Copyright©  2012 – Nicholas Hall

The paper on the table under my ass cheeks crinkled, scratching me, noisily announcing every movement I made sitting there in pure, unadulterated, abject, misery waiting for someone to come to my assistance and ease my pain.  Placed on this uncomfortable device by a portly matron portending to be a nurse, assisted by my three giggling, chortling friends who now waited in one of those outer rooms reserved for people who wait, I hurt mercilessly each and every time I even twitched but a muscle.

How very wonderful; my first Halloween celebration on State Street and I end up in Urgent Care.  Well, it’s really not my FIRST Halloween on State Street since I’ve lived in Madison all my life and have seen it from afar with my older brother in close supervision, but this was to be my FIRST as a freshman at the University, without my older brother!  Not yet ten o’clock in the evening and I’d consumed but three beers; three lousy beers and here I sit!  No sympathy came forth from my companions, oh no, they just “ho, ho, hoed” all the way to the reception room, delighting in my predicament.  Thank God they had the decency to cover me with a jacket, my own, I should add.

Three lousy, warm, expensive beers and I had to take a piss!  I know, can’t hold your booze, right?  Wrong! I really can hold my booze it’s just my bladder’s too small.  I scrambled into a darkened alley to relieve the pressure.  Contentedly standing there, my short prod piddling a stream against a metal garbage can, serenading me with the “tinkle, tinkle, rattle, rattle” not unlike the sound of rain on a metal roof during the summer, my pleasant, bladder relieving piss was suddenly interrupted by a loud “yowl” and a fuckin’ alley cat sprang up from behind the can, wet, mad, eyes aglow, snarling, hissing, spitting, and really, really upset at being baptized so rudely!

I mean – Holy Shit!  Jumping back to escape the beastly, mean son-of-a-bitch, forgetting to pinch off the stream flowing from my cock, I hosed down my shoes, my pants leg, and my crotch.  Right there, boys and girls, is where I made my first mistake.  Pissing your pants is like falling in love, everybody else notices it, but only you feel the warmth from it. I should’ve held my ground, faced that bastard, and held on tight to my dick, but I didn’t.  No, I ended up like that little boy whose teacher told him to make up a poem for using bad language in class.  The little boy whispered the poem in teacher’s ear; “While I was in the hall, I saw a cockroach run up the wall.”  The teacher said it was pretty good, but told him to leave the cock out when he recited the poem to the class.  The little boy stood up front and recited, “While I was in the hall I saw a roach run up the wall, with his cock out.”

Well, that was me- so surprised by that denizen of the alley and irritated that I’d pissed myself, trying to zip up my pants as I ran to the street, I was like the little boy and left my cock out.  Three lousy beers, one damned mad pussycat, and I zipped the skin of my dick up in my pants!  Not my dick completely, but that flap of skin at the bottom where your dingus attaches to your balls. Yeah, reach down and feel it – that one!  Well guess what?  Be forewarned, the zipper on your jeans can capture that delicate portion of your manhood as firmly and as tightly as a reticulating python can choke down a rat.

So that’s how I ended up here, in Urgent Care.  My three buddies carefully lifted me (not worrying about hurting me understand, just not wanting to get the smell of beer urine on themselves), carried me to the car, and brought me here.  Good thing I’m not very big, weighing a buck thirty on a good day and standing five foot five inches every day, so it wasn’t much of chore for the three drunken louts.  Fine friends they are, laughing all the way to Urgent Care, then really cutting loose when the fat nurse asked what the problem was and they lifted my jacket, shouting “you whooooo” and pointing.  Fuck’em Bucky!

You’d think with the high cost of medical care now-a-days, clinics and hospitals could afford to heat these treatment rooms.  I’m starting to shiver and I’m afraid if it gets any colder in here, my balls will shrink up close, and I’ll castrate myself with my own zipper.  Now won’t that look just fuckin’ great in the newspaper –COLLEGE STUDENT CASTRATED BY PANTS ZIPPER.  Probably make CNN.

After waiting about six months, a busty female doctor and a male nurse arrived to attend to my injuries. Never smiling one damned bit, she asks me what seems to be my problem, acting like I interrupted her Halloween flight on her broom, so I just lifted my jacket from my lap, exposing my “problem” to her and the nurse.  Slipping on a pair of surgical gloves, she informed me she needed to get a better look at it and zeroed in on the head of my monkey.

I quipped, “I would too lady, but I’d have to poke my finger up my ass and shout SNAKE in order to do so.”  She didn’t think it was near as funny as I did since she just rolled her eyes while the nurse suppressed a laugh.  She scowled at him while she gently lifted my mini-meat for inspection.

“At least you’re circumcised,” she announced, “so you didn’t lacerate a foreskin.  They can be kind of tricky to repair, you know.”

No, I didn’t know, never having one, or even touching one before.  The doctor then rolled the head of my prick around a bit between her fingers, scrutinizing the source and object of my discomfort, and tugging slightly to see if it just might come loose.  If I was any other person, she might’ve triggered an uprising amongst the natives, but “Sorry, Charlie,” tits and twats don’t it for me; I’m a balls and buns guy.  I bat for the other team and am proud of it.  I don’t know if I am a pitcher or a catcher since I’ve never gotten off of the bench and into the game, yet.  Always sitting on the bench watching, wishing, but never quite diving in, I half expect to end up an old maid (I don’t think that’s right- what do you call an unmarried old gay man?) since I really don’t have guts enough to act on my fantasies.

