or something. He lived
between the Joneses and the McCormicks — across the street from the
Wiltons and the Shapiros. The Bachelor was the only neighbor without a
name. Even his mailbox was unmarked. On Saturday mornings he'd sometimes
walk down his private Eden expressway, emerging from the foliage,
wearing only a loose, white terrycloth robe, brilliantly white, flapping
open, exposing deep golden, hairy thighs. Usually he'd have his coffee
cup in hand. He was simply checking his morning mail.

And on Sundays, he'd wash his Austin Healy, wearing only tight, black
nylon swimming shorts. He'd swing his long hose masterfully, over the
roof of the car, to wash it down — like a majestic lion trainer, working
his whip.

"Bobby, what are you looking at?" my friend, Gene, asked me, but I was
too breathless to respond. I could hear The Bachelor's faint whistling
as clearly as if he were right over my shoulder, whistling for me,
directly into my ear. The sight of his fuzzy, tanned legs, his body
bulging in muscular knots, blinded my vision. He really wasn't overly
developed, at all. I don't think he lifted weights. He just seemed to be
perfectly formed — solid, healthy — oh so healthy!

"What's wrong with you?" Gene pressed me. "You're in a daze!"

"Am I?" I asked him, weakly. I really didn't know where I was.

Gene Jones lived next door to The Bachelor. Sometimes we'd play ball in
Gene's back yard and one fateful afternoon, the ball went over the six
foot cement wall and into The Bachelor's backyard. We cringed, and
listened for the feared plunk of the ball into The Bachelor's pool, but
heard nothing.

"I'll get it," I volunteered, and went to mount the wall. Gene, like
every other kid on the block, had this vague aversion to The Bachelor's
house and said, "Maybe you shouldn't, Bobby."

"Why not?" I asked, a little annoyed. "He's probably not even home." And
I hoisted myself up to the top of the wall and scanned the backyard: the
turquoise water in the swimming pool, the stark lemon tree. The
Bachelor's backyard was so neat and glamorous, and the thought just
popped into my head that he took as good care of his property as he did
his own body.

"See it?" Gene asked me.

I'd forgotten to look for the ball, but when I did, I saw it, right next
to the diving board. "Yeah," I said, and just as I swung around and
jumped into The Bachelor's backyard, I heard Gene's screen door swing
open and his mother yell at him, "Gene, you come in here, this minute!"

I crouched, instinctively, trying to avoid being seen from inside The
Bachelor's house, just in case he was home, and I stealthily made my way
around the pool to the diving board, reached down, picked up the ball,
stood up — and saw The Bachelor, stark naked. He was lying on a white
plastic chaise lounge, facing the pool. I gasped, almost dropped the
ball, and was about to quickly apologize, then vanish by leaping the
wall when I realized The Bachelor was sleeping. Lying in the sun, he
looked like an ancient god who had slipped from the protective arms of
Zeus, fallen through the sky and landed, on his back, in modern
suburbia.

I took a deep breath and started to move toward the wall, but then I
stopped for some reason, tossed the ball into Gene's backyard, and
slowly approached the sleeping prince. I'd never seen anything like him.
I had seen naked men before, in public shower rooms, but . . . The
Bachelor was a revelation. He had the most enormous cock I'd ever seen.

Looking back, I realize this was partly because the only other erect
cock I'd ever seen was my own, even so, this man's dick was stupendous —
like the trunk of a tree growing out from his crotch, swollen, hard,
arching up his tight brown stomach like a luxurious snake. He had one
forearm up in the air, resting on an elbow, as if raising his hand,
uncertainly to ask a question. He was snoring, lightly.

I quickly turned back to mount the wall, yet still couldn't gather the
initiative to hoist myself up and leave his yard. I returned again — to
breathe in the magnificent sight of him. And this time, very hurriedly,
I went very close to him, dipped down, and faced his crotch to study his
cock. It rose like a tower from a bush of dark brown hair, like woods
protecting a fortress. I wanted, so badly, to lick it. I'd never had
this conscious thought before, about anyone. And, just when I was
straightening back up, his eyelids lifted, and he frowned, and his
upright hand shooed at nothing before his face, as if he thought I were
a fly. If only I had been a fly. But there I was — a gawky, teenage
trespasser caught studying the naked giant.

"I'm sorry!" I said, saliva drooling over my lip as I said so. I sucked
it back in. "I — " I pointed to Gene's backyard, " — my balls," I said,
then shook my head, confused, "my ball! Gene's ball — it came over
here."

Now that he was awake, I couldn't look at him. I kept my gaze toward the
cement wall, and I remained still, as if waiting for sentencing of
deserved punishment.

He cleared his throat, and straightened up, drawing his knees to try and
conceal Mt. Fuji, and his balls fell, and hung low, between his thighs.
"Mmm — and — did you find it? Your ball?"