My older brother, Lincoln (Link for short), and younger brother, Heywood (Woody) are both straight, but not Gillian; nope, I’m bent as a willow branch in a strong wind.  It didn’t come as a sudden revelation to me and, like so many other gay guys, I always knew I liked boys more than girls. Contrary to what the news often reports, I was never raped by the choir master, buggered by the band man, or pronged over the back pew by the preacher.  Most gay kid aren’t, but there are those who think we go around asking for it.  Wrong! Most of us just want to make it through life being happy with someone we love and be accepted by society for our own way of life.  Unlike so many gay kids who are closeted, I’m lucky to have very understanding parents and two brothers who love me to death.  I just couldn’t figure out where Mom and Dad came up with our names.  “Gillie,” for Gillian, or “Link” for Lincon, aren’t bad for nicknames, but “Woody” for a boy? I’m happy our last name is “Bingham” and not “Hardpecker.”

  I really never had many problems in school.  Never flaunting my sexual orientation, but not denying it either, I worked on just being me and my family and friends accepted that.  It didn’t mean I was loved by everyone, but I was comfortable in my own skin.  Besides, Link was two years older, six foot one inch tall and weighed 190 or so and, Woody, two years younger, five foot eleven inches tall and weighing about 180, attended the same school as I.  Really, nobody gave me shit more than once.

Once finished with her examination, the doctor gave some mumbled instructions to the nurse; he left and returned with a cloth covered tray.  I’ve seen enough television shows where the doctor has this type of tray brought forward and it usually includes some pretty wicked looking knives and loping shears.  Waiting for the background music to sound a loud, ominous crescendo as she lifted the towel, I heard instead, the nurse’s stomach growl.  I didn’t dare look at him because I was afraid I’d laugh and end up one ball short for the next game.  I cautiously looked at the tray, eyeballing a couple of hypodermic syringes, some paper enclosed items, gauze, tape, disinfectant, and other things I couldn’t identify. She must have hidden the butcher knives and machetes.

The doctor picked up one of the syringes, looked at me, and announced, “I’m going to have to numb your penis and scrotum since I’ll have to make a small incision to release the zipper.”

Minor incision, my ass!  She was going to carve on my cock like a Thanksgiving turkey for craps sake!

My eyes widened in fright and I stuttered, “Just don’t get overly ambitious there doctor, I don’t have much to sacrifice down there.  If it gets any smaller, I’ll be peeing through my asshole.”

Well, she didn’t think that was very funny either.  Neither did I; I was serious.

Tipping her head toward the nurse, she ordered, “Hold his penis for me, while I disinfect the area and give him the injections.”

 I spouted, “I can hold it by myself.  I do it all the time.”

The male nurse damned near choked as he said, “I bet you do, but this time I’ll do it for you.”

Embarrassed, I closed my eyes, not wanting to watch the butchering process.  Pretty soon, my dick quit hurting and I couldn’t feel the nurse fondling me.  I felt like the old man that was acquitted in the rape case, you know, assault with a dead weapon.

The doctor said, “There, we’re done.  I put a couple of sutures in to make certain it heals properly. Marcus will put a band aid over the incision to keep it clean and give you instructions on how to take care of yourself.”

I opened my eyes and got a really good look at my nurse, Marcus, and saw one hell of a good looking, African-American man, light brown skin, about five or six inches taller than I, and black eyes that sparkled with life.  He smiled, saying, “You’ll be good as new in a minute, well not quite as good as new since the anesthetic will keep you fairly numb and limp for a few more hours,” and laughed, embarrassing me further.

Marcus instructed me on how to clean myself and what I could and couldn’t do in the way of entertainment.  He set up an appointment for me in four days to be checked and have the stitches removed. As I walked gingerly out the door, he admonished, “No touching,” and gave a soft laugh.

Did you ever have your cock and balls itch so bad you wanted to reach down and scratch with both hands, then realize you’re sitting on Grandma’s lap and don’t dare touch yourself, fearful of her saying, “What are you doing?” You want to look up at her, smile sweetly, and reply, “Why, Grandma, I’m scratching my balls, that’s what I’m doing,” but you know if you do she’ll tell your mother and you’ll get your mouth washed out with soap.  So, you just continue to sit on her lap, trying not to squirm, imagining all sorts of gross things, like the time Johnny Pastuerini shit his pants in first grade and how it oozed out on to the floor and stunk, hoping to take your mind off of the terrible, agonizing itch in your crotch. Well, I’m really trying to keep my mind off what I shouldn’t be touching even though it’s driving me crazy.  Perhaps I should go to the animal care clinic and get one of those cone shaped collars they put around dogs’ necks after they’ve been castrated to stop them from pulling the stitches out?  It’d probably fall off anyway since a dog’s neck is thicker than my dick, so forget it.

  The stitches and Marcus’s instruction have prevented me from jerkin’ the gherkin until my follow-up appointment so I’ve been wearing my boxer shorts to bed in order to prevent me from gripping the trigger of my musket and firing off a round while I sleep.

Evidently the British attacked during the night, erupting in a bitter battle between the forces of good and evil, causing me to fire my musket numerous times until the war was won. After I changed my sheets, tossed them in the laundry basket along with my sticky shorts, I tried to wipe as much of my spooge off of my pubes as possible before I headed for the clinic and my appointment with the doctor.  Once in the treatment room, instead of the doctor, Marcus entered the room, a covered, fleshy protuberance wobbling, flopping against his inner right thigh, neatly outlined in his scrubs as he walked toward me.

“Drop you drawers, Gillie,” he commanded nicely, “and we’ll get you taken care of in no time flat.”