"Yes!" I said, pointing to the diving board, where it wasn't. Oh God, I
had even discarded the proof of my alibi. I pointed back to the wall. "I
just tossed it back. I'm sorry!" I couldn't think of any excuse for why
I should have been discovered, hovering over his naked body. My chest
heaved, my fists were clenched. I might have been ready to cry.

"Are you alright?" he asked, sincerely concerned. I probably looked as
though I was phasing into a seizure. I probably was.

I looked at him now, keeping my gaze above his neck. His chin was long
and cleft, his cheekbones high, his eyes — his eyes!

"I'm not going to do anything to you," he said, trying to calm me. "I
believe you. You came to get your ball." His simple, rational tone was
soothing me, but I remained tense, my expression panic stricken. "You're
Robert Atkinson, aren't you?" he asked, like a physician, encouraging an
amnesia victim to remember.

I was stunned to hear my name from his lips. "Yes!" I blurted.

"I recognize you." He wrapped his arms around his knees. "You run, don't
you?"

"Yes!" As a matter of fact, I was running the hundred yard dash that
very moment — standing still.

"Fast, too."

"How —? H-how —?" I couldn't get it out.

"I saw you once, here, on the street. All of you were racing. Remember?"

"Last summer," I remembered, smiling because I had won. Running was the
only sport I did well in — probably because I had so much to run from —
to run to. "I'm faster now," I said.

"I'll bet you are," he said, and I couldn't smile. His teeth looked
blue-white. "You okay, now? I didn't frighten you too badly?"

"You!? No, I'm sorry, I just — "

"Don't be so sorry," he said, and then he stood, and I held my breath as
he moved. It was like watching a tree uproot. And he ambled, fluidly, to
the pool, and sunk slowly, into the water. He completely submerged
himself and came up sleek and shiny, coated in liquid sunlight. He
rested his chin over the edge of the pool and he smiled. "I like to
shock myself awake. Do you swim?"

"No!!" I reacted, as if he'd asked me if I sucked cock. It wasn't even
true. I did; swim, that is. "I mean — I can swim . . ."

"It's good exercise," he said, and while gripping onto the ledge of the
pool, he catapulted himself backwards and forwards several times, in the
water. His arm muscles went taut and defined and I believed he could
have pushed that pool through Gene's cement wall, had he wanted to.

I took a step toward him, then, slowly, purposefully, as if asking for
an invitation to swim, I looked directly into the water. I even dared to
look as his starkly whitened nakedness submerged and I saw his dick,
bobbing, swaying, out from that massive dark forest lurking below his
navel. He saw me looking, but I couldn't pull my eyes away. I was
someone else, that moment. I was the person I am now.

Now he seemed embarrassed. "How old are you, Robert?"

"Seventeen," I said. "Soon."

"Is that what you like to be called — Robert?"

"No. I don't care. Bobby. My friends call me Bobby, or Bob, or —
Robert." No one called me Robert, but I was trying to figure out what
sounded oldest, and certainly that must be Robert, but I didn't identify
with the name. "What's your name?"

"Steve," The Bachelor was christened, before me, in the pool.

"Like — Steve — adore?" I asked, weakly.

He laughed — blue-white teeth again. "No, like Steven, but you can call
me Steve, okay — Bobby?"

"Okay — Steve."

"And don't be afraid to use the front door, if you lose your ball," he
said. "Or even if you just want to talk, or take a swim."

I was leaving, now. "Thanks," I said, with my back to him. I was sad
that I couldn't take him up on his offer, without disobeying my mother.

Exhilarated by our encounter, I easily hurdled the cement wall and
landed, safely, in Gene's backyard. My heart was pounding. I'd returned
from Eden, with a hard on.

I started running, fast, out of Gene's backyard, into the street,
towards home. I had to get to the bathroom, shut the door and sink to
the floor, unzipping my pants. My dick lurched out, then snapped back
against my stomach, with a thump, and my hand started beating, 100 mph,
on what the guys at school called a boner. My eyes were shut all the
while, remembering, inch by inch, the length of The Bachelor, the scent
of his sweat mixed with coconut oil, the sight of his balls . . . whack
. . . whack . . . whack . . . The Bachelor's nuts! . . . I'd had my
actual nose down there, right in front of the The Bachelor's . . . .

Bang, bang, bang! "Bobby! Is that you in there?"

. . . The Bachelor's hairy thighs, whack, whack, whack . . . that
fucking, gigantic dick! Whack! Whack! Whaaack!

"Bobby! What are you doing in there!?

"I —! I'm —! Comiiiiing!"