I hesitated, questioning him with my puzzled look.

“Don’t worry, I’m a nurse practioner and I’ve done this sort of procedure before. You’ll be in very competent hands.”

The competence part wasn’t what I was worried about; it was his hands causing me the concern.  Oh, great, I thought, I mean truly fucking great, another look at his crotch with its hidden trouser trout and I’d pop a bone, then he’ll laugh at the size of my equipment, embarrass me and I’ll faint dead ass away.  More than likely I’ll smash my head on the table on the way down and end up with more stitches. Taking a deep breath I did as instructed, fearful my own little minnow would leap to the surface in desperation.  If he wanted me hold up my penis while he worked, no problem; I could do it with no hands.

Sure enough, no sooner were my pants and shorts down around my ankles when, up IT came, stiff and hard, ready to do battle.  God, I was so embarrassed!

Marcus, seeing my state of readiness, simply said, “Don’t be embarrassed, Gillie, it’s not the first erection I’ve seen.  Just lay back while I remove any remnants of the stitches.”

The minute he touched my dick, it started to twitch, and I was fearful I’d shoot a load right there.  Marcus started to work and while he did, I noticed he sort of wrinkled up his nose, smelling the residue of my fight with the British still lingering in my pubes.  He didn’t comment, but simply reached over, picked up a wet wipe, and cleansed my bush and cock, fondling my balls and my cock in the process, but who was I to object?

“I’m sorry,” I said apologetically trying to divert attention from the spoils of war, “it’s really not very big.”

Marcus, finishing, looked up at me and smiled again, adding to my bashfulness.

“You know, Gillie, you’re really not that small.  In fact, you’re pretty close to being average, perhaps a bit below.  Unfortunately, most guys who think their penis is small when looking at someone else’s, forget they’re looking down at their own and seeing only a small portion, while looking at the whole thing on someone else. I think it’s just a matter of perspective. As long as it works the way you want, what’s the difference?”

I should’ve kept my mouth shut, but I succumbed to diarrhea of the lips and sputtered, “So five inches is just a bit below average?”

Marcus just chuckled, nodded, and replied, “You always want to tell your boyfriend or girlfriend, depending which way you swing, its’ the biggest in the county.  Any questions concerning what’s next?”

I had one question I wanted to ask, but I thought he might object if I asked to fondle him since he already fondled me, so I didn’t.  Instead, I asked, “What do I do about the damned itching?”

Marcus nodded, acknowledging the torment I’d been going through.  “I’ll bet it does itch.  We shaved some of the hair off around your penis and scrotum so as it grows in, there’ll be some discomfort.  That should last another day or two.  I notice you have a bit of dry skin also.  I’d recommend using some skin moisturizing body lotion after you shower to relieve that.  A good quality lotion will do just as well as any prescription.”

I didn’t have any more questions, so pulling up my pants, I poked “Rover” down into the dog house, hoping he’d go to sleep, and prepared to leave.

“I have one for you,” Marcus said, “are Drs. Arthur and Dorothy Bingham at the University your parents?”

“Yeah, they are.  How do you know them?

“I had a psychology class from your Dad and a beginning music and voice class from your Mom.”


He reached into his scrub jacket pocket, took out a business card, and gave it to me. “Please tell your folks ‘hello’ from me and give them my card, please. I wouldn’t mind hearing from them. I really enjoyed their classes.”

Arriving home, I gave his card to Mom and expressed his greetings to her.  She read the card aloud, “Marcus C. Hamilton, Nurse Practioner. He’s such a nice boy, with a beautiful voice.”

“Boy,” he might be to my mother, but to me he was one hung, stud!  A gorgeous man with looks I couldn’t dismiss from my mind.  “Mom, he’s not a boy,” I sputtered with defensive exasperation, “he’s a full-grown man and a good nurse.” 

“Oh, Gillie, honey, I’m certain he is, but I did enjoy him so in class and I know your Father did too.”

I wanted to add that I wouldn’t mind enjoying him too, especially that part which was hidden from me, but outlined and jiggling when he walked, but I just didn’t really see that ever happening.  I was a “nobody” to him, small, nineteen years old, not very good-looking I thought, and a freshman at the University.  Marcus, on the other hand, was older, taller than me by maybe five or six inches, heavier by twenty or thirty pounds, and a right fit, trim, handsome dude.  Never would someone like him notice me, even though I could just about dump my wad in my jeans every time I heard him speak in that soft soothing voice or smile at me with that comforting, warm smile.

I took a deep breath, released it sadly, and went upstairs to my bedroom to study.  Sitting at my desk, trying to make sense out of a “Western Civilization” chapter, my crotch started to itch again.  Remembering Marcus’ instructions, I went to the bathroom, rummaged around in the medicine cabinet, and located a bottle of body lotion.  Letting my pants and shorts settle around my ankles, I gave the bottle a squeeze, intending to put just a small amount on my diseased and afflicted body part.  I squeezed too hard and a big glob pooked out all over my dick and pubes.  Rather than waste the extra, I smeared it around on my balls, my stomach, and all over the bologna pony.  The more I smeared it, the harder I got, until “Trigger” was ready for a ride.  Some toilet paper cleaned up what I shot all over my stomach, hand, and sink, then I flushed it.  No sense leaving something like that in the wastebasket for my brothers to tease me about.

There was no reason for me to return to the clinic after that, although the temptation was there to fake some illness or injury, giving me an excuse to see Marcus again.

Thanksgiving is a feast day we really enjoy at our house.  My grandparents from Illinois (Mom’s parents) usually arrive the day before and stay through the weekend.  They’re a lot of fun and love each of us for what we are, no more, no less.  Dad’s parents were both gone by the time my brothers and I arrived on the scene so never knew them.  They must’ve been fairly well off because Dad often said our house was made possible because of them.

Our house is one of those older two-story homes just off of University Avenue.  There are four bedrooms upstairs and a bathroom.  Mom and Dad occupy one bedroom and my brothers and I each have our own room.  When company comes, I give up my room and move in with either Link or Woody.  I don’t mind, although I think Mom uses my room for company because I’m such a neat-nik. My brother’s rooms are generally cluttered with clothes and stuff.  I swear Woody doesn’t put any of his clean clothes away in his dresser.  He just stacks them on the floor along with the dirty ones.  When he changes boxer shorts, he picks up a pair from the floor, checks for skid marks, gives them a quick sniff with his nose, and if they don’t smell too bad, puts them on.  How gross is that?

A large living room and dining room are downstairs, a good sized kitchen, a bathroom, and a den or “study”, as Dad calls it.  It’s where Mom keeps her piano, where she plays it, we practice, and Dad writes.  The basement has been remodeled to include a family room with pool table, bathroom, and television.  The furnace room and storage closets make up the rest.  I think if they had to buy the house in today’s market, they couldn’t afford it.

I love Thanksgiving with the smell of turkey roasting, fresh baked rolls steaming on the counter, pies cooling on racks, and all of the goodies and it all tastes better than it smells since Mom is a terrific cook.  Everyone has a job to do; Link, Woody, and I help Mom in the kitchen.  That’s not entirely correct; Link and Woody are kind of klutzy in the kitchen so their job is setting the dining room table, bringing enough chairs, and getting the side board ready to hold all of the delicious goodies from the kitchen.  It’s easier to serve everyone if we do it buffet style.  Dad entertains my grandparents in the living room, preparing drinks, you know, that sort of thing.  He still hasn’t figured out how the ice machine works on the fridge, so Link keeps the ice bucket filled for him.  Poor Dad, nice guy, wonderful father, and I love him to death, but a real dullard when it comes to all things mechanical.

“Woody,” Mom shouted from the kitchen “don’t forget we have company so set an extra place.”

Of course we’re having company, Grandma and Grandpa are here every Thanksgiving, but I didn’t think we expected them to eat off of the same plate so I piped up, “Mom, don’t you mean set two extra places?  I know you think your sons sometimes act less than civilized, at least Woody and Link, but Grandma and Grandpa don’t have to share a plate, for Heaven’s sake.”

“I know that,” Mom chided as she poked me in the ribs with a wooden spoon, “we’re having another guest for dinner,” and began cutting the pies.

I’ve no idea who it might be; perhaps the Pope?  No, we’re Protestant.  Maybe the quarterback from the Green Bay Packers, you know what’s his name?  Actually, I wouldn’t mind a “tight end” now that I think about it.  The ringing doorbell, along with a shout from Mom, “Gillian, get that please.  Everyone else is busy,” interrupted my reverie. As if I wasn’t; I was up to my elbows in mashed potatoes getting them ready to put in the serving dish.

Wiping my hands on a towel, I walked through the living room, admonishing my Dad to stay seated; I’d get the door (he wouldn’t have moved any way because he and Granddad were engaged in a debate concerning Freudian and Jung psychology).  Grandma just smiled knowingly, lovingly at me, so I made a detour and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before I walked to the door and opened it.

Standing on the front porch, grinning like a mule eating shit, guitar case in his hand, was Marcus!  I was dumbstruck at the lovely sight of him, smiling at me, and with a wink, he said “Hey, you going to let me in or just stand there drooling?”

My face turned red with embarrassment, looking down, then looking up, I smiled and with a soft, almost shy, “Hi,” invited him in.  He responded with an almost as soft “Hi” and smiled warmly back at me. Marcus walked on in, giving me a casual, but sincere shoulder bump in the process.  Mom met him, announcing, “Marcus Hamilton, you’ve certainly transformed yourself into a handsome young man.  Link, take Marcus’ coat, Woody put his guitar in the study, and Gillie introduce your friend to your Grandparents.

My friend; I hardly knew him, but wanted to know him better.  Mom and Dad planned this all along just to surprise me.  Have I told you what great parents they are and how much I love them? Marc stepped forward, took my hand, and said “Let’s meet the family”, sending shivers up and down my spine.  Shit, he had my heart totally and completely, right then and there.

Leading him into the living room, where Father greeted him like a long lost cousin or something, I introduced him to my grandparents.  Other than his name and occupation, I knew nothing about him, except he was one hell of hunk.  Fortunately, Dad took over and finished the introduction, telling my grandparents, Woody, and Link that Marcus is a former student of his and Mom’s and how much they enjoyed having him in class.  Mom interrupted, telling everyone Marc had a beautiful voice and has graciously agreed to “sing for his supper.”  This was all news to me!  With that, Mom announced dinner was about ready.

“Gillie, please help me bring some things from the kitchen,” she asked.

On our way to the kitchen, I quietly asked Mom, “Why is Marc here for Thanksgiving?  I’m not complaining, understand.”

“Well,” she said with a smile, “ever since you went to the clinic for treatment for your- ahem- injury, you’ve talked about him constantly.  I thought this’d be a nice surprise, besides your Father and I both enjoyed him when he was in school here.”