NINE YEARS LATER

I was driving through my old neighborhood, and, instinctively, I turned
left, down the familiar street where I had grown up. My parents had long
since moved, but I just wanted to see what it felt like, to drive past
those familiar houses. And though I hadn't planned it, I was parking,
right in front of The Bachelor's house. The same unmarked mailbox was
there. There was less foliage in front of the house, and not as well
kept, but there was, for me, still a magical scent hovering over the
property, and, as if dazed, I simply got out of my car, walked up the
driveway, and knocked on the front door. It was evening, about supper
time. Whoever lived there would surely be ho . . .

The Bachelor opened the door, still holding his coffee cup. I smiled.
"Yes?" he asked, with the same sort of frown he'd given me upon
awakening by his poolside.

"Steve?" I asked him. His shirt was open, black and silver hairs
offsetting each other. He cocked his head to the side, in question. "I'm
Bobby, remember me?" I turned, and pointed in the direction of the house
where I used to live.

"Oh, wait a minute, you mean —?

"Atkinson."

He invited me in and offered me a glass of cold, white wine and we sat
across from each other in his living room. He was slumped there, before
me, like his front yard — not as well manicured as I had remembered;
there were several lines running from the corners of his eyes, he
somehow seemed spiritless, and yet he was just as handsome, with an
added air of sen-sitivity.

We made some awkward attempt to small talk. I asked him about Gene Jones
and was told he had married and now lived in Utah. "Oh." Pause. And
then, tilting my head, sort of squinting at him, I said, "You know,
Steve — there's something I was always dying to do when I lived here —
but never got the chance."

His blue-white teeth appeared, like a shark's. He was alerted. "What's —
that?"

"I always wanted to — swim in your pool," I said, with a smile.

That put him at ease, and he said I was still welcome, any time — that I
could, right then, if I wanted to, and I said I did want to — right
then.

It was dark when we stepped out from his indoor patio onto the cement
walkway. The dark pool lurked before us as if from another dimension — a
vague, forgotten memory, re-emerging before me. He had brought out an
extra pair of swimming trunks but they were too small for me.

"Do I have to wear trunks?" I asked him. The mere audacity of my
question got me hard. I had shot off about six gallons of thinking
of this man, this pool, this moment. I wasn't going to wear trunks.

All the while, he looked at me, hesitant. When I stripped, he sighed,
audibly.

"My God, you've grown, Bobby!" he said, and indeed, I had. I didn't have
to squint to see myself in the mirror, anymore. I had arrived into
manhood with my longed for mustache, and extra 30 pounds of muscle. My
chest was smooth and wide and my nipples were hard. My butt was big and
muscular, and the Bachelor, now, was beginning to awkwardly tear off his
own clothes. "You don't mind if I join you, do you?" he asked me.

I wanted us joined, alright. Instinctively, I swam out to the very spot
where I'd left him, nine years earlier. I laid my palms flat on the
cement ledge. The cement was still warm, from the heat of the day. The
pool was heated, and the moon was white and three quarters full.

"This is heavenly," I said, looking up, into heaven. He was doing the
sidestroke, from the shallow end and coming towards me, into the deep.
When he came up to me, I turned and we dog paddled together, face to
face, very close, for a long time, speaking quickly, in short breaths,
as if we were stranded, together, out at sea.

"Glad you suggested it!" he said, breathlessly, "I forgot how nice it is
at night."

"Me, too," I said, with no thought to what I was saying, thinking only
of our legs, beginning to occasionally slide against each other's, our
breath beginning to enter one another's mouths.

Finally, there was a pause and moonlight flickered in The Bachelor's
eyes. "You know something?" he asked me. "I'm just beginning to remember
that day you came over the wall."

"Yeah?" His knee knocked lightly, into my nuts. My palm slipped down his
thigh.

"Yeah. S-so tell me — is this all you were dying to do — when you lived
here?"

"No," I said, betrayed by the little voice that was once mine.

"What else, then?" he asked, and I dove, without hesitation, into the
water, maneuvered myself around him, then came up, mouth first, netting
both of his big balls in my mouth. I impressed upon him how much air I
could hold in my lungs by staying down there awhile, sucking on his
nuts, sliding my palms up and down the inside of his hairy, slippery
legs.

Nine years I had waited to do this, and I was so overwhelmed, I almost
forgot to come up for air, until I began breathing in the water and I
swam backwards, between his legs, and came up from behind him, gasping.
I sidestroked to the ledge again and did some needed, heavy, deep
breathing.

"You alright?" he asked me, and swam up from behind me. I nodded, and
sighed, and by wrapping my feet around the backs of his calves,
forcefully drew him to me, from behind. He surrounded me then, and
wrapped those dark tanned, hairy arms of his around my smooth inflated
chest, and he kissed me lightly on my wet neck.

I let my head fall back over his shoulder and I reached back for The
Bachelor's cock, which was beginning to squeeze itself between the
cheeks of my ass. Wrapped around each other, my back to him, I began
gyrating, maneuvering my asshole so that he could easily, just slide,
slowly — into me — and he did!