Mom seated Marc next to me.  Thrilled as I was, I was so nervous, I was afraid I’d barf or something.  Every time he smiled at me, touched me, or said my name, shivers of delight cascaded through my body.  Granddad offered the prayer of Thanksgiving and we proceeded to fill our plates and begin our feast.  As we ate, I’d look up at Marc, catching him looking at me and we both would blush.  Finally, I said, “I’m so happy you’re here, but why us and not with your own family?”  I didn’t have a clue where his family lived or if he even had one.

“First of all Gillie, your mother invited me and I eagerly accepted;  secondly, I had to work yesterday and I have to work tomorrow so I don’t have time to go home, besides, if I did, I couldn’t have spent the day with you and I really wanted to do that.”

 Grandma rescued me from my sputtering and our mutual giggling with all sorts of questions that only grandmothers can ask and get away with.  She inquired where his family lived, if he had any siblings, and that sort.  I wanted to ask if I could measure his maleness to see if it would fit where I wanted to put it, but I didn’t want to embarrass Grandma.  Marc graciously and patiently began answering her questions.

“I am the youngest of five children.  I have a brother who lives and teaches at the University in Antigonish, Nova Scotia, a sister who is a medical doctor in Halifax, Nova Scotia,  a brother who lives and works in Portland, Maine, and a sister who lives in Plattsburgh, New York along Lake Champlain.  They’re all married and have families.”

“And your parents, Marc, where do they live?” she inquired.

Marc hesitated a moment, thinking, seeming to struggle, and softly answered, “My Mom lives in Antigonish also.  My Dad was an executive for a Canadian Company that had offices in one of the top floors of the North Tower of the World Trade Center.”

A lump formed in my throat and tears began welling up in my eyes, seeing the sorrow on his face.  I couldn’t imagine loosing Daddy in that way, but what a terrible loss for Marc to bear.  Marc reached across, under the table, and laid a hand on my thigh as if seeking support or strength from me so he could continue.  Now that’s an oxymoron, I’m a scrawny, sensitive light-weight little shit and he was going to draw strength from me?  However, I reached down and lay my hand on his, acknowledging his presence, as he continued,

“Mom sold our home in New Jersey when I came out here to school and moved back to her home town of Antigonish.  Bradley, my oldest brother already lived there, teaching at the University and my sister, Susan, practices in Halifax. Brad and Sue are Canadian citizens as is Mom and was Dad.  Mary Beth, Andrew, and I were born in the United States and became U.S. citizens automatically, but we also carry dual citizenship.  Each year, ever since Dad died, between Christmas and New Year’s, we gather at one of the four homes to celebrate the holidays. This year we’ll be at Mary Beth’s in New York.”

The quietness, solemnity, and sadness of the moment was fractured by Woody farting!  It wasn’t just a plain, at-the-table-muffled, kind of fart.  No, this was one of those ass-cheek slapping, chair vibrating, rumblers, full of rotten, filthy, noxious gas!

Grandma and Mother both shouted, “Woody, shame on you!  Apologize at once!”

Woody apologized and looked at Marc and me and winked!  Bless his heart he knew how to lighten up the situation, even if it did tend to taint the air a bit around the table.

Conversation lightened up and the chatter became pleasantly jovial.  Mom deserved all the compliments she received on the dinner.  After dinner and dessert and the table cleared, the left-overs were refrigerated for snacking later on that evening. We all retired to the study where Marc got out his acoustical guitar, brought a chair close to Mom’s piano, and began to serenade us with music and song.  His rich baritone was vibrant, expressive, and a pleasure to listen to.  The voice lessons he’d taken from Mother were quite evident, although he didn’t perform in an operatic style, but more of a cross between pop, country, and traditional.  As I listened, I wondered how my strong tenor would harmonize with his voice and how much I really wanted to make music with him.  Marc held my undivided attention and he knew it in the way he looked at me.

As afternoon turned into evening, we took a short break to eat some more (as if we really needed to), then returned to the study for after dinner aperitif’s and more entertainment.  This time, however, Mom gave Marc some relief and played for us. She has such a wonderful touch on the piano making the music speak to her and the audience.

When she finished, Marc picked up his guitar again, even though the evening was growing late, and played a few more.  During those last songs, as he looked at me, I knew he was singing to me and only me, captivating my soul!  Finally, he said, “I have to work in the morning and as much as I’d like to stay the night entertaining you, I must go.”

As much as I wished him to stay, perhaps for the night while I nibbled on his drumstick or let him stuff my turkey, I understood what he needed to do.  Unlike me, a college student, he was in the work force, doing a job necessary to the health and well-being of others.  I walked him to the door and stepped outside with him as he prepared to depart.  It was just the two of us, the others having said their farewells and thanks, standing on our porch, looking at each other, waiting for something to happen, yet trying to postpone the departure. 

Marc reached forward, lifted my chin ever so carefully, tenderly, looked deep into my eyes, and asked, “May I see you again, Gillie, please?”

Does shit stink; can Woody fart the 1812 Overture; is the Pope Catholic?

“Oh, yes,” I sighed, “anytime, all the time.”

Continuing to hold my chin lightly, smoothing one finger just under the cleft, he leaned forward and with feathery, smooth lips, kissed me, then adroitly and tenderly plucked first my upper and then my bottom lips with his. I damn came in my shorts right there! I wrapped my arms around his neck, lifted myself up on my toes, and engaged his lips with mine, wanting more of him, desiring to taste him, and belong to him.  Marc probed my lips with his tongue, seeking entrance into me, and slipped his tongue in, tickling mine, sending electric jolts from my mouth, to my balls, and then to my toes.  It was my first kiss, other than Mom or Grandma and that really doesn’t compare, with a guy who wanted me, just petite, skinny, geeky, a bit less that average, gay me.  It was all I could do to let him leave, but leave he must.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, waving, and drove away.