He wrapped his arms around my stomach, and we began to bob, like a boat,
up and down, The Bachelor beginning to ram me, fluidly, nicely, with my
head back over his shoulder, looking at the stars, and as I sucked him
in, further, hungrily, unexpectedly — as sad emotion swept through me, I
could hear Gene's mother calling him, "Gene, you come in here this
minute!" I could see my mother's expression as she told me never to go
to The Bachelor's house. I saw the row of drying brassieres hanging in
our old bathroom, all while The Bachelor was drilling me from behind,
and my eyes began to water and I clenched them shut and held my breath,
till he slipped out of me, let go of me, and touched me gently, with one
hand, while jerking himself off, with the other. I couldn't face him,
because I think I was going to start crying, and again, I didn't know
why — if it was remorse from lost innocence or from innocence not lost
early enough.

And then, nervously, he whispered to me, "Just a minute here, Bobby —
I'll get it going again."

"Hmm?" I asked, remembering that he was actually there, in the present
tense. That was the source of the sadness — I had come to be fucked by a
dream, a ghost, by the past, and in-stead had found Steve. He was
nervous, and unsure, whacking himself off, behind me. I turned to face
him.

"Sorry about that," he said. "It's just — you've come at me by surprise.
I — "

"Of course," I said, for the first time speaking directly to the actual
man. "I'm the one who's sorry."

"Oh, don't be sorry," he said, abandoning his futile attempt to get
himself hard again. "To be honest, it's been a bad day for me. Week. My
lover and I just broke up, and he was here — not two hours before you
came. To pick up some stuff. It's — ". He shrugged.

I felt like embracing him, and I did, and now it was he who tensed, as
if to keep from crying, and I lifted him, securely, like a raft,
protecting a survivor. He exhaled, then, with relief, and faced me
again, closely, and we kissed, first — a supportive, friendly kiss, and
loving — but then, slowly, we exchanged sighs into one another's mouths,
and our tongues began to stir arousal anew. I was still busily dog
paddling, with his legs wrapped around my waist, and now he offered
himself to me, completely, for protection. Romantically, he had both of
his arms wrapped around the back of my neck and he kept kissing me, only
to stop, look at me with disbelief that he could feel what he was
feeling with me, at that moment, so soon after his lover had left him,
so suddenly. He rolled his eyes starward, thankfully, then came back to
me for more and his mouth felt right against mine and we stopped kissing
and just kept our mouths pressed together, while breathing normally,
against each other's face.

Then, there was a pause, and he slid from me, realizing I'd been
supporting his weight for some time.

"You — really are strong." he said.

I didn't say anything. His cock may have hung southward but mine was
aiming for the North Star. We both noticed it, and he shook his head,
impressed.

"I just got an idea," I said, grabbing my hard dick in my left hand.

"So did I," he said, and then he looked at me, with a mixture of hope
and fear. "Do — you have any plans for tonight?" he asked. I slowly
shook my head, while smiling, and took his finger and drew it softly up
the length of my cock. "Be — because," he said, "if you could get into
it — ", his eyes closed and he said, in an exhale, " — I could really
use some company tonight."

"I could get into it," I said, evenly.

In the morning, I drank coffee from The Bachelor's cup. He squeezed
fresh orange juice, and we laughed, showing each other how we used to
dance, in our respective high schools. I helped him box some of his
lover's belongings and carry them to the front door. We kissed for a
long time before I opened the door to leave and he reminded me, though
he didn't have to, that we had a date for that Saturday night.

Dazed, I drove down the street where I used to live, turned left, and
merged into the heavy traffic of an unfamiliar, new road. It was sunny
and warm, and I pulled to the side, parked, and got out to open my
convertible roof. I had worked up a sweat, and sighed heavily, before
turning to walk around the car. I hadn't noticed him — a young
bicyclist, a teenage kid. He'd been sitting there, on his bicycle, on
the sidewalk, beside my car, watching me, with his mouth gaped open.

"H — hi!" he said, and I nodded to him. "What kind of car is that?" he
asked me.

"Karman Ghia," I said.

"It's nice!" he said, looking not at the car but at my chest. "I mean —
it must be nice, to open it up." He was having difficulty establishing
conversation, and he hung his head low, and just stared at his bicycle.

"What's your name?" I asked him, as I got into the car.

"Randy!" he said, rolling his bike a little closer to the car, and
peeking inside, at my crotch. "W-what's yours?"

"Robert," I said, automatically. And when I took a quick glance at my
reflection in the rearview mirror, I didn't see Bobby anymore. At some
point along the way, when he had stopped wishing and wasn't even
looking, Bobby had vanished. He had transformed, into The Bachelor.

-------------------------
Thanks to original poster in Yahoo! gaymagazinefiction group!
Enjoy!