Later that night, after we helped Mom clean up, I collapsed in bed next to Woody.  We lay there a couple of minutes, thoughts of what happened that evening racing through my head, when Woody quietly said,

“Marc’s a lot of fun, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is,” I replied quietly.

“He’s a good looking, fit dude, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is,” I sighed.

“He really loves you, you know.”

“I know,” I giggled back like a middle school boy with his first crush.

“He’s really lucky to fall in love with my brother,” Woody said softly.

“Why, Woody, that’s so nice of you to say,” was all I could say.

“Yeah, Gillie,” he shot back mischievously, “just don’t get all fucked up about it,” and laughed, a big “HAR, HAR, HAR”, type of horse laugh, and flopped over on his side.

 “Get it, Gillie? ‘Don’t get fucked up’ - at least not on your second date, wait until at least your third one,” he snickered, “and then take it slow and easy.  I think that guy carries major heat in his pants.”

Marc called the next day and our first “real” date was Saturday night.  It was just a movie and pizza, but the start of our romance.  From then to Christmas break, we were together at every opportunity.  Of course, it was a struggle for me to balance classes, studying, and practice, but Marc was very understanding, considerate, and patient with me, often going with me on “study” dates to the library so I could do some research.  His hours could be odd and varied, so it was a two way street. I tried to be just as patient and considerate as he was of me.  Our relationship began to build on mutual understanding, respect, and deep, deep love for each other.  Every movement, every unspoken nuance, each time we saw each other, was evidence of our comfort and strong feelings for each other.

As much as we enjoyed going out, Madison can be a bit expensive, unless you seek out the free and low cost opportunities in and around the campus.  But the times we enjoy the most is when Marc and I spend the evening on the couch in the recreation room, watching television and snacking on popcorn, pizza, or each other.

Spreading his legs, laying back between them, my head resting on his chest, his arms around me, I snuggle in.  Marc’s warmth, his soft voice and delicate touch are heaven to me.  He’d lean forward, for no apparent reason, nibble softly on my ear lobes, kiss my neck, and gently turn my face toward him caressing my lips with his.  Once those velvety, smooth lips of his touch mine, I bone up immediately and have to adjust my straining cock so instead of being locked down one leg of my boxers, it could point its pulsing head up toward my belly button; not very far up, but up anyway.  Running my hand down the inside of his thigh, I could feel his own prick, hard, steely, long, twitching each time I stroked down its length. He’d have to adjust himself to relieve the pressure, letting his throbbing length rest in the small of my back. We didn’t pressure each other sexually in seeking the ultimate in our relationship knowing it’d happen when it was supposed to, not before.

At Christmas we gave each other matching gold bracelets and officially became a couple.  The day after Christmas, I drove Marc to the airport so he could spend the holidays with his family out east.  As I kissed him goodbye, my heart saddened, knowing I wouldn’t see him for a week.  He felt what I felt and, taking me in his arms, kissed me, crooning, “Be still my heart, all will be well, Gillie my love.  I’ll return home safely.”

Taking a deep breath, I nodded my acceptance of his reassurance and stepped back from his arms as he walked toward the boarding area.  In my heart, I know, wherever he’d be, he’d always return to me.   My life wouldn’t be complete without him or his without me.

After he returned from out east, we settled back into our lover’s mode, enjoying each other’s presence as only lovers can.  It’s nice to be able to touch each other, share those unspoken moments when we know each other’s heart and mind.  Link and his steady girlfriend and Woody and his dates began joining us on our Friday or Saturday evening at home.  Marc and I were concerned at first how Link’s steady and Woody’s dates would accept us as a gay couple, but they did, quite easily.  Neither Marc nor I dated before or had boyfriends so this was all new to us and exciting.

Valentine’s Day was on a Friday and as it approached, Marc said we were going to do something I’d really enjoy, but refused to tell me.  Each time I asked, he’d just smile and kiss me.  When he arrived to pick me up that evening, there were a few snowflakes flitting around on a fairly strong east wind and the weather people were predicting a real block buster of a snow storm for the Madison area later that night.  As we left, Mom cautioned us to be careful, but I laughed, “Not to worry, Mom, weather forecasters are only right one out of three times.  Besides, we have Marc’s four-wheel-drive SUV.”

Marc added, “We’re just going downtown and then out to the southeast side, so we won’t be far.”

Marc had reservations for us at an upscale downtown restaurant where the food was excellent, service absolutely five-star, and very romantic.  After our meal, Marc announced we were on our way to a nice night-club on the southeast side.  Once there, Marc paid our cover charge, we were escorted to a table, ordered drinks (alcohol for him, soda for me since I was not twenty-one yet), and some appetizers (as if we weren’t full already) and relaxed to the sounds of a very nice band, playing very danceable music.  Sitting there, enjoying the music, I looked over at Marc’s smiling face, and it hit me - we were going dancing!

I’ve never danced with a guy before, especially one I loved so deeply.  I’ve danced with Mom and some girls at high school dances, but never with someone like Marc. He extended his hand to mine, I took it, and he led me to the dance floor.  If anyone noticed, I didn’t see or even care.  Arms around me, holding me close, my head on his chest, we began to dance together, enjoying the closeness of each other.  The evening slipped by, until around eleven o’clock, one of the table waiters commented how terrible the weather was.  The radio and television stations were announcing the city and the county were pulling their snow plows off of the roads at midnight and advising everyone to stay home, stay off of the roads, and not travel.

Marc frowned and looked at me, “We better head home, Gillie, no sense taking any chances and getting stranded somewhere on the highway.”

He paid our bill; we donned out coats, and struggled through the foot deep snow to Marc’s SUV.  Snow was pelting down, wet, thick, heavy and moving around on strong southeast winds making our progress very slow after we left the restaurant parking lot.  Highways were treacherous, with many cars in the ditch and a few accidents the police were trying to sort out. 

As midnight neared and our progress was snail-like, Marc reached over, clasped my hand, saying, “Gillie, we’re about a mile from my apartment.  I’d feel much better if we went there instead of trying to make it across town to your house.”

That was fine with me; the weather wasn’t getting any better and I was growing a bit tense from the ride.  Marc’s driving didn’t bother me, but the weather and seeing all of the accidents were taking their toll on my nerves.  Once inside his apartment, I called Mom and Dad to let them know where we were.  Mom informed me both Link and Woody were home also, having heard the weather report, cut their dates short.  She was relieved to know I was at Marc’s.

Soaking wet from our encounter with the snow and slush, we shucked our jackets and shoes as we entered the apartment. 

“I hope you don’t mind sharing with me,” Mark quipped with amusement as we walked to his bedroom, knowing damn well I’d share his bed or anything with him.  Still, I blushed and began unbuttoning my shirt. He stopped me, moved my hands from my shirt, kissed me, murmuring softly,

“Let me do it so I can feast on you with my eyes.”

Slowly, sensually, methodically he unbuttoned my shirt and removed it.  Nuzzling my neck, nibbling my earlobes, he worked my undershirt up to my arms, and when I raised them, he slipped it over my head leaving me quite bare from the waist up.  Marc, grinning, eyes fixed on mine, slowly unzipped my pants, and with both hands on my waist, slid them down to my ankles allowing me to step out of them.  Lowering his head, kissing his way down my body, encountering one nipple and then the other, swirling his tongue around each one, he brought them to an erotic tautness I’d not felt before.

Refusing to cease there, his tongue and mouth continued the journey down to my waist, near that which was hard, but was hidden from his touch and sight by my tented boxer shorts. Gently rubbing his nose across the waist band, inhaling the scent of me, he stuck two fingers into the waist band and pulled the front of my shorts down, allowing my throbbing erection to pop up, contacting his warm, moist lips.

As those two instruments of delight swept across my engorged penis head, I moaned,

“Oh, God, be careful Marc.  I’m liable to shoot right here.”

“Not yet, my love, the evening’s just begun,” he chuckled while maneuvering my shorts to the floor.  He licked his tongue across my pre-cum leaking piss slit, gathering those clear drops of me into his mouth, savoring them as one would sweet ambrosia.  My knees weakened as he engulfed me, suckling my cock as a babe would its mother’s tit, drawing nourishment and pleasure from it.  Feeling my failing resolve to stand, he gently laid me back on his bed so he could continue his ministrations.

Looking at me lying there, prepared to do all he desired, Marc pulled off his shirt and undershirt.  As he reached for his pants, I rose to a sitting position, stopped him with a hand and reached forward to unzip and unbuckle him, allowing his pants to join mine on the floor.

In front of me, within easy reach, was his most prized possession, wrapped, but ready for an unveiling. Reaching behind him, grasping the round globes of his ass, I pulled him closer, allowing me to kiss my way across his almost hair-less torso, inhaling his fragrance, cementing him in my memory. He thrust forward, announcing his eagerness, but I wasn’t about to move too swiftly.  I’d waited too long for this moment and I wanted our love-making to be filled with the joys of each other.  His stiff cock strained to be released, but instead of doing so, I mouthed down the still cloth enclosed length, bringing a sigh of pleasure, a plea from him to continue my journey.

Gently mouthing his hard protuberance a moment longer, I released it, and with both hands, slipped his shorts to the floor.  His hard cock didn’t stand upright such as mine, but extended out in front of him, firm, forceful, engaging as the prow of a mighty Viking ship, challenging one and all to dare do battle with him.  Although he’d seen me naked and fondled my cock and balls in the examination room, this first sight of him by me was every holiday of the year wrapped up into one.  He was magnificent, beautiful, and big!

Placing my hand around it, inspecting it as I stroked his length and fondled those low hanging baby makers, I said, “You’re not circumcised.  I’ve never touched someone else’s cock before, much less one that’s intact.  Is there something different I should do to yours from what I do to mine?”

Marc chuckled at my naivety, responding, “Not really, they all work the same but jacking it off is a bit different technique,” and delicately showed me how to hold his tool and what to do to pleasure him. I carefully and rhythmically began stroking him, and as his dick began to leak, I leaned forward to taste him as he had me, licking my tongue around his unveiled cock-head.  Slipping my tongue under the front of his shaft, I sucked him in about three or four inches.  His length and girth prevented me from taking him to the root, but the taste was exquisite; a bit salty, hinting of body lotion, cologne, with a touch of almond; and warm, velvety to the touch.

Pulling off, waggling it back and forth several times as if to test its durability and vibrancy, I looked up at him questioningly, “Is this going to fit where I want it to fit?”

“You’d be surprised,” laughed my lover affectionately, “if I take my time, prepare you properly, and if you don’t mind a bit of initial pain, it’ll go just exactly where we both want it to go.”

He laid me on my back on our bed, picked up a tube of waterless lubricant from his bedside stand, spread my legs, and letting his eyes wander about my body, slowly shook his head sighing, “You’re so fucking beautiful Gillie.  I’ve dreamed of this and wanted you ever since the first time you came into the clinic.”

Reaching down, he fondled my goolies, commenting, in a clinical but joking manner, “I can see there’s no scar, just some tightening of the scrotum; from obvious excitement no doubt,” and leaned over, sucking one nut and then the other into his mouth.  My God, that’s to die for!

He leaned back again, opened the tube of lube, applied a liberal amount to his fingers and to my puckered opening, and slipped one long finger in past the guardian gate.  When I gasped at the sensation, he bent over again, sucking my prod up into his mouth, nursing it as his digit dove to the last knuckle and began to swirl around inside me.  As he did, his finger twitched over a spot just behind my cock inside my rectum that sent a jolting sensation to my brain, back down to my balls, and to the end of my cock.

“My God, Marc, what in the world did you do?” I gasped.

Lifting his head off of me he said simply, “Prostate.  Hold on Gillie,” and inserted one, then two, and finally three of his fingers into me, wiggling them around hitting that spot again and again, stretching me, dancing a cotillion with my prostate as his tongue waltzed with my engorged dick.  My balls churned, my sphincter tightened around his dancing digits and I moaned, “Marc, I’m going to shoot my load,” and fired several strong bursts into his waiting mouth.  I expected him to pull off, but he didn’t, instead swallowed my load.  The orgasm was intense, causing me to shudder with delight and grasp the bed sheets.  I relaxed a bit, loosened my grip, and cried, “Wow!”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, my love,” Marc commented as he lifted my legs up around his hips and greased up his pulsing shaft.

“Just relax, Gillie, this may hurt a bit, but if it pains you too much, I’ll stop or we’ll just quit altogether.  Once I start, if you push out, like you’re taking a dump, it’ll help.  I know it sounds strange, but that’s what I tell patients to do in the clinic when we do an exam of the lower colon.  I’ll take my time, but stop me anytime you have pain or are too uncomfortable.”

Mark pressed the head of his dick up against my pink rosebud and began to push.  I could feel the spongy tip begin to penetrate so I pushed back and suddenly that bulbous knob quickly slipped in past my ring and lodged in my ass, bring a gasp to my lips and a halt to further intrusion.  He quickly leaned over, grasped my face, and pressed his lips to mine, breathing his strength, his desire into me as he inched forward a bit and then a bit more each time his tongue wrestled with mine.  His slow progress forward allowed my gut to stretch, accommodating his girth and length, adjusting to his steely presence in me.  Slowly, slowly he pushed his large magic stick up into my bowel.  When I felt his bush brush the bottom of my balls and movement forward ceased, I knew he was deeply seated within me.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked, voice laced with concern and love.

I felt full, yet with little pain.  The fullness seemed to press up against my naval, although, as large and as long as he is, I knew it was physically impossible to penetrate that far.  I just knew I was impaled on one very large cock and I loved it!

“Awesome, just fucking awesome,” I replied with satisfaction.

He stretched himself out over the top of me, wrapped his arms around me, and secured himself to me, as I pulled him closer and deeper by gripping his firm, muscled ass-cheeks with my legs.  All he could say, over and over, as he began short little pushes, was “I love you so much, Gillie,” finally saying as he really pressed into me, “I could stay this way forever.”

I certainly couldn’t disagree, but the mischievous side of me asked, “Don’t you think the doctors at the clinic would throw cold water on us when you examined a patient while still locked to me?”

Laughing, Marc began slowly, carefully, rhythmically fucking me. God, he is so magnificent, rearing up as he pushed, reminding me of a stallion breeding.  Our love making took time as we enjoyed each other, me responding with his thrusts with my muscles massaging that mega-tool within me, bringing it more pleasure than he ever imagined.  Marc started breathing harder, his thrusts became more frequent, more urgent and I could feel his large knob begin to swell within me, while my own balls were sucked up to my crotch preparing for the pending eruption.  He pushed deep, raised up on his hands, moaned and gasped as his manhood throbbed inside me, releasing spurt after spurt of his slick, warm sperm deep into my body.  As he spewed his semen into me, my own cannon began to fire, slicking both of our stomachs with my sticky, white offering.

Relaxing, temporarily sated, we rested in each other’s arms.  I expected him to soften and pull out, but he remained hard, rooted within me, planting me with the last few vestiges of his heated essence seeping from his tool.  Finally, after divesting himself of all there was available at the moment, he rolled us to our sides, pulled the blankets up around us, and spooned into my back, his arms around me, holding me close, and we slept.  Once during the night, I felt him enter me again and willingly let him take his pleasure while in that half-sleep of dreaming of pleasant things.

The next morning, storm still raging on the outside, the heat within our bed began to rise again as I felt Marc’s steely self still embedded within me.  I could feel him twitching it, as if testing me to see if I was awake.  I pushed back, signaling my willingness to ride the pony again.

“You’re not too sore, are you love?” he asked pulling his head up against mine over my shoulder.

I was a bit tender, but I wasn’t going to tell him that, not with the prospect of the journey which lay ahead of me.

“No,” was my response and Mark wrapped his arms around me, buried himself balls deep, and began to pump easily inside me.  As he reached around to fondle and jack my cock with his right hand, I cautioned him,

“Easy there fella, don’t hurt yourself.  What you have in your hand is the largest in the county and I’ll not be responsible for what injuries may occur.”

The End



Thank you for reading “Gillie.”  I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did in writing for you.

The Literary works of Nicholas Hall are protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America and are the property of the author.

Positive comments are welcome and appreciated at: